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Minimus swirled the engex-free drink in his glass in idle anxious movement, watching Megatron reset the microphone before he shut his his optics. He did that often, Minimus had noticed, when he recited poetry. The murmurs that often started between turns faded as everyone realized he was ready to start.
The usuals were here, Megatron and he, Drift, Rewind and Chromedome, Cyclonus and Tailgate- though they finally convinced Whirl to come with them, it seemed- Brainstorm was drinking a bit too much in the corner with First Aid and Nautica.
"No one dies only once," Megatron's voice rumbled, ancient and weathered like an inhospitable mountain.
"You die in moments and in millenia, with bloodied knees beneath your broken body, spark still beating despite it all. You die in seconds and in centuries, in nights spent forgetting to remember.
"One only learns on their second or third death that they have this power, to die and keep living to die again. If one is very lucky, they will never learn they possess it all, before they die their final death.
"It is those that know, those that learn to harness this power that die the most. When you know your life can end without you you lose the fear that keeps you living. Every day you rise and kill yourself in inches, hands around your neck and strangling out the whispers of the one you once were. Someday you will wake and recognize yourself in the mirror, but not in your own mind.
"The world is filled with the walking dead, the suicides in progress who will not be stopped. Your life will end one day, and you will stand up, and keep moving. Your life will end again, and you will stand up, and keep moving. It is not the guttered spark that ends a life, but one that has given up."
Megatron dipped his head to the scattered applause before he stepped down to sit back beside Minimus, and the soft chatter began again.
"That was beautiful," Minimus told him.
"You say that every week," Megatron said, lips twitching minutely toward a smile.
"Because it is true every week," Minimus replied, raising his glass to his lips for a sip. He set it back down on the table, and as his hand left it, it found Megatron's. His palm was the size of Minimus's head, resting gently atop his hand, a warm, familiar weight.
"Go on, Birdy!" Minimus heard Tailgate say more loudly than the general volume of the room. Whirl sighed and stood up, one arm cradling Junior in the crook of his elbow. He'd observed that she seemed only willing to leave the oil reservoir as a sparkling, though he had seen Whirl carting her around with increasing frequency as of late. The little blue sparkling held one of his claws in her mouth, teething idly on it.
Whirl had never spoken at poetry night before. In fact, he'd never attended poetry night before. Minimus frowned, ready to suffer through a tirade of poorly constructed prose, most likely about guns. It was open mic, though, and suppression of artistic expression served no one. Whirl had as much a right to stand up front and recite his terrible poetry as everyone else did.
Whirl gave a deep, weary sigh as he stood up front, and everyone went silent. He was quiet for a great long time, as if he were still deciding if he really wanted to do this or not. He tilted his helm up toward the ceiling, hiding his optic from view.
"When I was a hundred cycles old I stood on the shores of the rust sea and I meant to kill myself," he announced, loud, raspy voice harsh and heavy, "I was already empty, headless and handless and hopeless and I asked the first person I saw if I should walk into it or walk away. He looked me up and down and then told me it would be better for everyone if I went for a swim. I sat on the shore for the rest of the day, but I was too scared to do it. I went home."
Minimus was taken aback. He'd been expecting something rhyming, something simple, something more in character with Whirl's persona. He hadn't anticipated vulnerable slam poetry.
"When I was a hundred thousand cycles i had been in prison for so long I forgot the colour of the rust sea and the feeling of wind through my rotors. I'd been beaten so badly and so frequently at this point that I have permanent nerve damage to this day. There are spots on my body where I will never feel anyone touch me again.
"The suffering was endless and so I tried to end it by refusing all my meals. Everyone seemed to want me dead anyway, but when I finally collapsed from starvation they stuck an IV in my arm and force fed me until I bled out through my optic and then they put me back in. They'd do it twice more before I was released.
"The cycles kept coming until they were uncountable, until they ran into each other, until I didn't know how many people I'd killed, how much blood was on my not-hands. I felt certain one day I would drown in it but relief never came. I would face a direction and kill anything my not-face faced, and no one ever stopped me. They only picked the way I pointed.
"The war is over, only it's never over. If you lived in it, it lives in you. You get better, but you don't ever get over it. I didn't stop trying to kill myself until I started trying to kill other people. Ain't nobody want a whirlibird without a war to win.
"Still," he said, hoarse voice finally giving way to something soft and tired, "You get one don't and a quiet room to rest and a kid that thinks you're the bee's knees and somehow it don't seem all that bad after all." He paused. "Thanks." He climbed down, bouncing Junior in his arm as he did.
Minimus noted with some surprise the applause for Whirl's surprisingly evocative slam poetry was louder than it had been for Megatron's. He glanced up toward him, but his optics didn't betray what he was thinking. Whirl sat back down at his table, receiving a comforting pat from Tailgate, whispering enthusiastically.
