Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The skies over Iacon were fogged with the remains of war. If you stood at a low enough point, you could taste ashes on your glossa and feel it making a home in your vents. For those who were alive, it was an invigorating experience, making it just about all the way through — Prime told them they were just about all the way through. The ash could have very well been sweet flakes of copper with how giddy they were. For prisoners, hiders, and those who were silenced — killed, shadowplayed, or otherwise hushed — this new era was terrifying. 

The city’s tallest skyscraper stood close to Optimus’ citadel, absolutely not standing taller than the latter structure. That wouldn’t be a correct show of power. From the top of the skyscraper — it was a nameless company’s outpost — everything in the grand city could be seen. Rows of fortified walls and strong reinforced building structures made the city impenetrable. Even at the Autobot’s lowest points, they never lost Iacon. At their highest point, the present day, the city stood stronger than ever. Cars, trucks, and everything else buzzed around the streets so far below the height of the skyscraper. Hundreds upon thousands of mecha were rushing to an old senate house, if it could be called that anymore. During the war, it became a stronghold. One — only one — Decepticon attack managed to penetrate it, and it was a cowardly aerial missile strike. The roof of the building caved in, leaving it with the appearance of a colosseum. The jagged edges were never repaired. Optimus allowed it to serve as a reminder of the Decepticons’ cowardly threat and the need for Autobot vigilance. All those vigilant Autobots were now racing to get into the Colosseum House. Well, hm. Not all of them though.

On the top of Iacon’s tallest skyscraper stood Andromeda and Rook. The latter mech was panning his camera over the skyline, checking his chronometer and comms for a signal to online Andromeda’s microphone and go live. Every now and then his plating rattled when he took a look over the ledge they stood at. Andromeda was tapping a pede, her door wings twitching with excitement. She adjusted the microphone wire that was connected to the side of her helm — brushed off flecks of ash from her navy plating, giving herself a good look over. Andromeda poked Rook’s leg with her pede. The grey mech’s orange visor flashed as he whipped around to meet her gaze. She nearly laughed at how twitchy the heights were making him. 

“How do I look?” she asked, breaking eye contact to look at her own frame once more.

“Fine, Romy. Just fine,” Rook huffed, double checking that wires hooked up to the camera and audio systems. “We’re on in a few kliks.”

Andromeda nearly danced with joy, doing an excited few steps towards the railing of the building. She reset her vocalizer, holding both servos behind her back. Rook angled the camera towards her and gave a curt nod. It was show time. It was her time.

“Hello, loyal viewers of Autobot Broadcast News!” Andromeda chirped at the blinking camera. “We’re live above Iacon, at the scene of the execution of twelve Decepticon prisoners of war. In the Colosseum House, they are awaiting their demise at the hands of Optimus Prime himself.”

Out of the camera’s view, she nudged Rook with her pede again, who understood the message and moved the camera away from the other bot. He panned it towards the large building in question.

“We all love a bloody execution, with all the gore and energon spilling everywhere, but this crowd is massive! If you look close, I bet you’d see some mecha getting trampled . It’d be a good idea to keep a medic’s comm code handy if you’re around there — just not Ratchet’s, I hope! With all the executions lately, you must be wondering, why such a huge crowd now? Well, these prisoners of war aren’t just any weak minded Decepticons… They’re high ranked ones. We don’t have exact names, but at ABN, we have our ways of getting intel. We have a reporter inside investigating. What we know currently, along with most of the crowd, is that there are whispers about the Decepticon leader being one of the captured.” 

Rook panned the camera back to Andromeda who had a shocked expression on her faceplates. She continued on, nonetheless.

“It shocked my armor off worse than a prod stick when I heard that. When you think about it though, it was only a matter of time before the Decepticons caved in. They’re so sentimental that the disappearance or death of one high figure can cause their morale to topple over like a house of cards. With the way Prime’s forces have been picking them off, their fragile stature just collapsed. After their diplomat, Shockwave’s death, they sobbed and wished they could have been stronger. When Starscream’s defection came, seekers and scientists alike fell to their knees. It looked like Soundwave tossed in the polishing towel, because he’s nowhere to be seen now. Only Megatron was left, a lone leader of a cause that never even had a chance. If he’s in there, it wouldn’t be a surprise. If he’s not, then I bet he’ll be in there soon.”

She flashed a quick smile at the camera, “And that’s all for now. See you in half a kilocycle for an update on this evolving situation!”

With a nod, Rook grumbled that they went off the live feed. Andromeda’s shoulders relaxed and her door wings resumed their excited movements. She clung to the railing of the building they stood on top of, focusing her optics on that colosseum-like senate house. If only she could be there… but as she said, bots were trampling over one another to get a seat at whatever surprises this damned event held. 

