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It's been a while. A long while. To Megatron, at least, who still walks without looking at his reflection. The mech who stares back will not be one he knows.
It's different, this frame. It barely feels his. It's too big, too heavy. Power courses through every inch of it, strength imbued into every wire and plate, every bolt and weld and scratch and everything, every piece of it, and it's not his, it's not his at all, he doesn't know if it ever will be. He feels small underneath it all, a lying sparkling trying to desperately to convince other bots he's big and brave and capable, when he's not.
He bumps into things. He forgets to duck his helm and bashes it on the doorframe. He still takes up more space than he's used to. And sometimes he goes to rub at his plating, only to remember he's equipped with an entire cannon. It's momentarily horrifying. There's a difference between being able to defend yourself and being built for war.
He's scared. He's scared, and he hates it.
He hates a lot of things right now.
He hates Starscream, who he knows still itches to kill him, wrench the spark from his chest and reclaim his rightful title; he hates Soundwave, and Shockwave, for falling into line so easily, for following him without question, little liar that he is; he hates Orion, Optimus, he hates Bee, he hates Elita, he hates himself. He hates himself.
In the rare moments of would-be peace between strategy meetings, training and the like, he can't even rest. He closes his optics and his processor starts pulling up old memories - Orion’s gentle servos drifting fleeting touches along his armour, fingers dipping between the plating to tenderly caress the wires; him, Orion, Elita and Bee, huddled together for warmth on the cold surface overnight; red paint splashed over his fingertips, not quite matching his friend's standard colouring. Every file features Orion in some capacity, and it burns.
He hates and he hates and he hates until it's all he has.
He's not a bad leader, not by any means; he corrals the High Guard, squabbling and childish, lawless, into his Decepticons, trained warriors who now only very rarely start fights in the canteen over spilled energon. And if they throw rocks at would-be Autobot explorers, Megatron pretends not to notice. He doesn't want them on the surface anyway.
No, he's not a bad leader. They look up to him, most of them literally, and he looks after them in return. It's a mutually beneficial exchange. Shelter and a strong leader for their dedication to his cause, and to him.
They're like bargaining chips. Each one has its own individual value, sure, but they're worth far more in groups. He loses 19 mechs in his first raid, but secures enough energon to fuel his troops for at least a quartex. It's a necessary sacrifice. They gather their fallen comrades and melt them down for the newspark forges. Even in death can Megatron give them new life.
He takes, yes, but he gives, too. He makes sure of it.
He's young, still, but wise beyond his age. He is old because he is hardened, yet he is young in frame. Megatron has been forced to age very rapidly. He wonders if Prime is the same.
They lose nearly 50 mechs in their next raid when they meet unexpected resistance from the Autobots. There were only supposed to be two or three guards on this outpost, as well as a handful of civilian workers - he wonders if there's a spy in his ranks. He'll talk to Soundwave and deal with that later.
(When he finds the spy, he gives him two chances to explain himself. The first he begs I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please forgive me, Lord Megatron and the second he spits energon at his pedes and says I'll never bow to you.
(Megatron beats him until his servos dent. They will be stained blue for several days. He cannot find it within himself to care as he holds the severed helm aloft and proclaims, Let this be a lesson to any who would seek to oppose me. I have no sympathy for traitors.)
The High Command change their plans for their next advancement. They have no way of knowing how much information their little roborat managed to get his servos on before his rather untimely deactivation and they can't risk losing any more than strictly necessary.
Shockwave sweeps an irritated servo through a line of red figures on the war table and snarls, “The actions of the Autobots are nothing but illogical!”
Megatron finds himself agreeing.
It takes five more attacks for Prime to even show his traitorous face. He's leading the battalion, parading his mechs to their doom in the teeth and claws of the Decepticon machine, and he knows it. Still, his optics burn with determination. It makes Megatron feel sick.
He sends out a message to his troops - Do not engage the Prime - and launches himself fist-first, colliding with his enemy’s noseridge with a sickening crack. Optimus reels backwards for only a nanoklik before he surges upwards into a punch of his own, catching Megatron in the jaw.
They continue to tussle wordlessly for a good few kliks, neither gaining the advantage, but Megatron is bigger, stronger, has always been, and eventually he dominates, pinning his foe by the throat against the rough ground. A jagged stone digs into his heel as he rocks back onto them, astride Optimus, fusion cannon whirring into life with a series of ominous noises.
Optimus is saying something to him, finials drooping backwards and optics sad, expression hidden behind his battlemask - Primus, he wants to wrench that damned thing off, has since the first time it clicked into place - but Megatron isn't listening, the choked warbling of his voice a low droning in distracted audials, drowning in the noise of battle.
“I'll kill you,” he snarls, fingers pressing tighter, fully-primed cannon held right against Prime's temple, “that'll shut you up.”
“You're beautiful,” is all Orion says, and the world slows around him.
His cannon disengages without his input, system warnings popping up across his HUD that he ignores. “What?”
“You're as beautiful as the day I lost you.”
“Shut up!” he roars, energon flying from his busted lip. “Shut up! I'll kill you! I'll rip your fragging spark out!”
Prime’s optics dim, like he's lost something terribly important to him.
Megatron glances into his reflection. The mech who stares back is one he is starting to know.