Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sentinel jolted awake with a gasp.
 

Panting, he looked around in a wild fashion, as one would when searching for a nearby threat, but all that greeted him were the walls of his berthroom. The covers cocooned him in their warmth and plush from the waist down. The immense window overlooking much of Iacon remained here, unchanged. 

His breaths slowed, his spark calmed. Sentinel sighed in relief and plopped himself back on his large pillow, closing his optics. 

“Primus,” he breathed.

It was just a nightmare. 

I t felt so real, this terrible thing—but none of it truly happened. He buried himself beneath the covers again and closed his optics; however, he refused to fall asleep again, lest he find himself returned to that dream. 

It was the strangest one he had in years. In it there was one miner — the gray mech, D-16, he remembered — who had discovered what Sentinel had actually been doing during his escapades to the surface. In the dream D16 had not responded well to the revelation, going so far in his wrath and betrayal as to attempt to gather the High Guard — now that Sentinel recalled this, the whole thing seemed unbelievably comical — and kindle some version of a rebellion which was soon crushed beneath an attacking Airachnid’s pede. All the incompetent soldiers and D16 had been captured, and Sentinel remembered that in the dream, they were lined up in chains, facing the ground in shame which they much deserved. That was most likely the only best thing that happened in the dream. 

But D-16…oh, was the mech furious. Calling Sentinel a traitor , of all things. Quite hypocritical, coming from a miner who broke countless barriers and rules and disturbed the mines to participate in the Iacon 5000. 

Sentinel recalled how, later on, D-16 rose despite the chains that bound his servos behind his back, and despite Sentinel’s consequential, aggressive advances, the bot overpowered him. Beat him all the way to the Stadium. To Central Iacon and its waiting crowd, angry, enraged at the false-Prime who had lied to them for years.

Towards the end of the false envisioning, things took a violent turn. Sentinel thought it peculiar how vividly he remembered each detail, regardless how immense or minute: D-16, with newfound strength, dragged the Prime to the edge of the stadium, before the angry, boisterous, cheering crowd of Iacon, and tore him in two. That was the end of the nightmare, before he awoke. 

But it was all a dream, and the miners – the real D-16 and his comrade Orion Pax — were sent down to the sublevels in consequence of their unceremonious rebellion. They posed no trouble, past or future, any longer. 

And Sentinel could steal a few moments of sleep before he began another day of ruling an entire city. 

He was just beginning to close his optics when the sound of a blast sent him automatically to overdrive again. He jumped out of bed and transformed his blaster, tense.

It happened again. And again. And again. The berthroom—hell, the entire Penthouse started to tremble. Sentinel struggled to regain his footing. 

He didn’t know what was happening, but whatever the hell it was, his guards should have been dealing with it by now. He pressed a digit to his commlink and spoke through: 

    :

Sentinel to Prime Guard. What is happening?: 

A blast of static greeted him, and he cringed slightly away. 

: Sentinel to Prime Guard, do you copy?:

  Again: that damned static. 

:Can anyone hear me?: 

Clearly, no one could. He scrambled to contact Airachnid. 

: Airachnid, this is Sentinel. Are you there?:

No answer. A feeling of growing unease trickled down his spinal struts. He tried again.

 : Airachnid, do you copy?: 

   :

Airachnid!: 

Okay, now he was getting a bit worried. When beckoned, Airachnid always answered. Always. That was her job as a bodyguard, and Sentinel may have gone so far as to say her purpose, as evidenced by how religiously she carried out her duties in a seamless fashion. If now she wasn’t answering, then…

 Another blast shook the building. This time, miscellaneous items slid from where they were situated on the dresser and onto the floor, shattering. Sentinel cursed. His arms flew every which way in attempts to support himself on some unmoving surface, but he grasped only air and simply fell to the ground. He got up and pressed his back against the wall. 

The shaking didn’t stop. It continued, and worsened by the second, and Sentinel knew that if he didn’t get out in the next five seconds, Iacon’s Prime would be scrap metal.

He set his sights on the window. He tensed.

Golden wings splayed, he barreled through the glass and allowed a fair distance to sufficiently separate himself from the trembling building before he halted in his airbound flee and turned back.

