the-scrappy-stinger:

(It drops into the ichor, only half of what it used to be and still far too much for what it is. The torso nearly split where Megatron’s fusion canon met it, but instead of a strong connection of transformation cogs and hydraulic tubing, its insides are a wet mangle of wormy, wriggling masses and translucent orbs that, open closer inspection, are primitive organic eyeballs. The long spindly arms drop and heave in breath the thing should not have, sucking in thick gulps of slime through its joints. In the core of the thing, uncovered by the fire, a high-cheekboned and sunken-opticed face wriggles out of the mass to see the light of day.)

(It’s one of the cultists, and its face splits into a smile as it gives a pained laugh and begins to chant not only through its mouth, but each place in its body where the plating splits. The words are wretched and unphysical. They should be coming out of something neither organic nor metallic, and it struggles as its tubing fills with the yellow sludge, but horrifyingly, it’s not a language Bee can even identify. Only a few words in Cybertronian make it through the orgasmic wailing.) 

Nnrryyahglglrrr… sshschrrrkwerleraaa wkweglrraaa… thheee beeautifulll… sshwewrlrlyaaa iiaaa yyyogsssoothooothhh… heee isss comiiiing… thhee keeeey waaalks upon…

(Bee shrinks and hides behind Megatron’s helmet as its form chants and moans and sinks. Its body foams as it is digested into the ichor below. Its long sinous parts writhe in one final attempt at life before it sinks deep into its yellow bile.)

(In the distance, a piece of Cybertron groans in distress as metal creaks under heavy weight, and the last of the cultists is no more.)

In the bowels of Cybertron’s depths, the heart of the Unmaker, on foreign worlds so far from anything remotely familiar, in the dark and twisted labs they’d burned to the ground, Megatron had never seen anything like the incomprehensible abomination twitching and chanting and foaming… Even the mighty warlord could hardly do anything but stare.

It gives a final, hideous shudder before dissolving into the slime it seemed born from. At some point, Megatron had unsheathed his sword, but is unable to remember ordering the action. He doesn’t retract it, and won’t while they’re still within the bounds of this horror, which may be some time as he remains rooted to the spot, staring into the weakly bubbling bile.

A sound finally grabs his attention, bringing the reality of their situation back into focus. They are the only Cybertronians left in this house. They are not alone in this house, and despite his confidence in his own ability, an unknown opponent always has the upper hand. If this was what they found near the entrance, they were not prepared for what awaited within. A tactical retreat, then. Megatron patted Bumblebee’s back, charging towards the nearest window. He gave his friend a word of warning before crashing through it, shaking off the gelatinous glass and transforming. Never mind navigation, all he needed to do was stay in the air, and put distance between them and the poisonous building. 

All the while, the cultist’s few intelligible words echoed in his helm.

Heee isss comiiiing…

 the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

When he looks up from the arm, Bumblebee is leaving. Megatron sighs. He had no idea they would find anything like this here. Were he younger, he would chastise the minibot, order him not to venture off on his own and remind him that death was nothing to be bothered by because the dead won’t be the ones shooting at them. But this isn’t war, this is horrific and senseless, and Bumblebee isn’t one of his soldiers.

His friend’s cut-off cry has Megatron charging after Bee, cannon online, but the only other mechs he can see are the twisted husks in the muck of the floor. With disgust, he finds that he recognizes one of the severed helms from his scout’s initial census of the group. “These are not victims. I believe that we’ve found our cult.” He averts his optics, examining the strange, purple table. Scorch marks at the center, and opposite hand prints on either side. “Killed here… Though how they became so malformed, I’m uncertain.”

He reached out to touch one of the scorch marks but recoiled immediately, hearing something quiet in an adjacent room. It almost could have been laughter, but there was something deeply wrong with the noise, like the throat it came from had several holes in it, or he was hearing it through a filter. Without waiting for permission, Megatron lifted Bumblebee onto his shoulder, the slime and rust from his pedes dripping down the warlord’s chest and staining whatever plating it touched with rust he couldn’t wipe away. He found a barricaded door on the wall, very nearly fused together and hot to the touch, the metal discoloring like an organic bruise with every brush against it. “Someone must remain. They can’t have done this all to themselves…” He was hesitant to ask. “Did you hear that laughter a few moments ago?”

