“As you see, we are entirely accustomed to flying mechs.” Megatron drew upon his most convincing tone of subtle reassurance. “I doubt that your Autobot brethren always react with the appropriate level of appreciation for your abilities. A pity, really, but Autobot traditionalism rarely allows for an enlightened worldview. Progress, as defined by the Autobot Council, will always be irrevocably tied to the ground.” Out of the corner of one optic, Megatron caught the back-and-forth bounce of another uneasy glance between the two little jets. “Your advanced nature is not to be feared...but celebrated.”
“Brother,” one whispered to the other.
In reply, the visored twin tightened the line of his mouth and shook his head.
Slightly narrowing his optics, Megatron turned with the swift grace of a striking predator. He grasped Jetfire's wrist between two fingers and held firm to the joint even when the jet jerked back with a static buzz of fright. “You are delicate,” Megatron said. He slid his thumb along the seams of the metal and felt the double whirr of fragile components under his dedicatedly careful grip. “Not to say that you are weak. You are small, however. Lithe. Unexpectedly agile.” He curled his mouth into a smile. “Such builds are uncommon among Decepticons.” In illustration, he tilted his head lightly in the direction of Lugnut, then Shockwave, but he kept his optics fixed on those of Jetfire. “The two of you are...exotic.”
He let his thumb drift upward, running metal over metal along the inner seam of the jet's forearm before casually releasing him.
Jetfire literally fell backwards a full step, only steadying when both of Jetstorm's slim arms wrapped tight around him. Both twins faintly trembled. Megatron needed no superior capabilities of transmission or intelligence to know that they had ways of communicating that did not rely upon audible speech or private channels.
“The Autobots,” Jetstorm said, at last, in halting unease. “They...sometimes fear us.”
Megatron inclined his head in agreement. “Of course they do.” He manufactured a regretful sigh through his vents. “Your unique command of the air reminds them of our sort, after all, and Autobots will always fear Decepticons. The weak have reason to fear the powerful.”
Both twins visibly bristled, their wiring clicking and snapping beneath their plating. Megatron supposed that he had touched on the sensitive node of Autobot preconditioning.
“The Autobots are not weak!” piped Jetfire.
Jetstorm adopted a similar pose of offense. “The Autobots control Cybertron!”
“Yes,” Megatron replied with equanimity. “They do. But that hardly answers the question of whether or not they should.”
The two paused, then tensed, and then finally shared another uncertain glance between them. Their postures devolved into awkward angles and halting lines, and they appeared again as their mental, rather than physical ages―two Cybertronians barely past the protoform stage.
“What is it that you mean?” Jetfire said at length.
“You, the greatest of their creations since Project Omega, and how do they make use of you? By sending you flitting around the galaxy, chasing after small and relatively harmless enclaves of Decepticon saboteurs. What a waste.”
Heads tilting in uncertainty, the twins grasped each other's hands. They were probably unaware of their propensity for—and thus vulnerability to—physical contact. Finally, Jetstorm spoke. “Tell us more.”
Megatron couldn't quite restrain his smirk into a smile, but no matter. “Gladly,” he said, and then he pretended to consider. “In a better location...my private quarters, perhaps. Shockwave, do be kind enough to bring the highest grade of oil for our extraordinary guests.”
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Date: 2009-05-29 11:17 pm (UTC)“Brother,” one whispered to the other.
In reply, the visored twin tightened the line of his mouth and shook his head.
Slightly narrowing his optics, Megatron turned with the swift grace of a striking predator. He grasped Jetfire's wrist between two fingers and held firm to the joint even when the jet jerked back with a static buzz of fright. “You are delicate,” Megatron said. He slid his thumb along the seams of the metal and felt the double whirr of fragile components under his dedicatedly careful grip. “Not to say that you are weak. You are small, however. Lithe. Unexpectedly agile.” He curled his mouth into a smile. “Such builds are uncommon among Decepticons.” In illustration, he tilted his head lightly in the direction of Lugnut, then Shockwave, but he kept his optics fixed on those of Jetfire. “The two of you are...exotic.”
He let his thumb drift upward, running metal over metal along the inner seam of the jet's forearm before casually releasing him.
Jetfire literally fell backwards a full step, only steadying when both of Jetstorm's slim arms wrapped tight around him. Both twins faintly trembled. Megatron needed no superior capabilities of transmission or intelligence to know that they had ways of communicating that did not rely upon audible speech or private channels.
“The Autobots,” Jetstorm said, at last, in halting unease. “They...sometimes fear us.”
Megatron inclined his head in agreement. “Of course they do.” He manufactured a regretful sigh through his vents. “Your unique command of the air reminds them of our sort, after all, and Autobots will always fear Decepticons. The weak have reason to fear the powerful.”
Both twins visibly bristled, their wiring clicking and snapping beneath their plating. Megatron supposed that he had touched on the sensitive node of Autobot preconditioning.
“The Autobots are not weak!” piped Jetfire.
Jetstorm adopted a similar pose of offense. “The Autobots control Cybertron!”
“Yes,” Megatron replied with equanimity. “They do. But that hardly answers the question of whether or not they should.”
The two paused, then tensed, and then finally shared another uncertain glance between them. Their postures devolved into awkward angles and halting lines, and they appeared again as their mental, rather than physical ages―two Cybertronians barely past the protoform stage.
“What is it that you mean?” Jetfire said at length.
“You, the greatest of their creations since Project Omega, and how do they make use of you? By sending you flitting around the galaxy, chasing after small and relatively harmless enclaves of Decepticon saboteurs. What a waste.”
Heads tilting in uncertainty, the twins grasped each other's hands. They were probably unaware of their propensity for—and thus vulnerability to—physical contact. Finally, Jetstorm spoke. “Tell us more.”
Megatron couldn't quite restrain his smirk into a smile, but no matter. “Gladly,” he said, and then he pretended to consider. “In a better location...my private quarters, perhaps. Shockwave, do be kind enough to bring the highest grade of oil for our extraordinary guests.”