… 

Deep in the Colosseum House, underneath all the bustling crowds and the cracked tile floors, systems of catacombs were carved out. It started as yet another war tactic — Why deliver messages and supplies via transport chains that the Decepticons could see, when there was a whole mass underneath Cybertron’s crust to carve up and use? — and now it served a new use. An underground system of holding cells. It made a genius prison for Decepticon prisoners. It was underground, and fairly far down, which scrambled up the navicomps without any technological interference added to begin with. It followed no patterns or building plans that any rational architect would know, winding itself in uneven loops. Easy to get lost in it, unless you had the map downloaded into your neural net. All the guards had a complete map, for the exception of a labeled exit and entry of the facility. No two guards would have the same exit marked on their maps. It was a preventative measure, in case any Decepticons decided to make an escape and information breach attempt. Only one living mech had the complete, accurate blueprint of the jail — the Lord Optimus Prime. 

This omnipotent tyrant was down in the catacombs today. His blazing red optics flickered about each wall and cell, one of the only bright things in the depths. Any sound in these caves would be heard by him. The walls carried them to him. A prisoner’s labored vents sang like whispers in the purple convoy’s audials. Another one’s angry engine rumble as he passed by moved like a breeze. He wouldn’t be moved. 

The Prime reached a fork in the paths. He did not even have to pull up his version of the map to know where to go, but he still paused. He heard sobbing whispers. Turning his helm, down a path that he didn’t need to go down, he saw two prisoners reaching towards each other from their opposite cells. Their servos reached between the bars — a white and blue hand and a yellow one. Their servos and arms strained to touch each other, only managing fleeting grasps. At last, the pair managed to link their smallest digits. The white one sent shaking whispers in reply to the yellow one’s sobbing. 

Optimus allowed his helm to tilt at a slight cant at the pair’s little display. They must have been pressed right up against the buzzing plasma bars of the cells, straining their plating and joints just to get this one fleeting touch. The walls brought their hushed words to Optimus’ face. ‘I love you’s and ‘I’m sorry’s were the most frequently exchanged. Prayers to Unicron and whatever other gods graced their lips were the other most frequent. The Prime narrowed his optics at that. As the Matrix bearer, he was the only god. He was their only god. He would not be merciful for such acts of  insubordination, especially not from prisoners. He pulled a gun from his subspace and with a rumble of his engines, lined up his shot. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link and the yellow link’s crying gave him right away. An easy kill. Not worth it.

Optimus shot the white mech’s arm, blasting his wrist to bits. The yellow one screamed as his partner’s arm bled. If Optimus cared, he would have shouted as well. The mech was making a mess of the hallway. But he did not care. In fact, he could have been smiling underneath his mask as glowing energon spilled out. It was a lovely pink after all. Since the yellow mech loved his white and blue comrade so much, he should have no problem loving his blood and gore. 

Optimus had no need to be witness to this anymore. The yellow mech was yelling so loudly now that the walls would have no trouble at all carrying his sobbing to Optimus’ destination.

His pedesteps fell with deep echoes once more, in rhythm with the incoherent swearing and shouting from that hallway he chose not to take. The dark walls only glowed with the occasional purple strip of lighting. A righteous color. The prisoners should only be able to see purple. They should always be reminded of where they are. 

The sobbing died down — either the devastated mech grew tired or Optimus had walked too far off to hear. The Prime stopped in front of a particularly dark cell. The only real light in this sector was the glowing image of an Autobot brand, a purposeful statement. 

Optimus’ ember buzzed as he looked at the prisoner within, his purple plating ruffling up instinctively. Was it to make himself bigger, more threatening without even a conscious thought, or was it something deeper, some restrained urge to tear away the cell bars and dig into and slide away plating from the prisoner’s chassis inside? Who the hell would even ask about his motives? If Optimus ruffled up his plating with the glare he wore now, mecha would run without question. But now there was only one witness and he couldn’t even hope to run. Not that he’d be a mech to run anyway.

In the cell, sat a mech who was huge — just over twice the size of the average mech. His plating was dull. To the untrained eye, his plating seemed worn and old — maybe even dead. The opposite was true. He had just undergone a large-scale frame modification, only having little remnants of his old frame scattered about his new body. His chest was large, with ten lines of biolights, only being divided into pairs of five by an out of place purple insignia. His shoulders rose to broad pauldrons and were a deep grey. The mech’s shoulders sank no matter how much strength he used to lift them, but somehow he managed to hold himself steady with Optimus here. His optics were dim and tired but met Optimus’ with no hesitation. Optimus swore they flickered one setting brighter underneath the shadow of his helmet. He told himself that this observation was a fact, like all other observations he had championed over his savage conquests. Optimus’ engine grumbled.

“What,” the imprisoned mech started, pausing as if his vocalizer gutted him when he used it, “did you do to those Decepticons?”

“Nothing that will be any more painful than what I have planned for you, I promise that, Megatron,” Optimus uttered, slow and dark.

