Reaching Out
“… That isn’t good enough!”
“D-16!” A large, heavily-armored mech standing atop a staircase looked back, his golden optics narrowed. “Control yourself, boy.”
The young mech standing at the base of the stairs glowered back at him with a pair of orange optics, servos cuffed by black and yellow hazard print closing into fists. “I am sick and tired of being controlled, by the Autobots or you or anyone else!” He started to slowly stalk up the stairs. “You claim to be our champion, to petition the council for all Destron descendants—but time passes and the Autobots continue to grind us under their heels like their ancestors before them!” He gestured down the stairs, baring fanged dentas in fury. “I lost seven comrades in the mines, just today! A fleet of Seekers was slaughtered defending ‘Autobot space’ from invasion! How many more will die before you see that they will never see us as anything more than disposable fodder?!” His lips curled into a scowl. “Before YOU stop seeing us as the same, pawns in a game as you play politics—stepping over us to earn their favor as the Great Placater!”
The armored mech gazed down at D-16 with irritation, still not bothering to turn around. “And what would you have us do, young miner? I’ve seen your written work, your manifestos. Your extremism would have us all wiped out with a single strike of the Magnus Hammer.”
“Not if the Allspark is on our side,” D-16 argued. “The Allspark created us, it must recognize us all as its own—and if it is in any way fair, it would see that our cause is just!” His optics narrowed, and he grabbed a mining pick from his side. “Or, it will be—once I chip your rust away from this faction and lead us out of stagnation.”
“Hm.” The larger Cybertronian finally turned to face the younger mech, a smirk on his face. “You think you can inspire them? You come from nothing, you are nothing—you don’t even have a name, just a government-issue pick and a third-hand stylus and a mouth you truly must learn to keep shut.” He saw D-16’s expression drop and drew a pair of large, razor-sharp blades to grip at his sides. “Perhaps I do play games, but that’s what we must do to survive in a universe like this—and you always were far too honest to be a Decepticon.”
The younger mech gazed up at his opponent warily, then he closed his optics and took a deep vent. When he opened them, they appeared far more red than orange—and he snarled before he lashed out.
…
A Cybertronian craft darted into the warehouse and transformed, followed by several others.
A Seeker ran forward, yellow optics wide with one cracked and flickering. “Lord Megazarak!”
He gasped, stepping back, upon seeing a massive body lying upon the floor as a sword was ripped from its back, the assailant flicking off splatters of pink Energon before looking up with narrowed crimson optics.
“… Megazarak has fallen,” the stranger announced, turning to face the Seekers. His servos were stained with oil. “His rule was driving the Decepticons to ruin. Follow me, and you shall avenge your brethren and take this world back.” He spun the blade and its twin, gripping them at his sides as he strode forward. “It’s time to rise up.”
The lead Seeker seemed wary but attempted to covered it with apprehension. “I am Starscream, commander of the Seekers. Who exactly are you to lead us?”
“Hm.” The stranger gave a small smirk. “… I am Megatron.”
…
…
…
—0—0—0—0—0—
Many Years Later
—0—0—0—0—0—
…
…
…
“Prisoner Designation: D-16. Alias: Megatron.”
Behind the clamp over his mouth, Megatron gritted his dentas—and his dented servos closed into fists from the confines of his stasis-cuffs.
Lugnut too had been gagged for his repeated attempts to defend his leader from further humiliation, and Shockwave had wisely been silent; due to his lack of a visible mouth, Megatron hated to think what these barbaric Council lackeys would do to try and silence him.
The officer behind the window finished filling out the incarceration paperwork and filing away all of the captured Decepticons’ personal effects (i.e. their weapon modifications and heavy armor, stripped from them in a twisted facsimile of Lockdown’s methods), then regarded the Guardsbots escorting the new prisoners.
“Fuel shortage is still limiting power,” they said, frowning but not actually bothered. “The Council has suspended occupation maximum limitations for the cells to conserve Energon. Just throw them in with the others, let ‘em squeeze.”
Excuses, excuses…
Megatron was roughly grabbed by his arms, as were Lugnut and Shockwave.
Optimus Prime had given each of them individual cells, aboard Omega Supreme.
Megatron idly wondered where the little Autobot had learned such niceties.
…
The cell was cramped but doable, Megatron decided, after the Autobot Guards had practically thrown Megatron, Lugnut, and Shockwave in and shut the laser-grid door behind them.
It also came with the advantage of Megatron being able to see all of the captive Decepticons in one place, and the warlord let out an internal sigh of relief at the delayed confirmation that they had not been sent to the Autobot stockade.
“Blitzwing,” Megatron greeted the triple-changer, then he glanced at his mirrored companions. “And-..? You have named them, have you not?”
“Of course, Lord Megatron,” Blitzwing’s “Icy” face replied, then he gestured to one of the Starscream clones as well as he could with his bound servos. He looked tired from months of constant stasis restriction; Autobots never would remove the cuffs, not even while they were all disarmed and jailed. Thankfully though, the gags were removed. “This is Ramjet. He speaks only in lies, even when he doesn’t want to.”