The window through which he had barreled but moments prior hadn’t shattered. It was cracking, no doubt, but not shattered. That sent Sentinel falling into a quandary.

But he hadn’t the time to further ponder this oddity because his entire fucking Penthouse was being shot at . Attacked by multiple blasts coming from below, and it was there he looked: 

There were multiple bots, some airbound, others on the ground, all locked in harsh combat with some other opponent of theirs. As his optics skimmed over those he could see, Sentinel spotted some of the High Guard—the very group he very vividly recalled exiling from Iacon long prior—and those outside thereof: some pink miner, and the tiny yellow bot. 

Whom he had, too, seen in his dream.  

To whom Sentinel recalled saying: The truth is what I make it. 

“Wait,” he said. He looked around, seeing jets and the like zip across the ether, toward the battle. “Waitwaitwaitwait—” 

He died, in his dream. 

And what happened after that?

He woke up. 

T his isn’t right, Sentinel thought as he watched Iacon descend into chaos. No, this isn’t—what— 

A seeker flew toward him and he zipped out of the way, blasters aimed at the potential threat. But strangely enough, the jet just flew right past him, into the battle below, as if they had never even seen him. Sentinel furrowed his brow ridges in confusion. 

Then a blaster was shot in his very direction. He hadn’t taken note of this quickly enough, so when it was nearing him with an unconquerable speed he made a poor shield of his arms before his helm and closed his optics, awaiting the inevitable blast to his frame. 

Many moments passed and yet such never came. He opened his optics, slowly lowering his arms, and looked behind. The blast had instead reached the window of his Penthouse, a window no longer but rather an immense, yawning orifice. Inside, a fire began. Billows of smoke crept slowly through the hole of the building and ascended to the high skies.
 

The blast had missed him completely despite the fact that it was in a path that led directly to Sentinel. He looked down at his frame as if it held any answers to silence his growing confusion. He looked to the building again, and to it he flew until he reached an intact part of its wall. He moved to press his servo against it. 

Instead, it met nothing. In fact, it went right through.

Cursing in disbelief, Sentinel tore his hand from wherever it had gone and attempted to press his other servo to the wall. Immediately thereafter came the same, impossible result: his servo went right through the wall as if it were nothing. 

Sentinel backed up, staring at his servo with horror. Then he looked at the wall.

He dared to pass the entirety of himself through the wall, and oddly enough he felt nothing as he did so, soon finding himself right in his room — er, what remained of it, at least. 

The few details which the accumulating smoke allowed Sentinel to see: Countless pieces of glass were scattered across the floor. His dresser was gone and so too was the wall by which it sat near—which was now, too, an open, imperfect hole large enough to fit a sparkling through. 

In the middle of his room, there was the newborn fire: now a roaring, raging thing that heavied the air with its oppressive heart and began to swallow the remnants of his room. 

When yet another blast shook the unstable building, Sentinel flew out of the way. Returned to the daylit, battling Iacon.
 

That was when the unmistakable sound of a battle cry — one that was too strong an echo of Megatronus’ — pulled his keen optics and audials to below. And there, locked in furious combat with multiple mechs and successfully fighting off each one, decimating anything opponent that dare disturb his path, was the last mech Sentinel had seen in his apparent “dream”: 

D-16.

His frame was greatly altered, now a lighter gray and larger in size. But Sentinel knew it was the miner. 

You never forget the face of your killer. 

He clamped his wings together and flew down, the air whipping against his frame, into the eye of the storm. 

At this moment, nothing else mattered but the battle and the fury that replaced the energon that raced in his veins and the target thereof. Already imaginings of D-16 on the ground, limp and bloodied with the sword that was embedded deep beneath his frame flashed to the forefront of Sentinel’s mind. 

This miner would pay for his transgressions, mark his words. Sword or no sword. 

Sentinel raised his blaster and shot at the mech. But before it hit the target, someone else got to him first.

Scrambling to find secure footing upon the ground, Sentinel watched as a blue-and-red-mech tackled D-16 to the ground. Sparks flew everywhere, blasters shot. D-16 raised his canon and aimed at the other mech multiple times, and was quite close to defeating the mentioned mech, but then the mech transformed his own weapon — a gilded ax — and practically sliced the larger mech’s cannon apart. This seemed to weaken him to high extents, for he slumber to the ground, short of breath. 

