Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Megatron awoke to a familiar vop!, followed by hushed whispers in Vosian.

His optics were taking an alarmingly long time to come online, and he wasn't sure why. His last memory was...a battle? No. Not a battle. But there had been an explosion.

Megatron forced his half-corrupted memories to play back. A human power plant. They'd fled—the humans—at the sight of his army. The Decepticons were trying a new method of converting the energy and...

Fire. Smoke. Screaming.

...something had gone wrong.

Right.

Megatron tried to check his internal chronometer, but the software was missing, replaced by a slew of error messages.

"Skywarp?" called Megatron. The whispers stopped immediately. Megatron felt a twinge of impatience. "Skywarp, I can hear you."

At least his optics were slowly beginning to show him something other than blackness. Now he could see lumpy outlines in shades of gray, including the shapes of medical equipment.

"Skywarp," growled Megatron. "This is not amusing."

"You're not supposed to be awake!" hissed a tiny voice in Vosian.

Megatron was taken aback. That didn't sound like one of his soldiers. The voice was small and high and...

…young.

"We're going to be in trouble," worried another voice, a little deeper but still extremely tiny. "We're going to be in so much trouble."

"Shh, no we're not," reassured the first voice. Megatron forced his optics to focus on the two shapes that he supposed was the speakers. They were about the size of cassettes, and each had an extra set of appendages emerging from his back—wings, no doubt.

"Why," said Megatron, "are there two sparklings on my ship?" Sparklings were impossibly rare, and there was absolutely no reason for one, let alone two, to be anywhere near the Victory.

"Um..." said the slightly deeper-voiced sparkling. "We're...not...on a ship. Um. Sorry."

Megatron's optics sharpened a little, and now he could see that the sparklings were a shuttle-frame and a seeker-frame. As color gradually began to trickle in, he saw that the seeker was midnight blue with red detailing, and the shuttle was snowy white with violet detailing.

"We wouldn't have come in if we knew you were awake," blurted the seekerlet. "We thought you were basically dead, like everyone says."

"Stormwarp," gently admonished the shuttle. "That's rude."

"But it's true! It doesn't count as rude if it's true!"

Megatron tried to sit up, but the room swam before his optics. He gripped the berth with both servos. "Where am I?"

"The Iacon Hospital," said the shuttle. "Except...can you not tell anybody you saw us? We're not exactly supposed to be in here."

The sparklings both looked at him hopefully.

"How long have I been in stasis?" asked Megatron, even though he realized it was foolish to expect a pair of sparklings to know the answer.

"Umm," said the shuttle. "A long time."

"Basically forever!" said the seeker brightly. "Like, since before the end of the war, even!"

All the strength drained from Megatron's arms and he fell back against the berth again.

"Stormwarp!" scolded the shuttle again, his violet optics bright with alarm.

There was the heavy sound of rushing pedesteps and shouting voices just outside. The sparklings looked at each other in horror.

"Bye!" squeaked the baby seeker, grabbing his companion by the arm. They vanished in a flash of midnight-blue light just as the door slammed open and the medical team flooded in.

Chapter Text

The medics set straight to work, hooking him into assorted scanners and prodding at his limbs to trigger involuntary reflexes—which were sluggish at best.

"What are you doing?" demanded Megatron as the medics worked on various parts of him. None of them replied. "I order you to answer me!"

"Please relax," said one of the medics. Megatron paused to assess the mech's frame. He was clearly some sort of jet, but his frame was too elegant and ornate to be an air warrior and too lightly armored to be a battlefield medic.

Glancing around at the other medics, Megatron realized that seemed to be the common theme here. Instead of the heavy, boxy frames he was accustomed to, everyone was slim and angular and brightly decorated, verging on ornamental.

...since before the end of the war, even...

Megatron forced himself to think. If the war was over, and he was still alive, that could only mean that they had won. There was a good chance that Starscream controlled Cybertron now—though Shockwave or Soundwave clearly retained enough power to keep him from pulling the plug on Megatron.

Perhaps wresting control back from Starscream wouldn't be too difficult.

The door opened again, and Megatron looked up. The cobalt mech in the doorway was unfamiliar in frame, but his energy field, flaring with panic-fear-joy was intimately familiar. He rushed forward, shouldering medics out of the way, until he slammed against Megatron's chestplates, nearly knocking him back.

"Soundwave?" said Megatron, moderately alarmed. In all the vorns they had known each other, Soundwave had never been even remotely demonstrative in public. But Soundwave did not release him, even as the medics protested. His frame was...shaking?

Megatron rested a steadying servo on Soundwave's back. To Megatron, they had seen each other only a cycle ago. But for Soundwave, who knew how long it had been?

One of the medics was trying to pull Soundwave away, so Megatron worked his other arm free and punched the insubordinate glitch in the face. The medic crumpled to the floor—apparently peacetime had made him weak. That was unacceptable. Once he was back in control, there would be no more of these decadent frames in his empire.

The other medics stopped their work to tend to their colleague, which suited Megatron just fine. But Soundwave drew away too, turning to check on the medic, though one of his servos firmly wrapped itself around Megatron’s as he went. Megatron pulled him back.

“Explain,” he said. “Everything. Is Starscream in control?”

Soundwave shook his helm helplessly.

“Shockwave, then?”

“Please,” said Soundwave. He was speaking in the casual cadence that he usually reserved for when he was alone with Megatron or his symbionts, and his synthesizer had been deactivated. “You must rest.”

“I need to know who is ruling Cybertron in my absence!”

The doors opened again. This time, it was a quartet of security guards, weapons ready and optics bright. Soundwave moved in front of Megatron, arms outstretched as if shielding him.

“It was an accident!” Soundwave protested.

“Like slag it was!” snarled the medic with the bleeding nasal ridge. Megatron tried to get up, but his legs were not obeying him. Soundwave turned to check on him, anxiety bleeding off his field.

“Stand down,” Megatron ordered the security detail. To his surprise, none of them reacted. “I said stand down. That’s an order!”

“You wanna tell him, or should we?” one of the security guards asked Soundwave. He was smirking a little.

“Soundwave,” said Megatron impatiently. “How long was I out for?”

Soundwave’s visor met Megatron’s optics at last. “Over five hundred vorns.”

Megatron gave a little start at that. Almost forty thousand stellar cycles. Even for a race as long-lived as the Cybertronians, that was a significant loss. Soundwave squeezed his servo reassuringly.

“We thought you were going to offline,” said Soundwave. “The Constructions stabilized you, but you would not wake. After the war ended, we had you moved here.”

Suspicion, cold and slithering, coiled around his spark. “How did the war end?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!” Megatron roared. Soundwave flinched. He would never have flinched before. Why was everyone in this new world so soft? The security mechs raised their weapons.

“Soundwave,” growled Megatron. “Who rules Cybertron?”

“The Senate,” said Soundwave.

Megatron’s cry of outrage was cut short by a bolt from a stunner hitting him directly in the chest. He slumped back against the medical berth, systems collapsing into unconsciousness once more.

It was probably for the best.

Chapter Text

When Megatron awoke again, he was restrained to the berth and Soundwave was standing over him, radiating worry. His internal chronometer still wasn’t working, so he wasn’t sure how long he’d been out for, but it probably hadn’t been longer than a few breems.

“The medics are gone,” confirmed Soundwave as Megatron tried to look around. “Iacon Hospital will not be pressing charges. You were disoriented, and should have been restrained.”

Megatron said nothing, but he knew that boiling rage was beginning to emanate from his own energy field.

“I waited,” said Soundwave. “I visited. Once a deca-cycle.” There was genuine pain in his voice. “You have missed so much.”

“Evidently,” retorted Megatron. It would take vorns to amass a new army, vorns to wage a new war, vorns to win Cybertron back. He felt the soft brush in his processor that meant Soundwave was listening.

Soundwave opened his chest compartment without a word. There was a white blur, and then something landed directly on Megatron’s chest. For the briefest moment, Megatron thought he was looking at Ravage. But this cybercat was smaller, and white, with an altmode seemed to be some sort of data-disc.

A moment later, two more somethings landed on Megatron—two more symbionts, neither of them familiar. One was purple, and simian, while the other was blue and winged.

“Glit, Beastbox, Squaktalk,” said Soundwave by way of introduction as the cybercat pressed his nose into Megatron’s face.

“Your spark split again?” Megatron remembered the way Soundwave's digits had dug into his servo when Ratbat emerged, and was struck with the sense that he should have been there for these cassettes as well. “Where are the others?”

“They work to protect Iacon,” said Soundwave. “I will bring them tomorrow.”

The new cassettes were still regarding him with bright, curious optics, their energy fields pressing into his own welcomingly.

“The peace is stable enough that many have created newsparks,” Soundwave went on. “Once you are released, you will see them.”

“I already saw two,” said Megatron. Soundwave looked at him in surprise, and there was another brush to his processor. Megatron focused on the recent memory.

“Crossfire,” identified Soundwave. “And Stormwarp.”

“Skywarp and Thundercracker’s?”

“Stormwarp is.” Soundwave seemed to hesitate. “Crossfire is the creation of Starscream…and Skyfire.”

If Megatron’s arms had been free, he would have covered his optics with his servo. He knew he had no reason to be surprised, but it still irritated him.

“Shockwave has created as well,” added Soundwave.

“Shockwave?” Soundwave only nodded. “Shockwave created? Shockwave created?” No matter how he said the words, they sounded wrong to Megatron’s audials. “Shockwave is raising a sparkling?”

“I am sure he will visit you once he hears you are well,” said Soundwave. “He has…improved. Much of the damage to his processor has been repaired.”

Shockwave had been an Empuratee, a victim of the old senate, for as long as Megatron had known him. But the mutilation had never detracted from his effectiveness as a general and a scientist. If anything, it had made him more efficient, more valuable. Megatron wondered if this new development would be an advantage or a disadvantage in the coming fight.

But surely, if anyone would stand against a new senate, it was Shockwave.

“Bring him to me,” said Megatron.

Chapter Text

The rest of Soundwave’s cassettes came to visit the next solar cycle. He heard them before he saw them, their excited shouts echoing down the halls. A moment later, the doors opened and he was covered in tiny frames before his still only partially cooperative limbs had time to react.

Their frames had been upgraded, too—they seemed to be the same sort of data-discs as their new siblings. The design seemed to be quite functional, considering they were primarily spies, but it was still more delicate than Megatron approved of.

Rumble and Frenzy pressed into his chest, yelling sounds rather than actual words, while Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw each took a shoulder and settled in against his neck and Ravage settled against his side. Ratbat hung back, circling Soundwave’s helm anxiously. Megatron could tell from the subtle way Soundwave gestured that they were having a telepathic conversation.

Finally, Megatron reached out for him, and the little symbiont seemed to think it over before landing in his servos and staring up at Megatron with wide, nervous optics.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” realized Megatron. Ratbat had only been online for a few stellar cycles before the explosion, meaning he’d still been very much a newspark the last time they had met. Any memories his processor might have retained were probably hazy at best.

“Don’t worry, we told him all about you!” shouted Rumble as Megatron ran a very gentle digit across Ratbat’s wing. “Right?”

Ratbat chirped softly.

The door opened again, and all the symbionts looked around. A new mech, red and blue and silver, was stepping in to the room, though he froze as soon as he realized he’d intruded on a personal moment.

“Oh,” he said. His frame might have changed, but his voice had not. “I’ll come back later.”

“Prime!” snarled Megatron, and Ratbat flinched in his servos. Megatron raised his right arm, only to remember that his fusion cannon was gone.

“I’ll come back later,” repeated Prime, backing away as Megatron tried and failed to stand up, the symbionts scrambling back to the safety of their carrier.

“No,” growled Megatron through gritted dentae. “You stay right there.” He forced his legs over the edge of the medical berth, one at a time. Prime waited patiently as Megatron began the laborious process of crossing the room, servos using whatever he could grasp for balance.

Soundwave, always especially attuned to Megatron’s moods, sensed the danger before Prime did, and intercepted the admittedly weak punch with both servos. Embarrassingly, the exertion of walking the length of the room had drained Megatron's energy more than he'd anticipated.

There was a tremendously awkward pause as Prime looked from Soundwave to Megatron. Soundwave was still holding on to Megatron’s fist, visor glinting with something that may have actually been anger.

“No,” said Soundwave, as though commanding a poorly-behaved sparkling. "No."

“A senate, Prime?” spat Megatron, looking over Soundwave’s shoulder at his long-time enemy. “After everything, you’ve set us back to exactly where we started! I should have known all your talk of progress was nothing more than—”

“You are over-exerting yourself,” said Prime mildly. “Sit back down before you do permanent damage. Please. And it’s Orion Pax now, if you don’t mind.”

That, at least, slowed Megatron down. “You’ve relinquished the Matrix?”

Optimus Prime—no, Orion Pax—nodded. “A new era calls for new leadership,” he said. “My successor bears little memory of the war, and no ill-will towards any factions, or neutrals. He has guided our people into a new age of peace, the likes of which you cannot imagine.”

“I’m sure that’s how it seems to your optics,” said Megatron. “Just wait, Pax. Once I’m out of here, I’ll expose the Senate’s corruption again and rally my armies to—”

“It’s not the same senate!” Orion interrupted, exasperated. “We just reused the name and the building, it’s nothing like before! Soundwave, tell him. He’ll never believe it from me.”

Soundwave’s visor had not moved from Megatron’s faceplates throughout the entire conversation.

“I told you to bring me Shockwave, and instead you brought me Prime!” shouted Megatron. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to become so incompetent in only a few hundred vorns, but if this continues—”

“Hey! Don’t talk to him that way!” shouted Rumble from down near Soundwave’s pedes. “You dumb rust bucket, you don’t understand anything!”

Soundwave finally looked away from Megatron. “Rumble, return.”

“But—no! That’s not fair!”

“Return,” repeated Soundwave, his chest compartment opening. But instead, Rumble stormed out of the hospital room, his twin trailing anxiously behind him.

“I was wrong to come here,” said Orion Pax. “It was selfish of me to think you could possibly understand all that has transpired since you went into stasis without having any chance to see it for yourself. I don’t blame you for thinking I’m a liar. I’d probably feel the same way if I was in your situation. I hope that we can speak again after you have recovered.”

And without so much as a farewell, he strode from the room, leaving Soundwave and the remaining symbionts staring up at Megatron as if they’d never seen him before.

Chapter Text

The medics had reinstalled some of the software missing from his processor, which had taken care of most of the error messages, but some of it could not be replaced. Soundwave brought him a datapad filled with images of new frames, telling him that once his spark was fully stabilized, he could get an upgrade. But when Megatron browsed through the images and read the schematics, he felt nothing but revulsion. Only the space-grade flight frames had anything resembling functional armor.

“Your old frame cannot handle modern programming,” argued Soundwave for the hundredth time as Megatron shut the datapad off and threw it aside. “And the software compatible with your frame was lost vorns ago.”

“I don’t care!” roared Megatron. “I have all the software I need! I have the frame I need! I’ll offline before I take a peacetime body!”

At Megatron’s yell, Soundwave recoiled, rising from the berth and backing away towards the door. Megatron vented heavily.

“Soundwave,” he said. “Come back here.”

Soundwave didn’t move.

“Soundwave, have I ever hit you?” He had. Twice, and for Megatron that was so infrequent as to be never. One of those times had been an accident—Starscream had ducked. The other time…well, that had been a long time ago, and it had been deserved. Megatron felt his point stood.

But apparently Soundwave disagreed.

A knock at the door cut through the tension in the room, and Soundwave hurried to answer it. Megatron looked up and saw a colorful frame painted in hues of purple and blue, and a single large yellow optic.

Like Soundwave, Shockwave had been reformatted into something light and angular. He’d replaced his gun-arm with an ordinary servo, and for some reason this deeply irritated Megatron. When he entered the room, there was no missing the apprehension in his energy field, which was curious because Megatron had never seen Shockwave be anything but overjoyed to speak to him.

Still, if anyone had managed to not succumb to the softness of this new Cybertron, it was Shockwave. And if anyone was going to help Megatron fight against a Senate, it was Shockwave.

“Megatron!” said Shockwave. “I was beginning to worry you might never return to us.”

Soundwave slipped out of the room, closing the door behind himself. Shockwave looked back in confusion, his single optic brightening in an oddly expressive way.

“Ignore him,” said Megatron. “Shockwave, you have some explaining to do, do you not?”

“Ah…” Shockwave wrung his servos together in a very un-Shockwave-like display. “What have you heard?”

“That you have accepted the authority of a senate!”

Shockwave actually looked…relieved?...to hear the words. Much of the stress left his energy field, and his optic brightened again.

“Perhaps it was a poor choice of name,” granted Shockwave.

“Perhaps,” grumbled Megatron.

“But it bears little resemblance to the old senate. The Galactic Council provided us with a template after the cease-fire was signed, and we used many of their suggestions. Anyone can present himself as a candidate, and senators are selected by popular elections. Their terms of service are fifty vorns.”

“That is not what we were fighting for,” said Megatron sharply. Shockwave merely shrugged.

“The situation has changed,” he said.

“Yes,” remembered Megatron. “Soundwave told me you have created a newspark.”

Shockwave’s energy field went stiff with anxiety once more. “I...yes. I have. Umbra.”

“And who is the co-creator?”

Shockwave seemed to hesitate. “Her…name is Moonracer,” he said very slowly.

Megatron frowned. “Who?”

“Ah. I forgot. You never met her. She was a soldier during the Great War.”

“Where was she stationed?”

“Did you hear they’ve reopened the Acadamy?” asked Shockwave, going over to the window. “It’s very impressive. It would have been sooner, but the amount of construction they had to do was extensive.”

“I want to meet her.”

“Who?”

“Your conjunx.”

“But...” Shockwave’s vocalizer fizzled. “Very well. Next time. If the medics allow it.”

Megatron stared at Shockwave, trying to find something of his once-loyal general in the strange new frame. But it seemed the mech was even more changed than Soundwave.

“You, of all mechs,” said Megatron in disbelief. “You stood by and allowed this to happen.”

“You were out of commission for a very long time,” said Shockwave at last. “Things change.”

“My soldiers accepted a truce with the Autobots behind my back! Now we’re sharing the same world!”

“But—”

“No! The peacetime is over.” Megatron crossed his arms. “I will meet with my generals, and we will plan a new uprising.”

Shockwave looked away and said nothing.

Chapter Text

“So you’re not dead.”

Starscream had finally come to visit, but he was not alone. A tiny red and white seekerlet with enormous blue optics was pressed up against his chest, cooing softly at their surroundings. Unlike Crossfire and Stormwarp, who were probably a few hundred vorns online, this sparkling couldn’t have been older than a few stellar cycles, not yet able to walk or speak.

“Soundwave and Shockwave don’t have the nerve to stand up to you,” said Starscream conversationally, sitting down at the edge of the berth. The wing ornamentation he wore glinted gold-and-ruby under the medbay lights, gaudy and impractical. “Even now. The war is over. Your title is meaningless. They only pretend to obey you because it’s easier than explaining the way the world is now. But don’t worry. You have me to straighten you out.”

“How fortunate,” said Megatron, but his optics were on the sparkling. Despite his harsh words, Starscream was handling the little thing gently.

“You can stay in that hideous body feeling sorry for yourself. I don’t particularly care,” continued Starscream. “But no more of this scrap about starting the war up again.”

“The Decepticon Empire—!”

“The Decepticon Empire stretches from that window—” Starscream pointed, “—to that door. Understand? Now you can come out into civilization and join the rest of us, or you can stay locked in this room until the heat death of the universe, but don’t expect Soundwave to wait around for you forever.”

“You can’t expect me to live alongside the ones who oppressed us.”

“Then stay in here. In fact, I think I prefer that. I’ve enjoyed not having to look at you for the past five hundred vorns. I can deal with Soundwave pouting all over the place if it means you’re not getting in my way.” Starscream turned his attention back to his sparkling, tickling the tiny little winglets that protruded from his back. The sparkling squirmed and giggled, tiny servos batting at his creator’s much larger digits.

“I can see you’re hard at work,” said Megatron.

Starscream gave him a dirty look. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough,” Megatron snarled. “What happened to that ambition you were always shrieking about? Leader of the Decepticons, Emperor of the Universe? You can’t expect me to believe that playing carrier to an Autobot’s sparklings is what you always wanted.”

“One,” said Starscream, “he was never an Autobot. He only took the brand so the humans wouldn’t shoot at him. And two, even if he was, the war is over and everyone stopped caring about what sigils we used to wear a few hundred vorns ago, so you’re late to that party. And three, you’re a fragging imbecile.”

“What a well-reasoned argument.”

“Shut up. I’m the only one who will tell you the truth, you know that? Everyone else thinks you should be coddled and protected against the big scary outside world, like you’re too stupid to understand that you can’t go around talking about killing Autobots and ruling the galaxy anymore.”

“And why not?”

“Because the war ended five hundred vorns ago!” shouted Starscream, the sudden increase in volume causing his sparkling to flinch and begin whimpering. Starscream’s body language immediately changed, his wings sweeping low as he cradled the seekerlet in his arms and made soft, reassuring sounds. Megatron watched in silence as the claws that had once torn out enemy sparks now caressed a sparkling’s soft faceplates.

“Do you know what’s wrong with Soundwave?” Megatron asked at last. Starscream looked up in surprise.

“Caught on to that, have you?” asked Starscream.

“Then you know what it is.”

“Of course I do,” said Starscream smugly. “And you will, too, once you finish the Program.”

“What’s the Program?”

“Oh, the Veteran Release Program. It’s something the medics put together. Structured psychological treatment. You do it in phases. Don’t worry, it’s confidential—they purge all your records as soon as you’re cleared. And don’t think you’ll get out of it, everyone has to do it before they’re allowed a citizenship.”

There has been a lot of words in the explanation, but nothing that Megatron understood. “Just tell me what’s wrong with Soundwave.”

“Even if I did tell you, it wouldn’t mean anything to you. You’re not ready to hear it yet.” Starscream suddenly looked very serious. “You’ll do the program, because you aren’t going spend the rest of your life rotting in here, and once you get about halfway through it, you won’t need anyone to tell you what you did wrong because it’ll be staring you in the face.”

“I did nothing wrong,” objected Megatron. Starscream gave a sharp little burst of laughter.

“Yes, Soundwave is only afraid of you for absolutely no reason,” he said. “Primus, was I ever as deluded as you?”

“You’re not afraid of me,” said Megatron.

“Of course I’m not. Look at yourself!” Starscream scoffed. “Besides, Starfire is only two stellars online; my guardian programming is at full power. If you try to punch me like you did that medic, you’ll never transform again and I won’t even go to trial.”

“So that’s your plan?” said Megatron. “Goad me into a fight and then kill me?”

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? I’m not interested in killing you. Nobody is. You’re just not that important anymore. Maybe if you decide to run for head of the CTA, I’ll rethink things.”

“The CTA?”

“Creator-Teacher Association.” Starscream looked down at Starfire. “I’ve got another one, school-aged, so I’ve become more involved in public pre-Upgrade education. It’s just as petty as the Acadamy was.”

“Your other sparkling is a shuttle frame?” asked Megatron.

“Yes,” said Starscream. Then his wings lifted in suspicion. “How did you know?”

“I saw him,” said Megatron. “And his teleporting friend.”

Starscream gritted his dentae together. “Stormwarp! That little brat—he’s nothing but trouble. I’ve told Thundercracker and Skywarp but they won’t disable his teleportation matrix. Says it’ll stifle his freedom.” Starscream made a disgusted sound. “I’ve already told them I’ll file a suit if Crossfire gets injured due to their negligence. Why were they in here? Oh, we’re going to have such a talk when I get home…”

Megatron said nothing, preferring to let Starscream burn himself out. Eventually the rant came to an end, as they always did. In the meantime, Starfire had fallen into recharge against his creator’s cockpit.

“Well,” said Starscream. “As fun as this was, I have meetings to get to. No more talk about killing Autobots, it’s embarrassing. And ask the medics about starting the Program—it’ll pass the time while your frame repairs itself, and it might just do you some good.”

“I doubt that,” grumbled Megatron.

“And try not to worry too much about Soundwave,” added Starscream as though Megatron had not spoken. “He’ll forgive you soon enough.”

“I treated Soundwave exceptionally well,” Megatron objected.

“By your standards, you did,” agreed Starscream. “Depressing, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Shockwave returned the solar cycle after that, just after a physical therapy session with an infuriatingly chipper medic whom Megatron was just certain was silently mocking how far he’d fallen—once a feared warlord, now an invalid.

The medics had assured him that his frame was fully repaired. Self-repair had been doing its work for five hundred vorns, after all. There was nothing to be done for the missing software, but Megatron told himself that he could live without comms and a chronometer if it meant keeping his old frame.

The real problem was that his processor had gone so long without communicating with his frame that it seemed that it had forgotten how. The medics said that only by using his limbs regularly could the long-disused neural pathways be restored. Unfortunately, this would be a longer process than Megatron had anticipated, because all of his endurance and stamina seemed to have been sapped away during his long stasis and he couldn’t spend more than a cycle attempting to revitalize his limbs before fatigue overtook him.

Because of this, Megatron was in a dark mood when Shockwave finally arrived with his conjunx, though, in retrospect, the meeting was certainly doomed to failure regardless of the circumstances.

Shockwave’s conjunx was a civilian frame, which was unusual for a Decepticon soldier, but not unheard of. After all, Flamewar was also a femme civilian and she was one of his best generals. But quite unlike Flamewar, Shockwave’s conjunx had a round, friendly face and bright blue optics, and she hadn’t stopped smiling since she’d first entered the room.

Megatron had no idea what she and Shockwave might have seen in one another. Though, reflecting upon it, some of his most sadistic soldiers had also been the most cheerful.

“The medics tell us you have been making progress,” said Shockwave, speaking in Iaconian rather than their usual Kaonite.

“Arguably,” growled Megatron. He looked at the femme, who was still beaming. “So this is your conjunx.”

“Yes, this is Moonracer,” said Shockwave, and it took a moment for Megatron to realize that what he was hearing in Shockwave’s vocalizer was affection. “We left Umbra with a caretaker. But if you’re feeling up to it, perhaps we can bring him next time.”

Megatron turned his attention back to the still-smiling femme. “Shockwave tells me you were a soldier,” he said. “Where were you stationed?”