Optimus stared down at him with burning optics. He leaned forward to get a closer sight of the Autobot insignia that stood on the Decepticon’s chest, that marked him as someone that Optimus had finally conquered. The Prime even dared to wrap his servos around the prison bars to loom over Megatron. The bars buzzed with electricity at the contact, leaving his paint scorched. It didn’t matter anyway, his servos were already a deep black. The scorching only filled them with a fleeting sensation of pain instead of truly marring their color. Megatron’s optics took on a widened look, jumping between Optimus’ hands and his face. His faceplates stood stern, despite the jumpiness of his eyes.

Just barely louder than the sparking between them, Megatron rasped, “What did you do to them?” 

There was the repeated clicking of a vocalizer, trying to clear that all-consuming static. The purple mech glared down at him, displeased with how utterly fixated Megatron was on someone who wasn’t Optimus.

“Why should it matter? They’re going to be dead by the next sunrise, along with your cause,” he replied, stepping backwards to spread his arms out, “By tomorrow, everything you know, everything you love, and you, yourself, will be in shambles, one way or another.”

Megatron straightened up, his field pushing out waves of bold indignation. His arms felt so, so heavy… but he held himself wide and tall despite this aching frame. His mouth was set into a frown, defiant and angry, but not miserable. He knew the other would just love to dance in his despair. Megatron did have plenty of despair. He was terrified of what Optimus might do. To him, yes — but most of all, to his beloved Decepticons. Could he project any of this outwards? God, no.

“Whatever you have planned , do not proceed with it,” he put forth, his vocalizer thankfully not spitting static with the force of his voice. “Whatever you hope to achieve by tearing my frame apart and putting it back together, by continuing to kill anyone who stands on the contrary side, by allowing your wild hatred to spread across this universe and beyond — it will only come to naught . What made you desecrate my frame so, and brand me with your insignia?” Megatron made sure to put the inflection in everything but the question.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken those sort of liberties with your body, Megatron,” Optimus rumbled back, his tone all daggers and sharp glass. To an outsider, such a comment might seem, ah, disturbing in nature. But there was no suggestion behind his words, not here. He’d captured Megatron and had his medics and scientists alike tamper with the mech’s coding. Optimus even had Megatron’s fusion cannon arm coded to shoot the shuttle dead. Megatron had to cut off his own arm to spare his life… though he never found out where that arm went, having it replaced. But with his whole frame overhauled, what did that matter? His wings didn’t even glow a fluorescent blue anymore, they didn’t glow at all… It didn't matter. What mattered more was those mechs he heard Optimus shoot at, moments before, and all the other mechs he would hold a gun to. 

“And my efforts will pay off, though it is sad to know that you won’t be there to see it…” he continued, sighing.

“You are going to kill me.” It was a statement, not a question from the white mech.  

“There are fates worse than death…” The grin in the Prime’s voice was audible. “You’ve faced many of them. Exile. Abandonment. A price on your head. Though you haven’t been shadowplayed yet, have you? Your former second has . I’ll have you go through all the levels of pain until I can finally pluck out your ember. The new insignia on your chest is just a mark of my greatest victory.”

It took all of Megatron’s energy not to choke up at the mention of his second in command. He had been shadowplayed, after all. The seeker had been captured, but came back… different. Wildly different. He defected very soon after returning home. With Starscream’s — involuntary — departure, Megatron, in turn, felt a part of himself leave with the gleaming bright seeker. 

Megatron’s set of black wings fanned out wide. 

“No one deserves those fates, or whatever else you deign to be acceptable in your twisted system, Prime,” he barked out, “Not Starscream and definitely not any of the soldiers or civilians in this universe’s war. It is far too premature to declare your victory over me. I won’t stop fighting against you until you have to tear my ember out.”

Optimus shook his helm, as if he were tut-tut-ing a child. He crossed his arms, his EM field smoothing out. 

“And after all the way I’ve had to walk… I was hoping to break a deal with you,” he hummed.

There was no negotiation with tyrants. Megatron had tried. He kept persisting and persisting and never giving up, from the Senate all the way to Optimus Prime, he’d kept pushing. He’d been called a fool for it. He’d never given up on anyone or anything for as long as he could remember. He held fast to hope and to dedication. He didn’t give up on the possibility of a change of heart in the Autobots, even in Optimus Prime and he’d been called a fool for it. He never believed it. 

Ah… The use of the word ‘break’ was an accurate choice, because the only deals Optimus would make involved the shattering of minds. And Megatron, effectively, has been shattered again and again.

“I don’t want any of your diplomacy, unless lives will be spared,” Megatron replied. From just what fate he did not specify, because any fate that Optimus would offer was a punishment. And the lives… their faction did not matter. All Megatron’s Decepticons deserved a better chance of life, but there were plenty of Autobots who had potential too.

“You would be glad to know then, that my proposal involves pushing aside the demise of some of those lives you hold dear,” Optimus said, leaning against the bars one again. He opens his palms to the bright bars. He should have been worried about it burning through his servo plating with how much he was touching them.

Megatron was disgusted. With that silky deep tone of his, Optimus made an… attempt to propose a treaty of sorts, and he made it sound like sparing lives was nothing more than pushing them off, to deal with another cycle. A momentary mercy, a promise. It could have been a procrastination, but for someone like Optimus, it was a purposeful setting aside, to deal with the more ‘important’ things.