“I don’t lie,” the cream and red mech retorted, though Megatron could see that he had a frown on his face and a plea for understanding in his optics. “And if I did, it would be completely my choice.”
“And that one is Sunstorm.” Blitzwing gestured to the orange clone, raising an optic-brow. “He’s rather… loyal.”
“Thank you for the warm introduction, Blitzwing,” the other clone chimed with a bright smile. “You are truly too kind.”
Megatron glanced between the two. “And are they as traitorous as their progenitor?”
“Hardly,” Blitzwing admitted. “From what Ramjet has told me, it seems that Starscream’s ego was a separate clone. We do not know his fate.”
“I can speak to the actions of Ramjet, my liege,” Lugnut spoke up. “He came to my aid against the Autobots, even when he did not have to and there was no obvious benefit to him. And… despite his immutable compulsion to lie, he did not share my embarrassing predicament with you even after he promised not to.”
“I still can and will at any time,” Ramjet stated firmly, and Lugnut actually chuckled softly.
He always was rather soft with newsparks.
“Interesting,” Megatron noted, intrigued. “But are they as intelligent as Starscream?”
“Difficult to say, with the communication barriers and intense personality archetypes,” Blitzwing informed his leader. “They have displayed some wit, once you become accustomed to their natures; listen to the opposite of what Ramjet says, filter through Sunstorm’s flowery language.”
“Understood.” Megatron nodded, then he regarded the mechs in question. “Final question, young Seekers… Do you possess Starscream’s memories?”
“Fragments, Lord Megatron—mere fragments!” Sunstorm replied, his smile turning anxious.
“Speak for yourself!” Ramjet puffed out his chest indignantly. “I have all of my memories, because I am the Original Starscream!”
“… Your insistence that you are the original,” Megatron noted. “If you must lie, you are telling me you are not.”
“Preposterous!”
“Forgive him, please!” Sunstorm raised his bound servos, his optics wide. “He doesn’t mean to insult. Blame me!”
“Why?” Megatron was taken aback. “You have done nothing wrong.”
“I must have done something!” Sunstorm replied frantically, then his wings drooped as he ducked his head. “You’re angry. You’re always angry.”
Megatron’s face dropped.
A liar who wanted to be honest.
An anxious, groveling mask with a smile.
Survival mechanisms.
They were the embodiments of Starscream’s survival mechanisms… without the twists.
But not without the pain.
“Not with the loyal,” the warlord told Sunstorm quietly. “Your brother cannot control his words. You would make a potential punishment your own. Decepticons must band together to survive. Starscream once understood that, but he has long forgotten all interests but his own.”
“You’re buyin’ your own con, ‘Con.
That’s where you and my guy would get along, but there was one big fraggin’ difference between him and you…
At the beginnin’, he actually gave a damn. He was nuts, but at least he started off on the right track and inspired others to stick to it even after he dropped off the deep end.
But you? You’re just another asshole out lookin’ for a throne.”
“Lord Megatron?”
Megatron was snapped out of the memory by a worried question from Shockwave.
“Hm.” He internally shook the thoughts away. “… Stand with me, Ramjet and Sunstorm—not as clones of Starscream, but as yourselves—and one day, I promise you… I will bring you to the home you’ve never known yourselves so that you may find your own place upon it.”
The two Seekers looked at Megatron in awe, then Sunstorm nodded. “Yes, Lord Megatron.”
Ramjet also nodded, with vigor. “I will betray you at the first available opportunity!”
And Megatron found himself chuckling at the young mech’s antics, too. “Very good, Ramjet.”
“I don’t care what you think!”
Megatron noticed Blitzwing visibly relaxing.
Had he been worried about these Seekers?
Now wasn’t the time to dwell.
“Now, then,” Megatron changed the subject, getting his Decepticons’ attention. “There are still three Starscream clones left unaccounted for, as well as the Constructicons and Blackarachnia.”
“My lord, we knew Blackarachnia had her own motivations,” Shockwave reminded him. “Her loyalty was always questionable.”
“Hm.” Megatron cast a brief glance at the spy; he’d never worked with Blackarachnia directly, never actually known her. He then turned his gaze towards an uncharacteristically quiet occupant of the cell, one keeping his distance. “Soundwave. How nice to see you, again.”
“Lord Megatron.” The Earth-born Decepticon gave a short nod of greeting, and the Mini-Con on his shoulder gave an anxious flutter of his wings.
“I thought you were destroyed,” Megatron said candidly. “How did you come to be here?”
Soundwave’s visor glinted. “Operation: Autobot Reprogramming. I would have been successful, if not for the techno-organic and the Wrecker.”
Ambitious.
But Megatron had other priorities at the moment. “Techno-organic? Blackarachnia?”
“Sari Sumdac.”
“Professor Isaac Sumdac’s child?” Megatron quirked an optic-brow up at that. The naïve, irksome girl hadn’t been all she appeared? “How interesting… What of that creature?”
“Laserbeak,” Soundwave gestured to introduce his companion. “Repairs: complete. Laserbeak is fully operational.” His servo dropped as his face tilted downwards. “Ratbat… offline.”
Was that grief?
“You seek vengeance,” Megatron surmised.
Soundwave met his gaze once more, shoulders raising. “I seek revolution.”
