Broken
Megatron watched with calculated patience as Bumblebee lapped at the energon dripping from his outstretched servo. The youngling trembled, desperate and ravenous, his once-bright blue autobot optics dimmed to a dull flicker of gold. A pitiful sight.
And yet, it was an opportunity.
“There now,” Megatron murmured, his voice smooth as polished steel. He ran his free servo gently over the scout’s helm, a falsely soothing gesture—comforting, paternal. “Drink your fill. No one will hurt you here.”
Bumblebee made no reply, only a soft whine of need as he pressed closer, digits clutching at Megatron’s servo like a drowning mech clinging to wreckage. The poor thing. Stripped of his bravado, his ceaseless prattle, his loyalty. Shockwave’s experiments had done their work well. Just as Megatron had hoped.
The Autobots would never take him back now.
He tilted his helm, letting the silence stretch before speaking again, softer now, with just the right amount of sorrow. “The Autobots will hate you now, they will never accept you, Bumblebee.” His thumb traced along the scout’s cheekplate. “You know this, don’t you?”
Bumblebee let out a small, keening sound, and Megatron knew the words struck deep. The scout’s very frame trembled at the thought of what his precious Autobots must think of him now. The same Autobots who had left him behind.
A moment of hesitation. A flicker of defiance in the dim glow of his optics.
Megatron's grin stretched across his faceplate, as he smiled down at the young mech. Bumblebee shuddered, too lost to reality to pull away. The mech was barely more than a sparkling himself—young enough, fragile enough. Enough that Megatron could claim the young mech as his own.
And why shouldn’t he?
The Autobots had denied him the AllSpark, refused him the right to create his own lineage, to build something that was truly his. They stole from him at every turn, leaving him with nothing but war, nothing but endless battles for a future that should have been his by right.
They denied him a legacy.
But now—now he had the chance handed to him by the autobots, of course Sentinel Prime abandoned him as soon as he saw what shockwave had done to him. They had left Bumblebee behind like scrap, no different than the broken war machines rusting away on Cybertron. And if they would not take responsibility for their own, then why should he deny himself the opportunity?
“You are a broken thing to them now.” He let the words settle like dust. “But to me, you are perfect.”
The Autobots had abandoned their wounded, but he? He would cherish this new creature. Mold him. Make him his.
“They will never saw you as theirs, little one,” he murmured, voice smooth as liquid metal. “Not truly, not now.”
Another soft sound escaped Bumblebee—some half-formed static of need as he nuzzled weakly against Megatron’s frame, mind too hazed to think, to fight, to deny.
Yes.
Bumblebee had always been so eager to prove himself.
Megatron’s optics burned crimson in the dim light as he curled his claws around the scout’s frame, a mockery of an embrace.
“Trust me, little one. You will be safe with us now.”
A choked static noise—pain? Confusion? Desperation? Bumblebee pressed closer, his frame thrumming with need, and Megatron knew the battle was already won.
And Megatron always cherished what was his.