“You have an odd way of saying that, Prime,” Megatron huffed, narrowing his optics. Optimus only looked smug about it.

“ Think about it. The war is over now. It—”

Megatron’s engines gave a startling noise, his field bursting and flailing wildly. Was that why he had laid the sickly purple badge on his chest? Why he treated prisoners of war like nothing more than fodder? He believed the war was— “No! It cannot be over. You could not have— those lives couldn’t have been lost in v—”

Optimus slammed his whole arm against the bars between them with a harsh growl. Sparks were sent flying, falling on the plating of both mecha. They buzzed and crackled for a mere moment before fizzling away, jumping into seams and on the floor. 

“Do not interrupt me!” the purple mech shouted, his voice falling dangerously deep. “You’re a blind mech, and you always have been. Your cause is just the blind leading the blind. Those lives were a necessity to lose. They were never truly a loss, considering how utterly insignificant they were. And yes, I really could have. I could have, and I have , won . Your fate was sealed the very moment you spoke up against the Senate.”

Megatron felt a rush of energon in his frame, leaving him uncomfortably warm and shaking and fuming. He bared his dentae in a scowl at the other. Optimus was unmoved.

“Clearly, you can see . Your ranks are only falling apart while mine grow. I have taken down your supply base at Polyhex and your men are floundering. As they starve and bleed, your second, with persuasion, has come to my side and has gladly paired up with a titan speaker. Your other officer has fled after I took Shockwave’s head. I have already started my vision, Megatron. It is all coming together as we speak. And now I have you .”

Megatron was stunned into blazing silence. Optimus continued.

“So, you see ? The war is over .” His humming, self righteous story stopped with a shift in his voice. “What I need is to rid myself of all the pests and degenerates. I would love nothing more than to break and exterminate all of your Decepticons. While immensely thrilling, I don’t believe dedicating all my time to it will be productive. Cybertron must be rebuilt. Old and new colonies alike must be converted to my philosophy. There are Autobots I must kill and send away and Decepticons I can make mine, the distinction between them wearing just a bit thin. I need to deal with the ones I cannot kill and break, do you see ? This is where you need to use that voice of yours. I need you to address your Decepticons and tell them to give up your cause. You should tell them that the only way for them to live is to run. And perhaps, I will let them.”

“No—! I can’t tell them the war they’ve been fighting through for most of their functionings is over like this! It cannot end like this!” Megatron shouted, his engines growling and wheezing in tempo with his words. “And that is no steady guarantee, 

Optimus, not at all.”

“Would you rather that I kill you? I could kill you right in front of them all with cameras and optics all fixed on you!” Optimus’ optics shined, and despite himself, he felt the Matrix in his chest plates hum and sing at him. “You know how much I would love that… But wouldn’t it be wrong ? If I killed you, that would reignite your frivolous cause’s fire. They would be driven on vengeance then, instead of your simple minded vision of justice and a peaceful existence. They would rush forward, in your dead name, only to be slaughtered. I think you would rather them leave peacefully, even if they were to run with their tails between their thighs.”

Megatron let out a choked off sound. It might have been a ‘no’ or a denial of Optimus’ assertions… but the words wouldn’t come.

Optimus chuckled — chuckled ! — at him.

“You aren’t in any position to be making this choice anyway, Megatron. There is no way out for you, whatever happens. You accept my speech or you accept your death — or, if you resist everything I try to do, oh , I won’t kill you Megatron. Even then, I wouldn’t kill you. If you fight me with every fragment of your mind, agreeing neither to death nor to speak your own words, I will make you do as I please. I will warp your mind with shadowplay instead. You will read it, whether it is your words or mine. Or, if you’re feeling bold, you could jump headfirst into a smelting pit, knowing your men will fight in the name of emotional vengeance.” 

Megatron grit his dentae. He couldn’t trust Optimus. He couldn’t trust his intentions. This wasn’t about trust though. It never was. Not with him. Not ever.

Megatron couldn't tell his comrades to give up… He didn’t think he would be able to. He championed perseverance and hope throughout this whole life. Having it end like this, a decision made in a confined space… it was almost poetic. How valid would Optimus’ promise of sparing lives be, if it was true at all? It was obviously a promise with a time limit, but for how long, and on what terms? Megatron shuttered his optics at the other options. If he was killed, a large portion of his men would fight for his memory. A fight driven wholly by guilt and grief was a losing man’s battle. It was how Megatron ended up in this cell, fighting with tears boiling behind his optics. Where would his friends end up if they fought it, for him ? And having himself shadowplayed—? No. He— No . If he lost today and gave the speech, he might live to see another cycle and actually have his processor with him. If he was shadowplayed, he would have no way of knowing just what else Optimus might order changed or removed. 

If he… if his men could live to see another cycle, to fight another battle, to recover on the outskirts of the galaxy… then it would be worth it.