Ah, some things never changed.
Megatron found himself smirking at the young mech. “Don’t we all?”
“Humans: inferior. Machines: superior.” Despite his flat tone, Soundwave actually seemed irate. He was frustrated, tired of having to repeat himself over and over again to what he clearly had not yet recognized as an uncaring universe. “Autobots defend humans. Autobots must be corrected or destroyed.”
“But common Earth machines are inferior, aren’t they? Except for the fact that they listen to you with total obedience,” Megatron shot back, and the young mech tensed. “… You are not an enemy to be taken lightly, Soundwave.”
“… Speak candidly,” Soundwave said quietly, eyeing Megatron carefully as he settled back into his place; the tension was still there, but the frustration was being replaced.
He had the rogue’s attention.
He knew why.
All Soundwave truly wanted was respect—more than power, more than control, he wanted to be respected and treated as an equal.
Like creator, like creation.
“I will not be made a mockery of for the ego of the Autobot Council,” Megatron told Soundwave in all seriousness. “I would rather be dead.”
The response was immediate.
“Lord Megatron!” Lugnut cried out, while Shockwave’s optic widened and Blitzwing let out a surprisingly subdued little “no”.
Ramjet looked angry.
Sunstorm looked distressed.
And Megatron took all of it in before he looked back at Soundwave, who was still watching him.
Soundwave, who reached up to brush his knuckles against Laserbeak’s talons to comfort him in the chaos—and Megatron knew, somehow, they had reached a silent understanding.
“However,” the Decepticon leader went on, regaining attention and order with a speed that used to amaze him in the quiet of his spark. “If there was a way to establish communications outside of this infernal prison… I could make contact with Team Chaar.”
“Strika,” Lugnut whispered, his optic widening.
Those who believed that the large mech actually worshipped Megatron were fools.
He shouted the warlord’s name to the heavens like a rallying cry, declaring and accusing.
But his conjunx’s name?
Now, that was prayer.
“An assault on Cybertron, on this prison,” Blitzwing murmured, pensive—a servo raised to his chin. “Even for them, it’s a suicide mission.”
Megatron glanced at his old friend. “Not if we time it right.”
“My liege, we can’t even reach them,” Shockwave protested.
“Can’t we?” Megatron asked, then he returned his attention to Soundwave. The rogue’s body language betrayed his wariness; he was trying to put on a show of confidence, but he had shifted in an effort to shelter his Mini-Con. “You fear for your companion. That loyalty is admirable. If Laserbeak is a courier for my message, I will assure you that I will never again ask a favor of your beloved bird unless it is in the most dire need… as this is.”
“… Location: unknown. Distance: unknown,” Soundwave said, voice uncharacteristically soft.
“Freedom: guaranteed,” Megatron reasoned, leaning forward. “Laserbeak will be sent away from this place, to allies—and in my message, I will insist upon his safety.” Soundwave cast a glance at his Mini-Con. “He’s not safe here. And you know that. Will you help us?”
Soundwave hesitated, then he looked back at Megatron. “Escape: how? Prison: secure.”
“Have they seen Laserbeak’s alt-mode?” Megatron asked, folding his servos.
Soundwave tilted his head. “Negative.”
Megatron nodded. “We’ll find a way.”
“Lord Megatron?” Shockwave spoke up. “Forgive me, but what exactly do you have in mind?”
“… They want a spectacle,” Megatron murmured, closing his optics—then he opened them, and his lips curled into a smirk. “We’ll give them one.”
…
…
…
—0—0—0—
…
…
…
Megatron shakily entered the battered remains of Trypticon and braced himself against the wall with one servo, his wide optics on the floor.
His mind was a dense fog, his vents came out of shakes, he felt heavy and floating all at once.
How was he supposed to tell them?
“Lord Megatron.” A familiar voice pierced the fog, and Megatron glanced up to see Starscream there. The Seeker commander had his arms folded behind his back, and his face was a poorly constructed mask attempting to hide concern. “Has a settlement been reached?”
“A verdict has been given.” Megatron forced himself to stand upright, trying to ignore how his legs wanted to sway. “Prepare the Nemesis.”
“For what?”
“Exodus.” Megatron found it hard to meet the Seeker’s gaze, the words bitter in his mouth. “We’re being banished. I managed to argue for the establishment of a Decepticon territory. Tch. Refugee camps, more like… But-”
Starscream’s attempt at control failed. “We’re being made to leave Cybertron?!”
“That is our victors’ decision.”
“We’ll be cut off from Energon!”
“There will be shipments-”
“They’ll be able to control our access, then! And what of protoforms?! They-!” The Seeker looked every bit as devastated and furious as Megatron felt. “They’re just going to ship us off, and wait for us to go extinct? How can you accept this?! We can fight! We need to-!”
“Starscream!” Megatron was suddenly gripping his second-in-command’s shoulders, just as much to brace himself as to ground his friend. “We need time. If I protest now, if we rise up in our current state, we will be eradicated. There are so few of us left!” He saw Starscream’s optics widen, and a reflection of his own desperation within them. “… This is our only chance of getting the remaining Decepticon sympathizers, our civilian allies, off-world safely.”
