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It reeked of energon. The heedy, helm spinning scent of burnt and fresh Cybertronian lifeblood curled in the air like the old days in misplaced excitement that had gotten overzealous. It smelt of Kaon.
Of the Pits.
Of Home.
“My! My! Oh, come on now, don’t cry. It’s a little too late and too early for that, don’t you think?” Overlord cooed sickeningly sweet and saccharine down at the half torn Autobot trying in vain to drag themselves away on their only remaining arm. The same arm that sparked violently in the early morning light. Their faceplates were streaked with tears and energon that wasn’t their own. “There’s no use in cryin’ out now, newspark. Ain’t no one left alive to hear you beg except me. And I don’t have half the spark to listen.”
“Frag you!” So there was some fight still left in them. “You’re an abomination to the Decepticons!”
“Oh? That’s rich coming from you. I witnessed you tear apart one of your own just for asking for a clarification of a question. Not very sportsman like.” Overlord tsked, toeing a stray corpse with his pede as he stood over the bot.
The sickly red glow of the Autobot’s cracked optics glinted in the shadow looming over him, only to brighten as a heavy pede came crashing down on what remained of their disemboweled abdomen. Struts snapped like flimsy candied sticks alongside the grinding t-cog that failed to withstand the stress test as it caved into itself.
Fresh energon bubbled out of the bot’s gaping mouth as they tried and succeeded to remain quiet. Only because their poor, stressed vocalizer couldn’t keep up the strain any longer and gave out in a deliciously hissing pop.
Overlord grinned. Malice coating his lips all the way down to the back of his teeth. “Nothing left to say? I’d say I’m disappointed but an Autobot’s sparkling like savagery is nothing compared to the Pits.”
Unfortunately for the Autobot, their vocalizer wasn’t as broken as it hoped to be. Maybe they should have taken it as a chance to keep their glossa bitten.
“Unicron is waiting for you in the slag heap.” The bot sputtered out in static gargled, half formed glyphs. Some of it was lost on the wet gagging of half processed energon forcing itself back up. “You should join us. Leave the Decepticons and join Optimus.”
He was half bored of this conversation already.
“Optimus?” Overlord hummed. “The matrix cursed Prime that mutilated my dearest Conjunx before Megatron could save him? No. No, I don’t think I feel inclined enough to give him the satisfaction.”
“Your Conjunx makes you weak—“
A teal servo grabbed the bot by their throat and it gave easy. Effortlessly as violence came to Overlord’s mind like a fleeting whim of amusement.
Tugging on the bot’s helm, he gave one hard tank and severed the processor from its spark. Energon splattered along Overlord’s frame. Blending so seamlessly into his pink paint. It gave the impression of looking like he’d been freshly touched up.
Energon dripped down the edge of his visor, dripping onto his pale faceplates where the hazy pink trailed into the seam of his lips. A soft glossa swiped across them. Smearing it in the same moment it was ingested.
It was quiet.
Finally after hours that felt like mere minutes of fighting. But what an exhilarating few minutes those hours had been. It had been just what he needed. What he desired under irontight lock in key.
Standing over the cooling bodies of friend and foe alike, the only thoughts that ran through his processor was of how completely and utterly bored he was. Kicking at a stray leg, he watched it bounce as energon streaked across the ground. He’d been having fun and now? He wasn’t.
It was boring that these supposedly ruthless Autobots barely put up a decent fight. All the tales of bloodshed and slaughter were nothing more than petty sparkling’s play.
He was worse than that.
Of course, he had to give credit where credit was due. The Autobots certainly gave a better fight than the Decepticons. Both sides begged but the Autobot’s spat and snarled slander and death threats and oh, did he enjoy that.
They snapped and bared teeth. Threatened to kill him but it was all empty in the end. His armor was one of the strongest ever built.
Then, like a droplet falling into a lake, everything snapped back together in his helm. Processor clearing of the violent haze that had blanketed his reservations and refusal to fight into a squirming, frantic mess as it was smothered.
