D-16

D-16 paused mid-swing, his pickaxe hovering in the air as the question registered. The dim, flickering glow of his optics narrowed slightly, his scarred and battered frame coated in a fine layer of ore dust. Around him, the rhythmic clang of tools against rock filled the cavernous mine, punctuated by the occasional bark of an Enforcer ordering someone to work faster.

The miner who had spoken—Grit, a smaller mech with a chipped shoulder plate and a habit of talking too much—leaned against a support beam, wiping grime from his faceplate. "C’mon, D-16," he pressed, voice low to avoid drawing attention. "You never say nothin’ about what you want. You just work, eat, work, recharge. Even Scrapheap over there’s got a vice—and his is losing at cards."

A few tired chuckles rose from nearby miners. Scrapheap, a burly mech missing half his left audial, flipped Grit a rude gesture before returning to chiseling at a stubborn vein of energon ore.

D-16’s grip on his pickaxe tightened. His voice, when it came, was a deep, measured growl. "What I want doesn’t matter." He drove the pickaxe into the rock with a sharp crack, sending a shower of sparks skittering across the ground. "What any of us want doesn’t matter. The Enforcers see to that."

Grit frowned, glancing toward the nearest Enforcer—a hulking, heavily armored mech with a scuffed Autobot insignia on his shoulder. The guard wasn’t paying attention, too busy berating another miner for slowing down.

"Maybe not," Grit admitted, lowering his voice further. "But that don’t mean we gotta act like it. Even if it’s just in our helms. So, c’mon. If you had one cycle to do anything—what’d it be?"

D-16’s vents exhaled sharply, his optics flickering as he considered the question. For a moment, something dangerous flashed behind them—something that wasn’t exhaustion or resignation.

"I’d tear this mine apart," he rumbled, so quietly only Grit could hear. "From the supports to the overseer’s tower. I’d watch it all collapse."

Grit’s optics widened slightly. He opened his mouth to respond—

"BREAK’S OVER!" an Enforcer bellowed, slamming the butt of his shock-staff against the cavern wall. "BACK TO WORK, SCRAPHEADS!"

The moment shattered. The miners groaned, shoulders slumping as they returned to their stations. D-16 didn’t say another word. He just swung his pickaxe again, the impact ringing through the tunnels like a war drum.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a thunderous wave of sound crashing against the bloodstained walls of Kaon’s underground arena. The air was thick with the acrid stench of scorched metal, spilled energon, and the frenzied excitement of mechs who had come to see violence—and D-16 delivered.

His latest opponent, a hulking Triple-Changer from the northern territories, lay sprawled across the pit floor, one arm severed at the elbow, his optic shattered. The crowd chanted D-16’s designation like a battle hymn, their voices shaking the very foundations of the arena. He stood over the fallen gladiator, his massive frame heaving with exertion, his dented and scarred armor gleaming under the harsh floodlights.

"ANOTHER VICTORY FOR THE MIGHTY D-16!" the announcer bellowed, his voice amplified to a deafening pitch. "WHO WILL EVER STOP THIS MACHINE OF WAR?!"

D-16 didn’t raise his arms in triumph. He didn’t bask in the adoration. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, his optics burning like molten steel as they swept across the sea of desperate, angry faces—miners, laborers, outcasts, and forgotten warriors, all crammed into the stands like rusted scrap waiting to be melted down.

"You cheer for me," he rumbled, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "But why? Because I kill for your amusement? Because I spill energon so you can forget your own chains for a few kliks?"

The crowd’s fervor dimmed slightly, murmurs rippling through the stands. Some looked uneasy. Others leaned forward, their optics bright with something more than bloodlust.

"You think this is freedom?" D-16 continued, stepping over the groaning form of his defeated foe. "You think because they let us fight, we’re not still slaves?" He raised a fist, energon dripping from his knuckles. "The pits are just another mine. The overseers just wear different badges. And when they’re done watching us tear each other apart, they’ll toss our corpses into the smelters and find new fools to take our place!"

A hush fell. Even the Enforcers stationed along the upper walkways shifted, their grips tightening on their shock-batons.

Then, from the back of the crowd, a single voice shouted:

"Then what do we DO?!"

D-16’s mouth twisted into something too sharp to be a smile.

"We stop playing their game."

The arena erupted. Some mechs roared in agreement, rising to their feet. Others looked around nervously, as if expecting the Enforcers to descend at any moment. A few even began chanting—not D-16’s name, but something new, something dangerous.

"MEGATRON! MEGATRON! MEGATRON!"

D-16—no, Megatron—let the sound wash over him. This was no longer just a gladiator’s title. It was a promise. A war cry.

The rumor spread through the mines like wildfire—whispered between exhausted miners during stolen breaks, passed along in hushed tones beneath the watchful optics of the Enforcers.

"They’re selecting workers for reassignment. Off-world, some say. Better conditions. No more swinging a pickaxe until your struts give out."