“They could blast us as soon as we leave the atmosphere,” Starscream tried to argue again, but his face was stricken. “Is there no option for us to stay here? Cybertron is our home!” His optics narrowed again. “Why won’t you-?!”
And Megatron closed his own optics, hanging his head. “There was one avenue left open.”
“Well?”
“We must agree to submit for… reformatting, and re-education. To become one with the Autobot masses, molded in mind and body.” Megatron’s optics opened again and found the floor. “Have you not seen what they are doing to their own? To their sparklings?” His grip on Starscream went slack, his servos merely resting on the Seeker’s shoulders. “I will offer the option to our people, but I would rather never see Cybertron again than stop being… me. I’ve fought too hard. I’ve come too far. I won’t let them send me back.”
Starscream just stared. “What of the Seekers?”
“… They’ve classified any and all flight-frames as ‘war-frames’, and… outlawed them.”
“They would take our wings?”
“Yes.”
“… I’ll have the ship prepared,” Starscream said at last, wings drooping. “It’ll be a-… a tight fit.”
“Any remaining flight-frame warriors who cannot fit can ride upon the hull,” Megatron said, a cold numb washing over him at the finality of it all. If he could convince Starscream, then… it really was over. “Watch, in case of a double-cross.”
“It’ll be a long trip.”
“I know. I trust you at the helm.”
“Where will you be?” Starscream asked worriedly, and Megatron raised his head to look at him. “…Yes, Lord Megatron.”
“Thank you, Starscream,” the warlord said quietly, dropping his hands and folding them behind his back. “You serve us well.”
“… I just wish we could’ve done more,” Starscream said after a moment.
“We will,” Megatron assured him. “We require time, but I do have a plan. For now, we just need to focus on protecting our own.”
Starscream clenched his fists, but he nodded in agreement. “They’ll pay for this. They’ll all pay.”
“Someday.”
“Someday.” Starscream turned away and began to walk off to complete his task, then he paused. “Lord Megatron?” Megatron glanced his way, and Starscream looked back with a grave little smile. “… You did the right thing.”
…
…
…
—0—0—0—
…
…
…
Megatron brushed his servo against the wall, gazing upon it wistfully, then sighed and looked towards the glowing door to the cell.
He could hear an odd whirring noise approaching, and he idly raised an optic-brow as a ration cart with no clear operator rolled into view.
An automated system?
So much for Energon conservation.
Then, from around the cart, a particularly small Cybertronian—about the size of an adult human—rushed into view and picked up a tray full of Energon canisters very much larger than themself with practiced ease.
The small ‘bot trotted over to the door, scanned a minuscule keycard at their level, and watched as an opening just large enough to allow them and their tray entry form.
They entered the cell, set the tray down, then looked up at the massive warframes around them and folded shaking servos behind their back.
“Please, return your empty canisters as you take a new one!” The small ‘bot chirped. “If you are a new arrival, this will apply to you going forward—so, please: do not break your canisters!” He let out a sigh. “We still haven’t gotten word about replacing the ones you broke when you got here—so if you break ‘em, you’ll have to share.”
“Duly noted.” Shockwave picked up a canister gingerly. “Blasted bureaucrats…”
Megatron waited for all of his warriors to claim their shares, then took his own. “Thank you.”
“Huh?” The small ‘bot looked up at the warlord, clearly taken aback. “Oh. Y-You’re welcome.”
Megatron raised an optic-brow, and lifted his shackled wrists. “Why so frightened?”
“We’re not supposed to speak with prisoners, outside of delivering instructions,” the small ‘bot said, glancing away—as if he had not already made his little canister comment.
Megatron found himself smiling at the thought. Little rebel. “Well, you’ve already started.”
The small ‘bot shifted, uneasy. “Mm.”
“Apologies, Autobot. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Megatron said genuinely, then he glanced back at the wall beside him. “Not in this place.”
“Oh, I’m not an Autobot. I’m just a laborer,” the small ‘bot corrected the warlord, and Megatron looked back at him as the small ‘bot rocked nervously on his heels. “Heh. Less than that, actually. A Mini-Con.”
“Hm.”
“… Why-?” The Mini-Con glanced around, then back at Megatron. “Why not in this place?”
“Trypticon was once a dear companion of mine,” Megatron explained. “It saddens me to see his fate, but at least he made it to Kaon. If he was to rest forever, he would rest at home.”
The Mini-Con blinked. “The prison, it-? It was alive?”
“Indeed,” Megatron replied, and he watched the Mini-Con look at the walls with new reverence. “… There are worse places to spend eternity besides the embrace of a friend.” When the Mini-Con looked back at him, Megatron smiled. “I don’t mean to keep you from your work. Let me assist.”
“Oh!” The Mini-Con’s optics lit up with a mixture of panic and relief as Megatron picked up his tray and placed it into his servos. “Thank you!”
“But certainly.” Megatron brushed his servo atop the tray. “I wasted your time, so I must make up for it. Do you have a name?”
“Oh, no.” The Mini-Con shook his head. “I never attended boot camp. Look at me!” The small ‘bot looked away sheepishly. “Heh…” Hesitantly, he looked back at Megatron. “My designation is L-1.”