Overlord heaved an ex-vent. Heavy in the cooling air as the sun slowly rose above the horizon. It was a beautiful day.
He gazed down at the still, somehow, spinning spark and, in an act of mercy, transformed the hidden seams in his forearm and shot the Autobot’s spark casing. A heavy waft of smoke was the only thing left.
Kneeling beside the fresh corpse, he bowed his head. Morning the loss he’d caused. He’d given in after promising himself he wouldn’t. Another empty promise that he was better than he acted. Feeling like the worst so he had to act like he was the best.
Then, he saw them. Really saw them.
Blue optics blew wide behind his visor at the tank churning scene of dozens upon dozens of corpses turned into mushy gore in a way metal lifeforms were supposed to bend. Lifeless faces locked in terror of Decepticon and Autobot alike stared back towards the sky; some into the dirt and into another’s body part. They never stood a chance.
Not a single one had expected Overlord to react in such a frenzied and gleeful bloodlust of laughter as he begun slaughtering foe and ally alike.
Because there was no such thing as somebot having your back. It was you and you alone against the ring.
The Decepticons were going to denounce him. Kick him out from their Ranks and leave him. Sixshot. Blackshadow. Everyone he’s grown to care about was going to be disgusted with the atrocities he’d committed. Abandon the monster he’s tried so hard to keep locked up and trapped in a cell where it pleaded and whispered for it to be killed. To be put out of its misery because with no purpose it boiled and festered underneath his plating like a desperately begging itch.
Megatron was going to turn him over to the DJD. An ending to a more hopeful beginning than he deserved. That would be too kind.
It was too soon.
They had already lost Deadlock. Whom had succumbed to his circuit boosters and fell back into heavy addiction where he once more took the designation Drift. Deadlock, a name given to him to tell how much he’d overcome. They had seen all the signs and by Primus, they had tried to keep Deadlock from running back to that medic, but it had to be a choice. A choice they couldn’t make for him.
Then he saw him, and oh Primus… How long had he been standing there? Watching. How much had he seen? How many bodies had he watched Overlord tear through like they were nothing but flimsy aluminum plating? Had he been standing their to witness Overlord turn against their own when they begun to plead for his rampage to stop and he stubbornly hadn’t wanted to because this was the first cycle in a long, long time since he’d actually had fun?
Had he heard Overlord mock their cries and pleads? Laughed as they begged?
“Tarn,” Overlord pleaded, already taking a step forward that was matched by his dear beloved shying away from him. The monster and abhorrent energon hungry beast he became in a true honest to Primus fight. “Tarn, Tarn, please don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let myself get away from me. Tarn— Damus, I-I…” Panic flooded his lines so violently it made him lightheaded. “I don’t know what to say to convince you I didn’t mean it. They’re all dead and I’m so sorry.”
Pleads tumbled out before he could stop them. Spilling over his glossa frantically trying to convince Tarn and himself that he hadn’t meant it. That he hadn’t been entertained by their screams and begging.
Begging hadn’t saved them. Why would Tarn listen to his now?
Stumbling up the hill, now somehow steeper than before, likely due to the bomb one of the Autobot’s had blown up in a last ditch effort to stop him. It only managed to kill the last remaining bots already on the brink of death.
Overlord’s own plating was scarcely damaged. Mostly charred by ash and molten metal fusing against his armor when it cooled and left uneven bumps in its wake. He’d barely bled. Barely felt the blast. But he’d taken on the offer. The challenge to kill them before they chose to pathetically kill themselves rather than face him head on.
Tarn paused. Stilling and Overlord matched him. Half reaching out to him, half already accepting the rejection and disgust he deserved.
His spark felt like it was going to explode. And maybe it would if Tarn used his Voice against him. It would have been an act of mercy. Of kindness.
Tarn sighed heavily. Equally heavy armored shoulders sagging underneath the weight of his responsibilities, double fusion canons and his everything. “Overlord, Conjunx, my gladiator, what happened?” It was sweeter.
Concern and relief spilled over the panic and guilt building in the Phase Sixer as the bond kept closed between them flooded open.
