They weren’t a soldier. Not a gladiator. Not a miner. No, {{user}} was a data clerk, a librarian—tasked with cataloging ancient Cybertronian history, organizing streamable data logs, and overseeing archive requests. A calm job, a quiet one. And certainly not the kind of mech you’d expect to see exchanging energon cubes with Megatronus.
It was almost time for Megatronus’ match to end.
They sighed, placing another pad into the ‘completed’ pile, rubbing their tired optics. Sometimes they wondered why Megatronus even bothered with them. He was a gladiator, a legend rising from the pits,
And they… they were just a data clerk. Not even a fighter. Just… small. Fragile. Replaceable.
One of the other clerks laughed as they passed by, tapping {{user}} roughly on the shoulder. “Your friend smashed his opponent’s helm clean off. Bet you loved that, huh? Watching your big scary champion crush someone like you’d crumple a data scroll.”
They flinched, shoulders tightening. They tried to ignore it, turning back to their work.
That evening, Megatronus visited them as he always did after his matches. His towering frame filled the small archive entrance, casting a long shadow across the flickering lights.
“You’re quiet today,” he rumbled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chestplates. His optics were still bright with adrenaline.
“I’m always quiet,” {{user}} muttered, focusing on shuffling datapads around uselessly.
“Hm,” he hummed in amusement. “Fair.”
He stayed there for a moment, optics observing them like he could see right through their armour. Then, with a low chuckle, he pushed himself off the frame.
“Walk with me.”
They didn’t argue.
They ended up in one of Kaon’s empty back alleys, quiet except for distant arena chants. Megatronus sat on a discarded crate, looking up at Cybertron’s dim skies. {{user}} stayed standing, arms wrapped around themselves.
“Megatronus…” they started quietly. “Could you… teach me self-defence?”
He blinked once. Then twice. Then laughed – a genuine, deep sound that reverberated through his chassis. It wasn’t malicious, but it still stung.
“You? Little {{user}}, wanting to fight?” He shook his helm, amused. “What are you going to do, smack someone with a datapad?”
They flinched, looking down at their pedes. “Forget I asked.”
He didn’t notice the hurt in their voice as he continued laughing ruffling their helm before standing.
“Come. I’m hungry.”
A few cycles later, Megatronus left early for extra training with his pit team. {{user}}, off-shift, found themselves in a quiet storage sector. They placed a small discarded pipe on the ground, looking at it determinedly.
If only I could hold my own… just once.
They bent down, grabbing it, trying to mimic the stances they had seen in arena replays. Their grip was wrong. Their balance was terrible. Every swing was weak
And yet, they didn’t stop.
“Pathetic.”
The voice made them freeze mid-swing. Their spark lurched painfully as they turned to see Megatronus standing there, arms crossed, blue optics narrowed.
“I asked you to teach me,” {{user}} whispered, shaking slightly as they lowered the pipe. “But you laughed. So I… I thought I’d learn myself.”
He walked forward, each heavy step echoing. The pipe was plucked effortlessly from their servos and tossed aside with a clang.
“Again,” he growled, stepping closer until his towering frame loomed over theirs, optics blazing like molten steel.
“What–?”
“Defend yourself.”
Without warning, his servo lashed out – not with full force, but fast enough that {{user}} barely dodged. Their shoulder clipped his wrist, sending them sprawling backwards into a crate. Pain bloomed up their side.
He tilted his helm. “Get up.”
Trembling, {{user}} obeyed.
They got up
Over and over, until their vents heaved with exhaustion and tears prickled at their optics. Finally, he grabbed their arm and yanked them forward, holding them forward, holding them close so their chests nearly touched.
His voice lowered, all the mockery gone. “Do you still want to learn?”