Megatron felt his expression soften genuinely. “Very well… L-1.” He almost felt bad, watching the Mini-Con go—his tray laden with empty canisters, plus one extra piece of forbidden cargo. “Hm.”
Blitzwing must have noticed. “Lord Megatron?”
“Laserbeak is on his way out,” the warlord said quietly, watching the cart depart—plus one stowaway cassette. “… Shockwave, I need you to tell me everything you ever learned as the Autobot’s head of intelligence—every horrid, nasty detail they never wanted anyone to know.”
The spymaster’s optic glinted. “I can do much more than tell you, my liege.”
“… Perfect.”
…
…
…
—0—0—0—
…
…
…
Megatron grimaced when his search came to an end in a large, scorched underground cavern with jagged metal shards piercing the cave walls like darts.
He had found what he was looking for, thought not the resources nor surviving refugees he had hoped for.
The warlord raised a servo to his comm. “It appears that the Twilight was here, and it has been destroyed. I’m going to investigate further.”
:Please do take caution, Lord Megatron.:
:Fool, Starscream! Lord Megatron is the wisest, the strongest, the greatest-!:
Muting the comms of two of his inner circle should not have been so easy of a decision.
“Ugh.” Megatron rolled his optics, then he pressed onwards—leaping off of the ledge he stood upon and letting the boosters in his feet lower him down to the craterous floor. When the warlord set down, he glanced back and noticed a set of large, red, beady eyes gazing back at him from a tunnel. “Hm. The organic indigenous life forms.” Megatron cast a dim red light from his emblem, catching a glimpse of the eight-limbed beast—which greeted him with a hiss. “You alone could not have wrought such destruction upon a warship.” He noticed large lacerations on the creature’s exoskeleton. “Something else is down here with you, something that has been hunting you.” The warlord watched the creature click its mandibles and step back into its tunnel, shying away—though not from him—and Megatron let his optics narrow as he turned around. “I know you are watching me. Show yourself.”
From the darkness, there came a hiss—and Megatron suddenly raised his arm to block a strand of purple webbing launched at his face.
A small figure launched out of the shadows, using the web as a sort of bungee to slingshot themselves at the warlord with enough momentum to slam two heeled boots into the juncture between his cannon and his arm—sending sparks flying before the weapon fizzled.
“Intelligence,” Megatron realized as the figure darted away and attached the web still holding his arm to a wall, containing him to a circle. He watched four more red eyes open in the darkness, but there was something different about them… Optics? “A Cybertronian?”
The small shape darted out again, slinging from the ceiling and swiping past Megatron—leaving three claw-marks along the side of his helm—and he winced before baring fangs in frustration.
“Enough! I do not intend to harm you!” He could hear footsteps running up behind him, and he braced himself before turning and slamming his hand down—pinning that small shape to the floor. “I said, ENOUGH!” Megatron’s narrowed optics suddenly widened. “A youngling.”
The female ‘bot on the floor bore fangs and hissed, then seemed to realize what the warlord had said and even let out a soft gasp.
“Easy.” Megatron loosened his grip. “Easy, now.” He let go, stood upright, and stepped back to let her recover. “Forgive me, it- It has been a very long time since I have encountered one so young.” He watched her sit up and begin to recover. “How did you come to be in this place?”
“You’re not-?” The ‘bot placed a servo over her spark, watching him warily. “You’re Megatron.”
“Heh.” Megatron cracked a small smile at that. “You know my face?”
And she gave a small smile of her own. “My friend, Optimus, was always such a history nerd. How could I-?” Her face suddenly became stricken, then she raised her clawed servos to the sides of her helmeted head. “No… No! He left me! They both left me! They’re not-!”
Megatron instinctively stepped forward and raised a servo. “Child, you’ll hurt yourself.”
“What do you care?! I’m a freak!” The young ‘bot snapped, holding her fists to her chest as she kneeled and looked up the warlord. “The spiders, they-! Ah!” She shook her head. “Even if they’d come back for me, I’d-!” Her optics widened, and she began to vent shallowly, rapidly, frantically and uncontrollably. “I-I’d-…”
Megatron swiftly moved over and kneeled before her, then he raised a digit to his comm as he kept his optics on his young companion. “Blitzwing, you must be swift and discrete. I have an organic creature down here, in distress. Frantic venting. I need to stop her from doing damage to herself. Go into Shockwave and Starscream’s research files, see if there’s anything that could help.”
:Yes, Lord Megatron,: his old friend replied, and a few agonizing moments passed. :It would appear that organic venting is called ‘breathing’. It is necessary for them to acquire the element of oxygen in its gaseous state for their organic cells. When organic creatures panic, they engage in heavy breathing though limited oxygen intake. You must slow her breathing.:
“How?”
:Calm her down.:
“How?!”
:Shouting will not help.: Blitzwing’s tone was near-scolding, at that point. :Ahem. Is this organic creature intelligent?:
“Yes.”
:I’m sending you some ‘grounding techniques’, now. Good luck.:
“Hm.” Megatron lowered his digit from his comm and glanced down at his arm as a panel popped open, displaying the aforementioned grounding techniques. After a long moment, the warlord stowed the panel and turned his gaze back to the young ‘bot before him. “Child, look at me.” When she obeyed, Megatron rested a servo over his spark. “Like this.”
