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Megatron rarely reflected on his days as the leader of the Decepticons anymore.
He joined Optimus in rescuing civilians, exchanging small talk, and capturing rogue Cons stranded on Earth. More often than not, he opted to simply transform and roam the streets, free from active duty, accepting invitations from humans to attend frivolous social events that offered little more than formal pleasantries.
He was no longer startled by the calmness that drew smiles to his faceplate and made him laugh with unrestrained joy. The piece of him robbed by war was slowly but surely beginning to heal.
Humanity renewed itself at a pace far faster than that of the Cybertronians. Younger generations of Earthlings approached him with fresh yet fearless curiosity, unaware of his past and accepting his present self as how he had always been.
"Megatron," Came the slightly amused voice of his long-time human partner at GHOST, "There's an open-air performance of foreign plays at Block B right now. Care to check it out?"
As if to dull the abruptness of the invitation, she followed up with, "Optimus will be there, too."
A booming laugh resonated from Megatron's chest. "Of course." He gave a nod. The added detail was much unnecessary - he would have gone either way. Megatron had once considered himself a connoisseur of literature and the arts, not to mention it had been four millennia since he'd had peace to enjoy such things.
It was his partner's superior who led them to the site. The human still recalled the scene of Megatron's arrival on Earth, heralding an army of destruction upon the planet. It was no wonder, then, that he appeared on edge when the warlord greeted him. But Megatron no longer took offense at such sentiments, having long since lost his ire over them.
Nevertheless, the man remained diligent and led them to a spot slightly farther from the stands, where the sharp-optic'd Cybertronian and his equally keen-sighted human companion could enjoy the performance without issue.
The play itself was from a different region than that of the people here. Megatron could tell by the way they struggled with the translation. He politely declined when someone offered to explain it to him.
The basic translation protocol embedded in every Cybertronian's frame was more than adequate for the occasion. As he watched, Megatron mused. The story told of a warrior from ancient times, a military leader who, after a brutal defeat, felt all hope was lost. He retreated to his camp where his wife awaited him. Adrift and uncertain of his next course, the warrior drowned his sorrows in wine and sang a mournful song, watching as his wife slashed her own throat in a poignant display of loyalty.
Megatron was suddenly bored by all of it. The drawn-out yet overly simplistic plot - a hero meeting their tragic end - he'd seen it before. So much and so often. On the battlefield.
He wondered, though, if his partner's superior still harbored some personal grudge against him. Perhaps the human had deliberately arranged this play, using its narrative as a veiled vehicle for his own complaints.
Did he really need to be reminded of such things? The fall of heroes, the odes of tragedy - they no longer concerned him. He was but an ordinary Cybertronian now, doing his best to atone.
Optimus and the others were still deep in conversation as Megatron shifted irritably, feeling the pinprick of a cutting gaze pressing into his back armor, no doubt from the elderly superior of his partner.
Eventually, he stood and wandered off, making his way toward a wooded area on the edge of the block. Perhaps age was finally catching up with him. Sitting curled up in one position for too long had started to leave his joints aching.
The forest floor rustled softly with the faint sound of pine needles beneath his pedes. Megatron walked in silence, yet the uneasy sensation of being watched refused to dissipate.
I should be used to this by now, he thought, half bitter and half amused. Stares from humans were nothing unfamiliar, be they curious, disgusted, or scrutinizing.
His musings were cut short when a few signals registered on his radar, signals he knew all too well.
In less than a nano-klik, his frame tensed, processor whirring through possibilities at high speed: Starscream was locked away in a cell, half consumed by madness; Shockwave's fate remained murky; the Triple Changers had long been exiled for their reckless consumption of energon.
Who else could it be?
No, it couldn't possibly -
"Soundwave," Megatron uttered the name, tone sharp and guarded as he watched his former chief of communications step out of the shadowed woods, flanked by a few lower-ranking soldiers. The cassettes were absent.
He cast a glance back toward the stands before subtly shifting his position to block the path leading to Optimus and the humans.
Soundwave met his gaze without motion, utterly unbothered. But Megatron knew his third like the fusion cannon on his arm. He could read the simmering rage behind every flicker of the telepath's visor.
Taking a step forward, his voice softened, almost tentative. "The war is over, Soundwave. I thought we'd settled what was left unresolved between us. Why are you here?"
Silence.
"If you wish to return to Cybertron or join us in keeping Earth safe, I can help." He attempted Optimus's usual rhetoric, a speech placating enough to calm the most restless sparks.
He was met with the unmistakable hum of Soundwave's shoulder cannon powering up. It wasn't aimed at him, though, but the bustling area behind his back.
Megatron wondered if he shouldn't have agreed to come after all.
"The Decepticons are no more." He spoke again, voice strained as words were forced through clenched denta.
Soundwave remained silent. The soldiers raised their weapons, steady and unwavering, at the lively crowds of humans ahead.
Megatron warned, exhausted, "What do you want, Soundwave?"
"Don't make me take your spark."
For a moment, the noise of Soundwave's charging cannon paused. Static crackled faintly as a clip of recording from earlier streamed into Megatron's audials.
It was a line from the play he hadn't stayed to finish:
"My lord's spirits are low, why then should I live?"