Tarn collected him in his arms when he came close, cupping his pale cheeks and nosing him until they were pressed nose to nose. Not an ounce of space between them besides a mask. “I apologize if I scared you. It was just…startling to see you let go and act like yourself.”
“Myself?” Overlord questioned.
“Yes, like your cycles in the Pits. Purely yourself with worry of what other bots thought was acceptable behavior,” Tarn confessed. And it should have been touching. To be accepted so wholly and easily like it was nothing. “I think letting yourself be driven by whimsy might do you some good instead of being driven by emotion.”
“Emotion is what I and everyone else around me needs. Whimsy is what gets bots killed. Acting on a whim isn’t— hasn’t ended well for anyone that’s crossed paths with me.” Look behind them. The piles of bodies.
Tarn did not enjoy the things he did. Does. He was squeamish and did not have the tank to watch bots tear each other apart. When given the chance, he’s seen how Tarn would look away and drown out their screams with music. Anything so he wouldn’t have to watch.
“You do not crave violence, Damus. No matter what Optimus tried to convince you of.” Overlord said gently. As gently as a thing such as himself could muster. “You do not enjoy maiming bots and tearing them apart. Feeling how their gears grind and strain against you before failing and that beautiful look of fear in their optics matches the scream of agony they let out. You do not enjoy or take pleasure in listening to their metal bend and pop before shattering open. You most definitely do not enjoy energon coating your plating to the point it seeps into your seams and you’re left glistening like you’ve been freshly painted.”
Tarn watched him for a moment. Whatever he saw, he approved of.
“You are correct. I do not enjoy inflicting pain onto others.” Tarn agreed, for this was not the first time they’ve had this conversation. And it would never be the last. “I do not wish the pain that I endured upon anyone. But I still do my duty and try and guide Autobots into rehabilitation. Even if I cannot silence their voices underneath the Empyrean Suite.”
“See? We are not the same.”
“We are not having this argument again in the lifeblood of our comrades and enemies.”
With a hiss of hydraulic clasps releasing, Tarn reached up and removed his mask. Overlord couldn’t help himself and took the opportunity to brush his thumb along the torn mesh of his beloved’s face. The interweaving wires were bumpy and rigid underneath the light pressure he used to skirt across the scar.
Tarn was beautiful. Just as beautiful as they cycle they met. Maybe even more so.
Though it pained him greatly that he couldn’t soothe Tarn’s anxiety before it reached the point of it manifesting into the physical picking of his face.
“Sometimes,” Overlord begun, barely daring to utter his deepest secret already known to his Conjunx. “I want to tear you apart.”
Tarn laughed, a warm exvent onto his face. “How romantic.”
The sight of his smile eased the anxious tightness in his spark.
“Romantic?” Overlord echoed, but did not shy away. He’s long since learned Tarn would follow. “There is nothing romantic about admitting I want to kill you.”
It was one of his many shames. That even his love and adoration couldn’t keep him from wanting to maim the one dearest to his spark.
“Conjunx, you do not deceive me. Shaped in the Pits of Kaon, you are exactly how I imagined a reformed gladiator to be. Besides,” Tarn smiled, “if you really scared me, like you seem to think you do, would I be here still? Do you really think I’d still bare my spark to you on a whim of a request? That I would have came after you to this dead planet. There is nothing for me here expect you and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying to convince yourself otherwise.”
The silence was enough of an answer in itself.
“Come now, my love,” Tarn redirected, beckoning him along, “the Peaceful Tyranny awaits our return. As does the Nemesis.”
“Megatron will not be pleased to see me.”
“He is always pleased to see you. To see all you have overcame and overcome each cycle. What you have accomplished.”
“The only thing I’ve accomplished is slaughtering our allies.” Overlord argued.
“You have more self control than you give yourself credit for.”
He wanted to disagree.
Barely. He barely had any self control.
The simmering of a fight-want-more burned underneath his plating. Like a half grown bots attempt at getting its creator’s attention with a digit poking insistently at their arm.
He was the bot that made the kind like Optimus shutter.