“I will take your offer,” Megatron stated, each note of his voice cut clear and rumbling. He opened his optics, those blue things gleaming and bright. “You must promise me that the lives of my comrades will be spared, from any fate of your construction. If not, then you’ll have to stick those needles down my throat. I will fight any mnemosurgeon you send at me.”

Megatron wouldn’t be lying if he said he didn’t prepare for a fight in the psyche. Thought warfare. In fact, he had a good deal of his men trained to resist mnemosurgeons for as long as they could, to prolong their lives and buy time for help to come. If they stick needles into your neck, be prepared. When Megatron had his neck jabbed again and again, the metal scarred yet thoroughly polished over… he almost started to enjoy the sensation and, more so, the ability to stand up against the threat.

“I would expect nothing less,” came the convoy’s rumbling baritone, “Open up the notes on your HUD. You must still have them.”

“You want me to write it here?”  Megatron asked, “Now?”

“I want you to open your HUD.”

Megatron furrowed his brow. He opened his notes, and a question crossed his mind — All HUDs were unique, mech by mech. How did Optimus know he’d programmed that notes feature in his? What did Optimus see when he forcibly changed Megatron’s frame…? What did he change? was the next question, but he pushed it away from the forefront of his helm.

He found that, thankfully, in his HUD, he still did have his notepad. It was his signature detail on his HUD, the edges having a frame of ember-like shapes and geometric icons. In it, he saved all sorts of things. Pictures with friends, poetry he’d never finished, books he wanted to read, reports upon reports, the best rust sticks on a rated scale… All of his past files were corrupted. He was greeted with a painful arc of static when he tried opening them. Everything was gone. It was like he was climbing up a cliff face and his rope just snapped. He was left falling into a black and empty pit. It gripped him by the ember that everything was gone, not just outside of his own frame, but within his data systems too. No, it wasn’t everything , but it certainly felt like it, in this one moment.

He felt empty and rumbling when he repeatedly tried opening each file. He numbly nodded, confused and disoriented by each error and painful pop. The order was odd to him as well, so he opened his mouth to— Optimus beat him to the mark.

“You are to write your surrender speech, on my terms. You are to write it, and I am to edit and approve it,” Optimus smiled eerily underneath his mask, “You’ve mentioned, time and time again in your old works, how meaningful it is to collaborate with someone on written, or otherwise, work. It isn’t just your word or mine, it is our collective word. It is your decision as well as mine, and you are to remember that always. Remember it all the way until the day I finally snuff your ember.”

Megatron wanted to scream. All his emotions were roaring to life again and again, and his engines gave a grand and intimidating growl. His vocalizer wouldn’t let out anything, no words or static. He only let out a choked sound, stumbling forward to fall against the plasma bars.

They buzzed and crackled against his plating. It burned and burned and burned.

“I am so glad we could come to a mutually acceptable arrangement. The terms will find you via a comm message, just to keep up that level of professionalism you so highly value. Until then… goodbye, Megatron.”

Leaning on the bars and feeling them scorch his plating, Megatron finally was able to scream. And as Optimus walked away, he remarked on how beautiful of a sound it was, echoing along and being carried to his audials by the prison walls.

…

The words had been forced out of him. They’d been torn from his processor and spark alike, bled out over a period of hours… or days? He somehow couldn’t tell. His internal chronometer read that it was almost midnight. Internally, Megatron’s mind was a mess. It was a maze and he was lost in it. Writing his letter of surrender, all the while hearing Optimus’ voice in his head for the whole duration of the process, did not make anything clearer. 

He began rehearsing it under his breath. No matter how many times he tried, the words would not come out right. His voice did not feel like it was his anymore. In a way, it wasn’t. Whenever he got somewhat acquainted with a phrase or sentence, Optimus would comm him with another set of edits, shoving him back to square one. 

He was reading the words over and over again, remembering them. He didn’t need to memorize them. He could have just read them off his HUD and everyone would be none the wiser. Megatron always committed his speeches to memory though. Even if it gutted him again and again to do so, he would not give up that part of himself.

Suddenly, the plasma bars fell and two prison guards were beyond the open maw of the cell, standing stern. They were about two-thirds his size, holding guns in a mirror image of each other. They both fixed him with their optics and regarded him with a heartless, frigid glare. He was not unused to the gaze. Eyes burned into the back and front of his head more times than he could properly add up, even with all his knowledge in that realm of adding and subtracting and calculating so many things—

“Get up,” one of them greeted. 

“Ah. Hello to you as well,” Megatron replied. He wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t have his teasing wit. Even as he was being torn apart inside. His voice was definitely less chipper, so it sounded more like a saddened attempt at humor than a bona fide piece of Megatron snark.

The massive shuttle tried to stand. His vents wheezed and his plating rumbled but he managed to stand on his own. His frame felt like it was filled with cement, all the way into his subspace storage routes. Impossibly heavy. It was like he was Atlas holding up the living and breathing Earth, but what planet was he supporting now…? It felt like he wasn’t supporting anything but his own weight. Like he was letting everything go. There he went again, flopping between two extremes — he was deserting and disgracing his men or he was giving them a chance to live another day.