Megatron took a deep vent, then let it out.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Slowly, the young ‘bot began to mimic him.
In. Out.
In. Out.
In. Out.
A shudder went through her body, and she hugged herself as she closed her optic and hunched over. “Mm.”
“That’s it.” Megatron moved closer and carefully rested a servo across her back. “That’s it.”
“… Thank you,” the young ‘bot whispered, soft and hoarse.
“No need to thank me,” Megatron assured her, keeping his own voice soft. “Are you alright?”
“No.”
“How can I help? Tell me what happened.”
“… My name is Elita-1,” the young ‘bot murmured. “I’m a cadet from the Autobot Academy. I came here with two of my classmates, my best friends. Sentinel wanted glory, I wanted adventure, and Optimus wanted to keep us safe. We came to look for a lost Decepticon ship.” She and Megatron both raised their heads to look around the room. “Then, the spiders attacked us. Sentinel held a few off, and we were separated. I found Optimus in the ship, and the spiders came. We destabilized the ship to cover our escape, but… I fell, to the explosions and the spiders.” Her four red optics widened as she continued her tale. “Optimus was safe, Sentinel came, they looked at me… and they left. I tried to use my powers on the spiders to take their abilities and escape, but- But-…” She freed her arms from her body and looked down at her claws. “Oh, Primus. What happened to me?”
“It would seem that… the spiders are a part of you, now,” Megatron offered carefully. “You did take on their gifts, but… not without cost. Your CNA and their… DNA… are now intertwined.”
The young ‘bot, Elita-1, began to shake her head frantically. “I have to fix it. I have to fix it! H-How do I fix it?! I can’t go back to Cybertron! They left me, and they’d just-!”
“No, no.” Megatron reached up to stop her from clawing at her head, again. “Don’t hurt yourself… Child, you are alive. All is not lost.”
“Are you kidding me?!” The young ‘bot threw her clawed servos down and scowled at the warlord, still looking so small from her place on the floor. “I’ve lost everything! I'm not even Elita-1, not anymore! I don’t know what I am, just that I’M ALONE!” Her vents shook as she glowered at Megatron, then her face dropped as she cast her gaze down. “I-… I’m alone.”
“… Stand with me,” Megatron said quietly, and she tensed before looking up at him in disbelief. “Stand with me, and you shall never be alone again.” He extended a servo, and she just stared at it. “It’s alright, child. It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not!” The young ‘bot insisted on a wall, reaching up to wipe at her optics as she sniffled—then she pulled her clawed servo back and looked at it in confusion.
She didn’t recognize tears?
“No, it’s not,” Megatron said, unable to quantify the devastation he felt break through what felt like an eon of resigned numbness. “And I’m sorry that it’s not.” She met his gaze, more tears falling from her optics—and Megatron felt something prick at his own. “I truly am, I’m so sorry.”
“… You’re Megatron?” The young ‘bot asked, a look not unlike wonder appearing on her face.
“Heh.” Megatron brushed beneath one of his optics, trying to regain his composure. “Don’t mistake me for a misunderstood saint, child. I have done terrible things—things which I will readily admit to, with pride.”
“Hm.” The young ‘bot crossed her arms and shrugged. “At least you’re honest.” She gave a fanged smile, small and frail but genuine. “Heh. The leader of the Decepticons, honest.”
“Between us?” Megatron leaned close and gave a small smirk. “… I’m a notoriously terrible liar.”
The way she raised a servo to her mouth, closed her optics, and giggled made it worth it—and the warlord allowed himself a chuckle as well.
When she opened her optics, Megatron stood and once more offered his servo—and this time, the young ‘bot took it and let him gracefully pull her to her feet.
“I must say, I’m rather glad you no longer favor ‘Elita-1’. I’ve never been fond of numbers,” the warlord told her, and she seemed surprised. “… Your cause chose your old name for you. What do you choose, now? Who do you choose to be?”
“Heh.” The young ‘bot raised a servo to rub the opposite arm. “I have a choice?”
“Always.” Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Who you are is always your choice.”
“… Blackarachnia,” the young ‘bot said at last, meeting his optics with matching determination. “My name is Blackarachnia.”
…
…
…
—0—0—0—
…
…
…
Megatron opened his optics and raised his head.
Conserving his strength was paramount. The Energon rations were enough to keep a healthy mech functional (though not dangerous), but—after that battle back on Earth—Megatron was hardly a healthy mech.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Shockwave.”
The battered spymaster blinked out of a daze. “Yes, Lord Megatron?”
“How were you so injured?”
“Ah.” Shockwave shifted in his place, wincing in a way Megatron had learned how to recognize over the millenia. “It would seem that the Wrecker from the other universe has been training his young team while on Earth. Bumblebee certainly couldn’t fight like that, back in boot camp.” He weakly gestured with one of his claws. “I can only presume that his training of Optimus Prime led to your own injuries, my liege.”