"That was very powerful, Whirl," Megatron commented. Whirl sat straight up and turned toward him, optic blinking slowly. After a moment he nodded his head in acknowledgement. Minimus felt warm in his chest- the years had been kind to his crew, the edges of animosity weathered down, and now he could sit in a room with Whirl without the Magnus armour and not worry. He was deeply grateful for his life.
Rewind skittered up onto the stage. The microphone towered over him and he stretched up on his tip toes reaching for it, and still couldn't get his hands on it. He huffed and sank back on his heels, setting his hands on his hips. Chromedome stood up and fixed the microphone, before he returned to their booth and sat back down.
"Ahem," Rewind cleared his throat. Minimus sat up in intrigue. It had been a long time since he had read any of his brother in law's poetry- he'd always been a gifted writer. Dominus had never published any of his work before he'd had Rewind as an editor- something that had always irritated Minimus especially.
"Bite the hand; feed yourself,
"Weep no woes for the wild wealth,
"File down no teeth or claws,
"Chew their bones and break their laws,
"And in fire and-"
"Pardon my interruption," Minimus said, raising his voice. Rewind paused, looking startled and a little bit offended, "Is that Wild Animal, published cycle 262?"
Rewind's visor flashed, expression shifting from offended to pleased. "Yes, actually, it is. You've read it?"
"I've read all of Dominus's books," Minimus told him, "Isn't that one of his poems?"
"Well," Rewind shifted awkwardly, "I mean. No, I wrote it."
Minimus blinked. "He published it in his name. You weren't mentioned."
Minimus looked down at his hand when he felt Megatron's fingers twitch.
"Well, that's-" Rewind hesitated, "It couldn't have been published under my name. I wasn't- you know. Legally I wasn't a person, at the time, I couldn't own intellectual property rights. Dominus let me publish my work next to his so at least I got to publish it at all."
"But there were plenty of reprints!" Minimus insisted, "It was never updated!" He stopped and frowned. "Wait. I knew you edited all of his work- how much of it did you author entirely?"
Rewind shrugged, looking askance. "You know. Some."
"The Ascetic Cybertronian was a best selling novel," Megatron interjected, "It sold millions of copies. Did you work on that?"
Rewind stood up straight. "I did! I didn't completely write it- he dictated most of it, what he wanted to say, and I just- well, I put it in order, you know. I made it sound good."
"You aren't credited at all." Megatron drew his hand away to gesture, "That was long after the end of apartheid."
"It-" Rewind shifted back and forth on his feet and shook his head, "I was just an assistant. It was his book."
"And you ghost wrote it!" Megatron insisted, voice raised in pitch, "What percentage of the royalties did you earn?"
Rewind was silent.
"You can't be serious," Megatron balked.
"I, uh," Rewind mumbled, "I'm actually going to pass tonight, I think. Sorry."
He backed away from the microphone, rubbing his arm as he shuffled back over to Chromedome to sit next to him quietly.
The room was plunged into uncomfortable silence. Moments passed and stretched it even longer, until finally Minimus felt certain he had to say something.
"I got a fucking poem!" Brainstorm hollered drunkenly as he shot out of his seat and stumbled across the room, "It's about my favourite stupid helicopter's weird fucking kid!" He pointed at Junior in Whirl's arm and she raised her hands straight up in the air. "Love you, kiddo!"
Minimus glanced away and up to Megatron, who was staring intently at Rewind across the room.
"Your brother," Megatron said, "When was he forged?"
Minimus frowned. He had noticed that Megatron seemed distracted since they'd returned to their habsuite. He was not especially looking forward to discussing this topic. He sighed and tucked his face into Megatron's chest where he rested in the dark room.
"I know what you're going to ask," he replied, "Yes, it was before Nova Prime left."
"I do not mean to speculate," Megatron rumbled slowly, "In fact, I have always held some respect for the mech, as one of the few members of the upper caste who seemed interested in effecting positive social change for those beneath him."
"Mmhmm."
"Though, in retrospect," Megatron continued, "He was helping himself, and the caste he would have belonged to."
"Yes."
"In his work he always claimed that he learned through interaction after being given a disposable assistant that the apartheid literature was wrong." Megatron was quiet. "Surely he already knew."
Minimus twitched. "I don't deign to presume my brother's motivations."
"He would have failed his own sentience test."
"Yes," Minimus sighed, "So would I."
Megatron twitched and tightened his arm around the little bot laying against him.
"How much did his writing improve after Rewind began editing for him?" Megatron asked after some time.
"Significantly," Minimus answered, "Tenfold, at least."
"He would have owned the rights to anything anyone he owned created, yes?"
"Yes."
Minimus listened quietly to the thrum of Megatron's spark beneath his armour plating, the rush of energon in his lines, the ticking clock in the corner that Whirl had given him.
"I know," Minimus said eventually.
"I'm sorry," Megatron replied.
For now, no more need be said.