Just as he got used to standing, he was roughly dragged by one of the guards to stand between them. They were uniformly colored, a deep, deep purple. Icy blue visors. Their armor was obviously strong. He was surrounded on all sides by purple. 

He was ordered to walk. They started at a marching pace, smooth and methodical. Their pede steps fell in line with each other, and Megatron couldn’t help but wonder if these guards had been forcibly programmed to flank prisoners with this eerie precision. The three mechs moved through looping hallways. The only thing casting a glow in the halls were those damn purple lights. Megatron turned his helm about, making internal notes about the whole walk. He’d even begun drawing up a map in his HUD.  Such a map wasn’t as accurate as a navicomp or even drawing it by hand — but he might be able to use it after this whole mess could be done and dealt with. He noted that some walls had unique marks. Some bullet holes. Energon spatters that weren’t washed off well. Claw marks on the floors. It was sickening. A few cells that had metal bars instead of plasma bars. All this went into his HUD notes, in a new folder called, ‘The Speech.’ Only two documents were in it so far. Hopefully, he wouldn’t die with just these two being his last accessible pieces of work.

Along the way, Megatron’s pace faltered. They had been walking for so long… The shuttle even realized they had gone in circles a few times. They were trying to drive him insane with worry before he… Where was he going?

It struck him, suddenly. It was entirely in the realm of possibility that he was being delivered to a podium to give his speech right now. Optimus had commed him telling him it was looking better — instead of offering more and more poisonous words to inject — and a klik later, the guards came. That’s what this was. Why hadn’t Megatron realized sooner—?

Megatron struggled to balance his worry with the need to draw up the map. His steps turned into stumbling. Who was going to be there? Who would be watching? Would Starscream be there…? Watching with vacant optics, only able to scream in his processor? It would be broadcasted everywhere, wouldn’t it? Megatron was filled with cold mortification. It felt like betrayal. It was betrayal. But if he had to do it… every last Decepticon should hear it, lest they keep the war going. Megatron had a plan. He had one. Accept this surrender. Hopefully live. Rebuild. Stage a counterattack. …How realistic would that be?

“Move it!” one of the guards barked at Megatron, jabbing him with their gun. He gasped, nearly falling into the guard at the front. The sensation was much, much more painful than it should have been. The shuttle struggled on, borderline limping as he was led through the narrowing halls. There was a slow incline in the floor, but it felt like a mountain to his pedes. Distantly, but growing not-so-distant, was the screaming of a crowd. He flicked his wings upwards, standing as tall as he could, given the limitations of the hall and his frame. He had a realistic plan in his head. This would buy time for the Decepticons. He could unify them… or maybe someone else could. He doubted Optimus would let him go freely. In the time he had left for himself, as himself, he would try to do as much as he could. He could do so much, he could do it. 

But first, they would need to stay quiet and low. That was a priority. … How could he tell them all of his intentions though, without angering Optimus? 

Damn it all. He had to comply. And his Decepticons would have to as well.

The chants of the crowd were deafening now, they were close — so close that his processor rocked back and forth with the force of the sounds. He watched the front guard’s back and the Autobot insignia that stared at him from it. All he could do was step forward, again and again.

Neither guard spoke as they rounded the last bend to see an exit to the outside world. Natural light of the night sky filtered in, and nothing ever seemed more artificial and wrong. Once they stepped onto the pale marble stage, the guards moved to flank each side of the exit. It was a practiced motion, perfectly mechanical in its execution. Megatron, what a behemoth of a mech, nearly shrunk beneath the might of the sky as the shivering air laid claim to his frame. He forced all fifty feet of it across the stage. He didn’t know what exact path he was supposed to take, but he knew he couldn’t stop walking. He knew he couldn’t. 

Megatron’s ember rocked in its casing. Like a fluttering bird, it wanted to leave its cage. It could very well have been banging on the walls of every single one of his muddled internal organs, it was causing his world to sway so badly. He barely could process the world around him. Still, he walked on, very possibly on the verge of purging his fuel reserves.

He just barely stopped himself from freezing in shock when he realized what awaited him at the grand stage. Optimus was there, of course he was there, on his elevated throne that was obsidian black against the dull marble. That did not send Megatron reeling — there was a row of Decepticon prisoners of war, chained together by buzzing stasis cuffs, all kneeling. Their insignias registered second, their faces came to the forefront of all recognition. Megatron’s HUD presented glitched identifier tags, but his memory provided all he needed to know. He knew all their names. He only had the HUD notes just in case… now it seemed he was relying on the opposite thing.

He locked optics with all of them, his pace faltering. His steps were slow and his wings nearly dipped down along with his whole frame, to the floor. They pleaded with their optics… pleaded that Megatron would do the right thing… he was going to, wasn’t he? Yes, he was. And he would be there to see them live.