“So it would seem.” Megatron sat up a bit himself, interest growing. “The way Optimus Prime fought, it was unlike any other wielder of the Magnus Hammer in recorded memory.” He cast his gaze down, optics narrowing. “Tch. If the Council recognized what they had in that young ‘bot, we might actually be doomed.”
“But those stagnant fools, they do not want a commander,” Shockwave remarked, not at all concerned. “They want a puppet.”
Megatron hummed idly in agreement, nodding. “Then I fear that, in targeting Ultra Magnus, we may have done them a favor.”
“The current acting Magnus, Sentinel Prime, is brash and reckless,” Shockwave disagreed. “He was always critical of the council in his youth, so they must wear him down to make him more compliant. Unfortunately for them, he does not hesitate to call upon Optimus Prime when in dire need—and that does bring a degree of sense to the situation.” His claws clicked together as he contemplated this. “It makes me wonder if they’ll try to eliminate Cybertron’s new ‘hero’ in order to keep their marionette manageable, give him no one else to turn to.”
Megatron found the very idea repulsive, despite his obvious ire towards the young Prime he faced on Earth. “Despicable.”
“But not out of character,” Shockwave reminded his leader, shrugging. “Autobots punish loyalty when it goes to anyone but the leadership, and leave those no longer useful to rust. Just look at poor Agent Arcee.”
“Hm.” Megatron leaned back against the wall. “It would seem Earth changed the little team we’ve been facing, then.”
“Indeed.” Shockwave nodded. “They really won’t last long, now that they’re here.”
“No. I suppose not.”
“You almost sound disappointed.”
“… I can’t help but wonder what this world could be, if it was led by someone more like Optimus Prime than Ultra Magnus,” Megatron confessed. “But I suppose we shall never find out.”
“No. I suppose not.”
Megatron frowned, then he heard the familiar sound of an approaching cart and turned his head towards the cell door as it stopped. “L-1?”
The Mini-Con, already holding his tray above his head, looked up at the warlord in surprise. “You remember me?”
“Of course, my friend,” Megatron replied, moving back to let the petite ‘bot enter the cell and begin his usual process of trading empty canisters for those full of Energon. “… I was wondering, if it would not get you into trouble, if I could ask for a med-kit.” L-1 cast the warlord another surprised look. “I would like to patch some of my comrades’ injuries, even just the ones that pain them.” He gestured to Shockwave in particular, then gave L-1 a tired smile. “I do understand though, if you cannot. We are to be punished, after all.”
L-1 gazed up at Megatron, tilting his head to the side as he seemed to contemplate the request and the implications behind it: legal vs. moral.
Which one would matter more to him?
Megatron was banking on the latter.
The Mini-Con had been so surprised by acts of kindness, by being remembered, by even the barest consideration—given by Decepticons, when his government won’t even restock basic supplies. And Megatron’s request was basic, harmless even…
L-1 glanced back at the cart. “SP, GD, HW.”
For the first time, Megatron watched in surprise as three more Mini-Cons emerged from the cart and entered the cell.
One of them still seemed to be skeptical, but the other two appeared agreeable—and with pleasing looks from the united three, the fourth sighed and caved with a short nod.
“Your punishment will be decided at the trials,” L-1 said, turning back to Megatron. “And it’s our job to take care of you until then.”
Megatron found the smile on his face warming genuinely. “Thank you, my friend.”
L-1’s optics lit up and crinkled, like he was smiling back behind the mask on his face.
When Megatron ruled Cybertron, he would have to remember that smile and these kindnesses and reward them—misguided though they may be.
The Decepticon cause was for the oppressed.
And there was still time to rise up.
…
…
…
—0—0—0—
…
…
…
Megatron stood outside the operating theatre of the Nemesis—his back against the wall, arms crossed, and a foot tapping (not that he would ever admit it). His optics were locked on the door, and his shoulders were raised in agitation.
Finally, the door opened—and Megatron stood upright as someone exited. “Well?”
“The procedure went well,” Blackarachnia reported, folding her servos behind her back as she looked up at the warlord with a confident little smirk. “He should be able to do it, to take on two alt-modes. If it works, it’ll provide all Decepticons with the perfect edge.”
“Hm.” Megatron’s expression softened, and he nodded. “Well done, Blackarachnia.”
She crossed her arms. “Still worried about him?”
“… Blitzwing was beside me for a vast majority of the war on Cybertron,” Megatron admitted. “He is a great warrior, intelligent and loyal to the cause, but he is more impulsive than he would admit and I have always held a private concern that he would push himself too far eventually.” He glanced at the open door behind Blackarachnia, letting out a sigh. “I am truly grateful that he volunteered for this experiment—but I am wary of the known risks which he seemed to disregard, as well as any that are unknown.”
“Physically, he’s fine,” Blackarachnia assured. “I can promise you that much, my lord.”
“Hm.” Megatron smiled. “And I am glad that I can trust that assessment, Blackarachnia. In choosing my new chief medic and scientist in Shockwave’s absence, I chose well.”
“So, Blitzwing survived?” Starscream asked as he and Lugnut came around a corner, and the Seeker glanced at the larger mech beside him. “Looks like I owe you some axel grease.”
“Hmph.” Blackarachnia rested her servos on her hips. “Betting against your teammate? Real class act there, Starscream.”