Moonracer’s smile flickered for a moment and her optics shuttered rapidly. “Oh! I’m sorry, I don’t speak Kaonite,” she said brightly, and Megatron was so baffled by this sentiment that he lapsed into silence.

Now Shockwave was talking, but Megatron didn’t hear him. His processor seemed to be buzzing. Moonracer continued to smile, and punctuate all her sentences with happy laughter, and eagerly poke Shockwave with a digit every time she addressed him. Meanwhile, a memory long since filed away, was forcing itself to the forefront of Megatron’s processor. An…image capture? From…a Sentinel? One of Shockwave’s Sentinels?

“Shockwave was so excited when he heard you’d finally come out of stasis,” said Moonracer brightly, hugging one of Shockwave’s arms to her chassis. “He’s told us so many stories.”

“Nothing incriminating, though,” said Shockwave hastily.

Moonracer laughed again, and the memory vying for attention behind Megatron’s optics sharpened. It was Shockwave, speaking to him over the viewscreen on the Victory, showing him…

“—a contingent of femme-frame Autobots. They broke in to the warehouse and escaped with fifty cubes, my Lord. My Sentinels managed to capture some footage.” Shockwave hit a button on his console, and the video switched over to a still image of three Autobot femmes—one red, one blue, and one soft green.

The green one had been laughing even as she raised her weapon towards the Sentinel.

Megatron’s entire frame jolted.

“Megatron?” asked Shockwave, his field spiking in alarm. “What’s the matter? Do I need to call a medic?”

“THAT IS AN AUTOBOT!” roared Megatron.

Moonracer had only a moment to stare at him in shock and confusion before Shockwave acted, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her back towards the door, well out of Megatron’s striking range. She was protesting, but Shockwave was having none of it, shaking his helm vehemently as he tried to force her back out into the hallway.

“Get back here, Shockwave!” shouted Megatron, trying to get off the berth, but the physical therapy session had left him utterly drained. “Shockwave! That’s an order!”

But Shockwave—loyal, emotionless, reliable Shockwave—ignored him in favor of his Autobot femme. Only once she was in the hallway and out of his line of vision did Shockwave turn to look at him again.

“I apologize. I must go,” said Shockwave, leaning heavily against the far wall as if he required it for support.

“You’re going nowhere,” snarled Megatron. “Explain yourself. Now!”

“There is nothing to explain,” Shockwave replied evenly, but his energy field betrayed his anxiety and fear even from a distance.

“You’ve been carrying on an affair with one of our enemies!” Megatron slammed one arm down on the berthside table for lack of anything to punch. “I expect this sort of behavior from Starscream, but you?”

“I resent that comparison. She is no longer an Autobot, and I am no longer a Decepticon—”

“You are a traitor!”

“I was nothing but loyal to you for millions of years,” Shockwave retorted, a strange and cold fury in his vocalizer. “You rewarded that loyalty by promoting the likes of Starscream over myself and leaving me alone to watch over a dead planet while you chased after Autobots, and still I served you without a thought for any other.”

“As you should have!”

“Cybertron was dying and we were all going with it,” Shockwave seemed not to have heard Megatron’s objection. “And you were dying. We knew you would never recover at the bottom of that filthy organic ocean with only the Constructicons to care for you. Calling a cease-fire was the only chance of getting you the treatment that would save your spark.”

“I would rather have offlined!” snarled Megatron.

“I shall keep that in mind for next time,” said Shockwave.

Chapter Text

The disappointment in Soundwave’s field was palpable, but he didn’t mention the failed meeting with Shockwave when he came to visit the next solar cycle. Instead, he went over to the berth and silently rested his frame alongside Megatron’s so that they were chest-to-chest.

Megatron did not object, merely rested one arm across Soundwave’s frame. Soundwave removed his visor, revealing golden optics, and set it on the berthside table.

“You don’t wear a mask anymore,” Megatron noted. Optimus—no, Orion—hadn’t worn one either.

“No,” said Soundwave.

“Why?”

Soundwave merely raised his shoulders uncertainly. “It seemed excessive.”

“When did you stop?”

“A few vorns after the cease-fire,” said Soundwave. Megatron raised one hand to touch Soundwave’s face. Soundwave gave the slightest flinch, but relaxed once he realized Megatron’s intentions.

“Do you remember anything?” whispered Soundwave.

“What?” asked Megatron.

“When you were in stasis…do you remember anything? Any of the things I said to you?”

Megatron tried to search his memories, but there was nothing. Just the flames, and the smoke…and then a mere moment of blackness before the sparklings woke him.

“No,” said Megatron. “Nothing.”

Soundwave quietly opened his chest compartment. It was empty save for the opaque cylinder that housed his spark. It slid open, flooding Megatron’s vision with indigo light.

Megatron had seen Soundwave’s spark many times before. It was unusual by Cybertronian standards—instead of being a smooth and flawless orb of light and crystal, it was scarred and uneven from the many symbionts it had budded. Megatron had never minded. A warrior’s spark, he had said…

Soundwave’s unusual spark also meant he could never forge a sparkbond, but Megatron had never minded that, either.

“I have missed you,” said Soundwave, his servos going to Megatron’s chestplates, tracing seams with practiced ease. But when his ministrations failed to produce the anticipated results, he looked back up in confusion.

Megatron took Soundwave’s servos and removed them from his frame.

“I have so much to show you,” Soundwave protested weakly.

“No,” said Megatron. “I do not want to see.”

Soundwave closed his chestplaces, only to retract the panel on his hip and reach for a connector cord instead.

“Not like that, either,” said Megatron.

A wave of hurt mixed with guilt washed over him as Soundwave failed to contain his own emotions. But the telepath didn’t try to argue—he only closed his panel and got back to his pedes.

“Soundwave,” said Megatron. “I—”

“This is my fault,” said Soundwave, pacing over to the window that overlooked the inner courtyard.

“Your fault?” repeated Megatron.

“My deficient spark.” Soundwave curled one servo over his own chest. “If we were bonded, I could convince you that this new world is nothing to fear. Or perhaps I would have been able to wake you earlier.”

The sentiment that someone might be able to influence him so filled Megatron with dread. “We would not be bondmates even if your spark was capable of it.”

Soundwave’s optics went nearly white with shock. He looked as though he’d just been slapped.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” Megatron objected. “Sparkbonding only weakens us. Warriors have no need for it.”

Soundwave did not respond immediately. Finally, he said, “I must see to my symbionts.”

“Soundwave,” said Megatron. “You are being unreasonable.”

“Because I missed you?” Soundwave’s vocalizer was shaking. “Because I love you?”

That word. The one they’d never said. It was dangerous in wartime, as deadly as a hand grenade, especially for mechs of their station.

“Soundwave,” repeated Megatron.

“You loved me once,” said Soundwave, desperation tinting his words. “I could see it in your processor, and feel it in your spark. But now I feel nothing but your contempt and bitterness and pride.”

“I haven’t changed,” said Megatron. “I’m the only thing on this planet that hasn’t.”

Soundwave put his visor back on.

“Then perhaps I was wrong this entire time,” he said. “Perhaps I only imagined how you felt. Maybe I twisted your desire into something more, out of some desperate need to be wanted.” Soundwave’s shoulders slumped. “I apologize for troubling you. I will go.”

“Soundwave,” Megatron protested. “Soundwave!”

He was already gone.

Chapter Text

Crossfire’s new brother wasn’t very much fun yet. He spent most of his time recharging, and even when Crossfire had a chance to play with him, he couldn’t do more than bang a few toys together and make nonsense sounds. His creators had explained that Starfire’s processor wouldn’t be able to handle language software for a long time, which was disappointing. Crossfire had been looking forward to having a new friend.

Still, as Crossfire watched Starfire chew on a toy, he had to admit he wasn’t so bad. Starfire smelled nice, like the weak, sweet energon their creators gave him, and he always smiled when he saw Crossfire. Crossfire wasn’t the sort to get jealous when someone else was getting more attention than himself, and so the two got along well.

Starfire was a seeker, like Carrier and Stormwarp. Crossfire was a shuttle, mostly. There was just enough seeker coding in him to occasionally make the medics worry about how his frame would develop, but his creators assured him that he was perfect.

Over at the console, Carrier was having a very loud conversation with someone. Crossfire went over to see what was going on. The mech on the screen was Soundwave, and Crossfire wondered if he was going to get to play with the symbionts today.

“I was too aggressive,” Soundwave was saying. “I should have expected—”

“No!” said Carrier. “Primus, you went five hundred vorns without him! The idiot. Just let me find someone to take the sparklings, and I’ll go talk to him. I thought I might have gotten through to him, but clearly I haven’t!”

The call ended and Carrier turned around.

“Hospital again?” guessed Crossfire. “Can I come?”

“What do you think?” asked Carrier. Carrier had somehow found out about Stormwarp and Crossfire’s adventure to Iacon Hospital and now Crossfire wasn’t allowed to use the datanet for a deca-cycle, except for homework.

“Aw,” said Crossfire. He’d really wanted another look at Megatron—it seemed like he was the only thing anyone had been talking about for the last few solar cycles.

“I’ll call and see if Thundercracker can take you,” said Carrier, and Crossfire immediately brightened up. Thundercracker was Stormwarp's carrier, and Stormwarp was Crossfire’s best friend in the whole world. Stormwarp was loud and impulsive and wild, and Crossfire’s shuttle coding meant that he was none of those things, but he didn’t mind. He liked himself the way that he was. And he liked that Stormwarp could be all the things he wasn’t.

Carrier went back to the console and put in a new call. Crossfire went over to check on Starfire, who was still slamming a few brightly-colored building blocks together. He beamed when he saw Crossfire, and held out a sticky block, which Crossfire politely declined.

“—not long, I think. I’ll make sure he gets enrolled in the Program and leave him to it,” Carrier was saying. Crossfire looked back and saw Thundercracker on the viewscreen.

“What happened?” asked Thundercracker.

“I’m not completely sure,” said Carrier, rubbing his optics. “Soundwave was hazy on the details—you know how he is. But he was distraught. I can only imagine what Megatron said to him.”

“Hey!” said a new voice excitedly. A little navy seekerlet literally popped onscreen as he teleported into Thundercracker’s lap. “Hi Crossfire! Hi! Are you coming over? Hi!”

“Get down, Stormwarp,” said Thundercracker with a heavy vent.

“Is Crossfire coming over? Is Crossfire coming over? Is he? Is—noooooo!” That last part was in response to Thundercracker picking him up and setting him on the ground.

“You’d better take Starfire, too, or Skyfire will get upset,” said Carrier. Sire didn’t like Megatron at all, though Crossfire didn’t exactly understand why. Sire had been very unhappy when he’d learned Starscream had brought Starfire with him to see Megatron, and even unhappier when he’d learned of Crossfire and Stormwarp’s hospital excursion. He hadn’t yelled—Crossfire didn’t think Sire even knew how—but he’d made his feelings clear.

They made it to the apartment where Stormwarp lived with his creators about a breem later.

“Crossfire!” Stormwarp nearly knocked him over with the force of his hug. It was only Crossfire’s greater size and strength that saved them both from toppling to the ground.

“Alright, come inside,” said Thundercracker. Carrier passed Starfire (who had fallen into recharge again) over to him. Starfire fidgeted, but did not wake.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” said Carrier. “Crossfire, behave yourself. And don’t—”

Stormwarp grabbed Crossfire by the arm, and the world vanished in a flash of sapphire light. Crossfire staggered a little and looked around. They hadn’t gone far, just to Stormwarp’s room, which was strewn with toys and datapads and blankets. Stormwarp was hardly being punished at all for the hospital incident. His creators were always easier on him, but Crossfire didn’t mind so much. He knew that if Thundercracker and Skywarp were as strict as Crossfire’s creators, poor Stormwarp would go crazy.

“Your carrier is going to see Megatron again?” asked Stormwarp.

“Yeah,” said Crossfire.

“Lucky,” sighed Stormwarp. “I wonder what they’ll talk about.”

“Carrier seemed mad,” worried Crossfire. “I hope they don’t fight. Sire says Megatron could be dangerous.”

“He didn’t look dangerous,” said Stormwarp. “He looked sick.”

“Yeah,” agreed Crossfire. “But…”

Crossfire’s understanding of the war was highly abstract. He understood that it had been a bad time, so bad that mechs had been forced to do bad things, which had only made the bad times worse. But now the war was over, and things were good.

The war was over, but sometimes Carrier had such bad recharge fluxes that he woke up screaming and didn’t stop until Sire cradled him in his arms and sang to him in Vosian.

At school, their instructors had told them that the Senate said that mechs shouldn’t try to stay angry about things that had happened during the war. Mechs who were still angry were encouraged to focus on healing until their anger went away. There were lots of programs to help, Crossfire knew. The big Program—the VRP—was the most famous one, but there were lots of little ones too. Even ones for mechs who hadn’t ever been soldiers, but still carried anger in their sparks.

“Who wants to be fighting all the time anyway?” asked Stormwarp. “That’s boring. You don’t have time for anything fun. And there were no rust sticks or energon goodies or datanet games. You’d think Megatron would be happy. He got to rest while everyone was making peace and fixing up the city.”

“The same thing happened to my sire,” said Crossfire slowly. “He got hurt, and he was in stasis for a long time. And when he woke up, everything was different.”

“Maybe he should be friends with Megatron, then,” said Stormwarp. “They can talk about it.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” said Crossfire.

Chapter Text

“What the frag do you think you’re doing?”

Megatron looked up from the datapad one of the medics had left him. It displayed the day’s news from all over the galaxy, but all the names were unfamiliar and meaningless to him, and only left him feeling frustrated.

Unsurprisingly, Starscream had opted for the dramatic entrance, kicking the door open and flouncing into the room like he owned it. Then, just to make some sort of a point, he knocked the datapad out of Megatron’s servo and onto the floor.

“Why are you here?” demanded Megatron.

“Because clearly you can’t do anything for yourself!” Starscream yelled. He’d left the sparkling at home this time, so either he’d wised up to the severity of the situation or the medics hadn’t allowed him to bring the seekerlet inside.

“Get out,” growled Megatron.

“No,” Starscream said. “I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen. You’re starting the program tomorrow even if I have to carry you there myself. I don’t know what you said to Soundwave, but—”

“That’s not any of your business!”

“You’re making it my business!”

“Nobody is forcing you to come here,” Megatron snapped. “In fact, I’d greatly prefer it if you didn’t.”

“You think I’m doing this for fun? I’m on leave, and I’d much rather be spending it with my sparklings.” Starscream crossed his arms. “But you’re going to recover soon. Physically, anyway. And once you do, you’re going to hurt someone—possibly even kill them. What do you think the public reaction will be? I can tell you. An outbreak of anti-warframe sentiment that we might never recover from.”

“I don’t care.”

“And I don’t care that you don’t care.” Starscream seemed to feel that this meant he had won the argument. “Listen. You’re in luck. Almost everyone finished the Program a few hundred vorns ago. That means you’ll have your pick of medics. They’ll probably get you the best ones they can, since you’re such a high profile patient.”

“Is that supposed to excite me?” drawled Megatron.

“Ugh. You’re hopeless.” Starscream shook his helm. “Whatever, you can thank me later, when you finally manage to dislodge your helm—”

“Come over here so I can hit you!” raged Megatron.

“You’re never going to hurt me again, so shut the frag up!” Starscream’s tone was so authoritative that Megatron actually paused. “You’re pathetic! I can’t believe I ever followed you! I can’t believe any of us ever followed you! My sparklings are better at anger management than you are! You’re an embarrassment, and you can either get the help you need or you can offline, and I don’t particularly care which one you choose as long as you’re quick about it!”

“You’re brave now,” said Megatron. “But you’ll change your tune once I’ve recovered. You always do.”

“You think you scare me?” countered Starscream. “I see what you are now—just a stupid mech who uses violence in lieu of anything resembling a functioning processor.”

Megatron longed to tear those haughty wings from Starscream’s back and wrap a servo around his throat and force an apology as he had so many times before, but his worthless frame still wasn’t in any condition to go up against a seeker with active guardian programming. “So you’ve managed to convince yourself that you’re better than me? I seem to recall you right beside me in battle—”

“The difference between us,” interrupted Starscream, “is that I’ve taken responsibility for my actions and spent the last five hundred vorns working to undo them.”

“And have you managed to raise the dead yet?”

Starscream’s optics darkened with fury. “The other difference between us,” he said, his digits digging so deeply into the doorframe that he bent the metal, “is that when I eventually do offline, mechs will actually care!”

Then he stormed out of the room before Megatron could formulate a response, thrusters slamming against the floor and echoing down the hallway as he went.

Soon, Megatron reassured himself. Soon his frame would recover, and he would force all of Cybertron to bend to his will again. And he would start with his insolent Second.

Chapter Text

“You’re doing so well!” gushed the medic as Megatron’s servos connected with the far wall. Megatron imagined crushing the mech’s throat with his servos. This particular medic was one of the ones who regularly attended to him, and the constant enthusiasm was starting to grate on his nerves.

“Look,” said the medic, when Megatron didn’t respond right away. “That’s twice as far as you walked yesterday. Remember?”

“It’s not that impressive,” said Megatron through gritted dentae. If he hadn’t already expended all his energy by crossing the ward, he would have stormed back to his room in outrage at being treated like a sparkling.

“I disagree,” said a new voice. Megatron shifted his upper body to see who had spoken without relinquishing the support of the wall. A mech was approaching from the other end of the ward. He was tiny and orange, with an unusual frame that Megatron couldn’t identify. A set of optical enhancers rested on his nasal ridge, and he carried a large stack of files in his spindly arms.

“And you are?” grunted Megatron.

“My name is Rung,” said the mech. “I’ll be your primary care provider throughout your tenure in the Veteran Release Program. I thought I should come by and introduce myself. I also brought you some materials…” he looked down at the assorted datapads and reading screens that he carried.

“Starscream put you up to this, then?” Megatron asked. He decided to risk stepping away from the wall so he could face the little mech.

“He is the one who reached out to our department, but nothing will proceed without your consent,” said Rung with an earnest smile. “In fact, I need you to fill out and sign some of these documents before we can begin. Don’t worry, I’ll leave them with you. They might take a bit of time.”

“I’m not interested in your Program,” said Megatron. “I don’t know what Starscream told you, but he lied.”

“He only said that he was worried about you,” Rung said mildly.

Megatron made a disgusted sound. “Starscream doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

“He might surprise you.” Rung smiled. “But regardless, you do need to complete the program before they’ll grant you a citizenship. If nothing else, it will be a change of scenery. You must be tired of the inpatient ward.”

That was true. And perhaps wherever Rung operated from was less heavily guarded than Megatron’s ward. If there was a contingent of still-loyal Decepticons out there, they would have a better chance of rescuing him from a lone psychiatrist than a contingent of security guards.

“Very well,” said Megatron at last. “I will participate in your…Program. For now.”

“I think you’ll find it won’t be as bad as you’re anticipating,” Rung suggested. “We’ve helped thousands of veterans acclimate to post-war life.”

Megatron had difficulty believing that, even after everything he had seen. It was impossible that he didn’t at least have a handful of soldiers who hadn’t succumbed to this new world of pretty frames and giggling sparklings. Still, they didn’t seem to be making much of an effort to contact Megatron. Maybe they had been driven off-planet? Then Megatron would have to go to them. And he probably wouldn’t be able to do that until he’d convinced everyone that he was no longer a threat.

Megatron realized that probably wouldn’t be too difficult. Everyone seemed to expect him to merely accept their claims that this new world was somehow what they wanted. They were all so soft and trusting and blind. It would be degrading to pretend he’d been swayed by their lies, but it would be worth it in the end when he returned to Cybertron with an army.

Chapter Text

The psychology department of the Iacon hospital was separate from the main buildings, nestled in an admittedly very attractive area of the grounds. A small rail transport system connected the buildings, and this was how Megatron and his security guards travelled.

He was grateful for this—sitting on the transport would allow him to regain the strength he’d expended by making the trip to the transport itself. Hopefully the walk from the psychological center wouldn’t be too long. Megatron had refused any sort of walking aids from the medics; he’d offline before that.

The transport stopped just in front of the building, and Megatron took a moment to ready himself before rising to his pedes. The security detail followed behind him like an entourage.

Inside the building was just as bright and clean as the main hospital was, but there was something a little less sterile and impersonal about it. There were large crystal growths decorating every doorframe, and the seats in the waiting area had mesh padding. After briefly consulting the holomaps in the center of the room, Megatron started his painstakingly slow journey to Rung’s office.

When he arrived, he found a smaller waiting area where Rung was standing and talking with someone else. Someone familiar. At the sound of Megatron’s heavy pedesteps, they both turned around.

“Oh!” Flamewar’s optics brightened. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here! How are you?”

Her new frame was small, but Flamewar had always been small. Still, there was something off about her energy field—there was a lightness to it that he’d never thought Flamewar capable of.

“You’re in the Program?” asked Megatron.

“What? Oh, no, I was cleared vorns ago.” Flamewar shifted, and it was only then that Megatron realized she was holding something in her arms. “We were just coming to say hello.”

Megatron looked down, and a tiny femme sparkling stared back up at him intently. Like Flamewar, she was spindly and sleek, but her frame was purple with touches of gold.

“Oh,” said Megatron. The idea of Flamewar with a sparkling was only a little less processor-breaking than the idea of Shockwave with one. He looked to Rung for help, but the mech was merely standing there, smiling.

“She emerged half a stellar cycle ago,” continued Flamewar. “I’d have come earlier but Slipstream—my conjunx—she’s very protective. Seeker coding.”

Megatron nodded helplessly at the unfamiliar designation.

“I visited you,” said Flamewar. “Well, we all did at some point. I shouted at you, and then Soundwave threw me out. I don’t suppose you remember?”

“No,” said Megatron. “I don’t.”

“The medics said that might happen,” mused Flamewar. “Well, comm me sometime—I’ll visit. I don’t have much going on right now since I’m on leave. But I’m thinking of running for the head of the CTA just to hear Starscream shriek. He’s had it too easy for too long.” Flamewar smirked, and Megatron’s processor pulled up a memory of a war meeting, featuring Flamewar and Starscream with their servos around each other’s necks, each attempting to throttle one another while the others attempted to separate them.

“I don’t have comms,” said Megatron at last. “The software was destroyed in my accident.”

“What? Really? You need to upgrade. The Iacon Museum would probably pay you for that frame—”

“No,” Megatron snapped, and the sparkling in Flamewar’s arms bared her little dentae and hissed angrily, her plating fluffing up in what was supposed to be a threat display but only served to make her appear rounder. She glared up at Megatron like she might have been thinking about fighting him.

“Diabla! Rude!” scolded Flamewar, trying to pat her sparkling’s plating back down. “Rude. Rude. Stop that.”

Diabla looked up at her carrier in confusion.

“Close your mouth,” said Flamewar, putting one digit over Diabla’s exposed dentae. “You think you look scary? I promise you don’t. You’re adorable and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Diabla glanced back over at Megatron again, but closed her mouth. Her crimson optics still burned with aggression, though, and Megatron found himself oddly charmed.

“Well!” said Rung brightly. “I think perhaps we’d better get started. Thank you for thinking of me, Flamewar.”

Flamewar nodded and cast a look at Megatron. He couldn’t read her expression. “You’re going to be alright,” she informed him at last. “I’ll try to visit soon.”

Then she left, bouncing the sparkling in her arms until that look of fierce aggression turned to happy giggles.

“This way,” said Rung, guiding Megatron into his office.

The security detail remained behind.

Chapter Text

“How does this work?” asked Megatron, taking the seat across from Rung. It was too soft, and his frame sank into the mesh.

“That’s really up to you,” Rung said. “I have some prompts we can start with, but if at any point you’re not comfortable with the conversation, all you have to do is let me know and we’ll move on. No questions asked. Can you do that for me?”

Megatron made a sound that was more or less affirmative.

“Over there,” said Rung, pointing to something in the corner, “I have a camera. It records video and sound, but it is not connected to the hospital network and so it cannot be hacked. I only record these sessions so that I can review them later, and I will never share them with anyone. When you complete the program, all the footage will be purged, along with any notes I take during our sessions.”

Megatron glanced over at the camera, hating it, but said nothing.

“These last few solar cycles must have been difficult for you,” said Rung. “What do you think has been the most surprising thing?”

Megatron hesitated, knowing he couldn’t give the honest response that was the fact his generals and soldiers had all abandoned the Decepticon Manifesto. So instead he said, “The energon.”

Rung’s eyebrows lifted—clearly this was not the answer he had been expecting. “The energon?”

“It tastes different,” said Megatron. “Heavy. Thick. Cloying.”

“Ah,” said Rung. “Yes. It might be quite different from what your forces consumed near the end of the war. I understand that the quality of fuel on Earth was particularly poor for the Decepticon Army.”

Megatron shrugged. Yes, it had been poor—weak and dirty and tasteless, the sort of energon he’d been forced to live on when he was a miner, the sort of energon that had prompted them to rise up and fight. But for some reason, hearing the words from Rung irritated him. Rung hadn’t been there. He didn’t know. He couldn’t understand. He had no right to speak about those days.

“You’ve gone quiet,” said Rung after a lengthy pause. “Would you like to share your thoughts?”

“No,” said Megatron, fully expecting Rung to point out that the Program would do him no good if he refused to participate, but the smaller mech did no such thing.

“We also have an abundance of sparklings,” Rung said. “As you saw outside. That’s certainly a change, isn’t it?”

Megatron shrugged again. “It was inevitable.”

“That is an interesting choice of words,” said Rung. “Do you see sparklings as undesirable?”

“Newsparks from Vector Sigma are more efficient,” said Megatron. “But I realize that the wants of the people are not always practical.”

“That is very true,” Rung commented. “We must all seem quite impractical to your optics.” When Megatron gave a little start at how eerily accurate this observation was, Rung continued, “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not offended! It’s only natural. Tell me about some of the sillier things you’ve seen.”

“Starscream was wearing these ridiculous things on his wings,” recalled Megatron. “Some sort of…net. Made of gold. Idiotic.”

“He does wear a lot of ornamentation,” agreed Rung. “I understand most of it is gifts from his bondmate.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Megatron darkly. He didn’t actually know that much about Skyfire aside from the obvious (large, white, useless), but even during the short time that he’d been a Decepticon, he’d shown a clear penchant for spoiling Megatron’s SIC rotten, bringing him worthless Earth stones and plants like he thought they were courting gifts…

“You disapprove?” asked Rung.