And that was the end of the battle. The blue-and-red mech ordered D-16 to leave. Told him he was officially exiled from Iacon. As if exile was going to stop a crazed, Megatronus  fanboy delinquent from returning with an army of even more delinquents. Execution, now — that would have solved everything.

“This isn’t over, Prime ,” D-16 said — wait a minute there’s actually no fucking way I just got replaced in less than than two hours , Sentinel thought —, but he left, perhaps having the average intuition that he had lost the battle.

He beckoned the High Guard — he called them Decepticons, what’s up with that? — and Sentinel followed the stream of alt-modes as they ascended to the sky, beyond the veiling clouds, to the surface.

Chapter Text

Sentinel wouldn’t lie: being on the Surface unsettled him.

It was always here , in this near-barren, uninhabited land that he could find the Quintessons monthly. Where he dealt with their adverse reactions to energon supply shortages and other inconveniences. 

And he knew (but would rather not think about it) that he was dead. A ghost, now. Somehow. And no harm can come to ghosts. But even with that in mind, he made his sense keen as he followed the quick stream of the High Gua—Decepticons, as they returned to the rabbit hole they should have stayed in to rot. 

The air was tense and heavy with their anger at their loss and consequential exile. Sentinel could feel it: this collective fury, burning in silence. He may have gone so far as to say he shared it, but his own wrath had its own, different origin. 

Soon the Decepticons’ leader took a right and flew downward. His minions followed. 

All transformed; Sentinel transformed with them. He stepped back quickly when noticing someone walk from behind him, but then again—ghosts couldn’t be seen. 

The odd screech in Starscream’s voice drew Sentinel’s attention to far ahead, where the seeker could be seen beginning to ask D-16 questions. He moved seamlessly through the crowd of unsuspecting mechs until he neared them. 

“Er, Lord Megatron “ — And Sentinel scoffed at this, thinking, Oh, of course, of course the fanboy would name himself after Megatronus — “ Starscream began, “if we just disc—” 