YES! Don’t like it! Don’t like it at all! Lemme see something-! (Bee thrusts his sword forward. It’s thin and lightweight but its own magic has a purpose; it glows a bright and pure blue in the face of danger. His sword lights up like a sun. The light falls entirely wrong on the bruising door, and the Cybertronian metal suddenly looks pitted and rotten. Bee flinches back immediately, tucking the sword and the book away in a flash.) NOPE, BAD NEWS! Blow it up! Blow it up, that thing’s-

(Before he can flinch, the door bursts open with a gush of hot air and wet, melting metal that splashes cold and dead against their plating. Their vision is filled with limbs, twisting epileptic flailing limbs that cage them on all sides, framing a head with a wide-hanging fanged mouth and deep inset optics. Bee screams and fires his stingers blindly forward as his optics screw shut in terror.) 

Megatron doesn’t know the mechanics of the small glowing sword, but Bee’s reaction prepares him for the worst. The worst indeed follows, the metal of the door bursting with an unnaturally wet squelch that covers him with the same vile substance that makes up the floor. He doesn’t have time to be disturbed by the feeling, as the two of them are surrounded by a hoard that he realizes with horror isn’t a hoard at all, but a single being. A single being with a gaping maw that Megatron’s guidance systems paint a crosshairs on.

Turning to the side, Megatron dodges a limb that shoots out from the confusing tangle to try and grab at Bee. The stingers cause the entire mass to shudder and writhe before lashing out again, and only now does Megatron recognize that the thing is smiling as it went for his legs and helm. With a cry louder than the creature’s hideous laughed, he fires three shots into its helm, and two more into the slimy space where it’s helm used to be, not letting up until it falls back into the mire.

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

Megatron feels the scent, but it’s something he’s disturbed to find he’s familiar with. The decay of diseased processed energon, of frames exposed to raw radiation until their protoforms boiled and their mesh bubbled. He spoke of none of this, only hurrying faster inside. His pedes sink deep into the landscape here, the effect only lessening a little in the decrepit structure. The less time spent here, the better.

Looking around, he finds furniture and other unrecognizable chunks of metal twisted and shorn, along with ramshackle barricades and sealed doors that were not reported by his scout. Bee’s question gets his attention, but rather than recoil from the arm, he leans down to pick it up again. The joint is mangled, as if torn in mid-transformation, but it had been severed from the shoulder with deadly precision. “… I believe this may be a bite. But I can’t think of anything but scraplets that can cut so cleanly, and it’s much too big for that.”

Oh great! A cannibal cult! (Bee has to pace further into the building’s shell. He literally has to, the movement keeps him from choking up at the site and the smell. He just goes out, into the “open air” so he can be away from the severed arm.)

(Stepping into the open is arguably a mistake, because in his addled state, he trips. He keeps his face from falling into the muck, but his hands squelch into the ground and come away covered in a yellowish slime that stings his joints and makes the rust stick to him in sheets.) 

GROOOSS! (He pulls away fast with a flail of his arms, and the discoveries happen twofold. The rust pulled away uncovers more pieces of Cybertronians, heads and limbs and half-torsos wrought together in mangled forms, suspended in the ichor that reaches ankle-deep to the ground. He launches backwards, nearly shouting for help, until his head hits something solid and invisible.) 

(THIS, he knows how to handle. WIping his hands off on his legs isn’t ideal, but it gets his fingers clean enough to handle his spellbook and cast one he knows will help.) Margi! 

(Normally, Margi makes any invisible thing a comical shade of powder purple. In this case, however, the stone table it uncovers comes into view a squamous, diseased violet, and it’s covered in scorch marks and the imprints of hands.) 

AG- CANNIBALS! I was just joking, but it’s real! FRAG! (He puts the book away fast and grabs his sword in his off hand, waving it wildly at the air.) And INVISIBLE cannibals!!! 