One of the Decepticons had been kneeling like the rest, but his posture was ramrod straight despite the dents and wounds across his frame. He stared at Megatron, his optics obviously flickering to and fro — Was that an Autobot insignia on Megatron’s chest?! What would Megatron’s optics tell? What did he do? Was it even him anymore behind those eyes…? The mech was Treadshot. A blue and yellow mech, with a passion for his Autobot rival unlike anything Megatron had ever seen. That fire in his optics hadn’t gone away. Megatron was emboldened. It would be worth it. He tore his gaze away, picking up his stride once again. He finally reached his destination, a small podium. He lifted his heavy, chained arms and rested his servos on the bar that closed it in.

He stared out in front of him… This should have been the site of a trial. It should have been a place where justice was restored, where mecha of war had their cases heard and where an impartial judge ruled over the proceedings. Perhaps someone with the demeanor of Straxus or Tyrest perhaps, could fit that role. 

What he bore witness to was nothing like that. There were millions of spectators, no jury or judge to reign. It was like a gladiatorial arena, the Pits of Kaon. Suddenly, Megatron was back there, hearing the roaring of the crowds, chanting, chanting, chanting. But this time he was no champion. This time, heavy cuffs confined his wrists. This time, he looked into millions of Autobots and obedient, scared, and angry civilians. 

It slapped him in the face, again — what was he doing? If he gave this speech, there would be no going back. If he read off this mockery of his faction and their dreams, would his men ever wish for him back? He could hope all he liked that the Decepticons would still hold out for another day… but how long could they keep that up? Hiding in the corners of the universe was no way to live, even if they were granted some cruel breed of amnesty. And would Optimus even honor his promise…? He had to. He had to. Was that Megatron clinging to an impossible hope or a genuine belief that Megatron’s sliver of trust would pay off?

He gripped the bar harder, nearly denting it. He looked out to the crowd, optics scanning all along the distant faces. Little camera drones buzzed along, fixated on his face. In them, he could see a reflection of his face. His optics were tired. He did not let the wear of war show on his face often, if ever… but he was worn completely thin now. Optics dimmed, the shadow of his helmet dark… He did not recognize anyone in the expanse of the crowds. They were too far away. But then again, he barely recognized his own face.

He breathed…

“Hello. Decepticons. Autobots. All of Cybertron and beyond.” His voice was not his own. Static scattered it beyond the point of recognition. It was for the better.

“Although I reject—” A shake wracked his frame and Megatron coughed. Bent over and pained over the railing, he looked back up. He felt Optimus’ optics burning through the back of his helmet.

“Although I reject complete ownership of Decepticonism and all related movements, I do not deny that I am the founder of our movement. I started it — and you must finish it. Renounce Decepticonism and its offshoots — Denounce all those who continue fighting in its name, for the sake of your lives.” He sounded like he was begging at the last part, his voice dragging upwards in a near sob.

“I am not telling the Decepticons to surrender. Do not raise your hands and bow, but please, drop your weapons. I am not telling you to cast away your badges, your allegiance, and beliefs. I don’t have the omnipotence to command such things, nor am I…” Optimus’ words were forced out of his mouth— “ strong enough to hold that kind of control over others.”

His vocalizer caught on a rumble of static, and with a painful clearing, he continued on.

“What I do ask, with all of the ember and mind I have left, is that you run. Do not fight for Cybertron any longer. Do not resist the Autobots. We— You cannot afford any more losses. Run away. Build life somewhere else. Please. Remove yourself from the war of a flawed philosophy and move on. To all those who wish to follow me still, I say this: do not expect guidance, or wisdom, or answers. I have none… I never did. The Decepticons are over. The war is over. And, thankfully… we lost.”

He couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. Not the Decepticon prisoners to his left. Not the crowd of thousands, millions of Autobots. Not Optimus, far behind. Not Optimus, who sat on his throne with a horrendously dark purple cape around his broad shoulders. Not Optimus who held a scepter that looked far too much like its pointed edge could kill. Not Optimus who suddenly stood and stepped down. His pede steps fell in a rhythm, down the steps of his throne, across the stage.

“Once again — please… run,” Megatron pleaded again.

The deep purple mech, whose footsteps were punctuated with the scraping of that wicked staff, stood behind Megatron. It was close enough that the chained mech could smell his polish. It smelled of blood. Megatron’s head was forcefully pulled backwards and down by the helmet, stretching his neck cables. He choked on a shout, and Optimus thought about ending it all right there. The Matrix flared happily at the idea. He had things to say though… So he continued forcing himself into Megatron’s space. Rather than using his own mic, Optimus leaned into Megatron’s, attached right by his cheek.

Megatron’s only view was those red, vicious optics and he was left praying that Optimus’ words would not hurt his men any more than Megatron’s already had. He did not hold a grand belief in the gods, but he found himself beseeching them for Optimus to calmly echo his sentiment of ‘run away and live your own lives.’ Megatron had no other indication of how Optimus felt but his optics. That was how it always was. And Megatron could always read him. And by the gods, were Optimus’ eyes proud . Megatron might have been shaking as Optimus leaned into the microphone.