“Of course I do,” snarled Megatron, but Rung didn’t even flinch. “He’s weak, worthless, a traitor—”

“Skyfire did help us design the Program,” said Rung in a neutral tone. “Don’t you think there is some worth in that?”

“This Program? The one that has turned my soldiers into hollow and complacent civilians?” Belatedly, Megatron realized he’d said too much. Far too much. He got to his pedes. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not interested in talking.”

“If that’s what you want,” Rung said, “I certainly won’t stop you. But I urge you to reconsider. You have just had a moment of honesty, and I don’t think you appreciate how important that is.”

“Why?” said Megatron suspiciously.

“Because you’ve told me you’re afraid I will turn you into something you find abhorrent,” Rung was still sitting, his hands folded placidly in his lap. “And now I know I must earn your trust before we can make progress.”

“I’m not going to trust you,” said Megatron flatly.

“Megatron,” said Rung. “Do you respect your followers?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they don’t seem unhappy, do they?” asked Rung. “So either they’ve all undergone Shadowplay—”

“I haven’t ruled that out yet.”

“—or there is something about peacetime that they enjoy,” he continued. “You know your soldiers, Megatron. Would they lay down their arms lightly?”

For some reason, the memory of Soundwave standing before him, spark bared, rose up in his processor.

I have so much to show you.

Soundwave hadn’t come to visit him since then.

“Megatron?” prompted Rung.

“I don’t know,” said Megatron.

“What about your generals?” said Rung. “Shockwave and Soundwave were always famous for their loyalty, weren’t they? And yet they abandoned the war. Have you asked them about their motives?”

“Yes!” shouted Megatron.

“Really? What did they say?”

Megatron fell silent, realizing he had no idea what the answer was. Rung stood up at last.

“I have an idea,” he said. “I’m giving you an assignment between now and our next session. I want you to speak to one of your old Decepticons—any one—and find out what they have to say. You don’t have to agree with them, or even understand. Just listen, and report back to me. Can you do that?”

“I suppose,” said Megatron dubiously. “Is that all?”

“For now?” Rung smiled, and walked to the door. “Yes. That's all.”

Chapter Text

Megatron almost didn’t recognize the mech sitting in the courtyard, but he’d started to learn what to look for. Though the frames had changed, most of the faceplates had not, and mechs also tended to keep their core colors. The mech waiting for him on the bench was large and painted in shades of black and violet and silver. His violet optics darkened as Megatron approached.

“Well,” said Motormaster at last. “I’m here. What did you want?”

“I wanted to see you,” said Megatron, and it wasn’t a lie. Motormaster gave a short bark of laughter and leaned back on the bench, arms falling off the back edge.

“Little late to start being a decent creator now, isn’t it?” he asked. Before Megatron could reply, he added, “And if you think I’m going to help you to win Soundwave back, you’ve got another thing coming, too.”

Megatron studied Motormaster’s energy field and was surprised to realize that the Stunticon’s carefree act wasn’t an act at all. He really was that calm, with only hints of abrasion here and there as their fields connected. What had happened to the angry young mech Vector Sigma had given him?

Motormaster continued to stare up at him, waiting for Megatron to speak.

“That’s not why I asked you here,” said Megatron finally. “I’ve started the Program—”

“I know.”

“—and I’ve been instructed to speak with my soldiers.”

Motormaster gave a bitter laugh. “So you thought of me? That’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”

Megatron didn’t know the meaning of the unfamiliar word, but he could guess from the context. “What do you mean?”

“You. Thinking of me as a soldier. And my brothers, too.”

“You were Decepticons,” said Megatron. “You were—”

“We were sparklings!” yelled Motormaster. Ah, there it is, thought Megatron. He’d been starting to worry. Motormaster’s entire frame tensed as if it was taking all of his self-control not to leap to his pedes and start pounding his fists into Megatron’s faceplates. “We were stupid, stupid kids who didn’t understand anything about war and you just pointed us at the Autobots and thought it was okay!”

Megatron stared at him, entirely taken aback, as the meaning of Motormaster’s words finally registered in his processor. Motormaster stared back, trembling a little. After a painfully long pause, the Stunticon leaned forward and rested his faceplates in his servos, covering his optics.

“And you know…you know the worst part?” asked Motormaster at last. “I didn’t even realize how fragged up it was until I saw the first sparkling that was born after the war…I saw her, and she was all…all stumbling around and tiny and breakable and I thought, I thought how could anyone think of throwing her onto a battlefield?”

“That’s hardly the same,” Megatron objected. “You were granted fully upgraded frames.”

“Big friggin’ deal!” Motormaster clenched his fists and glared hard into the middle distance. “Our processors were sparkling processors! The only difference was we came with language centers. You told Vector Sigma to fill us with hate and thought that made up for the fact we had no idea what was going on.” Motormaster paused, contemplative yet again. “And thanks for that, by the way, it’s made having normal relationships so much fun.”

Megatron said nothing, but Motormaster seemed to have burned himself out, and that fiery anger was already being replaced with a very un-Motormaster-like serenity.

“I’m supposed to ask you why you stopped fighting,” said Megatron at last.

Motormaster gave him a look. “For you, dumbass. You were going to die, and Soundwave wasn’t letting that happen. So he went to Pax—the old Prime—”

“I understand that,” interrupted Megatron. “But why accept an end to the war? It would have been easy enough to resume fighting once Soundwave had what he wanted.”

Motormaster shrugged. “I guess you had to be there,” he said unhelpfully. Then he added, “Could have had something to do with the fact none of us were starving anymore. That made a big difference—it’s easier to listen when someone talks if you’re not spending all your energy thinking about how hungry you are.”

“But the Autobots were our oppressors!”

“They never oppressed me,” said Motormaster. “It was your war, not mine. Look, if you want to know why we decided to put all that bad stuff in the past, you’re asking the wrong guy. My team came in just as it was all winding down. We didn’t hate the Autobots because they’d done anything to us, we just hated them because it felt good and we didn’t know any better.”

Megatron realized Motormaster was probably correct. The Stunticons had never known Autobot oppression, and would have had an easier time than most accepting the end of the war. He would have to ask someone else to get the answers Rung was looking for.

“It’s better now,” said Motormaster at last. “I know you don’t believe us, but it is. It’s like we were sick for vorns and now we’re healed. But I don’t know. Maybe you don’t even care. I don’t even know how I feel about you, you know? I feel like I should hate you for everything and hating always came easy to me so I could, but I see mechs with their sparklings and Soundwave with the symbionts and…” Motormaster suddenly looked embarrassed. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“And how many sparklings do you have?” asked Megatron.

Motormaster looked stunned. “None! Primus!”

“You seem to be the exception to the rule, then,” Megatron observed. Motormaster actually laughed at that, and this time there was no bitterness in the sound.

“Starscream’s got two,” said Motormaster. “So does Sunstorm, but his are twins. They’re all glowy. Uh, who else? The coneheads have three. Astrotrain and Blitzwing have one. Skywarp and Thundercracker have one. Shockwave’s got one, he’s going to be a gun, you can tell, and he tries to transform in your hand when you pick him up.” Motormaster cast a glance at Megatron. “Shockwave’s pissed at you too, in case you didn’t know.”

“I was aware, yes,” Megatron said flatly.

“I don’t hate you,” said Motormaster. “Or maybe I do. But I’m trying not to. I think that counts. I still don’t want you around my brothers, though. Not until you get better. Sorry, but I can’t risk it.”

Motormaster stood up at last, and stuck his servo out. Megatron stared at it.

“Sorry. Earth thing.” Motormaster put his arm back down. “I’m headed back there now, actually. My brothers and I work for human companies. We tell other humans to buy their stuff and get free junk in return. Cybertron’s too cold for us most of the time.” He shifted on his pedes when Megatron didn't say anything. “Call me when you get better. Call me when you’re sorry. Until then...I’m not really interested.”

Chapter Text

“Megatron!” bellowed a voice, loud enough to almost make Megatron fall out of his chair. Megatron had no time to react as the large blue frame bore down on him.

“Overlord—” began Megatron, desperately trying to regain his composure, but there was something about the mech that filled the small hospital room, oppressively so. Overlord had always been like that, but Megatron had never minded back in the days when he knew he could take the mech in a fight.

Fortunately, Overlord didn’t appear to be looking for a brawl for once.

“Megatron,” he said again in a far more sedate tone, but his field was crackling with pent-up energy. “Look how alive you are.”

That sounded suspiciously like a threat, but Megatron decided not to dwell on it.

Overlord had been one of his earliest recruits to the Decepticon faction, and his uniquely powerful spark had allowed Megatron and Shockwave to upgrade him into a superwarrior that had been feared by Autobots and Decepticons alike. Until the Stunticons, Overlord had been the closest thing Megatron had to a creation.

“Overlord,” repeated Megatron. “Thank you for coming today.”

“What did you expect? I was starting to feel left out.” Overlord seemed to consider a chair, then apparently decided not to risk breaking it. Even with his new peacetime frame, he still towered. “I visited you when you were offline, you know. I punched you, and then Soundwave had me thrown out.”

Megatron was starting to remember why he usually assigned Overlord to obscure posts in deep space when there weren’t any massive battles that needed fighting.

“He called security on me after I carried that crystal harp up three flights of stairs for him. Can you believe the ingratitude? That was a few hundred vorns ago and I'm still offended.”

…a ripple of music…

Megatron pressed a servo to his helm.

[error: file corrupted]

“It didn’t have wheels,” added Overlord, who clearly felt Megatron was not appreciating his struggles enough. “And I wasn’t allowed to drag it because he said it would scuff the base. It weighed as much as two minibots, and I was already in this frame.” He looked down at himself, and his significantly more streamlined new body.

…it sounded like rain in the darkness…

[error: file corrupted]
[error: file corrupted]
[error: file corrupted]

“A crystal harp?” Megatron managed to ask. He suddenly had a blinding pain in his processor.

“He thought it would work,” said Overlord unhelpfully. Then he leaned in for a closer look at Megatron. “You look—”

“I’m fine,” Megatron managed to gasp out, ripping his servo away from his forehelm. “I, it’s not important. Forget the harp. Tell me about the Program. Did you go through it?”

“I was one of the last ones to be cleared.” There was a hint of pride in Overlord’s voice. “I failed my exit interview six times. But now I’m out. They granted me a citizenship and I started my own business.”

“And wh—you what?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m a legitimate businessmech. I’m an entrepreneur.”

“Primus,” Megatron said faintly.

“I’m an artist.”

Megatron looked around for the hidden cameras, now certain that he was at the center of an elaborate prank.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Overlord. “You’re thinking nobody wants to buy paintings done in energon and sculptures made of greyed-out parts. And you’re right, nobody wanted those. They had no subtlety. And the enforcers said I had to stop. But the medics think it's good for me to work through my feelings using a visual medium. So—” Overlord flicked his wrist, and five long needles jutted from the tips of his digits.

Megatron lurched backwards with such force that his chair crashed to the floor.

“I sell memories,” said Overlord, as if Megatron hadn’t reacted. “Fake ones, for entertainment. My clients are usually mechs who want to take a vacation but can’t get the time off. Or can’t afford it. Or have ruined their lives and frames by having a sparkling and will never know joy again.” The needles retracted and Overlord rubbed his chin. “I’ve got some pre-written ones, but I also do custom orders. They're quite nicely done, if I do say so myself. They have plots. Structure. Fighting. Intrigue. Explosions. For a bonus fee, I’ll put your conjunx in there too.”

“And you prefer that to fighting?” asked Megatron in disbelief.

“Well, prefer is a strong word,” said Overlord. “But it’s not bad. I thought wouldn't be able to go on without the war, and some of it I do miss. You know I like a good fight.” Overlord looked down at his frame again. It was humming. The mech clearly wasn't expending enough energy in his daily routine. “But I think I might be happy, for now.”

“Why did you stop fighting?”

“I ran out of fuel,” said Overlord. “I received the order to come back from Shockwave, but I laughed at it. It couldn't be the end of the war because there were still a few thousand Autobots that needed killing. But,” Overlord suddenly looked pensive, “all the Autobots had gone home and there was nobody left to fight. And they’d taken all their energon with them.”

“So the only thing keeping you here is a lack of resources?” pressed Megatron.

“No. It was at first. But then…” Overlord shrugged his massive shoulders. “Being fully fueled does have its charms. Some days it almost makes up for the fact I can't tear a mech in two for driving too slowly.”

Megatron said nothing.

“But never mind my problems. You called me here because you want me to tell you if what everyone has been saying to you is true. Am I right?” Overlord's energy field suddenly became intense, overpowering, as though he was seeking a weakness. “All those things you enjoyed making speeches about, energon and equality and freedom. You want to know if we have them now.”

“Yes,” said Megatron.

“We do,” said Overlord, the intensity dropping from his field as abruptly as it had risen. “You know I was more about the fight than the cause, but even I can see this world is something you'd approve of.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Megatron.

“Neither can I, some days,” admitted Overlord.

“And it's enough?” Megatron asked.

Overlord just gave him an unfathomable smile that did not quite meet his optics.

“For you,” he said slowly, “it could be.”

“And what about you?” pressed Megatron.

“What about me? I'm having fun. Would you begrudge me that?” the smile became colder, his optics emptier. “What's wrong with a little entertainment to pass the time?”

Chapter Text

His limbs were already significantly more stable, and the walk from the transport rail to the psychological department hadn’t drained him nearly as badly as it had the first time. Still, he was glad to be able to sink into a chair.

“How did it go?” asked Rung as Megatron entered his office.

Megatron shook his helm and stared down at his knees. “I don’t know,” he said after a long pause.

Rung raised his eyebrows. “Did you do the assignment?”

“Yes!” Megatron snarled, offended.

“Well, that is the important part,” Rung said, unabashed by the minor outburst. “Would you like to share your findings?”

No. But Megatron knew that refusing to cooperate wouldn’t get him out of here any quicker.

“Motormaster didn’t have much of a reason,” recalled Megatron. “I was foolish to ask him. He was too young to choose for himself.” For some reason, the memory of that conversation brought up a strange twinge of what might have been guilt.

“Understandable,” said Rung. “Who else did you speak to?”

“Overlord.” Megatron paused at the memory. “He seemed…like a different mech. He claimed he stopped fighting because of a lack of fuel, initially. And then he claimed we have what we’d been fighting for all along.”

“What do you think about that?”

“I think he just ran out of mechs to kill,” said Megatron bluntly. “Overlord never cared about equality. He enjoyed war for the sake of war.”

“But endless war really isn’t sustainable, is it?” asked Rung.

“It wasn’t supposed to be endless.” Megatron felt a little defensive. “We were supposed to win.”

“In that case, what would you have done with Overlord?”

Megatron shrugged. “I’d have found something to keep him occupied. Given him a planet, perhaps. If you got him overcharged, he would talk about running a gladiatorial arena. I think he might still do it if he was offered it.”

“Did he strike you as unhappy?”

“No,” said Megatron. “Not...exactly. Though I think he sees the peacetime as more of a game than a true way of life.”

Rung made a soft noise of acknowledgement.

“There was something else,” said Megatron. Too late, he realized that this wasn’t actually something he wanted to share with the tiny doctor. But there was nobody else for him to tell. And Rung was looking at him expectantly.

“Overlord said something about a crystal harp,” Megatron began slowly. “Apparently Soundwave brought one in at some point. And when he said that I remembered…something. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know.”

Rung’s optics were bright with curiosity. “Something from when you were in stasis?”

“Possibly. Yes.” Megatron rubbed his optics. “I believe so.”

The datapad had been laying, unused, on the table beside Rung. Now, for the first time, he picked it up.

“If I can remember what Soundwave said to me while I was in stasis,” said Megatron, “I might be able to…” To what? Apologize? He was guilty of nothing except sticking his pede in his mouth.

Still…

it sounded like water

[error: file corrupted]

Megatron winced.

“Don’t do that. Those are corrupted memories.” Rung leaned forward. “You’re going to injure yourself if you try to force them to play back. I have a few methods we can try to access them, but nothing we can do today on such short notice.”

“Can we access security footage?” asked Megatron. His memories might have been corrupted, but the hospital’s databases wouldn’t be.

“Of your visitors? We can, but it won’t do you any good,” said Rung. “In fact, it might cause harm.”

“I don’t see how.”

“The processor is an extremely complex thing,” said Rung. “If I believed for a moment that allowing you to view that footage would aid in your recovery, I would do it in a sparkbeat. But it’s far more likely that you’re not prepared to see what you’ve forgotten. I can’t risk your mental well-being like that.”

Megatron could tell just from the smaller mech’s energy field that arguing would be a waste of time. But he wasn’t too concerned, and had a feeling he didn’t need Rung’s help to retrieve the footage.

“If Overlord is being truthful with you,” said Rung, “if he really believes that the Decepticons have finally achieved equality—does the end of the war still seem so disagreeable to you?”

Megatron said nothing.

“I think,” said Rung, “that it’s time you saw the city.”

Chapter Text

The senatorial palace had been redesigned, with an entirely new exterior. If not for the fact it was located at the heart of the city, with all the other structures circled around it, Megatron might not have recognized it. As he stepped out of the transport drone with his security detail, he was painfully aware of all the looks he was getting from passerby. There was no fear or respect in their optics, only curiosity.

“Megatron!” called a familiar voice. Orion Pax was striding towards him across the plaza. Megatron’s frame tensed, but he did not allow his servo to curl into a fist.

“I am pleased you could make it,” said Orion as he approached. “Are you ready? They’re expecting us.”

Megatron gave a small nod—he didn’t trust himself to speak. Orion turned away and started walking towards the new old palace, moving slowly enough that Megatron didn’t have to strain his limbs to keep up.

They made it to the steps that led up into the building, and Megatron remembered charging up these stairs, splattered with energon and vents clogged with smoke and dust, for his fight with Sentinel Prime. Now, he walked alongside the ex-Prime at a sedate pace, the guards trailing behind him.

Inside, the entryway was open with a vaulted ceiling, just as it had been in the past. But it was much brighter inside, with windows replacing what had once been solid walls. The statues of old senators and Primes had either been destroyed during the war or removed at some point afterwards, and replacing them were art installations that Megatron could only assume had been created during the peacetime.

“What do you think?” asked Orion quietly.

“I think,” said Megatron, “that you still picked a terrible name.”

“We were looking at a few different names, actually,” said Orion. “The Cybertronian Republic was popular for a time. But then the Galactic Council informed us that the Quintessons were filing a motion for ownership, stating that our longtime lack of government meant that they had the right to requisition us. In response, we immediately readopted the more cosmetic aspects of the old Senatorial format and made the argument that there had been no lapse in governance and the Senate had merely been adjourned for millions of years.”

“That’s idiotic,” grumbled Megatron.

“Perhaps,” said Orion. “But it saved us from slavery. We had plans to change the name to something else, but there were more important things to worry about. After a few stellar cycles everyone was used to it. Here, come this way.”

The next room was even larger, but Megatron knew what to expect. The great hall where the senate assembled would be the most imposing place in the palace, with the senator’s seats rising high above the ground where any outsiders would stand to make a petition, tiny and insignificant. And at the heart of it, magnificent and opulent, the Prime’s throne, inlaid with precious stones and inscribed with glyphs of power and leadership and…

It was all gone.

Megatron took a step back, certain they’d walked into the wrong room. Was he glitching? The room was the same size—in fact, the lack of senatorial boxes made the place look bigger, almost dizzyingly so. Instead, the room was filled with large desk stations, where a few mechs sat and worked at consoles or read datapads quietly. The front of the room was on a slightly raised platform for visibility, but the throne was gone, replaced by a single podium.

The senate clearly wasn’t in session, as evidenced by the overwhelming lack of mechs, and Megatron felt his confidence return slightly. Near the front of the room, past the desks but before the platform, a bright red mech was talking animatedly to what appeared to be a massive humanoid with an unusual energy field. At her side was a much tinier member of her species, this one no bigger than a true human would be.

At the sound of their approach, the alien slowly turned her head to look at Megatron and, without making any sudden movements, picked up her smaller companion very gently.

The red mech clearly had so such trepidation.

“Woah!” he yelled, making the smaller alien flinch into the larger one’s hand. “Someone get this mech an upgrade.” He strode towards them, energy field reaching out in a gesture of welcome and curiosity.

“Rodimus,” scolded Orion Pax.

“Come on, I’m just joking.” The youngling—for that was what he clearly was, despite his impressive frame—was grinning widely. “Glad you could make it. I’m Rodimus Prime, and this is where the magic happens,” Rodimus waved one hand at the massive room. “I’m not going to lie to you, it’s boring as the pit. So we’re not going to stay here. Come on!” And he ran from the room.

Orion very quietly covered his faceplates with one servo.

“Are you serious?” Megatron demanded, turning on the other mech.

“Give him time,” said Orion. “He’ll settle into his role…soon enough.”

Megatron cast another look around the room. “Shockwave said the senatorial terms are fifty vorns,” he said noncommittally.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Orion. “We put a cap on consecutive terms, too—if you want to visit the archives, I can show you the Bylaws.”

“NOBODY WANTS TO VISIT THE ARCHIVES!” yelled Rodimus from the next room. “Come on, I got us reservations!”

“I was actually hoping we could see the museum,” said Orion as they emerged into the entryway. “There’s some important historical context that—”

“No way! Does this mech look like someone who wants to sit around looking at dust all day?” Rodimus gestured at Megatron, but then he eyed the security detail, as if only just noticing them now. “Oh. Slag. I didn’t make enough reservations. Do you guys mind standing? They’ll let us do it if I’m there. I’ll buy you drinks to make up for it.”

“Vector Sigma,” said Megatron faintly, as Orion shot him an apologetic look and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ at him.

“This place,” said Rodimus. “You’re going to love this place. Believe me. It’s called the Aurora, and it takes months to get a reservation unless you’re me. They’ve got sixteen different types of high-grade, and it’s like nothing you ever tasted—”

“You’re not getting overcharged before noon,” interrupted Orion sternly.

“Fine, sire-creator,” said Rodimus with an indignant huff. “They have mid-grade too. But the real reason you go is for the lights. They do this thing with these crystal structures where they put these colored lights behind them and they play music and I’m doing a bad job of describing this, but trust me—”

Two new mechs entered the palace together, a green triple-changer and a pink femme. When Rodimus saw them, he stopped mid-sentence and hurried over to them, locking elbows with each and then dragging them back over to Megatron and Orion.

“My conjunces,” said Rodimus by way of introduction. “Arcee and Springer. Now we’re all here, so we can head out.”

Both of Rodimus’ conjunces looked at Megatron warily, but there was no hostility in their energy fields. Like Rodimus, they were both extremely young. Rodimus grinned up at Megatron, completely unabashed.

“This place,” Rodimus said again. “You’re going to love this place.”

Chapter Text

The restaurant was dimly lit, and something about it just exuded an aura of expensiveness. Rodimus had strode through the front doors like he owned the place and greeted the wait staff as if they were all old friends, but Megatron was significantly less comfortable than the young Prime, and privately wished he could just ask his security detail to bring him back to the hospital.

Fortunately, the place wasn’t crowded, and he allowed himself to be led to a table. Rodimus was already giving the servers complex instructions, waving his arms eagerly to make his point. Megatron looked around and saw several massive crystal structures at the center of the room, just as Rodimus had described, circling a raised plinth.

A trio of mechs were walking towards the structures. As his optics adjusted to the dim light, Megatron realized that there were also instruments on the plinth—a tray of resonance spheres, a synthboard, and a large crystal harp. Each of the mechs took a spot before one of the instruments and quietly powered them on.

An energon cube was set down in front of him. It was massive, even by the standards of this luxurious new Cybertron, and the rim was encrusted with rust flakes. Megatron sipped it and almost choked. He’d thought the energon at the hospital was too rich, but this was almost inedible. He was afraid his systems might go into shock.

Up on the plinth, the musician at the crystal harp gave Megatron the faintest smile as their optics met, and then ran her digits across the crystal strings, producing a rippling whorl of sound.

He couldn’t see, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak. But he could hear.

“My spark is splitting again,” came Soundwave’s familiar voice. Megatron felt something touch his servo, felt warm digits intertwine with his own. “The medics say the new symbiont will emerge within the vorn.” He paused, as if awaiting a response. “I hope you can meet one another someday.”

Megatron’s entire frame tensed as the memory struck him. He was suddenly vividly aware of his own sparkbeat as it roared in his audials like an oncoming transit drone. He looked down at his chassis, half expecting to see light pulsing through the metal.

The musician touched the strings again.

“The medics believe they can undo some of the damage to my processor.” This time the voice was Shockwave’s. “Moonracer feels I should pursue it. I do not believe it is necessary. But for the sake of her happiness, I will undergo the procedure.” There was a soft noise, and Megatron was familiar enough with the darkness to identify the sound of Shockwave’s servo touching his own faceless helm. “She has been kind to me. Kinder than I ever anticipated.”

Shockwave made an awkward sound. “But I’m sure that is of no interest to you,” he added hastily. “As for the procedure, the medics tell me the danger is minimal. Still, I do not believe it is illogical to be apprehensive. Any work to the central processor has inherent risks.” Shockwave gave a small vent. “I sincerely hope this is not the last time I am to speak with you.”

“Are you alright?”

Megatron looked towards the sound. The triple-changer—Springer—was looking up at him with worry in his young, innocent face. Megatron realized that his servos were shaking uncontrollably. Now everyone was staring at him. Everyone at the table, everyone at the restaurant. Everyone on the planet.

He’d been poisoned. That was the only explanation. Megatron stared down at the barely-sipped cube in horror. He hadn’t scanned it; he’d been unable to because the software was missing. He was…he was…

“Megatron?” asked Orion Pax.

Megatron leapt out of his seat, knocking several cubes over, and rushed for the exit. Soundwave. He had to find Soundwave. Soundwave would know what to do—

He burst out of the building into the street, only to realize that he had no idea where he was or how to get anywhere. He doubled over, vents heaving, as pain overtook him.

“Megatron,” said Orion Pax, his faceplates suddenly filling Megatron’s vision. “Look at me. Can you hear me?”

“Poisoned,” Megatron gasped incoherently, trying to find the subroutines that would make him purge and possibly save his life.

“Nobody poisoned you,” said Orion Pax patiently. “You’re having a panic attack.”

Megatron raised his helm. “What?” he managed to choke.

“It happens to all of us. Here. Take one of these.” Orion Pax reached into his subspace pocket and withdrew a silver packet of faintly glowing green capsules.

