Chapter Text
The Prison did not have a name. It was only ever referred to as ‘The Prison’, in the same way that Sol 452 was called ‘The Sun’ in casual conversation. If a mech meant any other place, he would say ‘Iacon Prison’ or ‘Sector Three’ , and it would be simple to use the datanet to see what the facilities were like, and how the guards were rated, and in some of the fancier prisons, such as in Iacon, even get a visual feed of the common areas. Sometimes they were even hiring.
The Prison was different.
The only reason why Minimus Ambus knew where it was located was because he was assigned to represent a prisoner there. It was the only building located in the Sea of Rust, precisely because the perpetual storms spelled death to anyone daring the escape, and better yet, ensured that there would be no trace of their frames afterwards. Knowing where it was didn’t mean much. The transport that had brought him there was triple plated and doused in a chemical concoction that prevented rust infection, as much as it could be prevented. Minimus was as trapped here as any prisoner here.
The transport docked as that unhelpful thought ran through his processor. He shoved off of the bench (oversized, as always), and stood, waiting for the door to open. Minimus had found that small actions could counteract some of the prejudice against his frametype. Not allowing others to see how expectations for a standardized frame size forced him to adapt was a major aspect of the strategy. No struggling to get into or out of chairs; no refueling in front of others. To some, the rules might be limiting; but to MInimus, they offered a sense of security and dare he say, comfort , amongst the difficulties of being a public defender, and a former member of the disposable class.
The door opened, as did the entry to The Prison behind it. A tall mech with gray plating and mining standard stripes waited behind it. He gestured for Minimus to follow, and turned on his heel, back into the dull hallway he had come from.
“The shuttle will return in three solar cycles. Quarters have been prepared for you in the administrative wing. The standard schedule is three solar cycles here an’ three in Praxus,” he prattled off, as if he had done so a million times before.
Perhaps he had. It seemed odd to Minimus to even bother, given that The Prison was a dead end assignment. The only mechs imprisoned here were already assigned to die. Minimus would try his best to argue against it, but everyone knew that the Senate wanted Prisoner D-16 dead. The only reason they hadn’t done so already was because it would prove D-16 right. There would be riots. There would be another revolutionary. The only way to stop the Decepticon threat would be to prove that their critiques were erroneous. Even Minimus wasn’t sure if he could have argued that convincingly.
The lights above flickered. The ones behind shut off automatically as they passed. It was still enough to notice the cracking wall panels, and the faint signs of rust that spotted the walls where the seams were less than satisfactory. Violations of subsections 13.4a, and 17.5 of the Penal Code. Minimus made notes to include in his reports later, even though he knew that they would never be addressed.
The mech ahead slowed as he reached the end of the hall. A keypad was all that kept the door locked, and he didn’t bother hiding the code. It was simple. Too simple. That too broke the Penal Code, as it risked offering an unavoidable temptation to break the law- but as the door swung open to the main building, Minimus realized that that might be the point.
Rather than build a new building to host the Senate’s worst offenders, they had simply refitted one of the Ancient’s structurally sound remnants by adding onto it. The room before him had clearly been a gladiatorial arena millions of years ago. The cells were built into the walls where box seats had once been, in cells far too small for most of the mechs housed inside them. They had dug down through where the floor would have been, and then into the walls, like an insecticon hive. Worse still, they descended five floors down in a cylinder, connected to center platforms where guards were housed. It was a psychological torture method, meant to make the prisoners paranoid as they could feasibly be watched at any time. Violations of subsections 19.7, 154.6t and-
The mech stopped at the start of the catwalk, and turned, extending his hand. “I’ll show you to his cell, an’ send you the needed files. We aren’t connected to the data-net here, so I’m afraid you’ll have to hardline with me to receive ‘em.” A wrist port snapped open. “Here.”
“What’s your designation?”
The mech glanced down at Minimus, as if surprised to have been asked. His gaze was familiar. Even those in the manual labor castes often appreciated having some mech to punch down on. Minimus has escaped the mass deactivations of the disposable class, and the Senate now allowed some intercaste movement- but prejudices remained.
“I understand the reasoning behind why we must engage in a hardline connection, but I would prefer if we did so if I knew your designation, and if you knew mine.” Minimus explained. “I am a public defender from-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Name’s Ironhide. Happy?” Ironhide thrust his hand towards Minimus again. The sound of the port cover snapping closed and open again was pointed.
Minimus didn’t argue. A win was a win. He extended a cord and manually plugged in. With some mechs, the sharing of data could be a pleasant thing- but here, there was nothing but the brute exchange of data packets and then a rough ejection from Ironhide’s systems. His port had obviously seen a lot of use, and it felt physically uncomfortable to brush against the cracked metal as he retracted.
The data settled.
“We may continue,” Minimus said.
Ironhide led him down.
And down.
And down.
Minimus counted the floors, and steadfastly ignored the discomfort of decreasing altitude. Ironhide stopped only as the staircase ceased. At the bottom of the panopticon, there was only one singular cell. It had been built for him, Minimus thought. Made for D-16 and D-16 alone. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Scrawling on the walls. Self-harm. Some sign of damage to the place meant to contain him- but there was none.
There was a berth, a small outcropping of a table, and in the accompanying chair-
“Interesting,” Megatronus said, peering down as Minimus through the bars. A pair of stasis cuffs were wrapped around his wrists, one size too small. They’d left severe burns against his plating. Megatronus didn’t seem to mind. “They sent the disposable to defend the damned. And they all said the Senate had no sense of humor.”
Ironhide glanced down at Minimus, “You want in or out the cell?”
“In, of course. I have to speak with my client to prepare his case. It would be counter-intuitive to do so from here.”
“Suit yourself,” Ironhide shrugged. “You’ve got the override codes. It’s a two stage system, an’ the outer doors will not close if more than one mech is between ‘em an’ the inner ones. Simple flood lock system, same as the ones in most prisons.”
Most minimum security prisons. Not ones holding enemies of the state, traitors or accused terrorists. Still, Minimus was familiar.
He nodded, “I’ll take it from here.”
Ironhide seemed all too eager to leave. Minimus wondered what an audit would find. Was he bored? Slacking off at his station? Or were there further cruelties hidden behind the apathy of the guards here?
Minimus opened the first set of bars, and stepped inside. The faint scent of proton fire filled the air as it closed behind him. The bar ahead dissipated. Megatronus- no, D-16, Minimus corrected sharply, annoyed that the name of the gladiator was more prominent in his memory banks than that the one listed in his clientele files- smiled politely as Minimus stepped through.
“As is required by the Iaconian legislative body on the rights and privileges of prisoners, I must inform you that as your assigned public defender, I am required to argue in your defense to the best of my ability. I will provide counsel and keep your confidence, except for in the situation wherein you confess to eminent criminality. In that case, I am required to report that which may lead to the injury or deaths of you or other mechs,” Minimus finished reciting. He cleared his vocalizer, hoping to remove some of the recitation from his voice. “That said, do you still agree with the sentiment that ‘Form does not beget function’?”
Megatronus could not move much, and Minimus was famously awful at reading other mechs’ frames- but he was certain that was surprise.
“I meant every word I wrote.”
“Then trust that my frame has nothing to do with my ability to argue for your freedom,” Minimus reached for Megatronus’ bound wrists, and sent the signal to unlock the stasis cuffs. They clattered to the ground, stained with drying energon. “And cooperate with me as I work to prevent your execution.”
“Why, Minimus, I would never imply such a thing,” Megatronus said, flexing his newly freed arms. “By all means, take a seat. Let’s discuss how you intend to stay my execution.”