Lord Megatron’s red optic’d glare immediately silenced him. Then, the large mech turned to the mass of exiles and began to speak. 

~~~~~~~

Later that day, after a long, long speech on Megatron’s part about “we will not be oppressed” “decepticons, rise up” and other cliche’ statements, most had retreated to their quarters. Or wherever they slept. 

And it was then Sentinel had an idea. A wonderful, terrible, mischievous idea. 

He followed as D— Megatron made his way to his quarters, a fairly large room but which was relatively barren of decoration, with only a dying plant that sat on the floor in the corner.  

Megatron sat on his berth, but not once did he rest. He seemed to be lost in thought, that which was conflicted in fashion, as alluded to be the furrow of his brow-ridges and the deepening of his glare. 

Meanwhile, Sentinel was glancing around the room, searching for a weapon or some sufficient replacement thereof. There was nothing. He almost considered grabbing the lamp and throwing it at the mech’s helm, but that would only disable him temporarily, not offline as Sentinel wished.
 

But he would find something. 

The former Prime glared at his murderer. 

“I’ll kill you,” he growled, knowing Megatron would never hear him. 

But the moment the words were spoken, Megatron jolted, and, raising whatever weapon he had on himself, he turned and seemed to stare directly into the space Sentinel inhabited. 

Chapter Text

I’ll kill you.

Weapons now raised, Megatron eyed where he had first heard the voice, but there was nothing. No one. He looked around. 

“Who goes there?!” he grumbled. A very cliche’ way of speaking, he knew that, but he’s practicing his evil leader qualities, get off his ass. 

“Show yourself,” he growled once more. Much better. “You coward .”

No response. Anger flaring to larger life within him, Megatron rose swiftly from where he sat on his berth, not once retreating his weapons, eyeing the otherwise unoccupied room and finding nothing worthy of suspicion. Nothing amiss in its position. But he’d heard a voice, heard the words it carried so clearly, and in such close proximity: someone was here.

The silver mech bared in denta. 

“I won’t ask again.”

No answer. No sound, no nothing. 

 Then: 

 “Boo.”

The mech whipped around when hearing the voice so closely behind him, but there was no one to be seen. Nothing except his berth. 

“Wha—” he began, but then the unseen spoke again: 

 “Think fast.”

Something kicked him. Hard. In his modesty panel. 

An unceremonious and certainly un-warlord yelp escaped him through his gritted denta, and briefly he stumbled, servos creating a shield for his modesty panel as if that would alleviate even slightly the pain. 

 “That’s it.” Growling, he rose and powered his blasters, prepared to shoot. “When I find you,” he said, “I will execute you.  Mark my words, I’ll make you pay .”

“Nu-uh. I think it’s your turn to pay, buddy,” replied the disembodied voice, and Megatron thought it oddly familiar, but he had no longer the time to further ponder on this, for, a second later he was met with a hefty blow to the faceplate that sent him into a stumble again.

Once having regained his footing, and, disregarding the throb that began on the side of his face, he drew his weapon and lunged — 

and met empty air, and then ground. 

From this he rose, turned, and stilled, listening for pedesteps. He noticed some only a few diagonal feet away from him, and it was there he lunged again, shooting his blaster. This time, he met a powerful shot that was not his own and its force sent him to the ground. He felt something of a pede set its heavy weight upon his chestplate. 

He looked up, into the air. At first, there was nothing that could be seen, but as the seconds passed, something slowly came into view… 

“ Sentinel? !” 

He could see dimly the smile that crept up the phantom’s faceplate. “Miss me?”
 

Megatron reset his optics and stared at the face of the impossible. “I killed you.” 

“You sure did,” Sentinel drawled bitterly. 

“Then how am I seeing you?” 

 “Ever heard of ghosts before?”

Megatron blinked, processor whirring. “Yes, but they’re not…real.” 

“Oh, but they are. And they have lots of advantages,” Sentinel said. “For example: You’re the only one that can see me.” 

Megatron stared. Then he closed his optics. 

“What are you doing?” he heard Sentinel ask. 

“You are not real,” he said. “You’re a figment of my imagination. I am dreaming.” 

Then a pede kicked his faceplate. Cursing, he brought a servo to his afflicted side. 

“What the hell—” 

“ Does that feel real to you?” Sentinel asked. Megatron could hear the smile that lay within his voice. 

The warlord wrenched himself upwards and lunged at the phantom. 

Then the door opened. 

“Lord Megatron?!” 

The silver mech stopped and turned. A guard stood in the hallway, just before his opened door, a brow-ridge raised in confusion.
 

“My liege, um..” He cleared his throat nervously. “Is everything…alright?” 

“Do you see him?!” Megatron pointed to Sentinel The Phantom. 

The guard’s optics flickered to where his master’s digit pointed. “Who?” 

