thesoundlessvoid:

@mightymegatron​

Vaccines were getting harder and harder to come by. Megatron himself seemed resistant to this particular strain, his medics crediting it to the fact that he’d suffered through a similar condition in his youth and survived, (or more likely, the dark energon coursing through him. This, however, was not public knowledge.) Even so, he was warned against coming into direct contact with any of the victims. Most of them were going to die within the week anyway, there was no reason to visit them.

Of course, telling Megatron that something is a bad idea is pointless once he’s made up his mind. Perhaps not the entire fleet, but he made a point to check in on those who had fought with him in the arena. These were the strongest of his Decepticons, both in strength and devotion, and out of everyone they should have had the best chance at recovery. It was eerie to see all of them so still, downed by something so microscopic as unnatural oxidation. Blackout was a holdout, old and stubborn, approaching the 10-day mark that so few had reached. If he could just stay awake past then, the plague would run its course and he might survive. Warning or no, Megatron put a servo on his shoulder.

“You will fight this. You will win. Is that understood?”

The rust plague came so fast, that barely anyone knew what had hit them. Surprisingly for a pandemic of that type, it began within the confines of the cultured cities – a wayward traveler returning home from a third-system colony where diseases ran rampant and claimed lives as quickly as new sparks could be produced. When all is said and done, the wealthiest city-states of Cybertron were in chaos; death came for everyone equally, blind to the castes, until the rusted frames of nobles and slaves alike lined the streets beside one another.

As the civilized states fell into disarray, the slave cities began to feel the effects. The peoples of places like Tarn and Kaon, however, were a tough lot who had seen their fair share of virus outbreaks and infections spread through their towns and villages. Despite this, even they began to fall. Soldiers died at their posts, medics perished at the bedsides of their patients, giving their lives in an effort to save even one other. Even the strongest of them all, the Kaon-born gladiators, began to topple one by one.

They said if they could make it beyond the ten sol threshold, they stood a chance at surviving.

He doesn’t know how long it has been. There are no windows in the infirmary he has ended up in, and he can’t tell if the lights are dimming at random or as each day passes. Blackout isn’t sure how long it’s been since he recharged, or when the threshold of his pain tolerance was breached so that the agonized feeling of his body rotting away from around him became normal. His rotor blades had been the first to go – the medics were not concerned with saving something so easily replaced. From there, the rust began eating into his turboshaft and rotormount, spreading to his shoulders, chest, and arms.

Now, it’s everywhere, and beginning to delve deeper.

The tyton is on the floor. There are no medical slabs large enough to hold him, so the medical staff has done what could be done to make the gladiator-turned-solder as comfortable as possible. But if he is to make it beyond ten sols, he has to do it on his own mettle – they can’t give him any sort of pain management programs. If he goes to recharge, he will never wake up.

He’s unaware of the other’s presence at first. Blackout can taste the rot as it backs up in his throat, clogging his vents, distracting him from detecting the steps of his visitor. The tyton coughs; blackened ruddy liquid splatters his pockmarked armor and runs in diseased rivulets out of his olfactory slots.

Someone touches him. Blackout jumps a bit, optics opening to see who – or what – it is. If he is truthful with himself, the silver armor of none other than Megatron himself had been the last mech the downed tyton expects to see. He can’t hear the words, he can’t comprehend the voice, but Blackout concentrates through the fever on the champion’s scarred lips as they move. 

“You will fight this. You will win. Is that understood?” Megatron says. 

Blackout’s dim optics watch the gladiator, leader, his leader. For several long moments, it may seem as though the deaf-mute tyton is unable to understand; his carmine optics seem empty, his vents are hitched and labored, and there’s a wet gurgle in the tyton’s throat rattling like death itself is throttling him. But then, after another moment, a massive black hand lifts from the berthside and grabs Megatron’s shoulder in return. 

As his claws smear rotten ooze on silver armor, Blackout’s free hand comes up, the fist banging against his own chest twice, hard.

“Act͢a̡ ͡n̷on ҉v̡e͢r͡b͜a̧.” 

Megatron had been told before that Blackout’s hearing was not what it used to be, and now through the rust it was likely gone entirely. Regardless, he spoke with conviction, keeping a firm grasp on the tyton’s shoulder to hold his attention. The dim optics could barely hold their focus, but Megatron held the gaze regardless, unsure if any of his message had gotten through. The warlord almost winces at the sound Blackout made, one that should never rise from the throat of any living mech. He’s about to get back up and let him rest when a heavy servo lands on his own shoulder.

The tyton’s action nearly gives the medic watching their interaction a spark attack, but only earns surprise from Megatron at the strength displayed by his felled comrade. To hear that phrase with such conviction even through the static of his vocalizer filled the former gladiator with pride and he grinned wildly, banging his own chest once in response. Even if he lost this fight, Blackout would not go down without his honor, and Megatron had faith that he would not go down at all.

“Nostra erunt actus magna.”