“You’re insane if you think I’m taking anything from you,” snarled Megatron.

“Then we’ll go into a shop and you can buy your own,” said Orion in that infuriatingly calm voice. “But you can’t go running around the city like this. You’ll injure yourself.”

Megatron forced himself to straighten up and shoved Orion Pax out of his way, slamming the mech into the nearest wall. Then he rushed down the street, in search of (what? He wasn’t sure).

Mechs stared at him as he passed, and he wasn’t sure if it was his reputation or his velocity that caused them to gawk. Nor did he care. Megatron turned a few likely-looking corners, working off panic and instinct alone, ignoring the way his frame ached from the sudden, prolonged exertion.

After a bit of running, he noted with great relief that he’d finally made it to an empty street.

Then someone grabbed his arm.

“Pax—” began Megatron with a warning growl, but it wasn’t Orion that had seized him.

“And now what are you doing?” demanded Starscream.

Megatron paused to take in the presence of the seeker. The younger of his sparklings was balanced on his hip, with the elder nowhere to be seen. Today’s idiotic ornamentation took the form of an ornately woven circlet that rested on his forehelm.

“What are you doing here?” asked Megatron.

“I live here,” retorted Starscream. “Who let you out of your room?” Before Megatron could reply, the seeker took a step back and prodded at Megatron’s energy field with his own. “Are you—Primus. Come with me. And take these.” Starscream shoved something into Megatron’s servos. It was a packet of small green pills, exactly like the ones Pax had tried to give him.

Starscream’s grip was surprisingly strong, and Megatron was too disoriented to try to pull away anyway. They went into a quiet building that appeared to be mercifully empty. Megatron leaned over, resting his servos on his knee-joints, and vented heavily.

“What were they thinking, taking you to the most crowded part of the city?” scolded Starscream. “Honestly, it’s like they want a scandal. Did you take one of those pills yet?”

“Yes,” lied Megatron.

“Then you should feel better in a few klicks.” Starscream tilted his helm at him. “Was that your first attack?”

Megatron stared at him, bewildered.

“The medics don’t know what causes the reactions,” explained Starscream. “It’s something to do with the things we saw during the war. Sudden noises can prompt them, but sometimes they just happen. Hold on, I have to make a call.”

Megatron finally glanced around the building they were in. The ceiling was high, and vaulted, inlaid with patterned mosaics. It reminded him of the old style temples, but there was no religious iconography here. Despite the beauty of the structure, it was oddly barren, devoid of anything except an archway that led to the next room, guarded only by a single drone.

“Where are we?” he asked as Starscream ended his private comm.

“The Iacon Museum,” said Starscream. “Let’s go in, there’s nobody here this time of the day. I hope Skyfire doesn’t have our membership cards…wait, here they are.” Starscream withdrew something from subspace. Megatron was a bit impressed by how he managed to never loosen his grip on his sparkling, who was now gazing up at Megatron with massive blue optics. “This way.”

They passed through the archway, where Starscream let the drone scan the cards, and into a smaller room, this one lined with glass display cases.

“Look,” said Starscream as they emerged. “See anything that you recognize?”

The question was clearly meant to be rhetorical, because there at the center of the room, inside a large glass display case, was his fusion cannon.

Megatron approached it slowly, half-expecting someone to rush out and stop him. But nobody did. It wasn’t a replica; he could tell from just a cursory glance. It had been polished, but there were still familiar scuffs and scratches and burns that no amount of cleaning would ever remove.

“It’s only the outer shell. They took the reactor out before putting it on display,” murmured Starscream in his audial, making him jump. He hadn’t even heard the seeker coming near. “Just thought I’d let you know. In case you were thinking of doing something stupid.”

Megatron looked at him, but Starscream only continued to pet Starfire’s winglets calmly.

“The curators are hoping I can talk you into selling your frame,” added Starscream. “They want to add it to the exhibit.”

“I’m not upgrading,” Megatron said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“The museum is very well funded,” Starscream wheedled. “They can give you far more than it’s worth.”

“I don’t care.”

“Wait until you see the price of apartments in Iacon before you say that,” advised Starscream.

Megatron said nothing. Their reflections in the glass case stared back at them as they stood side-by-side, gazing at the old weapon. A placard caught his attention—Donated by Soundwave of Uraya.

“I suppose everyone blames me for the war?” he asked at last.

“You give yourself too much credit,” said Starscream. “If it hadn’t been you leading the fight, it would have been someone else. The war was inevitable. And if it somehow hadn’t happened…” he gave a little shrug. “More mechs might be alive, but it wouldn’t be anything resembling an enjoyable existence.”

Chapter Text

They both went silent again, staring at the gutted weapon. After a moment, Starscream walked away to examine the other exhibits. A glowing energon axe, one of Prime’s. His flail. A handful of acid pellets.

“You’ll never be content like this,” said Megatron at last. “I know you. You must be near to breaking from the monotony.”

“Don’t presume to know what I want,” Starscream retorted. “There is nothing in this universe you could offer me that would convince me to follow you again.”

Megatron glanced at the sparkling, who had pressed his little helm against his carrier’s neck and was now sucking on his own digits. How had such an impossibly tiny creature transformed his ruthless, energon-thirsty air commander into someone Megatron no longer recognized?

He remembered the frightened young seeker—a disgraced academy graduate found guilty of murder—who had joined his fledgling army at Kaon. He had built Megatron his first fusion cannon and, when asked what he wanted as a reward for the gift, requested only to be allowed to lead an attack on Iacon.

And while Starscream had burned the academy to cinders in hopes that it might soothe the rage and hatred that had blossomed within him since the loss of his partner, Megatron had laid siege to the senatorial palace and faced Sentinel Prime in combat for the first and last time.

“You think I’m weak?” Starscream tilted his helm as though he’d heard Megatron’s thoughts.

“I didn’t say that,” objected Megatron.

“You didn’t have to,” said Starscream. “Just because I’ve elected not to terrorize the galaxy doesn’t mean I’m no longer capable of it. It only means I’ve decided not to.”

“Abiggddtgffddguh!” contributed Starfire.

Fortunately, the tranquil setting of the museum calmed Megatron’s agitated spark. He was beginning to feel like perhaps he wasn’t speeding towards his own doom. Starscream didn’t mention the green tablets again. Megatron knew with complete certainty that there was no force in the universe that would ever convince him to swallow those pills. But Pax had offered them so casually, and publicly, as though they were rust sticks or a simple processor ache cure.

Megatron wondered if the pills were the reason for the docile behavior he had seen. He’d have to find out what was in them. Normally, the task would fall to Starscream or Shockwave. But Starscream was clearly under their influence, and so his word regarding them couldn’t be trusted. Shockwave was a safer bet—he couldn’t swallow the pills, as he lacked a mouth. But he’d given himself to an Autobot soldier.

And even if Shockwave was capable of giving him an impartial answer, he probably wouldn’t be willing to help Megatron. Megatron had insulted his conjunx endura, after all.

Soundwave, then? They hadn’t spoken once since Megatron had offended him.

Megatron continued to wander aimlessly, occasionally stopping at exhibits that caught his optics but mostly just enjoying the tranquility. The hospital was peaceful, too, but it was so sterile it almost induced a processor ache.

He came to a new room, this one large and open, with one wall made entirely of glass panes that revealed an open courtyard on the other side. The walls were painted with a mural of the daytime sky, but the room was empty, save for the odd structure in the middle.

A column of white light stretched from floor to ceiling. At its center, just below chest height for him, was a single particle of spark-blue energy. This...thing was clearly meant to be the focal point of the room, but Megatron could make no sense of it. Glancing down, he noticed a silver ring set into the floor, from which the column of light was projected. There were glyphs on the ring.

The ones we lost, the inscription read. It was a war memorial, Megatron realized. Though not that he ever would have guessed without the description. Modern art had never appealed to him, and this piece was particularly baffling.

“There you are,” said Starscream. He glanced at the memorial for the barest moment, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge it. “Don’t wander off. I don’t trust you to keep out of trouble. Rung’s waiting to see you, if you’re feeling well enough to leave the museum.”

It had been posed as optional, but something in Starscream’s optics told Megatron that he’d be in for a lot of passive-aggressive whining if he refused to see Rung. So he agreed to go back, though secretly he was rather looking forward to seeing if Rung had made any progress in figuring out how to access his blocked memory files. His experiences today had led him to suspect that hearing music, particularly music from a crystal harp, could prompt some recall. But that also came with the embarrassing side-effect that was the panic attacks. Better to save that as a last resort.

Starscream abandoned him just outside the psychology wing. It felt odd to be on the hospital grounds without his security guards, but he went in as though he had every right to—which he did, he told himself. He was not a prisoner, merely a...non-citizen, he supposed.

That was troubling, too. If he was not a citizen, what was protecting him from the Senate, the Enforcers, his fellow Cybertronians? Though, he had to admit, he’d been a citizen before the war, and what good had that ever done him?

Rung was waiting for him when he walked in, and quickly ushered him into his office. He wasted no time in setting the recording devices and then, once he was certain Megatron was settled, launched into his questions.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” asked Rung.

“Why?” Megatron felt it would be pointless. “Clearly you already heard.”

“I heard,” said Rung, “but not from you. And that’s what matters to me right now.”

Megatron was silent for a moment, gathering his words.

“I met the new Prime,” he said at last.

“I take it you weren’t impressed?” asked Rung, noting his tone.

“No,” said Megatron. “I wasn’t.” And yet. Rodimus had seemed so light and carefree, it was almost enviable. If weakness and decadence were to be envied, he added quickly.

“What happened after you met the Prime?” asked Rung.

“He took us to a bar,” said Megatron flatly, and Rung’s shoulders curled inward as he attempted to laugh discreetly into his own datapad. “There were musicians. One of them had a crystal harp, and whenever she touched the strings, I…” He touched a hand to his forehelm.

“You experienced a physical reaction?”

“I was able to access two particular memories,” said Megatron, “of my time in stasis. I could not access an optical feed, but all my other senses were intact.”

“Would you like to share those memories with me?”

“No,” said Megatron.

“Alright.” Rung made a note on his datapad. “What happened next?”

Megatron found himself extremely reluctant to divulge his symptoms. He told himself that Rung had already heard the story from Primus knew how many sources, but that did nothing to soothe his pride.

“I thought I’d been poisoned,” Megatron said evasively, unwilling to go into his experience in greater detail. “Prime—Orion Pax—tried to give me drugs. I refused.”

Surprisingly, Rung gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his forehelm, as though he was disappointed.

“What?” demanded Megatron defensively. “You can’t expect me to take mystery pills from a mech who was my sworn enemy for millions of—”

“No, no,” said Rung. “I apologize for my reaction. I am not disappointed that you refused them. You were well within your right to do so. I am disappointed that you were offered them, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“What do you mean?” asked Megatron.

“It’s a very complicated situation,” said Rung. “I’ll tell you about it another day when we have more time. The pills you were offered—I assume they were green in color? About this big?” he indicated a size with his digits.

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Rung rubbed his forehelm again. “It’s a beast I have yet to slay, and it’s growing more powerful with every passing stellar cycle.”

“Are the pills dangerous?”

“Not in the traditional sense,” said Rung. “In fact, they have saved countless lives, and will continue to do so for a very long time. But I will be happy to discuss this at length with you during another session. For now, I feel it is imperative we continue with what you experienced today.”

Megatron was annoyed, but Rung had already given him far more information than he’d ever expected. If the little doctor disliked the green pills, perhaps Megatron could find an ally in him after all? It seemed absurd to even contemplate, and yet...

“I pushed Pax away,” said Megatron. “I don’t know where I went. Starscream found me eventually, and brought me to the Iacon museum. He tried to give me the pills as well.”

“Did your symptoms change at any point?”

“After we went inside, the worst of it stopped,” recalled Megatron. Then he added, “I saw my fusion cannon.”

“Did you?” Rung gave a small smile. “What did you think?”

“I think it’s my property, and I want it back,” Megatron said, surprising himself with his own honesty. “But even if they agree, I’ll never get Starscream to fix it.”

“Probably not,” agreed Rung.

“I feel certain that the harp prompted the memories,” Megatron mused aloud. “Soundwave played while I was offline, so I don’t think it’s surprising that they somehow became bundled together in my processor.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Rung.

“But there was no order to them. No meaning,” Megatron shook his helm in frustration. “And the...attack. If having one of those is the price of accessing my memories, I’ll have to find another way to unlock them.” He looked at Rung expectantly. “You told me you had an idea?”

“I did,” said Rung. “Unfortunately, you’ve happened upon it already. I wasn’t expecting you to encounter a crystal harp anytime soon, so I apologize for not warning you in advance. But I was afraid that, if you’d known, you would have sought out the music to free your memories and overdone it, causing permanent damage to your processor and your psyche.”

Megatron tried not to let his disappointment show. “So that’s it, then?” he asked. “The memories are lost forever?”

“I didn’t say that,” Rung reassured him. “It will be a slow process, but I believe we can recover most—if not all—of your memories of your time in stasis. But before we do that, we need to identify the cause of the panic attack that you suffered and eliminate it.”

Megatron could not think of anything he wanted to do less.

Chapter Text

“When it was first created, it wasn’t meant for the general population, or really even for panic attacks at all,” said Rung.

It was a few solar cycles later, and for once they weren’t in Rung’s office. Instead they were at a little café only a few minutes from the hospital. Rung had chosen a table outside, with a view of the street. Megatron had spent an incredibly amusing breem watching Scorponok and Fortress Maximus both attempt to cross the street to avoid one another, stop when they realized they’d both had the same idea, and attempt to wordlessly negotiate a solution without making direct optical contact with one another.

“What was it for, then?” asked Megatron. He had ordered the smallest and simplest thing on the menu, and occasionally sipped at it. It didn’t make him want to purge if he drank it slowly.

“It was meant for carriers.”

“Carriers?” repeated Megatron. “Carriers of what?”

“Newsparks,” said Rung patiently, resting his own cube down on the table. “As we learned after the armistice, enduring panic attacks while carrying a sparklet leads to miscarriages. The trauma caused sparklets to be reabsorbed. Or, if they were nearer to emergence, destroyed them completely.”

Megatron said nothing. This was entirely out of his area of expertise, and there was no doubt in his processor that he’d only frag it up colossally if he attempted to react to the information in any significant way.

“Of course,” continued Rung, “it didn’t take long for mechs to realize that the drug was just as effective for non-carriers. At a time when we were overwhelmed with patients who seemed to be making minimal progress towards recovery, it was a welcome relief. We were perhaps a bit liberal with prescriptions, but the results were incredible.

“The turning point came just before an election cycle. Seeking to bolster their rankings, some of the incumbent senators banded together and voted to make the pills available to any mech at any time, without a prescription. The measure passed with virtually no opposition. At the time, I was not worried. The drug itself is harmless, even a moderate overdose will do nothing more than induce stasis lock.” Rung glanced down at his servos. “But now it is hindering us. Instead of continuing to recover, mechs are content to rely on the drugs and make no further progress.”

“If they’re functional members of society, why does it matter to you?” asked Megatron.

“Because I can’t guarantee the medication will always be readily available,” said Rung. “If something goes wrong—if there’s a delay in production, if resources become scarce, if the population builds up an immunity—the results could be catastrophic for Cybertron. If a mech is stranded off-planet and eventually his supply runs out, what will happen to him? It wasn’t intended to be a long-term cure, but that’s how it’s being used now.”

Megatron crossed his arms. “Which puts you out of a job,” he said.

Rung laughed very quietly. “Very acute. I did notice mechs began taking the Program less seriously when they were able to rely on a chemical substance to soften the edge of those terrible memories. I’d been hoping that it would have the opposite effect, that mechs would be more willing to explore those experiences and come to terms with them if there was a barrier between themselves and the worst of their pain. I was incorrect.”

“What are you doing about it now?” Megatron asked bluntly. Rung, as usual, looked completely unoffended.

“There is very little I can do, unfortunately.” There was a hint of sorrow in his voice. “We cannot deny citizenship to a mech who meets all the criteria simply because we do not like his coping mechanisms.” The little doctor paused, clearly remembering something. “Except in very extreme circumstances. But a campaign would be futile. The majority of the population has no desire to become less reliant on the drugs, because it would mean the return of some very terrible symptoms. But with it, they do not wish to dwell on the past—and I cannot say I blame them.”

“So we’re just waiting for a disaster to happen, is that it?”

“That is one way of looking at it,” said Rung, mild as ever. “Do not misunderstand me. I do not wish for the substance to be outlawed entirely. I feel confident that it is an important tool in healing from the past and shaping our future. But we are in desperate need of a cultural shift.”

“Is there anyone on Cybertron who doesn’t take those pills?” asked Megatron. “Anyone at all?”

“Now, you know I can’t discuss specific patients with you,” Rung admonished. “But I will say that there are mechs who use it very infrequently, or only during carrying periods.”

Megatron was incredulous. There had to be some mechs who had resisted the drugs entirely, simply out of paranoia if nothing else. Soundwave could tell him, most likely. But would Soundwave want to? The mech still had yet to contact him in any way. Perhaps they were done, the two of them.

He felt a little pang of regret at that.

Maybe I twisted your desire into something more, out of some desperate need to be wanted.

No. It had not only been desire. But had it been…that other word, the one he still couldn’t bring himself to think, let alone articulate? He didn’t want a sparkbond, he never had. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want Soundwave beside him for a very long time. The fact that Soundwave couldn’t bond had only been an advantage in Megatron’s optics.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Rung quietly.

“Soundwave,” admitted Megatron, then he immediately asked himself why he hadn't lied. What was happening to him? How did this tiny mech, whatever he even was, constantly managed to get Megatron to answer questions he never would otherwise?

“You should reach out to him,” Rung suggested this as though it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m sure he misses you as well.”

“I doubt that,” said Megatron. Then he remembered something. “Starscream claimed I mistreated Soundwave.”

Rung’s smile flickered a little. “Do you agree with his assessment?”

“No,” said Megatron. “If anything, I favored him. But Soundwave behaved strangely when we were in the hospital—as though he was afraid of me.”

“Have you considered simply asking him?” asked Rung.

“I haven’t spoken to him in…” How long had it been? He’d lost track of the days. Too long. Far too long.

“All the more reason to reach out to him, then,” said Rung. “I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

Chapter Text

A weather advisory for acid rain had been issued, and mechs were being encouraged to stay inside if at all possible, and not expose themselves directly to the weather for prolonged periods. When Soundwave arrived at the hospital, it was only raining lightly, occasional droplets striking the window.

Megatron still hated the room he’d been assigned, but it at least afforded a little bit of privacy. Soundwave pressed himself into Megatron’s arms briefly, then immediately withdrew, retreating back out of arm’s reach as if rethinking his actions.

“Soundwave,” said Megatron with a tinge of impatience. “What are you doing?”

The silence was deafening as Soundwave failed to respond. Megatron could usually read his silences, but not this time. He studied the way Soundwaves exposed lipplates were pressed together (it was still so odd, the sight of Soundwave in public without his mask). Perhaps that was a hint.

“You’re still upset,” Megatron guessed.

“Affirmative,” said Soundwave.

“I never wanted a sparkbond,” said Megatron. “You knew I didn’t.”

Soundwave tilted his head in a silent gesture of acknowledgement.

“And even if I did, it doesn’t matter, because it’s impossible for us.” That, in Megatron’s opinion, put the matter to rest. There was no point in arguing over something that could never happen. “What more is there to say?”

The only sound was the falling rain outside, now growing heavier. Megatron decided to try a new approach.

“You brought a crystal harp in here,” he said. At the words, Soundwave’s visor immediately brightened.

“You remember?”

“No,” admitted Megatron. “But when I hear music from one, I’m able to access some of the memories from my stasis.”

Soundwave drew close again, his energy field filled with hope. “I have music files I can play for you,” he said. “We can…”

“No,” interrupted Megatron. “Accessing the memories that way has…physical side effects and I won’t weaken myself my enduring them.”

Soundwave took Megatron’s servos in his, lacing their digits together and drawing them up to his chassis. “There is a substance—”

“No,” said Megatron harshly. “Absolutely not.”

Soundwave turned his helm away and gave a small nod, as though he’d been expecting this response. In contrast, his grip on Megatron’s servos tightened.

I have missed you, Megatron thought, pressing the sentiment to the front of his processor so that Soundwave could not miss it. Still, Soundwave seemed torn between advancing and retreating.

“Tell me what more you want from me,” said Megatron.

“What have I ever wanted?” asked Soundwave. “Safety. Security.”

“Am I unsafe?”

“Affirmative,” said Soundwave. That was…shocking to hear, though not exactly unexpected, given what Starscream had said to him.

“In what way,” Megatron could already feel his patience beginning to boil, “am I dangerous?”

“Numerous.”

“Numerous? What the slag is that supposed to mean?”

“Meaning: Many. Plentiful. Abundant.”

Megatron realized that Soundwave had slipped back into the odd, limited pattern that he’d been famous for during the Great War. He had used it as a defense mechanism, along with his mask and visor and vocal synthesizer. The fact that he was using it on Megatron was almost...offensive.

“Soundwave,” Megatron said. “Don’t do that.”

Soundwave’s visor glimmered a little, a formal but wordless challenge. Megatron had seen it before, but never directed at himself.

“Query: What activity is objectionable?”

“That!” snapped Megatron. “That—speaking like you’re a drone.”

“Query: Offensive?” Primus, he could hear the infuriating satisfaction in Soundwave’s voice! Megatron gritted his dentae together. The mech had clearly been spending too much time around Starscream.

“Soundwave,” said Megatron. “You are being ridiculous.”

“Clarification requested.”

Something in Megatron snapped. He moved forward to grab Soundwave by the arm and raised his own servo without really thinking about what he was doing. Soundwave immediately stilled, visor flashing with fear.

Megatron froze. He looked over at his own upraised arm, which was trembling a little in the air. Then he slowly, slowly, slowly lowered his servo back down to his side.

“You are ill,” said Soundwave very quietly, yanking his arm free. “Can you see it now?”

“That wasn’t—” Megatron struggled to reorient himself, to somehow reframe the last fifty klicks in a way that didn’t make him look like a monster. “Soundwave, you can’t really think I would have—”

“Why not?” asked Soundwave. “You did it to the others often enough.”

“But not to you,” said Megatron. “Never to you.”

“Almost never,” corrected Soundwave. “And only because you allowed me into your processor, so I could remove myself and my symbionts whenever there was danger. You are ill, and you must accept that, just as you have accepted the armistice.”

“I wasn’t going to strike you,” Megatron objected. “I stopped, didn’t I?”

“You should not have started,” retorted Soundwave. For some reason, Megatron could not come up with an intelligent response to that. Soundwave stalked across the room, his energy field sizzling with uncharacteristic outrage.

“Soundwave,” said Megatron. “You are being—”

“Unreasonable?” Soundwave interrupted. “Yes. To your optics, perhaps I am. As I said, you are ill, to think to control the mechs who swore their lives to you through such means.”

“It was wartime!” Megatron shouted. “How else could I have kept an army of that power and magnitude in line?”

“Prime managed it,” Soundwave retorted.

Megatron’s digits reflexively began to curl into a fist, but Soundwave grabbed his wrist.

“You see?” He yanked Megatron’s servo, still half-clenched, up to optic level, forcing him to look at it. “This is unacceptable!”

Baffled, Megatron could only stare at his own servo as if he had never seen it before. Soundwave released him and stalked back to the door, putting as much distance between them as he could without actually leaving the room.

“You are dangerous,” said Soundwave. “I have three symbionts who have never known violence, and I will offline before I expose them to it.”

“Soundwave,” he protested. “You can’t think I would ever harm your symbionts.”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Soundwave.

The silence stretched on and on, painfully emphasized by the rain striking the windows in irregular spurts.

“I have not changed,” said Megatron. “But you have.”

Soundwave nodded. “I have. For the better.”

Something about that was unsettling. “You’ve changed your mind, then?” asked Megatron. “About—”

“Us?” He was glad Soundwave had said the word, because for some reason, he could not. “No. I have not. I know you need to heal, just as the rest of us did. Most of us were quick to anger immediately after the war. It would be hypocritical to not give you the opportunity to adapt. But I cannot tolerate attacks on myself or my creations in the meantime.”

His processor was spinning. This was almost as disorienting as his first awakening, when the sound of a sparkling playing with his own teleportation matrix had jarred him out of an endless recharge. Soundwave must have sensed this, and very gently rested a servo on Megatron’s chassis.

“Go to Rung. Tell him I was correct. He will help you, because I cannot.” Soundwave rose onto the tips of his pedes to brush his lipplates against the side of Megatron’s helm. “I will see you soon.”

And he left Megatron there in the hospital room, alone save for the distant rumbling of storm clouds.

His first instinct was to rage, to smash everything that might be remotely breakable, to tear the door free and shatter the window with it—but something stopped him. Instead, he locked his arms at his sides and took the hospital transport to Rung’s office, not even noticing as the droplets of acid rain stung at his armor as he walked up the steps to the building.

When he entered, it was quiet and serene, as usual. He entered the waiting area for Rung’s office, sat in a chair for a few breems. When nothing happened, he shifted around and pushed his seat a meter back so that it scraped across the ground.

At the noise, Rung’s door open and the tiny doctor stood there, looking mildly confused.

“Megatron!” said Rung in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you today. Is everything alright?”

Megatron stood. “Are you with another patient? I can come back later.”

“No, my next appointment isn’t for a cycle. Did something happen?”

No. Yes. Almost. “I met with Soundwave,” Megatron said, deciding it was best not to go into detail just yet. He didn’t know if he trusted himself to recount the events to Rung accurately. He had an odd sensation in his tanks, a strange combination of burning and emptiness. Was it…shame?

No. Never. It couldn’t be.

Rung looked troubled. “I take it…it didn’t go well, then?”

“No,” said Megatron. “It didn’t.”

Rung removed his optical enhancers, revealing rather handsome faceplates, and pinched his nasal ridge. “I am very sorry,” he said. “Why don’t you come in, and we can talk about it.”

He didn’t want to. Primus, he didn’t want to. He would rather swallow an entire packet of those pills than look Rung in the face and tell him what he’d almost done. What he had done.

“Soundwave said to tell you,” said Megatron, “that he was right.”

Rung sighed heavily.

“Let’s begin,” he said.

Chapter Text

Rung listened. Nothing seemed to surprise him.

