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The wind howled through the frozen canopy, stirring the ice-laden branches and casting a mist of crystalline snow into the air. The world was quiet, save for the occasional groan of trees under the weight of winter’s wrath. Megatron had no love for such desolate landscapes, but the hunt had drawn him deep into this forsaken tundra, far from the heart of Cybertron’s dominion.
He stood at the edge of a ravine, his crimson optics scanning the valley below. The tracks were fresh, a mech had passed through here recently, but the readings on his internal scanners made little sense. The energy signature was familiar yet… wrong. It gnawed at something buried deep within his memory, an echo of a time long past.
He lifted a clawed servo, signaling his accompanying Decepticons to remain where they were. If his suspicions were correct, this was something he would deal with personally. Without hesitation, Megatron leapt from the ledge, landing with a heavy thud in the snow below. The frost crunched beneath his peds as he moved forward, following the faint but unmistakable hum of a living spark. The air was thick with the scent of cold metal and the distant ozone of energon, a stark contrast to the silence that pressed in around him.
And then he saw him.
A mech knelt by a frozen stream, cupping snow in his servos as if studying the way it melted in his grip. His plating gleamed dully in the overcast light, red and blue against the stark white of the world around him. It was a picture of serenity, an image that did not belong in this cruel and barren place.
Megatron’s optics burned.
Orion Pax?
No. No, that wasn’t possible. Orion Pax had been gone for centuries. Snuffed out in the fires of war, just like the rest of the fools who had opposed him.
The mech turned, and Megatron’s vents hitched.
The face. The optics. The way he carried himself. It was Orion Pax, down to the last detail, but there was something else—something heavier in the set of his shoulders, something sharper in his gaze. A wariness, a quiet strength that Orion had never possessed.
Megatron sneered, stepping forward, his heavy frame displacing the snow with every step. “Who are you?”
The mech straightened, regarding him with caution. “My name is Optimus Prime. There is no need to introduce yourself, Megatron. I know who you are.”
The name felt like a slap. A Prime. That was impossible. The Primes were long gone, wiped from existence by war and time, their lineage shattered and erased. Megatron had ensured it himself. Their rule had been a relic of a bygone age, one he had destroyed to pave the way for his dominion over Cybertron. And yet, standing before him was the impossible, the ghost of a lineage he had sworn to erase.
This was a lie, a trick, some desperate attempt to—.
His spark seized in its casing.
A sharp, unbearable pain lashed through his core, as if something had reached into his very being and twisted. The air left Megatron’s vents in a rush, his frame locking up as something deep within him lurched, clawing its way to the surface. His spark, ever the hardened core of his being, twisted painfully as it reached—yearned—for the mech before him.
Impossible. It was impossible… wasn't it?
His entire frame shuddered, staggering under the force of his own instincts. No, no , this was a mistake. A malfunction. He was not weak. He was not some star-crossed fool to be bound to another by something as fickle as fate. He was Megatron, ruler of Cybertron, master of his own destiny. And yet—.
Yet his spark did not lie.
The mech, Optimus, stepped forward, his own frame rigid as he clutched at his chassis. “What… is this?”
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “You feel it too.” It was not a question.
Optimus' optics narrowed in return, his vents coming fast and uneven. “I don’t understand-.”
Megatron snarled, closing the distance between them in a single powerful stride. “You will.”
Before Optimus could react, Megatron’s servos found purchase on his frame. He hoisted him effortlessly into his arms, cradling him as if he weighed nothing. Optimus' vocaliser emitted static in his surprise and he immediately resisted his grasp. Fresh blue rose to his faceplates, his EM field fizzling with embarrassment and shock with no way to hide it as their frames pressed together.
“Let me go. Now.” Optimus demanded, pushing against Megatron’s chest, but the tyrant only held him tighter, his grasp unyielding.
“Cease your struggling,” Megatron growled, his voice edged with something unreadable. “You are in no condition to be wandering these wastes.”
Optimus’ optics cycles wider, his vents heaving as he tried to resist the inexplicable pull between them. “I don’t need your help.”
Megatron’s optics flashed dangerously, but instead of responding with force, his voice dropped to something almost coaxing. Deceptively gentle. “Shelter, warmth. Answers. You’ll find none of those out here alone.” His grip loosened just slightly, though it was clear he had no intention of letting Optimus go. “Come willingly, or freeze. The choice is yours.”
Optimus hesitated, his spark pulsing erratically. He did not trust Megatron, he knew he could not trust him, but the cold was relentless and something deep within him, some primal instinct he did not yet understand, longed to remain close. With great reluctance, he stilled his struggles and folded his arms over his chassis with a huff from his vents.
Megatron tightened his grip, his optics burning into the mech in his arms. He had set out on this expedition to claim new ground, to eradicate whatever remnants of resistance still lingered in these wastelands. Instead, he had found something impossible. Something dangerous.
A Prime.
A sparkmate.
The snowfall thickened around them, swirling like ghosts in the frigid wind, but neither of them moved to break the fragile moment.
Not far from the encampment, Starscream stood with his arms crossed, optics narrowed as Megatron carried the mech into their midst. He stepped forward, wings flaring in sharp disapproval. “You bring back a stranger, my Lord. Have you lost your mind?”
Megatron silenced him with a single, withering glare. “Watch your tone, Starscream.”
Starscream scoffed, but his wings twitched uneasily. “The troops are saying he is a Prime. A Prime , Master. The very thing you swore to erase from existence. And now you— what? Carry him into our camp like some treasured prize?”
Megatron’s lip curled, his grip on Optimus tightening. “You question my decisions now? Has my absence been so long you have forgotten your place?”
“I question your sanity,” Starscream snapped. “We should kill him before he becomes a problem.”
The air grew thick with tension. Megatron’s optics burned with barely restrained fury as he stepped closer, towering over Starscream. “You think me weak?” His voice was a growl, a dangerous promise of violence. “You think I do not see the risk?”
Starscream held his ground, though his wings flicked back. “I think you hesitate.”
Megatron’s engine rumbled, his field spiking with barely restrained aggression. “You overstep.” It was only the sensation of another's EM field brushing against his own that dragged him away from the edge of rage, his optics dropping to the mech in his arms who watched him with something dangerously close to concern.
Starscream clenched his jaw, then exhaled sharply, stepping back. “Do as you will, then. But mark my words—this will bring trouble.”
Megatron did not respond, merely shouldering past him as he carried Optimus into their camp. For the first time in centuries, he had brought home something, or someone, he did not immediately seek to destroy.
And that unsettled Starscream more than anything.