damned_institute | Day 41: Intercom, Evening

When the intercom's jingle sounded, there seemed to be some kind of tapping in the background noise, like letters being punched into a keyboard. It stopped and the Head Doctor chuckled.

"Hello, everyone! I'm actually taking a break from paperwork for once – everyone needs some recreational time, you know! – and of course, now we can all look forward to a scrumptious dinner from our cooks. Tonight, herb-seasoned grilled salmon is on the menu, served with buttery mashed potatoes and asparagus. All our regular drinks and vegetarian options are available, and for dessert, we will be serving yellow cake with a whipped cream icing.

"...Well! I can hardly wait to get my own dinner after saying all that. Good bye for now, everyone, and enjoy your delicious food!"

The intercom clicked off.

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Megatron’s female human, as inevitably as always, had returned. The voice over the intercom was odd, and horrifically cheery – obviously, the Quintessons had brainwashed a few dozen humans into performing their bidding, along with a few figureheads to keep the masses in line.

The human had let him stop at the bathroom, which turned out to be a wholly traumatizing experience unto itself. What had truly shocked him, even more than this body’s natural biological processes, was the discovery of his reflection in one of the mirrors. It had been rather surreal, watching a human face, a human form, copy his movements. Megatron’s facial components were as lined as he had assumed, and he was unfortunately in possession of more hair than what should be possible.

Any denial of his humanity, his mortality, to that point was quickly nullified. He was not only organic, but also a clearly aged organic. Age wasn’t a concept that was necessarily a predominant worry for Cybertronians, as they could be upgraded to a point. This was not something he could upgrade from. The lone relief came in the form of his eyes. Even though optics had now become human, they were identical no matter what form he was in – a dark, familiar red.

Megatron, of course, was quickly retrieved from his musings. The nurse lead him down corridors until they came to a halt in front of an anonymous door, as identical as all the others that lined the hallways. The female calmly handed him his dinner tray, before leaving him to his own devices.

Surprisingly, there was another human settled with his own food. An older man, aged to point not unlike Megatron’s own human form, and reasonably impressive in stature – especially in comparison to those he had met throughout the day. Judging by the nature of which the facility was run, Megatron was reasonably suspicious that the Quintessons were setting them all up for a one-on-one death match. They were allowing their human captives to refuel to their fullest potential before fighting, and the victor would move on to verse the creatures that were kept within the halls.

"Evening," Megatron dryly acknowledged, quirking both brows. It was an odd turn of phrase that Sumdac had often used, and it would serve Megatron’s purposes just fine.

The room was sparse, and extremely sterile. Needless to say, quite appealing to Cybertronian tastes. There were two recharging berths, a table with additional storage, and two containment units. Leaving his dinner on the table, he pushed the journal to the side with a snort, and roughly tugged open the drawers.

Miniature locking devices – no doubt to the room itself - they would be of use. Two sets of small, human-sized batteries were an oddity, as he could see nothing that they would be placed in. He rummaged for a moment more, and - ah Writing utensils. Useless in theory, but with enough force, should surely be able to penetrate a primary organic artery. He knew they would have little bearing against the creatures he was suspecting to find within these walls, but they would suffice until he could find a weapon of greater value.

He pocketed three pens, before turning his attentions to the containment units, not remotely worried by how odd he would appear to his human associate. His searching proved fruitless. Nothing but human coverings, all with that infernal insignia. The realisation was enough to make him pause. The symbol was rather distinctive. Colourful. Happy. From what little he could recall of the Quintesson insignia, it was also emotive in nature. However, that symbol had always been a sign of aggression. For creatures that were so debatable in their own emotional nature, they certainly defined themselves rather expressively.

Who knew Quintessons could have senses of humour? Their primary embellishment one of furious power, whilst the symbol of the containment facility – supposedly Landel’s - was endlessly and irritatingly joyful.

...it further condensed Megatron’s belief that they were being used for infantile entertainment.

Done with his searching, Megatron sat back down at his table. He eyed his fuel with distaste, before turning to the human.

"I do not suppose yours is any more appetizing."

Day 41: Intercom, Evening

Re: M62