He listened to Megatron talk about the mines, the gladiatorial pits, the early rallies, the propaganda, the plots and the skirmishes and finally the battles.

He talked about meeting Soundwave, who had fallen to his knees and sworn eternal loyalty in exchange for safety for himself and the four symbionts he carried. He talked about Shockwave, brutally wronged by the Senate, but still full of ideas and with more credits to his name than Megatron had ever seen before in his life. He told Rung about Starscream, sparkbroken but not defeated, alight with rage and clamoring for vengeance that Megatron was happy to provide.

And then finally, reluctantly, he told Rung about Ricochet.

Civilian-spark grounders weren’t common in the Decepticon Army, but they weren’t precisely rare, either. Sometime at the height of the Great War, Ricochet had strolled into the base as part of a squadron that had been transferred back to Tarn from an off-world campaign. He had all the correct documents, knew all the correct designations, laughed at all the right times and traded punches with his squad mates as if they’d all known each other for vorns.

There was no reason to suspect him of being an infiltrator.

But Starscream, always with his uncanny way of knowing when things were not-quite-right, had cornered Ricochet the moment he’d first set optics on the mech, interrogating him about where he’d been stationed and what his assignment was.

Megatron had idly ordered Starscream to leave the mech alone, thinking it was just the seeker’s dislike of grounders manifesting itself in an unusually aggressive way—why should his Air Commander care about what the ground troops were doing after all, especially ones as low-ranking as Ricochet?

Two cycles later, with Soundwave standing at a console a mere ten meters away, Ricochet had walked right up to the primary power supply for the entire base and slapped a bomb to its hull. By the time Soundwave raised his helm to see what the noise was, Ricochet was already halfway out of the building.

They had fifty klicks to evacuate, which in the highly-disciplined Decepticon army had been time enough to minimize casualties. But there was no stopping the bomb’s countdown, and so the base was utterly destroyed.

As Megatron stared at the wreckage, shock slowly crystallizing into rage, Soundwave had made the mistake of approaching him.

“And then?” asked Rung quietly.

It had been deserved. It had been deserved.

Megatron put his faceplates in his servos.

What did he expect, with a failure of that magnitude?

“Megatron?” Rung’s soft voice prompted.

The glass of Soundwave’s chest compartment had shattered under his fists. A second punch, and his visor had cracked.

Megatron lost track of the blows after that.

Soundwave had not fought back, not once so much as raised a servo to protect himself. Eventually, the rage had subsided and he’d allowed the medics to take Soundwave away.

“I’m sorry,” said Megatron to the memory, but it didn’t make a difference.

Rung’s next patient arrived soon enough, and so Megatron was forced to leave. The idea of returning to his room, the place where he’d come so close to harming Soundwave, was extremely unappealing, so instead he returned to the Iacon Museum.

The medics had given him some credits, hoping that it would encourage him to venture out into the city more often and speed his recovery. Because of this, Megatron had no problem paying the museum’s entry fee, and soon found himself in the large room that housed his fusion cannon.

Thankfully, the museum was once again quiet and devoid of mechs, so there was no one except a lone curator to give him an odd look when he leaned up against the glass of the fusion cannon’s case and began conversing with it.

“What are we going to do about this?” he asked. He paused a moment to give the old weapon a chance to reply, if it wanted to.

“You’re useless,” he informed it. “Gutted. A hollow shell. And where does that leave me?”

The fusion cannon, to its credit, did not rise to the bait.

“Well,” said Megatron. “Let me know if you think of something.”

Megatron left it alone to think that over and went to explore some more rooms, including one that was an eerily accurate recreation of the bridge of the Victory. Upon reading the exhibit description, he realized that this was because it actually was the bridge of the Victory, dismantled and shipped to Cybertron for preservation, as if there’d been anything about Earth that someone might want to preserve.

Eventually, Megatron found himself back in the sky-painted room, the one that was empty save for the odd monument at its center. Moderately curious, Megatron approached it again to see if its meaning was any more apparent today than it had been during his last visit.

He looked down at the silver ring set into the floor, projecting a column of white light. The words engraved into the ring were just as enigmatic as last time—the ones we lost. The little particle of blue light that hovered around chest-height rotated slowly in the beam. There was no sudden burst of understanding as he observed it.

Reflecting on it later, Megatron could not say why he decided to bring one servo up to touch the blue particle. Perhaps it was merely boredom. But, to his great surprise, the particle reacted to his touch, shifting and settling into his servo. It was not a particle at all! It was a string of code, bound up so tightly that he hadn’t realized that there was more to it.

Megatron pinched one end and drew it out. The knot unraveled, unfurling into a banner of glowing blue glyphs. Words.

Wanderer. Cypher. Moonshot. Shadow. Chainlink. Remix. Overboard. Skyline.

Not words.

Facet. Lodestar. Flicker. Turbine. Silverwing. Whisper.

Designations. But, curiously, none that he recognized. He knew nobody could expect him to know every single one of his fallen soldiers, but at least some of the designations should have been familiar.

He released the string of code and it settled into a loop, circling him like the ring of a planet. It was moving slowly enough for the occasional designation to catch his optic.

Vermarine. Flit. Downburst. Leap. Sunfire.

There weren’t nearly enough designations in the ring for this to be any sort of war memorial, though.

Sunfire? Wasn’t that…

No. Starfire was the sparkling’s designation. And his brother was Crossfire.

There were far too few designations for this odd monument to have anything to do with the war.

Megatron brought his servos together, compressing the code back down into its original form, the tiny particle of light, its size and hue evoking the idea of…

…a sparklet.

The ones we lost.

Megatron backed away very quickly, stumbling over his own pedes in his haste to be far, far away from this monument to an unexpected tragedy.

Chapter Text

Starscream hadn’t wanted to have a conversation over the console, and had instructed Megatron to come to his home instead, stating that some time away from the hospital would be good for him.

Unsurprisingly, Starscream lived in one of the most expensive residential districts in Iacon, in a tower built in the Vosian style with enormous windows and balconies on almost every floor. As Megatron gazed up at it, he could feel nothing but dread churning in his tanks.

The apartment building was everything the Senatorial Palace hadn’t been, that much had been clear from the moment Megatron walked through the front doors and into the massive entry hall. It was, in short, completely fitting that Starscream had chosen to live here.

Fortunately, the building had doormechs who were happy to point him in the right direction, and soon Megatron found himself stepping out of a crystal lift and into an opulently decorated hallway. After a few false starts, he found the correct door spent a few awkward breems standing before it. Finally, when he could make no more excuses, he reached one servo out and knocked.

After a few quiet klicks, it opened.

Unlike all of the other mechs Megatron had seen so far, Skyfire’s new frame was actually taller and more impressive than his old one had been, because of course it was. The shuttle was only half as wide as he’d been before, but that did little to offset his height.

Starscream’s bondmate regarded Megatron with open disdain, but he didn’t slam the door in his faceplates like his energy field suggested he wanted to.

“Don’t be rude, Skyfire!” called Starscream’s voice from somewhere within the apartment. “Let him in!”

Skyfire gave Megatron a small nod and turned away. Megatron followed him in, stepping over sparkling toys as he went, until Starscream came out to meet him, wings held casually and energy field even lighter than usual.

“Skyfire,” said Starscream, resting one servo on his bondmate’s chassis, just over his spark plating. “Please try to relax. I’ve told you, it’s fine.”

“Star,” Skyfire protested very softly. “You know I—”

“Yes. I do. You tell me every single solar cycle.” Starscream rose up onto the tips of his pedes, and Skyfire obligingly leaned down so that the seeker’s lipplates could brush his. “Now, I won’t be long—can you watch the sparklings for me?”

Skyfire gave a quiet nod, and Starscream led Megatron into a quiet sitting-room with an impressive view of the city. Starscream sat down on a pretty but not particularly comfortable looking sofa, and Megatron took the seat opposite him.

“Well,” said the seeker. “You wanted to talk?”

“Yes,” Megatron said. “I…yes.”

Starscream folded his servos and looked at Megatron expectantly.

“In the museum,” said Megatron, speaking very slowly, “there is a memorial.”

Starscream’s smile evaporated on the spot. “You—?”

“I activated it.”

Starscream got up and walked to the window, one servo pressed to his own spark plating, his wings held painfully high in a gesture of false bravado.

“Was it my fault?” Megatron asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” hissed Starscream, but his vocalizer was crackling. “You think you’re significant enough to somehow make me lose a sparklet without even being online? You overestimate your own importance, as usual!”

Megatron didn’t reply immediately.

“I almost struck Soundwave,” he said at last.

Starscream’s optics brightened, his wings lowered a micrometer. “What? When?”

“Yesterday.” He watched as Starscream came closer, cautiously. “He came to visit me.”

Starscream’s faceplates cycled through six or seven different reactions before he finally settled back on a painfully fake neutral indifference. “Well, am I to take it that means you’ve found a new favorite?”

“Don’t, Starscream. I’m not in the mood.”

“What do you want me to say? Oh. Wait.” Starscream placed his servos on his hips. “Are you actually feeling guilty? Is that why you’re here? You want me to tell you it wasn’t your fault, you lived a lifetime of violence and it’s only natural that you became violent in turn?”

“That’s just an excuse.”

“My, we have made progress, haven’t we?” Starscream asked rhetorically. “I didn’t think we’d be having this conversation so soon. Wasn’t it just a decacycle ago that you last threatened to hit me?”

“Yes,” said Megatron flatly. And that was the crux of the issue. If Soundwave had received the least of his wrath, then Starscream was his polar opposite.

The seeker sat down across from him. “What is it you want?” he asked.

“Why did you allow me to come here?” asked Megatron. “After everything—and with your sparklings in the next room—”

“Skyfire can take you, easily,” said Starscream coolly. “Besides, I forgave you vorns ago.”

Megatron felt as though he had been struck by lightning.

“What?” he managed at last.

Starscream’s optics flickered a little. “I know you heard me the first time.”

No. This was all wrong. It was too easy, far easier than he deserved. Forgiveness had to be earned, not handed to him like he was an entitled noble receiving an inheritance.

It would take vorns of repentance, vorns of his own suffering, to make up for what he had done.

“Keep making that face. I love it,” said Starscream, crossing his ankles. “Was that all?”

It had to be a trick. It even made sense—Starscream would psychologically torture him until the heat death of the universe as revenge for the way he’d been treated as Megatron’s second in command. It was only fair. He did not deserve anything resembling forgiveness. Especially not from Starscream.

But there was no sinister glee in Starscream’s energy field. Only a calm, collected acceptance.

“…why?” Megatron asked at last.

Instead of replying, Starscream made an unusual whistling sound that Megatron had never heard from him before. A moment later, Crossfire ran into the room and leapt into his carrier’s arms. Starscream held him to his chassis.

“You’re getting too heavy for me,” Starscream informed the baby shuttle. “I’m going to need you to stop growing.”

Crossfire laughed and turned to look at Megatron. The sparkling was like a miniature version of his sire, with only the slight color difference in his optics and detailing to prove that he was his own mech.

“Hi!” he said brightly. “You’re all better now?”

“No,” said Megatron.

“You look better, though,” Crossfire observed with a head-tilt. “Are you going to get a new body soon?”

“I don’t know,” said Megatron. It was the first time he’d answered the question with anything other than a flat negative.

“I know what you should get!” Crossfire shifted so that he was sitting in his creator’s lap. Then he eagerly removed a datapad from a tiny subspace pocket and turned it on. After a few minutes of shuffling through the contents, he passed it over to Megatron.

The image displayed was a flight frame, rather than a weapons one—something that Megatron was surprised to realize. He was a military spark, and therefore able to take a versatile array of frames including tanks, weapons, and aircraft. His preference was for weapons, but he very much doubted weapon frames were even available anymore.

Like all the frames he’d seen, the one Crossfire was now showing him looked far lighter and sleeker than anything he was accustomed to. But it was not nearly as delicate as he’d been expecting, and the stats were actually not that bad. Yes, it was angular and light, but it still had a certain weight about it.

With some modifications, he might be able to tolerate it.

“I will have to consider this,” said Megatron at last. After saving the image to his memory banks, he passed the datapad back to the sparkling.

“I’m gonna be this,” said Crossfire, swiping a digit across the screen in order to show him an image of a shuttle frame that strongly resembled the one his sire had. Then he changed the image to what appeared to be a seeker frame. “Rain Dust and Solar Flare are gonna be this. Maybe Stormwarp, too, but he keeps changing his mind. A few solar cycles ago he said he was going to be a rotary! And then yesterday we learned about the Prime’s conjunces and he said he wanted to be a triple-changer but I don’t think he can.”

“He can’t,” confirmed Starscream. Crossfire sighed a little, disappointed but obviously not surprised. He pressed his little frame up against his creator’s cockpit, engine purring softly. One of Starscream's servos came up to stroke his sparkling's winglets.

And in that moment, Megatron felt that he was on the verge of understanding something completely new.

Chapter Text

Diabla was in a good mood, curled up against her carrier’s chest plate and quietly observing everything that crossed her path as they walked along the quiet street. At less than a stellar cycle online, she was still an infant by Cybertronian standards. But, as Flamewar was pleased to note, she was extremely active for her age.

Diabla was half-seeker, though she only showed it in the two protrusions from her back that resembled doorwings. Otherwise, she seemed to take after her carrier, as was common for sparklings with parents of two different sparktypes.

When parent sparktypes were different, there was some degree of risk involved in building a frame. Sparklings usually took their carrier’s sparktype, but not always. Flamewar and Slipstream had been advised to purchase a protoform instead of building a frame themselves. Placing their newspark into a protoform would allow the her to create the precise body she needed for herself, whether it be civilian, aerial, or something in-between. In situations like this, relying on a pre-built frame was simply too risky.

Slipstream had been a little disappointed when it became clear that the little protrusions from Diabla’s back were not, in fact, winglets. But she’d bounced back quickly, and now frequently talked about getting their daughter a jetpack when she grew older. Flamewar had no issue with this in theory—however, she had a feeling that she and Slipstream had different ideas of what constituted ‘older.’

Diabla began to make interested sounds as Flamewar approached the building that housed Firestar’s apartment. Flamewar and her sister had only recently mended their relationship, having spent the first few hundred vorns after the cease-fire quietly avoiding one another. Flamewar really hadn’t been expecting anything to ever change—even before the war broke out, they had never been particularly close, and always seemed to find something to disagree about.

But then one morning, not too long ago, Flamewar had received an image file from Firestar’s frequency of a tiny red and orange sparkling curled up on someone’s lap. That had been enough to start the conversation that renewed their relationship.

The sparkling, she would later learn, was named Flareup and had been sired by her sister. Firestar actually had two conjunces, Inferno and Red Alert. Inferno wasn’t a surprise, they’d been together even before the war broke out, and had always seemed to work well together. Red Alert, however…that was a different matter. His mere presence had been enough cause to cancel entire missions during the war. He was dangerous, but not in the straightforward way that Flamewar liked.

Still, he’d carried two sparklings—Inferno’s Blaze, followed by Firestar’s Flareup—and so Flamewar tolerated him, leaning heavily on datapads filled with ideas for neutral, inoffensive lines of conversation in order to get through extended periods of time in his presence. They had been a necessity in the days immediately following the cease-fire, and she knew she wasn’t the only one who would have been lost without them.

Unfortunately, credible resources on the nuances of raising sparklings were not nearly as easy to come by. Everyone had theories, but right now there simply weren’t enough sparklings in existence to make reliable claims about anything. Immense amounts of knowledge had been lost during the Great War, and some Cybertronians had even turned to examining how alien species with similar psychology or physiology cared for their offspring.

Flamewar wasn’t quite that desperate. Yet.

It was hard to admit, even to herself, but Diabla was having a little bit of difficulty interacting with others. She had a tendency to bite no matter how many times she was reprimanded. The fact that she was less than a single stellar cycle online meant that she couldn’t do very much damage, even to other sparklings, but Flamewar knew that would change as she grew older and received her upgrades.

Flamewar had no idea how she’d ended up with such an aggressive sparkling. Alright, yes, she was a bit aggressive herself, but that was different! What did a newspark even have to be angry about? Was it some inherent failing in Flamewar that Diabla had inherited? The idea made Flamewar feel a little sick. She’d never wanted her sparkling to be anything other than happy.

Flamewar buzzed herself into the building and made the familiar journey up to Firestar’s floor. Diabla seemed to recognize their surroundings, because she perked up and started squirming in the hopes that Flamewar would get annoyed and set her down so she could explore. But Flamewar was used to this, and held tight to Diabla until they were inside Firestar’s apartment.

Firestar and Inferno welcomed her in—it seemed everyone was home today. Red Alert was sitting with Flareup in his lap while Blaze played with some toys a few meters away. The room was completely strewn with soft toys, simple puzzles, and foam building blocks. This was normal for a household with two sparklings, and Flamewar was so accustomed to these sorts of messes that she was almost blind to them.

While Firestar took Diabla in her arms and tickled her plating, Flamewar looked around. Sitting on the floor was another sparkling that looked faintly familiar. She was a little civilian frame, like Diabla, but with a blue paintjob and little orange racing stripes as an accent color. She looked a little older than Diabla, though probably still less than a vorn or two online. Diabla’s optics brightened a little bit at the sight of the other sparkling.

“This is Catapult,” explained Firestar, yanking her digits away from Diabla’s faceplates just as tiny dentae closed around the space where they’d been a moment before. “We’re watching her for Ironhide and Chromia today.”

Flamewar took Diabla back and set her on the ground, prepared to spring into action if Diabla opened her mouth again. She’d been expecting the sparkling to crawl over to investigate Catapult. But instead, Diabla immediately turned away from the other sparkling and pretended to be extremely interested in the toys that Blaze had abandoned.

Catapult clearly hadn’t been expecting this, either. Not to be deterred, she pulled her knees in close to her little frame and rolled over to Diabla. When the other sparkling bumped up against Diabla’s frame, Diabla merely reached out and pushed Catapult back in the direction she’d come from.

Torn between her pride in her sparkling’s independence and her maternal desire to see Diabla behave like a normal sparkling and make friends, Flamewar did not allow her amusement to show on her faceplates.

Catapult seemed legitimately confused by the rejection, but instead of giving up and going to play with Blaze or Flareup, she began to gather up all the blocks that had been strewn across the room and set to work. Diabla didn’t even turn her head at the noise, but Flamewar could tell she was watching from the corner of her optic.

After about a breem, Catapult had constructed a tower that was just a little bit taller than she was. She seemed satisfied with it and then looked over at Diabla, who deigned to make optical contact just long enough for Catapult to punch through the base of the structure, sending the blocks toppling onto her own frame.

Diabla shrieked with laughter.

Before Flamewar could finish processing what happened, Catapult had climbed up onto a chair. This caught Red Alert’s attention, and the mech immediately shifted his grip on Flareup and began to get up. But before he could take the few steps to the little blue sparkling, she leapt from the chair, twisting around so that she landed flat on her faceplates.

Red Alert froze, his sensor horns humming faintly. Flamewar leapt to her pedes, but Catapult was already up and looking hopefully to Diabla for her reaction—which was more delighted giggles.

Flamewar knew from experience that sparklings had pliant armor over ample energon reserves, and so they could shrug off direct impacts particularly well. Still, she was more than a little concerned about Catapult, and found herself reaching into subspace for the emergency first aid kit that she hadn’t been without since first learning she was carrying. But Inferno reached her first, picking her up and checking her over for damages.

“Catapult!” he scolded, sounding more surprised than angry. “Why’d ya do that?”

But Catapult had no interest in being fussed over by the adults, and only seemed concerned with getting back down to the ground. Inferno reluctantly put her down, and she immediately hurried back to Diabla’s side, stopping to grab a pair of soft toys along the way.

This time, Diabla didn’t ignore her.

Chapter Text

“Is he still in stasis?” Starscream sounded mildly incredulous as his voice cut through the darkness. “You can’t be serious.”

“Get out of here, Screamer,” said Hook, sounding more exhausted than angry.

“Is that any way to speak to your new leader?” There was a faint shifting sound that could only be Starscream’s wings fluttering with delight. “Besides, I’m here for a reason. Soundwave, Prime’s finally called back. He says he wants to speak with you.”

The ever-present sensation that was Soundwave’s servo clutching at Megatron’s own vanished suddenly as his most loyal general rose to his pedes. Soundwave did not say a word, but Megatron could hear his heavy pedesteps, followed by the sound of the medbay door sliding shut, then finally silence.

“You think the Autobots will go for it?” asked Scavenger.

“Of course they will,” said Starscream. “They’re Autobots. They love cease-fires, even temporary ones. And with no new wounded coming in, you should have no trouble restoring our glorious leader to full functionality, should you?”

“Maybe,” said Hook. “Maybe not.”

“Maybe?” repeated Starscream. “It’s been almost an entire lunar cycle! How long do you intend to drag this out for? Either repair him once and for all, or stop wasting resources and throw him out an airlock!”

Megatron broke out of the memory to the sensation of his own spark threatening to pound out of his own chassis. Rung sat just across from him, holding a small music player in his lap. The soft, rippling music of a crystal harp poured from the tiny speaker.

“Enough,” rasped Megatron, and Rung immediately paused the data-disc.

“What was it?” asked Rung. He sounded as serene as ever, and why shouldn’t he be? He was in his office, surrounded by only familiar things, and blind to the memories that he was unlocking behind Megatron’s optics.

Megatron stared at the empty air between himself and the little orange doctor. “I could hear them,” he said. “But I could not comprehend what I was hearing. It was as if I was a drone, programmed only to record without understanding.”

For some reason, he actually felt better for having said the words, embarrassing as they were. His spark was already starting to slow back down to its usual pulse.

“A drone is helpless,” observed Rung. “You must despise the comparison.”

Who wouldn’t? Even a slave could comprehend his own surroundings. A drone was closer to being an inanimate object than a mech.

“Again,” said Megatron.

“What?” Rung looked a little alarmed.

“The music—again,” Megatron ordered. For a moment, he thought Rung might refuse. And for some reason, the prospect was terrifying.

But Rung merely pressed the button again, and the music poured forth once more.

“Nobody asked you to come here, Shockwave, and nobody asked you what you think!” Starscream shrilled.

“I will offline before I allow this nonsense to go on any longer,” retorted Shockwave’s voice. “I am taking him to Cybertron with me, and that is final. It is illogical—no, it is downright foolish—to expect anyone to be able to recover from such grievous injuries on a base made of subpar alien materials on a filthy alien planet with only a few uneducated day laborers to serve as medics.”

“Energon crisis on Cybertron: Unresolved,” objected Soundwave.

“That’s not your concern,” said Shockwave. “My base on Cybertron is clean, contains superior equipment, and I have medics in stasis that can be brought back online. Soundwave, I have allowed you to oversee Megatron’s recovery these last few lunar cycles out of respect, but I would be negligent to let him remain on Earth.”

Silence. Silence. Silence.

“Soundwave: Will accompany you,” said Soundwave at last.

“You can’t be serious!” Starscream cried. “You would deprive our home of the energon it needs to function for the sake of possibly bringing a single mech back online?”

“The Autobots can bring our truce to an end at any moment,” reasoned Shockwave. “There is no better time to leave than now, while we can still use the spacebridge without fear of being intercepted. But there is no question—if he remains here, he will die.”

“Good!” spat Starscream, genuine hatred in his vocalizer.

Megatron’s entire frame shuddered as he was wrenched free of the memory. Rung immediately stopped the music again, his enormous round optical enhancers seeming even larger than usual.

“I think that’s enough for today,” said Rung quickly, setting the player down by his pedes. “Let’s practice some vent cycling exercises.”

“No,” choked Megatron. Panic was a monster, gripping his frame in its silver claws. He had come so near to dying in that eternal darkness! But he had to force his way through it, to unlock more memories for the sake of winning Soundwave back.

“Yes,” Rung’s voice was surprisingly steely. “We need to get your spark rate back down before you have a malfunction. Vent with me.”

Megatron cycled his primary vents deeply in time with Rung’s, more for the little doctor’s peace of mind than his own. He really didn’t understand how cycling his vents was supposed to do anything for the panic seizing his frame. But then, he understood very little of what Rung wanted him to do.

“You are not powerless,” said Rung. “You are not a slave. You are not a drone. Can you say that with me?”

“I am not a drone,” Megatron muttered, feeling foolish as he said the words. “I am not a slave.”

It was difficult to say which he found more idiotic, the venting or the mantra. But in time, the worst of the symptoms ebbed away, and Megatron found himself able to meet Rung’s optics again.

“Better?” asked Rung.

“Yes,” said Megatron. His energy field was still frayed with that bitterly familiar mix of panic, shame, and guilt. But the panic was less urgent now, and the shame and guilt didn’t burn so acutely as they had a few minutes before.

“Are you well enough to walk, or would you like to—?”

“One more,” said Megatron. “One more memory.”

“No, Megatron,” said Rung. “That’s enough for today.”

Rung was so tiny, no bigger than Megatron’s arm, and it would have been a simple matter to simply take the device from him and resume the music, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the memory of Soundwave staring in open fear at his upraised arm.

“Would you like to tell me what you saw?” asked Rung gently.

“Nothing,” said Megatron. “I saw nothing. But I could hear them speaking.” And he could feel Soundwave’s servo clutching his own, desperate and forlorn. “It was only shortly after the explosion. Soundwave and Shockwave were concerned. Starscream wanted to let me offline.” Not that he blamed the mech.

Rung seemed to sense the unspoken words, and gave a little sigh.

"I know you don't believe it," he said. "But you've made incredible progress since you first awoke. I am eager to see how you continue to grow."

Chapter Text

Rung refused to see him the next day, saying that Megatron needed time to recover mentally and physically from the panic attack the last session had induced. Not content to be confined to the hospital, Megatron instead reached out to Orion Pax, who happily agreed to show him the archives.

The archives, as it turned out, were located at the Senatorial Palace. Megatron made the journey there without incident, save for mechs whom he’d allegedly spoken to once for about three kliks a few million years ago greeting him in the street like an old friend and asking how he was feeling.

When he finally reached the Senatorial Palace, he hurried inside before anyone else could accost him. Once in, however, he realized he didn’t know where to go. There were no signs to give direction, and the building was quiet again.

He decided he would wait about a breem to see if Orion would come looking for him, but grew bored about halfway through and decided to look around. He avoided the door that he knew led to the Great Hall, as he didn’t want to encounter any politicians today, and instead began a systematic search of the other rooms that connected to the atrium.

