usurp the throne of ignobility

              This was not a dissimilar curiosity formerly held, where Orion marveled at the gladiator and tried to understand the intricate tessellation of his thoughts and see what lay beyond the raw surface.

              There—right there— in those optics he saw first glimmer of familiarity; at least, Orion hoped it was there, but it could very well be his wishful imagination. Rather than display the soft and whimsical smile, the displaced archivist tucked his helm and fidgeted with his empty digits.

              “Nemesis Prime—that is what they call him here, because it was already confusing enough with Optimus and me, a third one just throws the entire balance off—” He was rambling; he winced.

              Preambled with a steady inward vent, Orion calmed himself and looked upwards. No one had bothered to ask how he was truly treated, so this was the first iteration of his tale. “Nemesis Prime was not so terrible to me as I had envisioned. He was worse to the others, and when it was just I… well, he found me more of an oddity than a subject of his malevolent interests.

              Added to the rambling confession, Orion said with some shame, “The terrorcons were truly more terrifying, and only for their constant noises; it was rather unnerving. I do not think he had any harm in mind for me.”

              On that stream of thought, he already skipped to the last statement with an ignition of passion that made a coruscated display within his optics. “There is not as much here on board the Nemesis, but Meg—Lord Megatron—” the correction interrupted the flow, and he paused to bite at the soft malleable derma.

Sadness caused the bright azure optics to dim, and though he hoped the mech before him would not see it, if this was truly Orion, it would not go unnoticed. “Nemesis...” he mused quietly, once more trying to fight the reconciliation that his brother had millennia become his worst adversary. To dissociate once more from the brother he had lost brought more grief than expected, “An apt designation for the corrupt scourge of the multiverse.”

Casting away his sadness to the best of his ability, he looked to Orion, looking for some sort of hope. “You are real, your spark is real, and regardless of the nature of your creation, no sentient life is an oddity nor without purpose,” he spoke as though he was trying to convince himself--not sure if he believed his words in regards to his own existence. In the case of Orion’s, he believed with every ounce of himself.

As Orion spoke, finally addressing him, Megatron shook his helm. The connotations of the title of Lord, he feared he would never be able to separate himself, no matter how he wished to. “Megatron,” he corrected and repeated his words from before, “I am just Megatron.”

Finally, he reached forward, cupping the archivist’s helm within his servo, trailing the tip of his thumb along the jawline, letting his digits roam the features his optics only could before. 

“Do you still read me?” he asked lowly, “Do you desire to read me as I do you?”

Instead, he shared a smile.

                                                                                                                                                Silencing his frivolity.

                                                                                                            Do not hold back in front of him.

Shifting his weight, he adjusted his stance as Orion spoke, ex-venting with disdain. "Lord Megatron is what they called me when I began to lead Cybertron into war," he shook his helm, "Lord Megatron exists upon this vessel, but it is not I. I am only a solider--once a gladiator--here to put an end to my enemy. You may call me Megatron, Orion." 

              “—Just Megatron.”

              The wisdom of time had taught its lessons, and Orion knew too well that there was never any such thing as just Megatron, and their friendship was never so simply. With his gaze averted, Orion would avoid the simple softness of the other’s scarred features, and see past the harshness that other’s cut on.

              Bubbles moved intermittently through the fuel-lines leaving his systems, and at the terminus was a filter that hissed as it pushed through the energon previously in his tanks and through his lines. There was a tinge to it that made it just off the spectrum of regular energon; it was sickly with lavender.

              “Yes, I am Orion Pax, and I apologize for my outburst. I heard of your presence here, I just—” had been avoiding the other, but Orion would not admit so, “—had not had an opportunity to meet you before my capture.”

              Finally, he turned to look at the other, and it was blue that met with blue, followed by gently constructed words. “I believe I’ve met your contemporary by the name of Optimus Prime, though we know him more as my brother’s Nemesis.”

             Orion’s gaze flickered onto the red badge on Megatron’s chassis, and he saw how the light refracted against the more polished alloy. War had tried to steal away the entirety of this Decepticon’s sheen, but it was still too bright to be so well hidden.

              When alas they saw each other’s lenses, Orion finally addressed the indulgence, “There is no Megatronus, not any longer. I am a quantum clone of Optimus Prime. The one I called brother became the warlord Megatron.”

At his thoughts, Megatron shook his helm. No, perhaps it was best not to think, to hope and to dream, if only to save him from wounding his spark deeper.

Bright azure dimmed at the mentioning of his enemy. “I am sorry that you were undoubtedly forced to suffer at Optimus’ servos. He has brought destruction and death to many worlds and I fear gravely for this one. At least you are safely returned to us,” he stated, but wondered if he was being too familiar.

Once more he turned his gaze to wander upon the length of the fuel lines, watching as the poison taint was squelched from the archivist’s circuitry. It pained him to have to watch Orion suffer so.

So helpless he had become to stop the monster his once brother had turned into.

Venting, he approached, stopping at the edge of the berth which Orion rested upon. Hesitantly, he reached out a servo, digits sharpened by millennia of endless warfare.

“I know what it means to lose a brother to the vileness of his own ambition,” he said softly. Slowly, he stretched his servo and laid it upon Orion’s shoulder. To touch the armor he thought he would never have a chance to again—he repressed a shudder.