Grit was the first to bring it to D-16’s attention, his voice barely above a subvocal hum as they hauled a cart of raw energon crystals toward the refinery belt.

"You hear about the list?" he muttered, his optics darting toward the nearest Enforcer—a brutish mech with a dented chestplate and a permanent scowl.

D-16 didn’t pause in his labor, his massive arms straining as he shoved another jagged crystal into the processor. "I hear a lot of things," he rumbled. "Most of them lies."

Grit vented in frustration. "This ain’t just slag-talk, D-16. There’s a datapad in the main hall. You put your name on it, and if you’re picked, you get transferred out. Maybe to a factory. Maybe to a transport hub. Anything’s better than this pit."

A bitter chuckle escaped D-16’s vocalizer. "You really think they’d just let us leave?" His optics darkened. "This is a trick. A way to see who’s discontent. And you know what happens to miners who complain too much."

A tense silence fell between them. They’d both seen it before—mechs who spoke out of turn, who questioned orders, who dared to hope for something better. They vanished. Sometimes quietly, in the dead of the off-cycle. Sometimes publicly, dragged away by Enforcers for "re-education."

But Grit wasn’t dissuaded. "Then why’s it being done official-like? Why not just disappear us in the tunnels like usual?"

D-16’s grip on the cart tightened. "Because they want us to volunteer," he growled. "They want us to think we have a choice. Makes it easier to stomach when they ship us off to die somewhere else."

Nearby, Scrapheap snorted, wiping energon grime from his face. "He’s got a point, Grit. Last time they offered ‘reassignment,’ half the mechs who signed up ended up in the smelting pool."

Grit’s shoulders slumped, but his optics still burned with stubborn defiance. "And what’s the alternative? Rot here until our frames give out?"

D-16 didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted toward the cavern ceiling, as if he could see through layers of rock and steel to the sky beyond. "There’s always another way," he said at last, voice low and dangerous. "Just not theirs."

Grit studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Maybe you’re right."

But as they returned to work, D-16 noticed something unsettling—despite his warnings, despite the risks, miners were slipping away one by one during their breaks. And when the next shift change came, the datapad in the main hall was full of names.

D-16’s jaw clenched.

The mines of Tarn were never quiet—but today, the usual cacophony of clanging pickaxes and rumbling ore carts was undercut by something far more dangerous: the murmur of senators.

D-16’s optics narrowed as he caught sight of them—pristine, polished mechs and femmes gliding through the grime-coated tunnels like oil on water, their ornate armor untouched by dust, their faces twisted in expressions of detached curiosity. Behind each one loomed a Senatorial Guard, their frames sleek and weaponized, optics scanning the miners with cold disdain.

"Keep working," an Enforcer barked, shoving a stumbling miner back into line. "The honored representatives are observing. Show them your best."

D-16’s grip on his pickaxe tightened until the metal groaned. Observing. As if they were studying some fascinating insect colony rather than sentient beings breaking their backs for Cybertron’s luxury.

One of the senators—a tall, silver femme with a sweeping crest and a datapad in hand—paused near D-16’s work station. Her optics flicked over him, lingering on the deep scars across his chassis, the jagged weld lines where repairs had been done hastily, without care.

"This one," she remarked to her guard, as if D-16 couldn’t hear her. "His output is significantly higher than the others. Note his designation for potential reallocation."

The guard nodded, inputting something into a datapad.

D-16’s fuel pump hammered. Reallocation. A pretty word for disposal.

The senator stepped closer, her voice dripping with false warmth. "Tell me, miner—how do you maintain such efficiency?"

D-16 didn’t stop working. "I don’t have a choice," he ground out between strikes.

She blinked, as if surprised he could speak. "Ah. Well. A commendable work ethic, regardless."

Nearby, Grit was less fortunate. A broad-shouldered senator with a gaudy golden crest loomed over him, peering at the half-processed energon crystal in his hands.

"This yield is substandard," the senator sniffed. "Are you fatigued? Poorly calibrated?"

Grit’s jaw worked. "The vein’s running dry, sir. Hard to pull clean crystals when—"

"Excuses," the senator interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "The quotas must be met. If your team cannot manage it, we will find those who can."

Grit’s optics flicked to D-16—a silent plea for backup.

D-16’s systems burned with the urge to act. To drive his pickaxe through the senator’s smug faceplate. But the guards were too many, too well-armed.

Instead, he spoke, his voice a low, warning growl. "We pull what’s there. No more. No less."

The senator turned, optics narrowing. "And who asked you?"

The air grew thick with tension. The Enforcers shifted, hands drifting toward their shock-batons.

Then—miraculously—the silver femme intervened. "Come, Senator Zethus. We have other sectors to inspect."

With a final disdainful glance, the golden-crested mech strode away, his guard in tow.

Grit vented shakily. "Slagging glitch…"

D-16 watched the senators retreat, his spark boiling.