The first room he tried was empty, though it looked like it was meant to be a place for visiting dignitaries to sit and rest while they waited for the Senate to see them. The second was locked.

The third room he tried was lined with shelves filled with datapads, and the only inhabitant was a small alien—the same one he’d seen on his first visit to the palace. Today, she was alone, without the protection of her significantly larger companion. She was seated all the way back in the corner of a chair that was far too large for her tiny frame, and had an equally oversized datapad balanced on her lap.

She obviously wasn’t mechanical, but she wasn’t quite organic, either. As Megatron pushed his energy field outward, he realized that what he’d thought was her body was actually an extremely complex holomatter avatar, projected from the glimmering stone embedded in her chest.

She seemed to be absorbed in her reading, but must have sensed his field, because she looked up curiously. At the sight of Megatron, she froze like a petro-rabbit spotted by a turbofox.

“I’m sorry,” said Megatron, because he was afraid the little creature might actually pass out from fear. “I’ll go.”

“No!” squawked the alien. “No, no, please don’t. I’ll go.” She was already struggling to get the datapad off her lap.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Megatron. “I’m just—”

But before Megatron could say another word, she leapt down from her seat, leaving the datapad behind. She didn’t even hesitate as she darted between his legs and out the door. Megatron watched her go in baffled silence.

“Weird, aren’t they?” asked a new voice. Megatron looked around and saw Rodimus was standing off to the other side, just outside the doorway. “You were nice to her, though. I’m impressed.”

Megatron glared at the young Prime. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you’ve never been fond of aliens, have you?” asked Rodimus rhetorically. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Can’t imagine you’ve got a petition for me.”

“I’m looking for the Archives,” said Megatron.

“Aah, boring stuff, not my department. Downstairs. The lifts are in the atrium, directly opposite the main entrance.” Rodimus pointed back over his shoulder. Megatron decided not to engage the mech any longer, and pushed past him without another word.

The Archives were dimly lit, as to protect the delicate equipment within. Large tables held unfamiliar tools from all across history, laid out carefully but lacking any sort of protection. One wall was mounted with a large projection screen. On the other side of the room, a series of tall shelves held countless delicate data crystals, each meticulously labeled and wrapped in soft mesh.

Some of the objects looked brand new, and others looked downright ancient. Megatron recognized large, bulky file storage devices that had been obsolete even before the war broke out, as well as smaller, modern data-discs.

“There you are,” said Orion happily, rounding a corner. He was carrying a small box in one servo. “I’m so glad you could make it. Here—I started putting this together for you after the armistice, and I’ve been adding to it ever since.” He proffered the box.

Megatron accepted it cautiously, and looked down. It seemed to be an assortment of datapads and data-discs, each labeled with a number.

“I think you’ll find it interesting.” Orion smiled, and Megatron wondered if he would ever get used to the sight of the other mech’s uncovered faceplates. “Some of it I’ll show you today, but we won’t have time to go through it all. Since I know you were interested in it, I’ll show you the Cybertronian Charter first—it outlines the laws that the Senate is held to.”

Megatron did not respond.

“There’s a copy in your box,” said Orion. “But the original is kept right here.” He went over to a large structure that appeared to be a solid block of metal, studded with small handles. He pulled on the highest one, and a long, slim drawer emerged. Resting inside it was an enormous white datapad, its screen dimmed. A sheet of glass covered the top of the drawer, preventing anyone from touching it directly.

“If I take it out, we’ll be in trouble,” said Orion. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone else was around. “But I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Despite himself, Megatron laughed quietly. Orion was already removing the glass pane and setting it on top of the cabinet. Then he withdrew the enormous datapad and turned it on, the screen lighting up immediately.

“Some solar cycles I think I’d prefer this to be in the museum, rather than hidden away in here,” said Orion. “It won’t surprise me if they do manage to acquire it eventually—they’re very well funded, and have a lot of influence with the school system.”

He passed the datapad over to Megatron. The text was large, to scale with the hardware itself, and he had to hold it at arm’s length to actually read it without inducing a processor-ache.

“It’s like that because it’s meant to be publicly displayed,” confirmed Orion. “But initially, there was fear that dissidents would target it, and so it was secured down here.”

“Dissidents?” asked Megatron, looking over at Orion.

“Not everyone was pleased with the end of the war,” Orion explained calmly. “Most of them accepted it when they realized there was no alternative, save starvation. But some were unable to bear the thought of sharing a world with old enemies. Bands of them would go out in search of mechs who had once been part of the opposite faction and incite violence.”

“And what happened to them?” asked Megatron.

“The worst of them were arrested,” said Orion. “Others left Cybertron voluntarily, though I do not know what they hoped to find off-world. Nevertheless, I cannot help but wish they would return to us. Part of me blames myself, for inspiring such hatred. But another part of me says each mech is responsible for his own choices. In truth, I don’t know what to think.”

Megatron wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so instead he turned his attention back to the massive datapad, searching the text for something to object to. He knew why Orion was showing him the original—so that there would be no doubt that there was any discrepancy between the original document and the copy in the box Orion had put together.

Orion understood him well. Perhaps too well.

When his arm grew tired from holding the massive datapad up, he rested it gently on top of the metal desk. Checking the properties, he saw that the document was extremely long, longer than he had any desire to read in a single day. Still, he wasn’t sure how long Orion’s interest would hold, and so he read on.

The document wasn’t particularly complex, but it seemed to him that the writers had been trying their best to cover every single possible situation that might arise in Cybertron’s future. He understood why they would want to take every possible precaution to prevent another war, but after a little under a cycle, he found it was starting to induce a processor ache—perhaps Rung had been right about him needing time to recover from yesterday’s session.

Megatron flicked the screen off and stared at nothing.

Orion, who had been doing something with the data crystals, came back over to help him replace the giant datapad in its drawer.

“I also have some video recordings I think you’ll be interested in,” said Orion as they fitted the glass cover back into place. Then he seemed to consider Megatron. “But perhaps we should get some energon first.”

Megatron didn’t exactly want to go back outside, but he realized that staying in the dimly lit archive wouldn’t help either. So he subspaced the box that he'd been given and allowed Orion to lead the way back to the lift and out of the Senatorial Palace.

“I know a place where we can get energon,” Orion was saying as they emerged onto the street. It wasn't too crowded, but it wasn't as empty as it had been on the day of Megatron's first visit. “Nothing extravagant or too expensive—by Central Iacon’s standards, at least…” his vocalizer trailed off, and Megatron looked over at him. Orion was staring upwards, and Megatron followed his gaze to the spot where strange, hideous ships hung in the sky.

“Whose are those?” asked Megatron, bemused. Orion grabbed his arm.

“Run,” he said.

“What—?” began Megatron, but Orion was already shoving him back towards the Senatorial Palace. Despite Megatron's best efforts to resist him, Orion managed to force him around the corner of the building just as the world behind them exploded.

Chapter Text

Megatron’s vision cleared as the dust settled. Orion was still hanging on to his arm, vents sputtering, as Megatron staggered to keep his balance. His processor was spinning, neglected battle coding flaring back online. He needed a weapon. He needed a defensible position. He needed—

“What’s going on?” asked a mech. Megatron looked over to his other side, where a slightly stunned looking grounder was staring around in wide-opticked confusion. Glancing around, Megatron realized he wasn’t the only one. Cybertronians of all different frametypes were all looking at each other in a mix of fear and confusion. Some were already transforming and speeding off into the opposite direction. Some had started to scream. Some, curiously, were sitting on the ground, their legs curled awkwardly into their chests and servos pressed against their audials.

Megatron wrenched free of Orion’s grip and hurried back to see what was going on. There was a massive smoking hole in the side of the Senatorial Palace. He raised his faceplates to the sky just in time to see a hideous, misshapen monster drop from the largest of the ships and onto the streets of Iacon.

It was silver and purple, with enormous, jelly-like yellow optics and a gaping mouth filled with enormous triangular dentae, each individual one the length of his forearm. Hulking and hunched-over in form, it gave an animalistic grunt as it sniffed the air. A moment later, two identical creatures dropped down beside it, landing heavily on their pedes.

“Well,” announced a nearby mech. “I’m out.” And he unsubspaced a packet of those familiar green pills, swallowed six at once, and collapsed onto the ground. His energy field was so flat that Megatron would have thought him offline if not for the fact his frame still retained its colors. And it seemed he was not the only one who had settled on this method of problem solving because a moment later another mech a few meters away collapsed onto the ground as though his spark had suddenly failed him.

Megatron’s fists clenched, but yelling at them wouldn’t fix anything. Their processors were already somewhere far away. He would accomplish more if he confronted the alien invaders. His frame might still not be at peak power, but he was sure he could beat an explanation from one of them, and it would probably be just as therapeutic as his sessions with Rung.

Orion, who knew him too well for his own good, grabbed his arm again when he sensed Megatron’s intentions.

“Leave it for the planetary defense,” he said. “Help me evacuate these civilians.”

Megatron opened his mouth to ask where this so-called “planetary defense” had been when a small fleet of alien spacecraft had entered Cybertron’s atmosphere. But just then, a quintet of jets shot past in the sky, speeding towards the invading ships. Sirens began to wail, and that seemed to wake up the few mechs who had decided that gawking incredulously at the sky was the best course of action. Orion turned his attention on the mechs who were curled up into balls, gently urging them back to their pedes and pleading with them in that damned soft voice of his to please, please get to safety.

But there were more creatures in the streets now, at least thirty, with more still landing on the ground with every passing moment. They seemed a little disoriented, but were still drawing closer.

Above their heads, the first wave of jets circled around the warships, and Megatron realized that they were engaging the ships and not the creatures on the ground. Orion would never be able to get the rest of the stragglers out of the way before the misshapen monsters reached them. But before he had a chance to act, a flashy red vehicle sped out from the still-smoking new entrance in the Senatorial Palace, his engine roaring. He drove right up to the monsters, transformed, and punched the nearest one in the face.

If Rodimus was aware of the astronomical odds against him, he didn’t show it. In fact, he almost appeared to be enjoying himself. Megatron decided that the best thing that he could do was help. True, he had no weapon, but this wouldn’t be the first time he was without one. He could improvise.

Rodimus didn’t look particularly surprised to find Megatron beside him, apparently determined to punch his way through the invading army. He just grinned like he was at a party and Megatron was an unexpected but welcome guest.

“If we can hold ’em back until reinforcements get here, I think we’ll be fine,” said Rodimus. “If Mags asks, you haven’t seen me.”

Megatron didn’t know who ‘Mags’ was, but wasn’t going to waste energy with questions. Warnings from Rung and the medics about overexerting himself clanged in his processor, but surely a few minutes of combat wouldn’t do that much damage.

More jets were coming in now, streaking towards the invading ships. The sky was alight with laserfire, but this did not stop the alien monsters from leaping down and joining their brethren on the ground—and now they were coming two at a time. Something raced past him, and Megatron was surprised to see the large rock-alien creature, companion to the smaller one that he’d accidentally terrified only a few cycles ago, thundering onto the battlefield with what appeared to be a battle-axe in her hands.

And more mechs were joining the fray as well, including someone that Megatron eventually identified as Ironhide, more by the enormous gun he carried than his frame. Megatron’s battle coding tried to reroute itself to what it saw as the most prominent threat, and he forcibly overrode it, marking Ironhide as a temporary ally in his databanks.

A few klicks later, Megatron punched through a monster and out the other side, only to find himself staring at Ultra Magnus.

“Civilians clear the area!” ordered Ultra Magnus, which was quite possibly the most offensive thing that anyone had ever said to him in his entire existence. But it would have been a waste of energy to punch him, and so Megatron went back to holding off the aliens. Ultra Magnus, fortunately, was too busy to enforce the order.

A flash of color caught Megatron’s optic. A very small seeker, painted yellow and glowing with a faint golden light, was patiently making his way through the fray, the heat coming off his frame in waves and melting the armor of their attackers until it was soft and warped.

“Sunstorm?” asked Megatron, and the mech turned to regard him with curiosity in his intense amber optics. He wasn’t Sunstorm, Megatron realized. He wasn’t even a fully-formatted adult! The mech was somewhere in that short but awkward adolescent stage that was crucial for the last stages of processor development. Though technically not a sparkling, he had no business being anywhere near the front lines of an invasion. Just beside him was a second adolescent seeker, this one painted green and also faintly luminous. They were not fighting, precisely, but their very presence seemed to be enough to make the aliens howl in pain and flee back towards their ships.

Megatron opened his mouth to order the two back to their creator when something struck the ground like a meteorite, taking out twenty of the monsters at once. A wave of heat rushed over Megatron’s frame, and a few distorted warning notices about radiation exposure popped up behind his optics.

Even with five hundred vorns of peacetime, there was no mistaking Sunstorm for anyone else. Golden light poured from his frame. Once the closest aliens had been dealt with, he turned enraged golden optics on the two young seekers.

“Go!” he ordered, pointing in the opposite direction of the growing fray. Fortunately, the two adolescents obeyed the order and went back the way they’d come from. Sunstorm looked over at Megatron, gave him a short nod, and ignited his thrusters once again.

And still the aliens came, dropping from the holding bays of the ships as though they were infinite. A servo touched Megatron’s shoulder, and he wrenched free in a blind panic, suddenly aware of how his spark was racing. A familiar seeker was standing just behind him, his energy field radiating controlled outrage.

“Can you transform?” asked Starscream.

Chapter Text

“Can you transform?” asked Starscream.

Megatron honestly didn’t know the answer to that. He hadn’t even tried since awakening.

Half-expecting something horrible to happen, he gave his t-cog an experimental nudge. His plating shifted slightly in response. There was no pain in his frame, no sudden squeal of metal on metal or crunching of gears.

Perhaps he could, then.

Starscream’s servos were already outstretched, ready to catch him in gun mode as he had thousands of times before. Deciding he had very little to lose at this point, Megatron transformed.

He landed in Starscream’s waiting servos, and the mech gave a slightly hysterical laugh that Megatron completely understood. Their energy fields melded together in the way that Soundwave had never liked, and then Megatron was lost in the exhilarating rush of battle and destruction.

In the last days of the war as Megatron had known them, Starscream had been an erratic fighter, trading the cold efficiency that had earned him his rank for spiteful, directionless destruction. But now it was as though his younger self had made a return.

The loss of his fusion cannon meant that Megatron’s shots were narrow, focused beams instead of wide, concussive blasts. But Starscream had excellent aim, and they quickly deduced that shooting between the monsters’ optics would take them down for good.

They killed ten monsters in that first handful of klicks, the oversized creatures landing in front of one another and creating a makeshift barrier. Starscream’s energy field crackled with delight and satisfaction as they fell.

Megatron had no optics in gun mode, but his sensors still allowed him to ‘see’ as clearly as any vehicle could. It seemed that there were enough of the ugly aliens to populate a city, but Starscream was not overwhelmed. He was outraged, yes, but there was no sign that he was about to dissolve into a shrieking fit. Every shot fired was cordial and impersonal, with no time wasted to celebrate the victory.

The aliens didn’t seem to be particularly intelligent, and didn’t appear to have a strategy beyond swarm and bite. Megatron found himself wondering if they were more akin to mechanimals than mechs. Nevertheless, as Starscream climbed the pile of greying corpses, they caught sight of a few unfortunate Cybertronians in the middle of a group, missing limbs and clearly on the verge of being overrun.

Shooting a monster between the optics was difficult when the monsters backs were facing them, but Starscream was patient. In this instance, Megatron’s missing fusion canon was actually an advantage, as a full-powered blast would have taken out the aliens and their Cybertronian prey in a single shot. He’d forgotten what precision felt like.

Checking his energy levels, Megatron determined that he had about seventy-five shots left before he’d reach dangerous levels of depletion—ridiculously weak for him, but more effective than punching. And it wasn’t that his frame was short on energy, yet. It was that it seemed to have become more inefficient, requiring more energy than it ever had for each individual shot. He pushed the sensation towards Starscream, and received a wave of understanding in return.

When the aliens drew near enough, Starscream took advantage of their proximity instead of retreating. He spun Megatron around in his servos and used his hilt as a blunt weapon instead, cracking one in the back of the neck. He took out another’s liquid optic in the same way, the gelatinous fluid smearing across his side. Starscream’s disgust bled into their shared energy field, as though this had somehow been Megatron’s fault.

Megatron could sense more mechs joining in the defense of the city. Some had grounder energy fields, but moved with careful precision. Those, Megatron realized, had to be either enforcers or some other sort of city defense. But there was no shortage of what honestly seemed to be ordinary Iaconian citizens of all sparktypes throwing themselves into battle.

He wondered how many of them were fighting to protect their home, and how many of them were fighting in pursuit of something nostalgic.

Starscream was monitoring the skies as well as the ground, watching as the aerial defense struggled to make any sort of impression on the warships. Megatron knew he wanted to be up there as well, but something was holding him back. But if an explanation was somewhere in his energy field, it was not anything he could interpret.

When at last his energy reserves were depleted, Starscream withdrew from the fight and released him. Megatron transformed back into root mode and surveyed the scene before them. The ships seemed to have run out of aliens to drop, but had not withdrawn yet. Pockets of invaders still existed on the ground, but had been driven back to the shadow of their ships.

The ships in question were being distracted by the Cybertronian aerial defense, preventing them from firing on the ground below, which was perhaps the only thing keeping the battle from going in a different direction, and Megatron found himself growing suspicious. It hardly seemed like a true invasion, and more like…

Something swooped past Megatron’s helm, and he instinctively put his arm out. Laserbeak landed immediately, her talons wrapping around his forearm. If she was angry at him, she didn’t show it. Her small yellow optics watched him curiously.

But the moment didn’t last long, because Starscream gave a cry of horror and flapped his hands at her until she took off again.

“Don’t do that!” he shrieked.

“Do what?” Megatron suddenly wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest his aching limbs, and reflect on what he had seen.

“That—that posing. Don’t you realize how it looks? The media is going to be here any moment now—we need to split up, or they’ll get suspicious.” Starscream glanced around warily.

“Should they be?” asked Megatron.

Starscream gaped at him. “Excuse me?”

“Did you arrange this?” repeated Megatron. “These—aliens. Did you do this?”

Starscream made a sound of outrage. “Is that what you think? I risked the lives of our people on a, a publicity stunt?”

“Did you?” pressed Megatron. Their energy fields were still entangled enough that Megatron could sense Starscream’s understanding. He had certainly pulled off operations like it in the past, orchestrating entire battles in order to make the Decepticon cause (or later, himself) look good.

Starscream’s faceplates went dark. “Frag you!” he shrieked. Then he spun on his heel and flounced away.

Laserbeak settled on his shoulder again, tilting her head in the way that he knew meant she was speaking to him over internal comms—the only way she could with mechs that were not Soundwave or her siblings. But Megatron’s comms were still nonfunctional, and would be until he got a new frame.

Which, apparently, would be sooner than he’d thought.

Chapter Text

Laserbeak’s presence was reassuring, but Megatron’s limbs felt like they might be in danger of falling off. As he trudged away from the battle in the direction of the hospital, he passed an alarming number of stasis-locked but otherwise unharmed mechs laying in the streets.

He could not help but feel scornful. If the monsters hadn’t been successfully held at bay, these mechs would all have been eaten alive or crushed underpede breems ago. And it was still a possibility, he realized, because the battle wasn’t over yet.

He wondered if he could get to a place where he could watch the battle safely. He didn’t trust his antigravs in this state, but a rooftop would be ideal.

Megatron heard the roar of rotaries overhead, but ignored the noise until he realized it wasn’t moving towards the battle like he’d assumed it would. Megatron raised his helm and saw a red and black helicopter hovering just above him. It transformed in midair and landed on the street before him.

She was a thin femme, with a large red visor that seemed to take up the majority of her faceplates. A Decepticon insignia was emblazoned on her chest, and Laserbeak shrieked in displeasure as she drew nearer.

Megatron’s memory faltered. Moon-something. Moonspark. Moonsword. Yes. Some kind of weapon. Moonclub? Yes, but no. Wrong prefix—Moon was the other one—this was…

“Lunaclub,” he blurted out at last.

Lunaclub giggled wildly, and her rotors quivered a little. “I can’t believe they let you just wander around,” she said. “I knew they’d grown soft, but we still thought they’d have you locked up somewhere. Or did you escape?”

“Escape?” repeated Megatron.

“Come with me, my lord,” said Lunaclub. “I’ll get you to the ship. Everyone has been waiting so long for this moment! You have no idea what’s in store.”

Megatron was suddenly struck by the sensation that the entire time since his awakening had been leading up to this moment. It was what he’d been looking forward to, hadn’t it? It was the reason he’d agreed to visit Rung—to have enough freedom to allow a rescue mission to reach him.

Funny. He’d all but forgotten.

And Lunaclub’s servo was outstretched, expectant. Her faceplates were bright with delight, and she was clearly already thinking of the praise she’d receive for returning him to the Decepticons.

But Megatron was saved from having to answer by the roaring of a second set of rotors. Lunaclub looked up, smiling brightly. This rotary was blue and black, and she transformed in the air just as Lunaclub had. But instead, this one landed directly behind Megatron, blocking his escape.

She was identical to Lunaclub, save for the differences in their coloration and the fact she did not wear a visor. And while Lunaclub was still smiling widely, her expression was cold and dour.

“Moonheart!” cried Lunaclub. “Look who I found! And you all laughed when I said I saw him punching the Sharkticons!”

Moonheart tilted her helm to the side and her optics dimmed suspiciously as she studied Megatron. “Did you break out, or just convince them you weren’t a danger?”

“The latter,” said Megatron, forcing his energy field to remain neutral and hoping they couldn’t sense how drained he was.

Moonheart’s gaze flicked from his faceplates to Laserbeak. “Then what’s keeping you here?” she asked.

“I have my doubts about your commanding officer,” Megatron retorted, and Laserbeak gave a gravelly squawk of laughter. “And I suspect I would be better off without your aid.”

Moonheart’s optics were eerily intense, and she showed no amusement. “Our commander has always served you loyally,” she stated flatly.

That, Megatron felt, was arguable. But he knew better than to dispute the claim in front of these two.

“You will lead us!” chimed in Lunaclub. “That’s why we’re here! For you! And some of the others as well, but mostly you! Or did you think we’d just dropped five hundred Sharkticons on the city because it’s funny?”

“We have been stockpiling resources for vorns,” Moonheart continued as though her spark-twin had not spoken. “And there are more of us than the Senate thinks. With you commanding us, we will take back Cybertron for the Decepticons and rule it as we were always meant to.”

Everything she was saying made sense. Most of it was things he’d said himself at one point or another. He imagined himself on the bridge of a warship again—a true warship, not some pathetic underwater base, with an army of hundreds, perhaps even thousands. He would answer to nobody but himself, and reshape Cybertron into an image of greatness.

But for some reason, he could not help but take a step back away from the femme, which inadvertently only put him closer to Lunaclub.

“Do you think there is room for you on Cybertron as it is now?” pressed Moonheart, sensing he needed further persuasion. “If you’re not interested in raising sparklings or playing nice with the Autobots, they’ll cast you out. You can learn to pretend, but you can’t be something that Vector Sigma never intended you to be.”

Megatron found himself silently agreeing with her. But he couldn’t leave, not without Soundwave. And Soundwave would never agree to go.

Or would he?

“Okay, this isn’t working,” said Lunaclub. “You grab his arms, and I’ll take his legs.”

“No,” said Moonheart sharply. “He has to see for himself that we’re right.”

“But Megaempress said—”

“I know what she said!” snapped Moonheart. “And I’m telling you it won’t work. He has to want to join us, or he’ll just run away the first chance he gets—or worse, surrender the entire army to the Autobots. The Senate knows what they’re doing. They’ve made it look like Cybertron is a paradise now. Why would anyone want to leave that?”

Lunaclub made a few displeased noises, but did not argue her point any further.

“I suggest you keep your helm down until our ships withdraw,” said Moonheart. “Any other Decepticons you encounter probably will not be so…accommodating. Until next time.”

She leapt into the air, transforming as she went. Lunaclub cast a last, mournful look in his direction and followed after her sister. Eventually, the noise of the rotaries died away, leaving only the faint sound of laserfire to echo over the rooftops.

Laserbeak pressed her head against his neck until he was able to stop shaking.

Chapter Text

He could not return to the hospital—doubtless the Decepticons would be searching for him there. But Laserbeak seemed to have an idea.

Not being able to understand what she was trying to tell him was infuriating, but Megatron trusted her just as implicitly as he did Soundwave. So when she launched herself from his shoulder and glided down a back alley, Megatron did not hesitate before following after her.

Laserbeak kept off the main roads, leading Megatron deeper into a part of Iacon that he’d never seen before. The area seemed to be unfinished, as though all the wartime rubble had been cleared away but nothing had been built to replace it. Probably because there was no need for anything yet, Megatron realized. The Senate could have buildings put up, but they would probably stand empty for vorns until the population recovered.

Megatron realized that he hadn’t heard anyone speak about any city-states other than Iacon. What was happening in Kaon? In Tarn? Surely Starscream was planning to return to Vos at some point.

Could it be that Iacon was the only inhabited area of Cybertron?

He emerged back out onto a main road. The street was vacant, despite the numerous buildings that were clearly in use. Everyone must have fled inside once news of the attack spread. Laserbeak pulled her wings in, circled once, and landed on Megatron’s shoulder again. It only took him a few klicks to realize why.

Hurrying towards him was Soundwave, his energy field trembling with anxiety and fear.

“Follow me,” he said. “They won’t find you in the security center.” Without waiting for a response, he grabbed Megatron by the wrist and began to pull him down the street, occasionally veering hard to avoid a stasis-locked frame. Megatron’s exhausted limbs screamed in protest.

Fortunately, they did not have far to go. Megatron had been expecting Iacon City’s central security to be a large, important-looking building, not unlike the Senatorial Palace. But instead, the building was quite ordinary. Megatron wouldn’t have looked at it twice if Soundwave hadn’t stopped in front of it.

Soundwave entered a security code at the door, and lowered his visor to allow an optical scan. After a klick, the doors slid open and they hurried inside.

To Megatron’s great surprise, the security center was crowded and frantic. He took a step back as mechs rushed past, yelling to each other and gesturing angrily at holographic projections of maps of the city.