Starscream shrugged, uncaring. “Not like there’s anything else to do around here.“
Megatron opened his mouth to reprimand the Seeker, only to freeze as a horrible scream like three voices warping into one, splitting, and mashing together all over again suddenly came from the operating theatre.
“Blitzwing?!” Megatron stood upright and ran inside, his followers behind him—and he found a medical berth overturned as Blitzwing staggered around and gripped his head. “Blitzwing!”
“What’s happening?!” The warrior shouted, his back to the group, then there was a peculiar whirring noise before he shouted in a deeper voice. “IT HURTS!” Another whir, then a high-pitched cackle rang out. “I thought the idea was to make the Autobots hurt more, not us!”
Megatron cautiously stepped forward, hesitantly raising a servo. “Blitzwing, I need you to turn around and look at me.” The other mech tensed. “Old friend, please: show me what’s happened to you. Look at me.” A soft whir, then Blitzwing took a shuddering vent before he turned to face his leader with a distressed expression. “That’s it. Do you know where you are?”
With a whir, Blitzwing’s pale purple face vanished in a spinning blur—replaced by a dark void illuminated by narrowed red optics and a jagged red grin. “The Nemesis, of course!”
That was the high-pitched voice.
Megatron’s optics widened. “Blitzwing.”
“Yes, Lord Megatron?” The mech tilted his head, still grinning. “What’s the matter? Wasn’t the procedure a success?” A trail of lubricant leaked from one of those beady optics and raced down that new face. “Didn’t it mean something?!” A whir, then a crimson face bared dentas in rage as Blitzwing stepped forward and clenched his fists. “TELL ME it meant something! Tell me I’m not broken! I’m still here, damn it! I’m not-!” He froze, his optics widening behind his visor—then a whir, and his pale purple face returned. “Lord Megatron?” He slowly closed his optics. “My head…” He gave in, and let himself slump into the embrace of the worried warlord. “Mmph.”
“It’s alright.” Megatron raised a servo to the back of the other mech’s head, offering comfort and hiding his own distressed expression from the panicking warrior. “It’s alright… I’ve got you, old friend.”
“His processor couldn’t cope with the extra alt,” Blackaeachnia theorized as Megatron guided Blitzwing to sit down on the floor with his back against the overturned berth, and the warlord went down with him and kept an arm wrapped around his shoulders. “It has been fragmented three ways, one for each form.”
“So, err…” Lugnut glanced down at Blitzwing, his usual partner in crime, with concern. “Which… face… belongs to which form?”
Starscream rested his chin on a servo. “I have a theory.” The others looked at him. “His original alt-mode is air-based. That’s gone unaltered, so that is his reason.” He gestured. “That’s him, as icy calm as we’ve always known him… The wrath, that’s new—Blitzwing has never been a hothead, in spite of his many other character flaws. That’s the introduced ground-mode.” The Seeker’s optics narrowed. “That last face… He’s chaos on his struts, constantly switching. Random.” After a few moments of letting that sink in, Starscream cleared his throat and shrugged. “Next time, I’m sure-"
“No.” Megatron cut him off. “Never again.”
Blackarachnia looked at the warlord in surprise.“Lord Megatron?”
“Never again.” Megatron looked up with narrowed optics. “Our priority is atoning for this egregious error. Our priority is Blitzwing.”
Megatron felt a trembling servo close around his wrist, and he glanced over to see Blitzwing offer a shaky smile. “I fear… I may be a nuisance to you now, Lord Megatron.”
Megatron just looked at him, then he raised an optic-brow. “… Now?”
Blitzwing blinked, then he started to crack up—inspiring some weak laughter around the room.
Megatron held his old friend closer, smiling tiredly as he watched the present members of his inner circle release ages of built-up tension, then his expression softened.
He was tired.
His spark ached.
He missed his home.
His Decepticons were scattered, reformatted, undercover to possibly be found and killed (or worse) any day, or held in the Stockade.
Starscream was becoming colder, crueler.
Blackarachnia’s desperation made her reckless.
Lugnut’s blind faith was exhausting to humor.
And now, Blitzwing was hurt—probably forever.
Megatron had done nothing but try his best to be what his cause, his people, needed him to be for their best possible future—and no matter how hard he tried, it wasn’t enough.
The Allspark wasn’t found.
They were still wanderers.
They kept getting hurt, getting worse.
And it hurt.
And…
Megatron didn’t want to hurt, anymore.
What if that very weakness, that sentiment that stopped him from crossing certain lines, had been the downfall of his people as a whole?
He had to be better than this.
He had to be good enough.
He had to be enough, whatever the cost.
…
…
…
—0—0—0—
…
…
…
Sentinel Prime approached the Decepticon cell with Ironhide and Cliffjumper behind him, lance and shield at the ready.
He expected to find the same battered, wounded, defeated but still performatively smug dictator he’d sent away three days before when he arrived and turned to the door.
“It’s time.”
Instead…
“Hardly,” Megatron corrected the acting Magnus, already standing at the ready—his armor pristine, shining like new. As Sentinel’s optics widened, the warlord smirked. “You’re late.”