When he looks up from the arm, Bumblebee is leaving. Megatron sighs. He had no idea they would find anything like this here. Were he younger, he would chastise the minibot, order him not to venture off on his own and remind him that death was nothing to be bothered by because the dead won’t be the ones shooting at them. But this isn’t war, this is horrific and senseless, and Bumblebee isn’t one of his soldiers.

His friend’s cut-off cry has Megatron charging after Bee, cannon online, but the only other mechs he can see are the twisted husks in the muck of the floor. With disgust, he finds that he recognizes one of the severed helms from his scout’s initial census of the group. “These are not victims. I believe that we’ve found our cult.” He averts his optics, examining the strange, purple table. Scorch marks at the center, and opposite hand prints on either side. “Killed here… Though how they became so malformed, I’m uncertain.”

He reached out to touch one of the scorch marks but recoiled immediately, hearing something quiet in an adjacent room. It almost could have been laughter, but there was something deeply wrong with the noise, like the throat it came from had several holes in it, or he was hearing it through a filter. Without waiting for permission, Megatron lifted Bumblebee onto his shoulder, the slime and rust from his pedes dripping down the warlord’s chest and staining whatever plating it touched with rust he couldn’t wipe away. He found a barricaded door on the wall, very nearly fused together and hot to the touch, the metal discoloring like an organic bruise with every brush against it. “Someone must remain. They can’t have done this all to themselves…” He was hesitant to ask. “Did you hear that laughter a few moments ago?”

 the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

Those shivers are plain to his optics. He almost suggests that Bee remain here, but he can’t bring himself to deny the mech, volunteering his service despite his nerves.

“Indeed. I’ll fly us to the perimeter, then we can approach on foot. They haven’t appeared hostile as yet, but I won’t take any chances.” Another groundbridge appears, this one merely leading them outside. He’s tried to drop one close to the building but there was some form of interference preventing the bridge from connecting. In a smooth leap, Megatron transforms and hovers low to the ship. “Hold tight.”

(Bee jumps onto Megatron’s back and takes all of a few seconds to find footholds, handholds, and a spot to press his aft down into. It’s as secure as he’s going to get, and he doesn’t want to waste any time.) 

(He’s blinded in the few seconds of take-off, but he forces himself to open his eyes against the stinging wind and actually look. Megatron’s Cybertron isn’t pretty at all, but there is a look to its wreckage. He can spot that building from a distance, though, and its brown, necrotic melt looks like an oozing sore against the backdrop of wreckage and metal. Something about the sight makes him feel a little sick, and it’s getting closer fast…)

The dormitory had just a few weeks ago been one of the few recognizable buildings left in this sector, but now it looks as if it had been the target of biological warfare. This level of rust isn’t natural, the darkened metal somehow both appearing to have partially melted and be brittle enough to be flaking, thin shavings of shrapnel littering the ground. Megatron pauses at the edge of the effected area, long enough for Bee to dismount before transforming and rising to his pedes again.

“Navigation fails within whatever zone this group has set. Walking is…” Safer was the wrong word. “-preferable from here. If you begin to feel any ill effects, tell me right away. Understood?”

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

the-scrappy-stinger:

(Bee watches, very confused. He has to rewind it a few times, and check the time stamps, too. Each time it goes through, his jaw drops, and by the final playthrough his optics are wide and horrified.) HOLY- what’s going on with this place?! 

Was it empty? Jeeze the wall just blew up-! MAN I’m glad I brought the book. Is this within driving distance? 

He doesn’t ask about the book, (though he does hope it may provide insight), and pulls up a small file, the formal testimony of the scout assigned to the property. “It was not empty. We documented over 30 crewmen from a neutral ship  taking shelter there, but when my scout last returned, half were unaccounted for, and the rest appeared… unwell.” A part of the file included the scout’s refusal to return, along with his descriptions of the mechs inside.

“They have not responded to our inquiries, and in fact have made no willing contact with anyone on-planet since their arrival. The dorm is just outside of Tyger Pax, in a decimated area. Not a long drive, but the streets haven’t been cleared. Flying would be easier.”