Soundwave seemed deaf to the noise and led Megatron into another room. The door behind them slid shut and the noise cut off immediately—this room was, thankfully, soundproofed. Countless screens took up an entire wall. Megatron examined them closer, and saw that each showed a different view of the battle he had just abandoned.

Megatron and Soundwave were not the room’s only occupants, though. Sitting in front of all the monitors was a small red and white grounder. Red Alert looked at him warily, and Megatron realized there was something strapped to his chest—a little red sparkling. A second sparkling was by his sitting on the floor by his pedes, watching everything the adult mechs did with rapt interest.

Red Alert seemed uncomfortable at the sight of him, and Megatron realized the best thing to do would be to keep as far away from the mech as possible. He sank into the seat closest to the door, his limbs relaxing at last.

“Their focus is the prison,” said Soundwave. “It is not surprising—we are holding many dangerous Decepticons there until we can determine how to rehabilitate them.”

“Then the attack on the Senatorial Palace was just a distraction?” Megatron asked, glad to have his suspicions at least partially confirmed. And Starscream had acted like he was being completely unreasonable.

On the screens, Megatron could see the mechs at the heart of the city continuing to fight the Sharkticons. Overlord was at the center of a massive group of them, smiling blandly as he pulled them apart one at a time, clearly in no great hurry as their claws bounced off his plating. Not too far away from him, a strange, tall alien was wielding a strange, ornate polearm with four blades. It took Megatron to realize she was another member of the species of holoform-rock aliens, though this particular specimen had two stones in her body.

Meanwhile, Laserbeak was perched on Soundwave’s arm, the two conversing silently. Laserbeak had probably already sent Soundwave footage of the entire confrontation with the twins. After about a breem, Soundwave nodded and Laserbeak flew off, out of the room and presumably back into the city to record more footage.

Soundwave turned to Megatron. “Did you see any other Decepticons?” he asked.

“No,” said Megatron. “The twins were the only ones I encountered.”

Soundwave’s mouthplates twitched. Belatedly, Megatron remembered that Soundwave had a particular dislike for Moonheart, and for good reason.

“There are several known groups of Decepticons and Autobots operating off-planet,” said Soundwave at last. “They continue as though the war never ended. So long as they do not trouble us, we leave them to it. We do not have the resources to bring them to heel ourselves. Sometimes the Galactic Council intervenes, when they become too destructive.”

Megatron felt a little jolt of surprise—that was different than the situation that Overlord had described to him (and in fact, he seemed to recall Overlord explicitly saying there had been no Autobots to fight with) and even Orion had failed to mention there was an entire war going on.

“It is not like that,” said Soundwave quickly, cutting through Megatron’s imaginings of battles in deep space or on alien planets, just like in the earlier days of the war. “Each faction is small, and operates in conditions that any reasonable mech would consider unbearable. When a faction becomes too large, it cannot support itself, and inevitably splits. Even the Autobot groups have difficulty allying with one another for long.”

Megatron’s optics found the monitor that still showed Overlord, who was saying something. Leaning in closer to hear the audio, Megatron realized that the mech was having a casual conversation with the rock-alien who was fighting just a few meters away.

Either Overlord had been somehow kept in the dark about the mechs who were striving to keep the war going, or he had blatantly lied to Megatron. Both scenarios were equally distressing.

“An attack has been anticipated since your awakening,” Soundwave continued, “though not one of this magnitude. Nor did we expect them to come in alien vessels. To our knowledge, they have no allies.”

On the screen, Overlord took a step back just as Grimlock stampeded past in dinosaur mode, pursuing what might have been an entire squadron of Sharkticons. For a moment, the screen showed nothing but flames, and Megatron wondered if the camera had been destroyed. But the screen eventually cleared.

“Is that all of them?” asked the rock-alien.

Apparently it was, because medics could now be seen on all screens, rushing towards the fighters with patch kits and emergency tools in their servos. Ultra Magnus was attempting to berate about twenty different mechs at once, presumably for the crime of defending their home planet while being classed as “civilians”, though nobody seemed to be paying him much attention.

A medic hurried out to Overlord, slipping a little on the energon underpede. Megatron opened his mouth to shout a warning about running up to war-builds with active battle programming, only to realize it was useless. He wasn’t anywhere near the battle. He was locked in a little security studio on the opposite end of the city.

All he could do was sit and watch as Overlord turned to look at the medic and swung his fist.

“Well,” said Overlord calmly, and it was a wonder that the cameras could pick up his words over the screaming of the rock-alien beside him. The medic’s now-detached helm was rolling across the ground. “It was fun while it lasted. Given a very generous definition of fun.”

Chapter Text

Megatron continued to watch the screen as the Enforcers came and led Overlord away. To his great surprise, Overlord went quietly, and even allowed them to put stasis cuffs on his wrists.

Megatron ripped his gaze away from that particular screen, but he could not stop Moonheart’s words from echoing in his processor.

You can learn to pretend, but you can’t be something that Vector Sigma never intended you to be.

Something touched his shoulder, and Megatron turned to see Soundwave gazing down at him. Had he caught that stray thought? The way he tilted his helm made Megatron think that he must have. Soundwave didn’t speak, but he tightened his servo for just a moment.

Soundwave probably hadn’t had very much trouble adjusting to peace. Yes, he was a military-spark, but he was more domestically inclined than any of their comrades. And he had never loved battle the way that Megatron and Starscream had, preferring to fight from behind the scenes and relying on his processor rather than brute strength most of the time.

He’d probably been happy for the cease-fire, because of what it meant for his creations.

But from the look of it, Starscream and Shockwave were enjoying the peace just as much as Soundwave. He would never have guessed that either of them would have any real interest in sparklings or a bondmate, Starscream’s tempestuous relationship with Skyfire notwithstanding.

Perhaps Moonheart was not completely correct. Perhaps some mechs could survive on a postwar Cybertron…

Megatron’s optics found Overlord’s screen again. Now it showed nothing but an empty patch of street.

…but clearly, not everyone could.

For the sake of distracting himself, Megatron found the cluster of screens that showed the prison. Like the center city, it was a mess, swarming with guards and enforcers and smoking heavily in some places. He could not tell what exactly was going on, but it seemed whatever battle was being waged was just about concluded. A few mechs wearing Decepticon insignias were fleeing, transforming into jet mode and shooting off into the sky. A few of the aerial-frame prison guards attempted to pursue them, but the cameras did not show whether or not they were successful.

Megatron continued to search the screens for something of interest, but found nothing. Soundwave immersed himself in his work while Megatron was left with nothing to do except observe the monitors and watch Red Alert’s sparkling crawl across the floor. For his own safety, he opted not to interact with it, even when it climbed over his pede.

Finally, when Megatron was halfway into recharge, Soundwave stood abruptly.

“The ships have withdrawn,” he reported. A quick glance at the screens verified his claim—the skies above the Senatorial Palace were empty. “I must deliver my findings to the Senate. Will you accompany me?”

Megatron’s limbs were still a bit stiff, but he was already itching to see the new Senate, and perhaps get some answers from them. With Soundwave’s help, he got to his pedes. Soundwave did not release his arm, even once he was upright, and they began the slow journey together.

The streets were mostly empty, though a few mechs were cautiously venturing outside to see what exactly had happened. Soundwave moved purposefully through the streets, ignoring anyone who called to him with questions.

When they finally arrived at the palace, they found it absolutely filled with mechs. The great hall was crammed full of Enforcers, guards, senators, and civilians. At the front of the room, an extremely large blue and gold mech with red biolights was standing in front of two other mechs, concern on his handsome faceplates. The front of his frame was splashed with dried energon, though there did not seem to be any wounds on him.

“Deathsaurus?” asked Megatron.

“Senator Deathsaurus,” confirmed Soundwave.

There were Decepticons…or ex-Decepticons…on the Senate? That was reassuring, though Megatron found himself wondering why he’d thought there wouldn’t be. Surely his soldiers would not allow themselves to be without representatives of their own, peacetime or not.

Megatron realized that he knew both of the mechs standing in front of Deathsaurus as well. The first was the famous Autobot medic, Ratchet. The other was Barricade, once a Decepticon soldier, now wearing the insignia of the Enforcers.

“Senator Deathsaurus,” Ratchet was saying. “The worst of the injuries were at the prison, but I also have a hundred stasis-locked civilians that deliberately overdosed on Cytan laying in the streets.”

“They what?” Deathsaurus looked shocked. “Why?”

“I need the senate to order the Enforcers on patrol to getting those mechs out of the way, before they’re injured further,” Ratchet went on, as if Deathsaurus had not spoken.

“We cannot do that,” retorted Barricade. “Our priority is the detection of any renegades who might have remained behind.”

Ratchet glanced at Barricade. “Your officers are more concerned with making high-profile arrests than looking after our citizens.”

“Our stasis-locked citizens will come to no harm, unless someone accidentally steps on them,” Barricade argued. “Any terrorists who have been left behind must be apprehended before they are able to put their plan into action.”

“Alright,” Deathsaurus raised his hands. “We’re going to compromise. Barricade, tell your mechs to get our people off the streets as they come upon them, but continue your search of the city. If you find any insurgents, notify us immediately.”

Barricade did not look pleased, but he nodded and left the room. Ratchet followed after him. Deathsaurus vented heavily and turned to look at Megatron. His optics brightened in surprise.

“What is he doing here?” demanded Ultra Magnus, his vocalizer loud enough to bring all other conversations in the room to a temporary halt. As the silence rang out, Megatron clenched his fists instinctively, ready to rise to the challenge.

“Ultra Magnus, this is not a closed session,” said Deathsaurus patiently. “Now, may we have your report?”

Ultra Magnus continued to level a glare at Megatron, but he seemed to be aware that everyone’s attention was on him now.

“The ships were identified as Quintesson in origin,” he said. “The Galactic Council has confirmed that Quintessa’s representatives filed a theft report about a deca-cycle ago. However, I do not believe there is anyone who does not believe that the Quintessons wholesparkedly endorsed this attack.”

“And the monsters?” asked a different senator—one that Megatron eventually recognized as ex-Autobot warrior Bluestreak. He’d matured significantly since Megatron had seen him last, his energy field calmer and his faceplates harder.

“Sharkticons,” said Ultra Magnus. “They are a species native to Quintessa. Their intelligence level is yet to be determined, but culturally the Quintessons regard them as little more than mechanimals.”

“Thank you,” said Deathsaurus. “Soundwave? What have you found?”

“The attack was launched by the Decepticon faction led by Megaempress,” reported Soundwave. “Megatron encountered two of her guard, but they departed when he refused to accompany them.”

All optics turned back to Megatron once again, and the room filled with murmurs.

“I find it suspicious that we went without an attack for hundreds of vorns, until he awoke,” Ultra Magnus said flatly.

“Megatron’s revival was no secret,” Soundwave protested. “It has been reported across the galaxy for the last lunar cycle.”

Deathsaurus seemed to agree. “We must be reasonable,” he said. “Megatron has been all but berth-ridden since he came out of stasis. He has done nothing to indicate he is in league with any of the renegade factions, and if he’d wanted to escape during the attack, he could have done so easily.”

Megatron knew Ultra Magnus was not even slightly convinced, but if the mech wasn’t going to arrest him on the spot, he could not bring himself to care. For some reason, he suddenly had a terrible processor ache.

“Do we have a complete list of the prisoners who escaped yet?” asked one of the other senators, an ex-Autobot that Megatron did not know the designation of. Someone else came forward, but Megatron was having trouble focusing. He truly had overdone it today, he realized, because despite his interest in the information that was being relayed, he could not bring himself to comprehend the designations that were being read out.

Fortunately, Soundwave was there to catch him when his legs finally gave out.

Chapter Text

At three hundred and seventy vorns old, Rain Dust and Solar Flare were, respectively, the second and third eldest sparklings on Cybertron and the first aerial sparks to survive to emergence after the end of the Great War. For the first hundred vorns of their life, they had been two of the three only sparklings on all of Cybertron, and so they had been doted on by almost the entire population from the moment they’d separated from Sunstorm’s spark.

Rain Dust had his carrier’s easy confidence as well as his sire’s logical, level-headed approach to problems. Solar Flare was shy and thoughtful, listening with rapt interest as their carrier explained obscure verses in forgotten religious texts. Both had inherited Sunstorm’s radioactive energy field, though Solar Flare’s was a little more powerful than Rain Dust’s, and neither were as overwhelming as Sunstorm’s.

It had been decided that there would be no school for the entire decacycle. Under any other circumstances, Rain Dust and Solar Flare would have been thrilled to hear this. While neither of them were bad students, they had reached that stage of their adolescence where they wanted nothing more than to recharge all day and spend their nights alternating between eating as many rust sticks as they could afford and flying around the tallest spires of central Iacon.

But today, all they could do was sit and worry.

Yesterday’s attack on Iacon was the only thing that anyone seemed to want to talk about. Even when the twins tried to escape to one of their favorite games, the in-game chat seemed to be nothing but mechs worrying about a Decepticon invasion or claiming that this was the prelude to another Great War.

The twins were forbidden to go wandering around the city, partially because of the Enforcers were warning that there might be Decepticons waiting to launch another attack, but mostly because they’d tried to fight the Sharkticons themselves. Sunstorm had been extremely unimpressed by their initiative, though the twins hadn’t understood why. They’d been doing pretty well, in their opinion, and their energy fields hadn't allowed any of the sharkticons to come close enough to even put a scratch on them.

So instead of enjoying their impromptu vacation, the twins were on the balcony not doing much of anything at all. Their creators had repeatedly assured them that yesterday’s attacks were not the start of another war, but people on the datanet seemed to disagree. The twins weren’t sure what they believed.

Rain Dust had been mulling over an idea all day long. Solar Flare was intensely curious, but had not needled him about it, either out loud or through their bond. He knew his twin would speak when he was ready to share his thoughts.

It was around noon when Rain Dust finally tore his optics away from the sky and announced, “We need a trine.”

Solar Flare looked at his brother. “A trine?” he repeated, uncertain. Trines were for wartime, he knew. Both their creators were on good terms with their trinemates from the Great War, and they occasionally flew together sometimes, but nothing beyond that. Even seekers in the planetary guard didn’t have trines.

But they were familiar with Cybertronian history, and the image of three seekers flying together in perfect synchronicity was extremely compelling.

“If there’s going to be more attacks,” said Rain Dust, “if there’s going to be another war after all—”

Solar Flare hugged his knees. “Don’t say that,” he said.

“We’re practically adults,” argued Rain Dust. “We have to think about the future. We need to find a third.”

“Who?” Solar Flare asked. “There’s nobody old enough to fly with us.” The oldest aerial-spark after themselves was Crossfire, who was still solidly in the ‘adorable round puff’ stage of development.

“I don’t know,” Rain Dust admitted. Muttering, he added, “Why couldn’t we be triplets?”

“Well,” said Solar Flare slowly, “there’s Armistice.”

Armistice was the eldest youngling on Cybertron, and the creation of Orion Pax and Elita One. With no other younglings in their age group, the three were extremely close. The twins found it a relief to be around someone who didn’t share half a spark with themselves, and though Armistice liked to claim she had blissfully happy memories of the two-vorn period when she was the only sparkling on all of Cybertron, they knew she valued them just as much.

“Armistice can’t fly,” said Rain Dust, but Solar Flare could sense his interest nevertheless. Armistice was a civilian-spark like her creators, and was looking over truck altmodes for when they went for their final upgrades in a few vorns. “I guess it won’t hurt to ask, though. I’ll comm her.”

“No,” said Solar Flare. “We have to ask her in person. So she knows we’re serious.” Solar Flare had read stories about this sort of thing—very romantic stories, which may or may not have actually been written by seekers. “Maybe we should bring her a crystal bouquet, too.”

“Carrier won’t let us out,” Rain Dust’s wings drooped in disappointment. The twins didn’t precisely regret trying to fight the Sharkticons, but they knew Sunstorm wasn’t going to forget it anytime soon.

“I’ll talk to him,” said Solar Flare, rising to his pedes. Sunstorm and Armistice’s sire-creator got along very well, and could spend cycles discussing the implications of some ancient, half-corrupted file they’d found at the bottom of a closet in the Archives. Solar Flare was confident that Sunstorm could be convinced to let them go, if he was approached in the right way.

He went inside and found his carrier preparing specialty energon. When he sensed Solar Flare’s field, he turned around.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “This will be done in a moment.”

Solar Flare nodded and moved nearer to his carrier. Sunstorm’s servo went out instinctively, pulling his sparkling closer to his frame. The twins were both of the opinion that they were really too old for this sort of thing, but the familiar warmth of their carrier’s spark was always difficult to resist.

“Call your brother,” he said. “You need to refuel.”

Solar Flare sent his twin a spark-pulse. While his bond with his carrier had weakened over the stellar cycles, his bond with his brother had grown in strength. Someday they would be able to use it to speak in more than just abstract emotions.

Rain Dust arrived a moment later, and the three sat down to refuel together. The apartment was quiet, the weight of yesterday’s events heavy in the air. Acid Storm had gone to work at the labs anyway, saying that he wasn’t going to let any splinter factions keep him from living his life. It was a sentiment that the Senate was working hard to encourage.

“Carrier?” said Solar Flare at last. “Mechs on the datanet were saying there’s going to be another war.”

“Never mind them,” said Sunstorm gently. “They’re just scared. We’re all scared.”

“Even you?” asked Rain Dust in disbelief.

“Especially me,” said Sunstorm, squeezing Rain Dust’s servo. “Things might be different for a little while, but there won’t be another war. I’ll offline before I let that happen to you. And I’m not the only one.”

“Can we go visit Armistice today?” asked Solar Flare.

Sunstorm paused, clearly weighing his desire to have his sparklings close to him against his desire to encourage them to go about their lives without fear.

“Very well,” he said at last. “But you are to comm me the moment you arrive. Understood?”

“Yes! Thank you!” yelled Rain Dust, leaping up and running back to the balcony and launching himself off it. Solar Flare gave his creator one last hug and followed after his brother.

It was a very short flight to the building where Armistice lived with her parents. They landed on her balcony instead of going through the front, only to find the door was locked. Fortunately, Armistice came to let them in after only a few klicks of tapping on the window.

Armistice was almost as large as her carrier, and it seemed that she’d be closer in size to her sire when she was fully upgraded. She was painted in red and pink and silver, and her helm took after her sire’s, though it was a little pointier.

“I’m surprised you two were allowed out,” she said as she opened the door. "Or did you sneak away?"

“Like we could sneak away from Carrier. Are your creators here?” asked Rain Dust. Armistice shook her helm, and they followed her inside the apartment.

“They’re off talking to the Senate or the media or whoever.” Armistice shrugged. “Trying to convince everyone to calm down and stop acting like we’re all going to offline.”

“Do you think they’re right?” asked Solar Flare, taking a seat on one of the couches.

“If there was a war, it would be a short one,” said Armistice, sitting down opposite him and curling her legs in close. “Everyone knows the renegade splinter factions have almost no resources. The only reason they haven’t been wiped out yet is because they’re not bothering anyone except each other.”

“Until now,” Rain Dust pointed out. He was pacing by the window, wings twitching anxiously.

Armistice’s optics dimmed a little. “What are you saying?”

“Solar Flare and I are starting a trine,” Rain Dust said. “Will you be our third?”

There was an awkward silence as Armistice’s bright blue optics went from Solar Flare to Rain Dust, clearly expecting one of them to start laughing and explain they were joking. Neither one did. “Your third?” she repeated. “But I can’t fly!”

“You can get a jetpack!” said Rain Dust eagerly.

To the twins’ great surprise, Armistice shuddered. “No thank you,” she said. “I don’t feel like dying.”

The twins looked at one another in confusion. Why would anyone who couldn’t fly under her own power not want a jetpack?

“This is serious,” said Rain Dust. “You saw those monsters. Don’t you want to help us protect Cybertron?”

“Maybe,” said Armistice. “But I’ll do it on the ground.”

The twins knew from long experience that Armistice was more stubborn than the two of them combined, and so it would probably be pointless to argue. But they did not bother to hide their disappointment. Armistice’s faceplates softened a little.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I don’t want to fly. Besides, once you two get your altmodes, there’s not going to be a jetpack on Cybertron that can keep up with you.”

“Rodimus would do it,” muttered Rain Dust.

“Then go trine with Rodimus,” Armistice retorted, but this insult wasn’t quite as effective as she intended because they all knew there was a pretty good chance Rodimus would happily agree. “Anyway, there’s not going to be a war. It’s just some mechs being afts. There’s a difference.”

“Some mechs, and a zillion Sharkticons,” corrected Rain Dust. “Anyway, what are your creators saying?”

“They’re saying we should all just keep going on with our lives, like everything’s normal,” Armistice said. “If we all hide away at home, it only makes us more scared. And most of the Senate agrees. They're trying to convince all the businesses to open tomorrow.”

“As long as they don’t open the schools, too,” Rain Dust said as he moved to sit down next to his brother.

“Anyway,” Armistice was clearly ready to move on to a new subject, “you saw Megatron?”

“Yeah!” Rain Dust’s faceplates lit with excitement. “He punched through a Sharkticon and his fist came out its back!” Rust Dust mimed punching an invisible enemy. “I can’t believe he still has that frame, though. He looks exactly like he does in the history files. But then Carrier found us and made us go home.”

“Well, yeah,” said Armistice. “You were stupid to try to fight. You could have gotten killed! Did you see any Decepticons?”

“No,” said Solar Flare. “Just Sharkticons. But everyone’s saying Megaempress was behind the attack.”

“Oh yeah, her,” said Armistice. “She’s Megatron’s…conjunx?” Now Armistice looked confused.

“I’m pretty sure Soundwave is Megatron’s conjunx,” Solar Flare said, but now he was uncertain as well. Armistice usually knew what she was talking about.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Armistice. “Maybe he has two.”

The three younglings fell silent, contemplating this new idea.

“I don’t think Soundwave would go for that,” Solar Flare proclaimed at last.

Chapter Text

The curators were thrilled when Megatron approached them about selling his frame to the Iacon museum. The head curator, a little minibot named Glyph, was already ordering her staff to clear a space for it to be displayed when he left.

Megatron hadn’t exactly wanted that, but he couldn’t deny that he needed the credits. Apparently pre-war currency wasn’t good for much anymore, and he was severely lacking in funds. Soundwave had insisted that he not worry about it, but Megatron was a proud mech and knew he would never be comfortable relying on anyone else.

Workshops where one could upgrade a frame or purchase something completely different were apparently commonplace in Iacon now. Soundwave had brought him in to Aerlight Builds to discuss what he wanted. The head designer, a seeker-frame named Comet, had listened carefully and drawn up some designs for them to consider.

The body they had settled on would be a flight frame, rather than a weapon, and had been primarily designed for stealth. Their customizations meant that it wouldn’t be as sleek as the original because Soundwave kept adding layers of heavy defensive armor every time Megatron turned around, but Megatron didn’t mind. In his opinion, it was still too skinny. Why did anyone need such a narrow waist?

Only a few solar cycles later, they returned to the workshop to see the nearly-completed frame. It was in root mode, stored in a protective pod, grey and lifeless. Still, Megatron wasn’t dissatisfied. If only he could have added some armaments…

“What are we going to do for colors?” asked Comet, coming around the back counter with his servos full of paint chips.

“Colors?” repeated Megatron.

“Surely you don’t want to leave it grey…” Comet fanned the paint chips towards Megatron, but Megatron did not take them.

“I’m not interested,” Megatron began, but Soundwave stepped forward and wrapped his servos around Megatron’s arm.

“What do you suggest?” Soundwave asked.

Comet looked thrilled. “I know primaries are out,” he said, tossing the paint chips over his shoulder. “Who wants primaries? Civilians. We like purple, right? But not too purple.” He went over to the console and typed in a few commands. The frame changed from grey to a horrible mix of bright green and violet. Megatron and Soundwave both flinched.

“Absolutely not,” said Megatron.

“No?” Comet looked disappointed. “But it’s so visually interesting. Alright, I understand. How about this one?” He hit a few spots on his screen, and the green-and-purple paint app vanished. A moment later, it was replaced by a very dark purple and grey color scheme.

“Better,” Megatron said grudgingly.

“Good. Good.” But Comet was already typing again. “And what about…”

A harsh knock from behind them cut Comet’s sentence short. They all turned to see a pair of enforcers—one black and white, the other blue—were standing in the doorway.

“Can I help you?” asked Comet, stepping away from the console. In its pod, the frame reverted back to protoform grey.

“We are confiscating this frame,” said the black and white enforcer, and now Megatron recognized him. Prowl. Optimus Prime’s tactician and TIC during the war.

“What?” Megatron took a step forward, plating already flaring out aggressively. “What?”

Comet gave a half-incredulous laugh. “Like slag you are. This frame is property of Aerlite Builds. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Prowl, at least, looked taken aback. “The frame still belongs to the workshop?”

“It does until someone buys it,” said Comet. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you think you have the right to confiscate private property?”

Prowl glanced at Megatron. “This mech has not been cleared for citizenship. The Senate has decided to block any upgrades he might seek until he has been deemed a non-threat. As it stands, allowing him to take a new frame is irresponsible at best. He has already enabled one mech to evade his firearms ban.”

Firearms ban? Megatron looked at Soundwave for help, but Soundwave was focused on the enforcers.

Comet’s jaw clenched, but the seeker remained calm. “Fine. Block him from upgrades, that’s the Senate’s business. But you’re not taking this frame off-site without a warrant.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Megatron. “Even before the war, there were no regulations against who could seek a frame upgrade.”

“Feel free to take your complaint to the Senate,” Prowl retorted coolly. “But as you are not a citizen, they are not obligated to hear your petition.”

Megatron looked back to Comet, who in turn looked baffled. “I’m sorry,” he said to Megatron. “We’ll hold the frame for you as long as you need. I…had no idea this would happen. Nobody’s ever enforced the citizenship laws before.”

Megatron could not stand to see the pity in Comet's faceplates; it was too infuriating. Soundwave rested one servo on his arm. Even the other enforcer, the blue and white femme, looked a little sympathetic.

“I will speak to the Senate, then,” said Megatron. “I want an answer for this.”

Soundwave was silent as they waited outside the Great Hall to be received. Megatron paced outside the door, even though he knew it was making the guards uncomfortable.

“Who has a firearms ban?” he asked at last.

Soundwave’s visor glinted. “What?”

“Prowl said I helped someone evade a firearms ban,” Megatron said. “What did he mean?”

Soundwave looked away. “It is unimportant.”