The warlord fought the urge to drag the guard from where he stood and bring him to his target of view. “ Him ! Do you— right there!” He gestured aggressively to Sentinel again. A large grin was plastered on his faceplate. 

The guard glanced from Megatron to the wall and back again. “Er. No, sir. I don’t see anyone.” 

Megatron stared at Sentinel, bewildered.

“Are you alright? Sir,” asked the guard with uncertainty. 

“Leave,” Megatron ordered. 

The guard opened his intake, prepared to object and further question his master, but thought better of it, mumbling a quiet Yes sir as he closed the door and left. 

“How unfortunate. Now the guard thinks you’re crazy,” Sentinel said. 

“Though,” he added, “that may just be true.” 

Instead of replying to that, Megatron swiftly turned away and moved toward his berth. 

“I am ignoring you,” he said resolutely as he buried himself beneath the covers. 

“Good luck with that,” Sentinel said.  

Megatron did not answer. He closed his optics. 

But he did not sleep, not once through the night.

Chapter Text

It had not been until daybreak that Megatron, at long last, answered slumber’s beckon, thus finding himself given merely two hours of recharge before the day was to commence and his army returned to their hustle-and-bustle. Unfortunately, some sound had significantly disturbed the warlord’s long-overdue moment of rest. 

Optics flying open, he rose so that he was in a sitting position and sought to discover the culprit of his disturbance. 

There, perched on a nightstand, was a miniscule radio, circular in shape. From it emitted music, a type thereof which Megatron almost instantaneously recognized, courtesy of the majority of his life occurring within the mines: melodies and beats born from metals and hymns that spoke of toils and dangers. 

Were the circumstances different, were he still a miner, were he still whom he’d used to be — Megatron would’ve appreciated this morning melody. But his mood forthwith soured when he found the reason for the bringing of this tune.

“How do you like the music, D-16?” From where he was in the middle of the room, Sentinel was dancing in tandem with the music. His optics were dressed in smug. “This is what you miners listen to, isn’t it? This racket?” he asked over the music. 

Megatron glared. He’d hoped that… whatever had occurred the night prior was a dream, or perhaps some rare moment of insanity, something. But clearly, it wasn’t. 

“I am Megatron ,” he corrected. “And where in the hell did you get a radio?” 

“Doesn’t matter. It woke you up, didn’t it?”

The warlord growled. Yes, it did, and he did not like that. “ Turn it off. ”

Sentinel gave him a regard of amusement, but obliged, pressing a digit to a button. The music came to an instant cease. 

Grumbling, Megatron trudged out of his berth. “I’m surprised you haven’t made some pathetic attempt to assassinate me.” 

“I know!” Sentinel replied in the light tone of one discussing trivial and light matters, such as the weather. “That was my original plan. But then I asked myself, why not have a little fun first?  

“But don’t worry; your days are indeed numbered,” he said as if that were a reassurance.

Not quite yet bothering to further ponder on that given threat, Megatron wiped his optics and blinked them repeatedly, until the sheet of blur that grew during their many hours being closed had wholly dissipated. 

Then he moved to exit his room but halted when hearing footsteps behind him, and he turned to eye Sentinel. 

“Do not follow me,” he ordered. 

Sentinel simply shook his helm smugly, knowing there was nothing physical the warlord could do to him in response to his refusal.

Megatron scowled. Damn slagger was lucky he was already dead ; he would have had his helm for such an unbridled act of insubordination. 

Bristling, and with his day already ruined with how poorly this morning had begun, Megatron made his way through the lengthy halls. His tanks growled; the last time he’d eaten was yesterday morning and nothing else since then. It almost amazed him how quickly time passed, how great and numerous the events could be therein. 

Unfortunately, the breakfast area was already occupied by two mechs who had fallen into a very heated quarrel. 

 “I DIDN’T STEAL YOUR RADIO, YOU FOOL!” Starscream was shrieking. He was holding a large utensil, prepared to throw it at the TiC. 

“You’re lying,” Soundwave accused. “It is the only thing you know how to do.” 

“I am not, I swear! Can’t you read minds? Or are you just dumber than I thought?"

When Megatron cleared his throat suggestively, the two jumped. 

“Lord Megatron,” they greeted in unison, saluting. 

“My liege,” Soundwave began, “did you see Starscream have my radio in his possession?” 

Starscream mouthed the words No, I don’t frantically to Megatron, as if he would comply. 

The silver mech prayed to Primus that Soundwave wasn’t talking about that radio. 

“I’m afraid I did not, Soundwave,” replied the warlord.
   

“It’s small and black,” his TiC continued. “Are you certain you’ve not spotted it anywhere?” 

Yep, he was talking about that radio. 

