Redemption

Rustbucket

Although the shuttle had not been originally designed for his dimensions, Megatron had managed to make modifications. The Pilots seat, having been made to accommodate a Humanoid shape, had been roughly cut, and torn, to give the ex Warlord more freedom of movement, in the already cramped forward bridge of the craft. The back support had been haphazardly altered, to keep his ornate Epauliere from becoming snagged and entangled, allowing him to reach the forward control screen, with minimal movement.

Sitting in this seat, was Megatron himself, in the process of powering up the shuttle engines, as he gained in altitude, rising above the noxious atmosphere of the proto planet he had been mining Energon from.
Upon establishing a comfortable orbit, he momentarily allowed himself the pleasure of letting his mind wander. He'd discovered that sometimes, allowing his processors to digress, could give him some form of comfort, and, at other times, could help in the planning of his next step. Reminiscing, he recalled his last few significant recent events.

This shuttle, or "rustbucket", as he often referred to it, had not been his first choice of vessals to commendeer. However, the Escort ship that accompanied it to that pithole he had stayed at, like most outposts on the fringes of the Galaxy, had little in the way of choices for space faring craft. The smaller Escort ship had been tempting, as it was the faster of the two, AND it had some weaponry built into it's design. However, it's design was much too small, not to mention that it had no room for the cargo he had waiting for him. If the issue had not involved cargo space, he would have just transformed to his vehicle mode. But in that mode, he was designed for speed, agility, and battle. Not for the transportation of supplies. When he had first spied the two vessals in the docks, he'd made mental notes to come back to them, if indeed, there was nothing else to be found. And, it was as he surmised. The shuttle had had to do.

Procuring it proved easier than he had expected. Covered in rags, he had managed to not be recognized for who he was. To the general populace of the outposts, which consisted of laborers, enterprenuers, ruffians, scoundrels, and the ilk, he seemed to fit right in. All he'd had to do was maintain a stumble in his gait, every now and again, and most steered clear of him, fearing the behemoth in foul rags to either be drunk, or seriously ill. In this manner he had perused the docking area, watching machines and organics offload the cargo, and observing the regular patrols, which he avoided by ducking into any convenient cranny he could fit into. As it was a busy area, with large containers of freight, merchandise, and machine parts stacked about, there were more than enough places to duck out of sight. 

He'd made the mistake once, of speaking to one of the locals, and had made the reference to a joor. The reference was received with an odd stare, and it was then he'd decided to distance himself from any Cybertronian or Decepticon speak, or anything referring to his home planet. It was bad enough that practically every data board he'd run acrosst had lists of Decepticons that were wanted by the 'authorities', for the roles they had played in the recent war. In most of the posts, it was stated that a hefty reward would be paid out to whomever was successful in his capture. But in the more unkempt and lowly bars and cantinas, the glyph for 'capture' had been visiously scratched out, and replaced with the glyph for 'termination', with a side note adding that his head was needed as proof of the deed, to receive payment. It was best not to allude he had anything to do with Cybertron, or any of the network of planets associated with 'The Hub'.

He scowled at the recollection of these thoughts. It was not the particular train of thoughts he wanted to dwell on, but, as was the case, one memory led him down a darker path of thoughts.

JUSTICE! It seemed the entire known Universe wanted it, and yet all of it led to just one solution. His termination! What did any of 'them' know about justice? Wasn't he the one, back at the beginning of it all, who had originally screamed for justice and equality? He was just a meager mining 'bot, who had wanted to be a Medic. But his dreams and desires had been quashed by the Functionality era, and the powers that were in place, at that time.

If he had it to do all over, if there was a way, he would fight just as hard as he did the first time. But, no use in wishing for the impossible. In the present now, he was a fugitive running from justice. And it came in many forms. In the forms of Bounty Hunters slavering for a hefty reward. In the forms of many an egotist wishing to carve out a niche for himself, in the annuls of history. In the forms of Sector Authorities seeking his capture, and trial by a Council that lived a far better lifestyle than their fellow compatriots. JUSTICE. There was no JUSTICE. From the laborers who sweat to line the pockets of the rich,to those that had grave misfortunes, and were turned out to beg to survive, to the slaves that filled the outposts, there was no such thing. In his travels from planet to planet, he had seen nothing resembling it, anyway.

The corruption that seemed to trail so closely to these 'higher societies' was phenomenal. And totally expected. Interestingly enough, there always seemed to be a Quintesson involved in the thick of the rot. The mere thought of a Quintesson raised his core temperature. It was also rumered that the 'Quints' we're amassing power. That they were abducting sentient 'bots, for reprogramming, and adding them into the ranks of their Armada. And he had heard talk that he was on the top of their wish list.

The ex-Decepticon vented deeply, his action resembling, very much, a sigh. He closed his musings, as it was not proving to be productive. Gone were the days he would steam over over such things. He had struggled, at first, to change, in the first few Groons, (mentally he corrected himself, and involuntarily used the Earth measurement.) A few years. (It was the only other language he felt comfortable with.). He forced himself back to the tasks at hand.

He had to get to a Space Bridge. There was a larger asteroid he had visited off and on. It was pockmarked with caves and subterranean caverns. There was nothing remotely interesting about it, until you got deeper into the caverns. There, an atmosphere existed, given off by some form of plant, or lichen. In the deepest of the network of caverns, the oxygen rich atmosphere often got trapped, filling chambers. It was a quiet place, and seemingly not of any value to anyone. It was a place he had made his home. It was there he sometimes found peace. But, it was quite a distance from his current position.

He reached to the console, tapping in coordinates. Alien glyphs printed out speed, estimated consumption of fuel, time of arrival, and course. Noting it would be a long trip, he tapped on another section of the screen, engaging long range scanners. That done, he put the ship on automatic, and started his course. The shuttle responded obediently by powering down secondary systems, and redirecting crucial power to the three aft engines. Lights flickered briefly, as the aft engines rumbled into life, and the interior shook visibly. The ship could not attain lightspeed but it would be close enough. It lurched forward, arcing gently to portside, and in the space of a few moments, the proto planet had shrunk down to a dot, eventually becoming one with the inky blackness behind. Ahead lay an area more densely populated by nebulae, stars, and planetary systems.