(Bee reaches into his cab, buckling a few loose pieces into place.) Okay, whenever you’re ready. This looks SERIOUSLY funky, and if you’ve done the science route and it’s turned up nothing? We’ve gotta get out there fast. 

(He salutes.) Let’s find some survivors and make ‘em explain their damn selves! Wreckin’ up your planet while you’re trying to tidy up the place…

(He jokes, but the images are sticking in his mind and making him shiver.)

Those shivers are plain to his optics. He almost suggests that Bee remain here, but he can’t bring himself to deny the mech, volunteering his service despite his nerves.

“Indeed. I’ll fly us to the perimeter, then we can approach on foot. They haven’t appeared hostile as yet, but I won’t take any chances.” Another groundbridge appears, this one merely leading them outside. He’s tried to drop one close to the building but there was some form of interference preventing the bridge from connecting. In a smooth leap, Megatron transforms and hovers low to the ship. “Hold tight.”

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

the-scrappy-stinger:

Happy to help, my lord!

So, what’s the damage? Grayface wreck something up? Hole opened up in the ground? Grues? I mean, my universe has a little magic in it, but the message wasn’t super-specific. 

His helm shook gently. “I’ve heard nothing from the anonymous creatures, and when they fail to brag, they aren’t involved. I was not specific because I couldn’t be.” Taking a step back, he presses play on the console. A sped up version of the surveillance plays on the screens, and he waits for it all to finish before folding his arms behind his back to address Bee.

“I’m not sure what a ‘gru’ is, but I am certain that metal structures that have survived eons of bombs, flames and the ravages of time do not go through this for no reason.”

(Bee watches, very confused. He has to rewind it a few times, and check the time stamps, too. Each time it goes through, his jaw drops, and by the final playthrough his optics are wide and horrified.) HOLY- what’s going on with this place?! 

Was it empty? Jeeze the wall just blew up-! MAN I’m glad I brought the book. Is this within driving distance? 

He doesn’t ask about the book, (though he does hope it may provide insight), and pulls up a small file, the formal testimony of the scout assigned to the property. “It was not empty. We documented over 30 crewmen from a neutral ship  taking shelter there, but when my scout last returned, half were unaccounted for, and the rest appeared… unwell.” A part of the file included the scout’s refusal to return, along with his descriptions of the mechs inside.

“They have not responded to our inquiries, and in fact have made no willing contact with anyone on-planet since their arrival. The dorm is just outside of Tyger Pax, in a decimated area. Not a long drive, but the streets haven’t been cleared. Flying would be easier.”

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

Megatron must have watched the footage fifteen times by now. How could such decay affect a building so quickly, and why would any mechs willingly subject themselves to it? No… He had seen some truly frightening indoctrination, both willing and unwilling. The fact that a group lived here did not surprise him so much as unsettle the old warlord. Not here, not on his Cybertron.

Megatron kept this investigation quiet, but all those few that learned of his plan advised against him being the one to go. He heard all of their concerns, agreed that certainly he could send a team of soldiers to reclaim the dormitory, but refused to change course. With the dark energon in his system, he was resistant to typical illness; without knowing the kind of plague that seemed to be affecting the building, it only made sense that he take point. More than that, this planet had seen enough soldier’s fuel shed on his behalf. He was no longer a warlord, but Cybertron’s Protector, and he would do his new duty with as much vigor as he had the last.

His optics flicked up as a flurry of green appeared in his room. Even bringing Bumblebee along had its risks. If anything happened to his friend… Well. He wouldn’t permit anything to happen. “Bumblebee. Thank you for joining me.”

Happy to help, my lord!

So, what’s the damage? Grayface wreck something up? Hole opened up in the ground? Grues? I mean, my universe has a little magic in it, but the message wasn’t super-specific. 

His helm shook gently. “I’ve heard nothing from the anonymous creatures, and when they fail to brag, they aren’t involved. I was not specific because I couldn’t be.” Taking a step back, he presses play on the console. A sped up version of the surveillance plays on the screens, and he waits for it all to finish before folding his arms behind his back to address Bee.

“I’m not sure what a ‘gru’ is, but I am certain that metal structures that have survived eons of bombs, flames and the ravages of time do not go through this for no reason.”