Megatron narrowed his optics, a bit defensive to being questioned by a subordinate. “I’m certain .”  

The TiC seemed unsatisfied with his lord’s answer but nodded nonetheless, moving to scour another room in search of his missing radio. Which was, in truth, in Megatron’s room. But he wouldn’t want his TiC, of all mechs, to think he snatched a personal belonging for his own favor. The warlord instead made a mental note to sneak the radio back in Soundwave’s private quarters or somewhere that seemed inconspicuous; the mech would never suspect it was actually in his Lord’s room.

But then, rising to a high volume, suddenly came the music again. From his room. 

Starscream turned from where he was preparing his breakfast — two family-sized bags of energon treats, how healthy —and Soundwave peeked from where he was searching in another room. 

Megatron glanced from down the hall and then to his subordinates, as if they posed an answer to his unspoken question – why is it playing again? It turned off! —; and then, muttering a curse, he sped-walked to his room. 

Sentinel was sitting on his berth, criss-crossed, attempting (and poorly so) to seem inconspicuous. But Megatron was no fool. 

Shooting a glare at the phantom that would have sent monsters fleeing, the warlord moved to turn the radio off and take it out of his room. 

He wordlessly handed it to a stunned Soundwave. 

The blue mech stared. “I am very glad my possessions were able to please you, my Lord,” he deadpanned. 

Observing from behind, Starscream snickered. He coughed to cover it the moment Megatron’s optics fell upon him in a warning gesture. 

The warlord then made his haste-fashioned way back to his room. 

“Unnecessary!” he chastised the phantom.

“What did I do?” Sentinel asked, cocking his helm, feigning innocence. 

Megatron growled. “Give it a break, Sentinel.” He spat the name like a curse. “I’ve no patience for your sparkling-like tendencies. As you may know, I have an army to lead.” 

“Right, yes, that army! The one with all the exiles you’ve gathered like stray dogs.” 

“At least I still have an army.”

“Not for long. Iacon’s defenses will tear them apart.” 

“Like how I did to you?”

The words instantly wiped the smugness of Sentinel’s faceplate. His optics narrowed; his face hardened in anger. Satisfied with himself, Megatron swiftly turned to exit the room. 

He had barely reached a foot outside his quarter when a nightstand was thrown to the back of his helm.

Chapter Text

Fire.

It was everywhere. Licking across the streets of Iacon. Swallowing those who fled and those who didn't, couldn't. Bringing buildings to the ground. A great beast of flame, all-encompassing, relentless in its one and only pursuit: to destroy. To bring to the unworthy that walk the earth only what they most deserved: pain and perish. Destruction's pawn, descending upon the once-glorious city, fashioning its skies with smoke and dust, darkening the clouds. The ether became an expanse of gray, the clouds fat with soot, and legions of rain that would soon, but not soon enough, far too late in fact, extinguish the raging fire. 

In the heart of it, all around it, yet away from it, stood Megatron. Through red optics that burned as furiously as did the fire, he watched as his home burned to its grounds, and everyone with it. Everything too. All the lies, the cover-ups, the mines. The ugly and beautiful of this place, equally obliterated. 

Megatron stood, and much akin to most during their nighttime imaginings, not truly here nor there, but rather omnipresent in this dreamscape, and here he thought of fire being analogous to his wrath: immense and massive and dangerous, even to he who wielded it. All-encompassing, like the mass of flame that was swallowing Iacon. Controlled and governed it may be, but by only itself. A great beast of nature that would bow to no man and did as it so pleased. 

He looked around. That accursed, golden statue over there - (hadn't he destroyed it already? But then again dreams were not singularly past or present or future; they were an amalgamation of such, coupled by what had not and could never happen), the one of Sentinel, was being consumed by the fire's fingertips, its gilded surface turning to ash. But gold cannot be destroyed by fire. Not true gold. But much akin to the mech whom it represented, this statue was a fraud, a fake, easily felled by whatever had dared to oppose it and reveal the great lie it had kept secret for so damn long. Megatron grinned, but to any other who saw him, they'd mistaken it for a bloodthirsty snarl. 

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, you want the city to burn, the lies to be uncovered, all that jazz," said a voice. 

The grin fell. Megatron whipped his helm around. There, frame blue and gold and all, untouched by raging flames, seemingly untouched by what Megatron had done to him all those days prior, stood Sentinel. Looking unamused and relatively unfazed by the chaos around them. 

"Oh, come on." Megatron's shoulders slumped. "You're in my dreams, too?" Dealing with him in real life was an endeavor enough.

