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Lithe digits reached tentatively toward the cleaved oil drum, a tremor running through the frost-rotted appendages. Once wrapped securely around the bulk of it, as far as they could extend truly, all further action ceased. Did the frail whelp lack the strength to pick up the canister—fearing failure—or rather… did their pause indicate a particular hesitance to accept the offering Megatron oh so graciously presented him?
Staring down the former Autobot, Megatron leaned forward. "Go on. Drink." With an orchestrated pause, Megatron tilted his helm back in appraisal. "Or do you believe that I would be so bold as to poison you, after having gone through such trials and tribulations to liberate yourself from your former cage?"
Panic flitted across that haggard facial sculpt—youth effectively stolen out from under him, my the Autobot Penitentiary Stockades simply must share their techniques with his own agents—and without another word spoken the bot lifted the drum bottoms up.
His neck cabling flexed with each swallow. Megatron watched avidly as they slithered and heaved, taut and then slack before tightening once again. A medic would concern themselves with the rate at which he consumed fuel after the prolonged starvation of his tanks, but the whole purpose of his presence here was to test the limits at which an Autobot would willingly self-destruct.
Not often did his most loyal of lieutenants ask for a request as unique as this one. But with all of the cycles by which Shockwave enmeshed himself in the Commonwealth's government, how could Megatron not indulge in his proposed experiment? He too wished to see the extent by which the Autobot would debase himself for so-called revenge.
But, he had not expected for this newfound subject of theirs to… By which means should he refer to the slightly thing before him? It really was so… little, after all. Not even his most dedicated of servants could find a fuel repository small enough by which to feed him with—having to saw in half a standard sized drum barrel.
It made for a particularly repulsive sight. The Autobot practically had his entire face plate in the exposed opening, gorging himself in fear of displeasing Megatron.
Organic creatures bore more dignity whilst feeding from desecrated meat than this guttersnipe, but the resemblance was uncanny.
Ah yes, perhaps that would do. A description most befitting of their newest Decepticon grunt—an animal, no, insect to admire through glass. Every inch of him on inspection by the hostile ranks who surrounded him. All of whom were tap, tap, tapping away at the enclosure to incite irritation, displeasure, and harm most of all.
The desperation by which the Autobot drank the oil stilled bit by bit. Did his tanks lurch at the expansion? The oil sitting heavy? And with his consumption coming to a close, Megatron felt within him a rising desire to simply reach out and thumb at his cabling mid-swig.
Within the moment, he had done exactly that. Acting upon his whims, Megatron moved slowly. His throne creaked at the adjustment in position but it served as no warning for the little pet—as he had purposefully situated themselves close to one another in intimidation.
Wild blue optics grew wide in fear as the pad of his claw pressed lightly against delicate neck cabling. He swallowed, nearly choking down his last bit of fuel as the pressure increased. Megatron allowed his other digits to curl around the temporary seating, enclosing the Autobot within the palm of his hand—swallowing him whole.
"Hmm, have you found your vocoder warming up, now?" Megatron asked, a smirk pulling at the edge of his facial plates. He doubted that the Autobot would remember the sensation of warmth any time in the next century. Not after his experience in the stockades.
A bead of oil remained on the bottom lip of the frightened insect. A glossa darted out quick as a wink, swiping it away. A pity that. It almost made the bot look presentable. Civil, if he were truly one of his own.
"A– A bit," he admitted, torn between not responding—scared down to his frayed wiring to sit so close to the tyrant—and falling over himself to not anger his new lord. Wisely, he picked the option that wouldn't test the limits of Megatron's hospitality. "Thanks for the, uh, oil."
He could not have gotten rid of the oil drum fast enough, settling down his cup onto the nearest counter-top. Not many could claim that they broke their fast within Megatron's personal quarters and fewer still could espouse that the warlord had moved aside his furniture to set the scene in motion.
Sliding his claws away, and subsequently releasing the Autobot—who noticeably slumped, how rude—Megatron nodded. "I am glad to hear it, after all, it comes from own personal stores. An honor and a show of sincerity towards my newest recruit." Lavishing in the returned discomfort, he amended his statement, "Or, as the Autobots would claim it, a homecoming celebratory drink for my once captured now since rescued infiltrator."
"I'm not–!" Remembering himself a moment too late, the Autobot faltered, "I– I think we both know that I wasn't actually one of your spies."
"Yes, that we can agree upon." Megatron chuckled, voice full of a dark mirth. "A mix-up, not all that uncommon from the ineffective leadership of Cybertron. One that has had… interesting consequences for yourself."
"And…" Curiously, the turn of the conversation seemed to embolden the Autobot, "And they still haven't found him, have they?"
"My mood would not be nearly as jovial, if so." The entirety of the Nemesis would face his wrath tenfold if Shockwave had screwed up so monumentally. "In contrast, this has all been a serendipitous turn of events for myself. It occurs so rarely that an Autobot sees reason and turn-coats."
The little pest's face twisted. Lest either of them forget that if given any other choice, the Autobot would have crawled his way to freedom without relying on those who indebted him.
It would take time before he ever considered himself a Decepticon. And he proved as much when he did what no other grunt would, by refraining from holding his tongue and asking something so audacious as, "You weren't lying to me when you said I could kill him, right?"
"Hmm?" Feigning ignorance, Megatron settled back into his throne and propped his helm upon his awaiting palm. "Kill who?"
"Your spy— Wasp," a threatening little hiss, rising in tempo emitted from behind his false hood. In many organic species, a sound such as that warned of danger. Either in a paltry attempt to ward off the true threat or as an act of grace prior to striking with teeth bared in a snarl, clamping down onto the neck of those foolish enough to continue their approach.
Megatron did not doubt that should he point the Autobot in the direction of the source of his frustration that he would truly betray any remaining principles of his former institution. Tossing aside his own sense of self for a sliver of retribution against the one who had been painted and dressed up in a uniquely machinated role.
And coming from this insect, it proved that Shockwave had merit with his social examination of this creature.
But, it also served as a reminder of Megatron's defeat millennia ago. To think that such a small insignificant militia with grunts as pathetic as this one could steal victory from under his forces, they should have all been squashed under his fists like bugs.
If he were not careful and took no initiative to curb that defiant attitude, then the Autobot might find himself falling back into bad practices. And his unruly behavior here, well, in a lesser mech it would incite a rage—the target of whom naturally fell onto the pauldrons of the one responsible.
Megatron, however, was no lesser mech. He took a certain delight in the pitiful display, of the minuscule mechanism lapping desperately at the seat of his sworn enemy asking for an approval to kill. That fool Ultra Magnus would find it simply unconscionable that an Autobot would find itself in a position of seeking reassurance from him.
Already, he had sacrificed a most essential part of himself in fealty to Megatron. He didn't even know it yet.
Megatron did not concern himself with discipline at the current moment. Eventual obedience he'd earn through strategic coaxing, until the time approached where he could thoroughly beat it into him. After all…
One could not attempt to tame a beast without first offering it a bone.
Or, by stringing it along until it trapped itself in his web.
"If you help me reclaim Cybertron, my dear bug," Megatron swore, "Then you may do whatever it is that your spark desires against Wasp."