“Yes. Yes , run. Those rebellious little Decepticons that used to be yours can run. But they can never even fantasize about hiding from my imperium until their embers burn out and their processors cease to function. Insanity and death await them all,” Optimus rumbled.

Megatron’s optics blew wide. His engine rolled over in its chamber, and so did his ember in its casing. Optimus said that he didn’t want to deal with them— that he would let them—

“But— you—” the shuttle wheezed.

Optimus shoved Megatron forward, his midsection colliding with that damn bar. The shuttle was winded, all of the air sucked from his vents. He felt unbearably cold and couldn’t speak for the life of him. And for the life of others , he had to speak. He spat out static. He’d made a mistake, he’d made a mistake, he’d—

“You might rebel against your former master’s words, thinking you can keep the war going. Your rebellion will only show how weak your belief in him is, and therefore, how weak he is as a leader,” Optimus hummed into his own mic. “Or you can obey, as he pleaded so nicely, to run away. In time, you won’t be able to keep hiding, either out of your own need to touch mechanical soil or out of my need to see you all killed. Despite your ultimate destiny, if you refuse to leave now, allow me to demonstrate how you will be treated, without fail.”

Optimus turned around, his cape dancing in his motion. From where he was desperately hoisting himself up, Megatron saw something between the sea of fabric. A rifle. And he was walking towards the prisoners. Megatron was screaming static, unable to say anything else.

The Prime removed the rifle from where it was stored between the cape and kibble. He stood at a distance, like he did not want to even touch them, and lined up his shot… and eleven horrible bangs later, it was done. Energon was coating the floor, like a horrid lake.

“Like animals in a slaughterhouse.”

Megatron finally found his voice, shouting words between static and sobs. 

“Optimus! How could you— Prime!”

Megatron turned his helm around wildly, trying to catch the line of any of the camera drones. Against the shivering tide, he heaved himself to stand up.

“I take it back !” he screamed, “We cannot sit back and watch Optimus’ monstrosity unfold. We cannot! His promise is void! He won’t let you— Whatever my fate— If I— Find a better leader, get back your strength! You all are more than strong en—!”

The two guards that brought him out here were now running up to him, attempting to restrain him. Megatron grabbed onto the metal of the podium, for dear life… and ripped it from its base. He hurled it at one guard as the mech shouted at him to shut up. Megatron was beaten down and dented far too many times to count. He continued on.

“Optimus! Don’t stop the cameras! Don’t silence my words! You had no right to kill them! No right to lie! No right to start this war! No right to throw your hatred out so far !”

The deep purple mech walked up to him wielding the same rifle that killed all of those defenseless Decepticons. His optics burned. A kick in Megatron’s side finally sent him down, coughing all the way. His helm rocked as it hit the floor. 

Still, he shouted, “Do you not have enough faith in your cause? You believe you need to silence me? Let them hear me! Let them hear me !”

Megatron was completely sobbing now, his vents hitching with every word. 

Optimus looked down at the mech at his pedes. Megatron was enormous. So, so small though, in the purple bot’s optics. With the wave of a servo, the Prime dismissed the two guards. They scurried behind him, one limping, with front row seats to the show. 

“Your Decepticons won’t hear you anymore. You’ve just let them go,” Optimus growled.

“Stop calling them my Decepticons! They aren’t mine to own. I do not wish to claim anyone, like a tyrant would,” Megatron wheezed, “Like I hoped you would someday stop fighting to do.”

Optimus shot one of Megatron’s wings with his rifle, having enough of this. It did not line up with his whims. Megatron’s talk about hoping for a change in Optimus was not what he wanted. It never would be.

Megatron cried out and let out garbled, whimpering static, too pained to even speak. One of his wings had a hole right through it. He flicked his wings reflexively, the shattered metal and blown out wiring throwing blood at Optimus’ pedes. He ground his dentae, looking up at Optimus. He mouthed something, a word that looked too much like ‘coward.’ 

The Prime drew back his rifle, holding it in both arms. He rammed the back of it into the bleeding mech’s face as hard as he could. A sickening crack of metal was louder than the shouts of his Autobot crowds. Energon poured from the wound, and Megatron’s optic casing must have been shattered. The enormous mech fell from his knees and to the ground. The thud carried itself into Optimus’ audials better than any wall could carry it and he lined up a final shot…

Chapter Text

A small mech sped through the halls, a live video monitor beeping at the side of his helm. His pedesteps fell on black floors and echoed on lavender walls. The floor was so smooth that he nearly slipped when rounding one turn. 

“Slag—!” he yelped. He couldn’t fall…! He just couldn’t! He had something beyond value in his servos — more accurately, he had some one beyond value in his servos. The red bot couldn’t be strong enough to hold his entire conjunx. He wasn’t. He was just about strong enough to hold his head though. And that’s how it had been for the past millennia.