Sentinel didn't answer, instead skimming blue optics over the flame-engulfed Iacon with - was that amusement? "You've got some pretty big life goals there, buddy," he said. 

Megatron's optics narrowed. "That's not even half of what I'm going to do." Even in this realm of unconsciousness, the words came out a vow, real and true. "Just wait and see. I'll find everyone who still has the gall to support you, and I'll do to them what I did to you." Orion - Optimus, he had to remember this, Orion was dead and gone, lost to the pits; Optimus flashed in his mind as a memory, with those icy, deep blue optics and solemnity written across his faceplate, and Megatron's spark flared with a great entity of emotion he could not quite name. Once upon a time not so long ago, he had deemed it anger, but found this unknown thing to be far greater. 

Sentinel's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "And what then?" he asked loosely, unfazed still, or perhaps the flippancy was in truth a veil to cover the true emotion beneath. "Go about your merry way with energon on your hands?" 

Megatron's red optics burned into Sentinel's calm, uncaring blue. "Exactly." 

"Doesn't sound like the ideal teenage dream to me." 

The gray mech's optic twitched at this. Teenage dream. "You think this is some joke." 

No," Sentinel said, flicking a nearing flame away. "No, I don't. Not this. But I do think that you're a joke." 

The utterance was so blatant and so untrue and quite frankly, uncalled for, that Megatron was rendered speechless for a good few seconds. 

Then he said: "Well, I'm the joke that killed you."

Sentinel paused. "That," he said, "was a very bad comeback."

"Damn it," Megatron cursed through gritted teeth, and added Make better comebacks to his mental list of things to do as a warlord. 

"But practice makes perfect, so they say." Sentinel walked past him. With ease. As if passing a nobody and not his killer. That fact made that ever-present anger within Megatron flare up again, and he had the urge to punch the bastard in the faceplate, ghost or not. He did exactly that. 

And he connected! 

Fists and knuckles met a cheek. Sentinel grunted and fell to the ground flat on his ass. Pressing a servo to the afflicted cheek, he looked up, and Megatron was pleased to see that rightfully deserved fear on his faceplate, no more of that bastard smirk and amused glint in his optics. 

"Oh, now, that's something." He twisted his wrist, itching to further the assault"I can hit you in dreams and you can feel it. Fantastic. Do you know what that means, Sentinel?" 

And this time, no witty comebacks were given in response. Megatron crouched down and leaned in. 

"I can do whatever the hell I want to you," he growled. "Blast you back to whatever hole you crawled out of if I want to. And trust me, I do. I can kill you again and again and again, and you'll feel it, you'll feel everything." 

Sentinel stared, wide-optic'd. Fearful. Megatron fed on that, his fear. He was voracious for it. 

And then the ground started to shake. 

Megatron took a step back, flooding with a want for violence still, but now confused. He looked around. 

The buildings - those that remained - disintegrated, as did the fire. Just...gone, as if nothing, no remnants forsaken in their abrupt and peculiar wake. The sky changed color multiple times. Red blue red blue pink yellow red white blue. 

Sentinel scrambled to his pedes and took a few steps back. When Megatron looked at him again he was smiling. "Guess your sweet dream's ending, D-16." 

"What?" But the liar was speaking the truth: Megatron felt himself come loose almost, lose solidity, as if floating. "No. No!" Despite his hasty commands, everything brightened and he felt himself further pulled from the ending dream. 

The next time he had a dream, Sentinel wasn't going to be so lucky. 

 
__ 

:Lord Megatron? Lord Megatron, do you copy:? 

Megatron jolted awake. His vision met the ceiling of his room. Blankets cocooned his large frame. This time, his room was mostly engulfed in darkness as there was no sunlight to pour through the one window of his room.

With an unintelligent grumble, he ran a servo across his face and reset his optics, then stared angrily at the wall. His wires were practically set alit and jittery with irritation.

Fucking hell. Fucking Sentinel. 

Suddenly his comms blasted with static again, and soon came Soundwave's robotic voice.. :Lord Megatron?? 

The gray mech onlined his comms. :Soundwave. Report.: He unhappily surveyed his area, but the bastard phantom wasn't anywhere to be seen. Both a blessing and a curse. He wondered if the mech would jump scare him while he was showering or something. 

:I've gathered and prepared most of the army and the Elite Trine is taking to the skies as we speak, but we need your comma--: 

The rare urgency in TiC's voice sent him to his pedes. "What? I -" Primus, how long had he been asleep? He had no fucking idea what Soundwave was talking about. Some fucking leader he is. " Is it the Autobots?" His canon thrummed with renewing energy. 

:No, my liege:, Soundwave answered. :It's the Quintessons.: