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Impactor lowered the datapad and narrowed his optics at Megatron across the table.
“What is this?” He dropped the datapad on the table and leaned back, scowling. “Because it sure ain’t poetry.”
Megatron didn’t answer. After a moment, Impactor picked the datapad up again, turning it over in his hand. It was hard to believe sometimes – Impactor had watched him lose a limb without whimpering – but Megatron was the sensitive type. Impactor had probably hurt his feelings.
“I’m not saying it’s bad,” Impactor said, more quietly. “But look. I’m a miner but I’m not stupid. I know what poetry is supposed to be, and this ain’t it.”
Impactor glanced over. Megatron didn’t look hurt. He was just… watching him, optics soft with an expression Impactor didn’t know how to read.
“What is poetry supposed to be?” Megatron asked.
It felt like a trap, but Megatron sounded awfully sincere. Uncomfortably, Impactor answered. “Pretty words,” he said. “Pretty words and fancy decoration.” He gestured with the datapad. “There’s nothing pretty in these.”
Megatron nodded. He looked up, optics meeting Impactor’s across the table. “I used to think so too,” he said. “I think they lied, Impactor.”
I think they lied. Megatron’s naivete was so cute. Impactor couldn’t understand how he’d held onto it for all those decades in the mines before they’d met. Sometimes Impactor hated it – wanted to drive it out with his own fist and drill, wanted to force Megatron to be realistic about the ugly world and his sad place in it. Sometimes, like now, he wanted to protect it. To keep those bright optics from ever dimming.
Any light is useful in a cave-in, the miners said. And Megatron was one hell of a light, optics bright and spark blinding.
Megatron glanced from side to side and lowered his voice. “I got some files last time we were topside. Golden Age poems. Some even older than that. I’ve been reading them.”
That explained his recent shift in mood. “Yeah?” Impactor chuckled. “Didn’t know there was even a market for illegal poetry.”
Megatron flinched at the word illegal, but it had been Impactor’s turn to pick the place tonight, so they were in an unlicensed heavy-machinery dive bar. The guy at the other table was dealing circuit boosters – no one here would care about some black market poetry.
“The poems aren’t how I thought they’d be,” Megatron said. “They’re not pretty at all. I don’t think poetry’s supposed to be pretty, Impactor. I think it’s supposed to be true.”
Impactor looked down at the datapad in his hand and reconsidered. He never had been much for pretty words and pointless decoration. All that slag meant absolutely nothing down in the dark. But truth? Clarity?
“They wanted to take another tool from us,” Megatron said. “They ban us from writing, from learning to read. They lie about history and make us think that things have always been this way. This is more of the same. They tell us poetry is pointless decoration, indulgent pleasure for the upper classes. It doesn’t have to be. It can be a tool. A weapon.”
Impactor chuckled. “Thought you weren’t into weapons,” he said. He shook the datapad. “Gonna hit them with it?”
He could tell Megatron was scowling at him without bothering to look. He scrolled up the datapad with his thumb until he was at the top of the file.
He read the file again, while Megatron watched.
The words were devoid of decoration. They cut like a drill bit through stone, sharp and unyielding. Not pretty, but truthful. Harsh, spare illumination in a dark corridor. Just enough to light the way, to cast everything in sharp relief.
Like nothing Impactor had ever read. Poetry, maybe, by Megatron’s definition.
Impactor held onto the datapad for a long time before handing it back across the table.
The words rang in his head, like the sounds of jackhammers and drills during his off-shift.
“Still not sure that’s poetry,” Impactor said. He tapped his own forehead once with a couple fingers. “Send me a copy.”
Megatron smiled as he transferred the file.