“Soundwave,” Megatron growled through gritted dentae. Soundwave gave a little flinch and pressed his frame closer against the wall. Megatron turned and walked away, putting as much distance between their frames as he could without actually leaving the area.

After a long, long moment, Soundwave spoke.

“The terms of citizenship for high-ranking mechs were different than the terms of citizenship for common soldiers,” Soundwave’s voice was very, very small. “For the sake of building a lasting peace, many of us gave up the right to own weapons.”

“WHAT?” bellowed Megatron. Soundwave turned his frame further away from him, towards the wall.

“During Megaempress’s attack, Starscream used you to exploit a loophole in the terms of his citizenship.” Soundwave’s vocalizer was almost inaudible now. “That is why he fought on the ground, rather than in the skies. He cannot own a weapon, or have weapons affixed to his frame.”

Fury—bitter fury—rose up in Megatron’s tanks. He thought he might tear the doors right off the walls. Only Soundwave’s terrified energy field kept him immobile.

“And he agreed to these terms?” Megatron demanded.

“We all did,” said Soundwave. “Please understand. It was no punishment. It was to keep others safe. None of us regret it.”

The door to the Great Hall opened, and Rodimus Prime poked his helm out.

“The Senate will see you now,” he said. Then he hesitated, his bright blue optics going from one to the other. His smile flickered. “Or...I can come back in a breem?”

Megatron ignored that and shoved past the young Prime.

This was Megatron’s first time seeing the Great Hall during a formal meeting of the Senate. There were ten mechs gathered at the stations near the front of the room. Some Megatron recognized, some he did not. Further out in the room, a few other mechs and aliens were observing quietly.

“Hey, I’m supposed to announce you!” Rodimus called from behind him as Megatron stalked towards the front of the room. “Okay, fine. Megatron of, uh, frag, Tarn? Tarn? Kaon? Someonehelpmeouthere—okay, Tarn—with a petition for the Senate.”

Megatron went to the podium and looked at each of the gathered Senators in turn. Some had clearly been Decepticons, once. Others were ex-Autobots. But some had strange, unusual frames that he couldn’t begin to guess at. Neutrals, perhaps?

“And what is this about?” asked one, a bored-looking yellow mech with a sharp, angular flight frame. “I wasn’t aware we were taking petitions from non-citizens.”

“Oh, stop it, Metalhawk. Nobody enforces that,” said Bluestreak. “Besides, we all knew this was coming. You’re here about your frame, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Megatron, a little taken aback by Bluestreak’s accommodating demeanor.

“Under normal circumstances, we would not block anyone from accessing a functional frame,” said a different senator, a civilian-frame that Megatron did not recognize. “But the recent attack has left mechs shaken, and we must err on the side of caution.”

“If I wanted to rejoin the Decepticons, I would already be there!” Megatron’s temper was already rising again. “This is nothing more than—”

“Our people are frightened,” interrupted Deathsaurus in an infuriatingly calm, patient voice. “And there has already been a rise in anti-warframe sentiment. We want to curb any panic before it has the chance to begin. This is for the good of Cybertron, not a personal attack on you.”

“When you complete the Program, no force on Cybertron can legally stand against you receiving a new frame,” Bluestreak added. “And by then, this will all have been resolved.”

He wanted his fusion cannon. He wanted to destroy this senate just as he had destroyed the last one, starting with the wide-opticked sparkling who called himself a Prime. He wanted…

“The Autobots would grant a permanent end to the war if we asked for it. They’re waiting for us to ask for it!” Starscream cried.

“It is not what he would want,” Shockwave said at last, but there was something resembling uncertainty in his vocalizer.

“Oh, who cares what he wants?” Starscream was almost certainly waving his servo dismissively. “Do any of us really want to go back to Earth?”

“Negative,” said Soundwave. This time, his servo was resting gently on Megatron’s arm. “Cybertron: Superior.”

Megatron took a step back from the podium as if he’d been struck. Another memory from his stasis. But why had it come now, of all times? Was somebody playing a harp? No. The hall was silent, save for the tapping of keys on consoles and the soft brush of a stylus on a datapad.

Why, then?

“Is that all?” asked Metalhawk, but Megatron barely heard him over the white noise in his audial receptors. Soundwave was beside him in an instant, leading him away from the dais with firm, unwavering servos.

Once outside, after the door had closed behind them, Soundwave stepped away from him. His lipplates were pressed together with concern. “What happened?” he asked.

“I remembered,” Megatron managed to say. “But I don’t know why.”

Soundwave tilted his helm curiously. “Let me see,” he said.

“No!” It came out far more harshly than he’d intended. Soundwave looked taken aback. “Please, Soundwave,” he said in a significantly softer voice. “Not now. I want to be alone.”

There was no hurt in Soundwave’s field this time, only acceptance. “I understand. I will visit when you are ready.”

Soundwave left with nothing more than a gentle squeeze of his servo. Megatron leaned against the wall, venting deeply to calm his spark in the way that Rung had taught him.

The doors to the Great Hall opened again, but Megatron did not raise his helm to see who it was until a voice said, “Excuse me?”

Megatron looked up to see a pair of aerials with strange, lanky frames were standing before him, one red and black and the other purple. They seemed to be some sort of strange seeker-rotary combination, with long, gangly wings and decorative paint on their faceplates.

“What do you want?” Megatron demanded.

The red aerial looked taken aback, and the purple one glared behind her facemask.

“I want to help you,” said the red one. “Won’t you walk with us?”

Megatron looked at her with suspicion—clearly she was up to something. Would these two attack him and drag him before Megaempress the moment they were around the corner? But their faceplates were open and innocent, and their energy fields felt young.

Megatron nodded once and the two took up spots on either side of him. As they walked, making their way out of the palace and down the steps, the red jet began to speak.

“My name is Windblade, and this is Maxima,” she said. “We’re from the Camien embassy. Our colony made contact with Cybertron after the end of your Great War. Caminus is quite far from here, but we have a spacebridge set up that allows quick and easy travel. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” said Megatron, though the name did sound familiar. Perhaps he had seen it in one of the recent news report.

“We are an offworld colony, established long before the war broke out,” Windblade went on as they pushed their way through the daytime crowds. “But we lost contact with Cybertron eons ago.”

“So you are independent?” asked Megatron.

“Yes,” Windblade nodded. “We have our own government, and our own laws. Though we are on good terms with the Senate, our people do not wish to be governed by Cybertron. I believe—I know that I can help you.”

Megatron stared at her in disbelief. “You know someone who can perform a frame transfer for me?”

“As I said, Caminus is only a spacebridge away, and our people do not answer to the Cybertronain Senate,” now Windblade's voice was low. “I believe that having a functional frame is an inalienable right, regardless of how I might feel about you personally.”

“And if I use that frame to reignite the war and conquer the galaxy?”

Windblade stopped walking and met his gaze evenly, unafraid. “Then that is on your spark, not mine.”

“Windblade,” said Maxima, pulling on her companion’s arm. “Just leave it. It’s not worth the risk.”

“He had his chance to rejoin the Decepticons,” Windblade responded. “Just because the Senate has chosen to give in to fear doesn’t mean I will. Come to Caminus, and bring the frame. As long as you have the credits, I can find you someone to perform the transfer.”

Chapter Text

Orion came to visit him at the hospital early that morning, his energy field anxious and frayed. Megatron knew that Orion was probably expecting him to be enraged, even violent, due to the news that he would not be allowed a frame upgrade.

Instead, he found Megatron slowly picking his way through a box of homemade energon sweets that had been sent to him by Deathsaurus’ conjunx, Esmeral. Most of them were still too strong for his weakened tanks.

Orion glanced around the room, obviously looking for any signs of damage. When he found none, his worry was replaced by confusion.

“Can I help you?” asked Megatron coolly, subspacing the box.

Orion continued to stand there awkwardly. “I…I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I heard about the Senate’s decision. I tried to appeal to them, but—”

Megatron merely shrugged.

“You’re not angry?” Orion sounded incredulous. “Why?”

“A frame upgrade is not my priority at this time,” said Megatron, and the lie came as easily as all the others he had told in his lifetime. “What I’d like to know is what is being done about those pills that everyone on this planet seems to be abusing.”

Orion looked as though he had been thrown off-balance. “I don’t understand. You should be furious. Why—”

“The pills, Orion,” Megatron interrupted. “Surely the senate has realized that deregulating them was unwise. You saw what happened. Mechs were deliberately overdosing to escape a dangerous situation, and they could have easily been killed as a result.”

“I—yes,” Orion still looked lost. “But…”

“There must be someone who agrees with me,” said Megatron. “The medics. I saw Ratchet deliver his report; he is aware of the situation. Hasn’t anyone petitioned the Senate yet?”

“The Senate is more worried about planetary security at the moment,” said Orion. “And that’s the other thing I came here to discuss with you. Overlord has escaped.”

The change of subject was unexpected, especially since he was expecting Orion to press him more about the frame issue. It took a moment for Megatron to remember what Orion was even talking about.

“Last night.” Orion rubbed his optics and sank into a chair. “He was in custody for the murder of a medic during the attack on Iacon. I thought you knew.”

“And now he’s running around Cybertron?” Megatron would not have that. New body or not, it would be his responsibility to go after Overlord before he could kill anyone else. The mech was wildly dangerous.

“The Enforcers believe he made it off-planet,” said Orion. “His legal defense was making a good case; I don’t know why he ran—”

“I do,” said Megatron. “He realized he’s been miserable for vorns.”

Orion stared at him.

“He’s a war machine, Orion,” said Megatron heavily. “He was designed for endless warfare, and I was responsible for twisting his processor until he was good for nothing else. It’s miraculous that he agreed to play nicely in civilized society for as long as he did.”

“You can’t blame yourself for this,” Orion protested. “Overlord made his choices.”

“And I made Overlord,” Megatron retorted. “I made him what he is. He had no choice.”

Orion was quiet for a moment, his optics unbearably sad. “If he had no choice,” he said slowly, “then why did he try to rejoin Cybertronian society at all?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Overlord had told Megatron that he’d returned to Cybertron because he lacked resources and enemies. But surely the renegade factions could have provided him with both. Logic told Megatron that Overlord should have spent the last five hundred vorns running a demented gladiatorial arena on some miserable, lightless planetoid somewhere in deep space.

Instead, he’d somehow managed to convince numerous mechs that sticking his fingers in their processors was a good idea—and he’d even charged them money for it! Megatron knew Overlord could be charismatic, despite his complete and utter lack of any leadership qualities, but Primus!

“Come with me,” said Orion. “There are some mechs…some people…I’d like you to meet.”

“Cybertron has been striving to foster new relationships with alien worlds,” Orion explained as they entered the garden. They were not far from central Iacon, in a district that seemed more residential than commercial. “We have made many allies since the cease-fire.”

There seemed to be Enforcers on every corner today, and it reminded Megatron too much of the Golden Age, when the law protected the elite from having to mingle with everyone they saw as beneath them. There was even a pair of them in the garden, patrolling the border.

“Tensions are high since the attack,” Orion explained, when he noticed Megatron’s discomfort. “There is little chance of another one, but mechs have been on edge. The Enforcers are more worried about our citizens turning on one another. There has been some anti-warframe sentiment rising in the last few solar cycles.”

Of course there was. Perhaps there always would be, Megatron mused. Why should civilians want to share a world with mechs who could snap and kill them all at a moment's notice?

“Here they are,” said Orion, turning Megatron’s attention away from the enforcers and towards the two aliens that sat at the little table surrounded by delicate crystal growths. It was the rock-aliens, Megatron realized. The larger one fit comfortably in the Cybertronian-sized seat, but the smaller one had to sit on the table’s ledge instead.

“These two are the representatives from one of our newest allied planets,” Orion explained. “Chrysoberyl and Pearl. Thank you for meeting with us today.”

The aliens both looked at him, the smaller one once again moving nearer to her larger companion in case Megatron suddenly decided to smash her with his servo. But the larger one—Chrysoberyl—smiled.

“Glad to finally meet you properly,” she said. “We are told you are recovering well.”

Megatron had thought so, too, until his random flashback in front of the Senate yesterday. But he didn’t mention that to them.

“Chrysoberyl and Pearl’s planet has undergone a great change,” said Orion. “For millions of years, their planet was a functionist society with a strict caste system. But they have successfully moved towards self-determination and equality. They are here to advise us as we do the same.”

Megatron wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“It is a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” asked Chrysoberyl conversationally, resting her arms on the table and leaning forward a little. “Being able to choose? Nobody wants to be a slave, but there is a sort of comfort in knowing exactly what you’re meant to do, isn’t there? When you get to decide for yourself, there’s a very good chance you’ll get it wrong.”

“And besides,” added Pearl, making optical contact for the first time, “when nobody is telling you what to do, you have to be responsible for your own actions.”

“Chrysoberyl and Pearl are extremely familiar with the issues that many Cybertronians are still dealing with,” explained Orion. “That’s why they’re here. We might be different physiologically, but we’ve endured many of the same things.”

“Pearl often speaks to Cybertronians about the importance of not disregarding a genuine passion just because it aligns with your preprogrammed function,” Chrysoberyl said. “Finding joy in something is not regressive if one has made the choice for oneself.”

“And what if that choice harms others?” asked Megatron. He still couldn't shake the memory of Overlord punching the medic's helm off his shoulders. It was not the violence of the act that haunted him, for Megatron had seen far worse. Rather, the fact that Megatron was not at all troubled by the death was what weighed on his processor.

He had become utterly desensitized to almost every crime a mech could commit. He would probably end up like Overlord sooner or later. What choice did he have? And then Soundwave would finally give up on him permanently.

“My caste was warriors,” said Chrysoberyl. “I understand what you’re asking. How can we find a place in a peaceful society if following our passions bring harm to others? It seems unfair, doesn’t it? Those who were meant to be civilians have an advantage over us.”

That, Megatron thought, was putting it lightly.

“But there are many other ways that I can use my strength,” Chrysoberyl went on. “I can choose to protect others, instead of be an aggressor against innocents. The galaxy is still a very dangerous place. There will always be a need for those who will stand in defense of others.”

“And your other companion?” asked Megatron, thinking of the warrior he had seen during the invasion. Both aliens looked a little puzzled for a moment. Then…

“You saw Cymophane?” Chrysoberyl looked pleased. “What did you think?”

That was an odd question. But now Chrysoberyl and Pearl were both beaming like proud creators. Perhaps the warrior that had fought beside Overlord was their sparkling?

“Very impressive,” said Megatron diplomatically, and this seemed to go over well.

Chapter Text

Megatron was starting to get the hang of Iacon’s public transit system. Enormous transports shuttled mechs around the city by both air and ground in a complex and tightly-scheduled pattern.

Megatron got on the first transport that arrived at the hospital station and rode it until he grew bored, then switched over to a different transport heading in a different direction. He honestly didn’t care where he ended up. He just needed to be away from the hospital, and he needed to work out what he would say to Shockwave.

Perhaps his reaction to Moonracer had not been the best, but could they blame him? A warning would not have gone amiss. Still, upon reflection, it seemed unlikely that Shockwave’s relationship was a carry-over from wartime. Shockwave had been second only to Soundwave in terms of loyalty and adherence to the Decepticon Manifesto. If nothing else, Megatron was certain of the fact that even if Shockwave had been inclined to have an affair with an enemy soldier, he would have never acted upon his desires.

And now he had a sparkling. Shockwave. With a sparkling! Megatron felt like he was on the verge of a processing glitch every time he remembered. But perhaps the sparkling wasn’t a traditional sparkling. Perhaps it was some manner of beast, created in Shockwave’s lab from strands of CNA extracted from long-dead monsters of ancient Cybertronian legend.

But Motormaster had said Shockwave’s sparkling was a gunformer, hadn’t he?

Sparklings seemed so soft and fragile, but Megatron realized that they must be more durable than they appeared if so many ex-soldiers were raising them successfully. He wouldn’t have believed that Astrotrain and Blitzwing were capable of keeping a rustfish alive, let alone another Cybertronian, but Motormaster had mentioned they had become creators as well.

The transport rolled to a stop long enough for passengers to get on and off. Megatron was still too lost in his thoughts to pay the other mechs any mind, and was only pulled back to reality when someone gently touched his arm.

The mech that gazed up at him was white, with sharp headfins and bright blue optics. His cheerful coloration and grounder frame made Megatron assume this was an ex-Autobot about to air a grievance. Megatron opened his mouth to tell the mech off, but luckily he managed to recognize the faceplates before the insulting words got out.

“Deadlock?” Megatron said instead.

Deadlock look pleased. “Drift, actually,” he said, but he was smiling brightly. “I was wondering if I’d see you around. How have you been?”

Megatron wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Drift seemed to accurately interpret his facial expression, and laughed.

“I heard that the Senate blocked you from getting an upgrade,” added Drift. “For what it’s worth, a lot of us think it’s total slag.”

“I’d think public opinion would be against me,” said Megatron.

Drift rubbed his chin. “There’s not a strong consensus either way, at least that I can see. And it’s not down faction lines either. I’ve seen ex-Decepticons say you shouldn’t be allowed to do anything until you get through the Program, and ex-Autobots say you deserve a chance like anyone else.” Drift gave him a sideways look. “Honestly, it’s the mechs who were neutrals that are always hardest on the veterans. They’re the ones you’ll have to win over if you’re planning on staying in the public optic.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Megatron admitted.

“Well, it’s probably going to be a while before they clear you for citizenship,” Drift said. “But when you get out there’s always the planetary guard, if you don’t mind taking orders from someone else. It’s good if you decide you really can’t live without punching someone.”

“Is that what you did?”

“No,” said Drift. “They’re too strict for me. I actually work for a private company that hires out security guards. I’ve been stationed at the Iacon Labs for the last fifty vorns. It’s usually quiet, but apparently it needs guarding. It’s where I met my conjunx, actually.”

Megatron supposed that was fitting. Deadlock—Drift—had been a skilled fighter during the war, though his ability to take direction had always left something to be desired.

“You’re happy, then?” said Megatron.

“I hope so,” said Drift. “Really, though, it’s not so bad. I know I’ve got it easier, being a civilian-spark, but I know plenty of mechs who aren’t and they like it just as much. It’s not perfect, and sometimes old grudges do come up, but most of us are just trying to get past it. Sometimes I go whole days without ever thinking about the war.”

The transport came to a shuddering halt again, and the resulting exchange of passengers was too loud for Megatron to even try to respond.

“I don’t regret it,” said Drift as the transport began to move again. “I regret that the war had to happen, and that it went on for as long as it did. But I don’t regret joining the Decepticons. At the time, it was the right thing to do.”

Megatron forced himself to look into Drift’s optics. “But now you realize it wasn’t?”

Drift shrugged. “I don’t know. It was at first, I’d never deny that. I wouldn’t have survived on my own. Maybe things got out of control near the end. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and I’m not letting the past define me. Neither should you.”

“Surely you and the others blame me for what happened,” Megatron pressed.

“Why should we?” Drift looked legitimately surprised. “We’re the ones who chose to follow you. Or did you think we were all just mindless drones who followed whoever yelled loudest?”

“No,” said Megatron. “But—”

“We all made our choices,” Drift went on as though Megatron had not spoken. “It’s a bit insulting that you think we somehow didn’t realize what we were doing. Nobody was forced into the Decepticon army by anything other than circumstance. We followed you because what you were saying was true. Cybertron was broken. We were starving. The Senate didn’t care. If you hadn’t founded the Decepticons, we’d probably all be dead.”

“We almost were,” Megatron retorted. How close had the Cybertronian race come to extinction? The population had probably been in the hundreds at the end of the Great War.

“But we weren’t,” Drift said patiently. “You’ll never make it out of the Program—and that body—if you keep harping on what might have been.” Drift tilted his helm at him. “Actually, I think a new body would be just the thing you need. It could serve as a symbolic rebirth. I’m sorry the Senate won’t allow it.”

The transport came to another halt, and this time Drift stepped back towards the door.

“I’d invite you home for something to eat, but I don’t think Perceptor would appreciate that,” he said. “Give me some time to get him used to the idea, and then I’ll have you over.”

The doors snapped open and Drift darted out onto the platform before Megatron had time to fully comprehend his words.

Chapter Text

There was no more putting it off, Megatron knew. He had already let things go on for too long.

Still, as he stood outside Shockwave’s door, he found himself wishing for the days when he could just order Shockwave to accept his decisions and it would be done.

Megatron was not so optimistic that he believed Shockwave would forgive him as easily as Starscream apparently had. But he knew that he still had to try. Not only would he need Shockwave’s support in the upcoming solar cycles, but he had insulted the mech’s loyalty, which had not wavered in millions of years, as well as the femme he had chosen as his conjunx.

And while Megatron was still baffled as to what in the galaxy had drawn Shockwave to an enemy warrior, he was beginning to realize that, socially, this wasn’t particularly notable anymore.

Shockwave answered the door after a long moment. In the past, he would have been almost incapable of showing surprise, even if he had been inclined to do so. But now his optic brightened a little and his energy field expanded and retracted rapidly.

“Megatron?” he asked.

“I need to speak with you,” said Megatron. When Shockwave said nothing, he continued, “I…want to…I was hoping…I could apologize.”

Shockwave tilted his helm to one side, helm-fins flicking a little. “Very well,” he said at last, and for a moment Megatron thought he was about to slam the door in his faceplates. But instead, Shockwave took a step back. “Come in.”

Shockwave’s home was not nearly as large or lavish as Starscream’s had been, but it was certainly neater. No sparkling toys lined the floor, though there were some classical art pieces in the Iaconian style on the walls. Shockwave led him into a sitting room, where Moonracer was curled up in a soft chair.

“We have a visitor,” Shockwave said.

Moonracer looked up at Megatron, and he looked down at her. She was holding something tiny, tiny and white, with touches of green and blue and purple across its frame. A pair of bright blue optics stared from somewhere in the bundle.

“Oh,” said Moonracer casually, as though there was not a towering ex-warlord in her living room. “Nice to see you again. This is Umbra.”

At the sound of his designation, the sparkling clicked happily. Like the other sparklings, he seemed to have no fear of Megatron, and leaned forward for a closer look. Megatron held his frame very still, aware that any sudden movements on his part could result in the evening ending badly.

But Moonracer seemed just as unafraid as her sparkling, her energy field calm and content. It was as though Megatron was any other houseguest, and Megatron didn’t know if he was relieved or offended by this. He just hoped she wouldn’t ask him if he wanted to hold Umbra. He didn’t dislike sparklings (or at least, he didn’t think he did), but he didn’t trust himself to not accidentally crush one in his servos.

“I think he looks like Shockwave,” said Moonracer conversationally, rising into a more formal sitting-up position. “Before, I mean.”

Megatron could see her point. He had not known Shockwave personally before his shadowplay and empurata, but he had been aware of the Senator’s existence. The sparkling’s faceplates showed a clear physical resemblance to the mech Shockwave had once been. Most notably, he was a military spark, meaning that Shockwave was almost certainly his carrier-creator.

“Can he speak yet?” asked Megatron.

“No. He won’t be getting his language software installed for a few vorns,” explained Moonracer. “They develop so slowly, compared to newsparks that come from Vector Sigma, but in a way I’m glad. I want this time to last. Still…I’m looking forward to hearing what he has to say.”

Shockwave came over, and Moonracer passed the sparkling to him. Umbra immediately settled against his chassis.

“I came to apologize,” said Megatron at last. Moonracer’s optics brightened a little. “My reaction at the hospital—it was…”

“Oh, that,” said Moonracer, waving one hand. “Tsh, don’t feel bad, I don’t know what we were expecting. We should have given you more time to adjust.”

“But—” Megatron looked at Shockwave helplessly. He was not sure how much more casual forgiveness he could handle.

“I mean it!” cried Moonracer. “You think I don’t remember how awkward things were at the end of the war? It took vorns for us to get this way. It wouldn’t be fair for us to expect you to come to terms with it in only a few days.”

“Still,” Shockwave added quickly. “The apology is appreciated.”

Megatron stood there in awkward silence before Moonracer pointed to the couch across from her. “Sit!” she commanded. “Do you want some energon? I’m sure we’ve got something.”

“No,” said Megatron, slowly taking the indicated seat. “I’m fine.”

Moonracer seemed happy, but Shockwave was still obviously a little uncomfortable, and he posed himself just behind Moonracer, as though he expected to be called to protect her.

“How did you two meet?” Megatron asked awkwardly.

“Oh, I tripped a sensor beam in a storage room and set off the alarm,” said Moonracer. She canted her helm at Shockwave. “Shockwave came in, and I threw two energon cubes at him.”

Megatron was not sure how to respond to that.

“But if you’re asking about after the war…” Moonracer glanced at Shockwave. “It’s kind of a strange story. After they called the cease-fire, most Autobots and Decepticons tried not to interact. Orion Pax—Optimus Prime—had told us all that we must not do anything to risk the armistice being ruined. So I think most of us thought the best thing to do was stay away from Decepticons entirely.” Moonracer smiled. “Seems strange to think of it now, but at the time it felt like we’d never really be able to go back to being a single society.

“They opened the Iacon museum on the one-vorn anniversary of the armistice. I went with some of my friends, just to see what it was like—I’d never seen a museum before. I remember we were looking at the Golden Age exhibits, and they had a lot of vidfiles of the old senate. Everyone had such pretty frames.” Moonracer gave a wistful sigh. “At the time, I’d never seen anything like it. I know the Golden Age was actually pretty terrible, but the vidfiles made it look wonderful and clean and bright.”

She was young, Megatron realized. Significantly younger than Shockwave, if she had no memories of the Golden Age.

“Anyway, in the vidfiles, I kept seeing footage of this one Senator who kept challenging everything the others were saying and getting all worked up about just everything.” Moonracer glanced over at Shockwave. “And then someone addressed him as Shockwave. And I spat my rust stick all over the console. That’s why you’re not allowed snacks in the museum anymore, by the way.”

Megatron made a noncommittal noise. Moonracer reached out and touched Shockwave’s helm fins—something he would never have allowed before. Megatron wondered just how extensive the work on Shockwave’s processor had been.

“I never knew…I had no idea,” she said at last. “At first I thought it must have been a different mech with the same designation. But…” she shook her helm. “It changed the way I thought about him. The next time I saw him, I saw him as a mech rather than a Decepticon.”

Megatron looked at Shockwave, who was now looking down at Umbra.

“It must have taken vorns to get him to actually speak to me,” Moonracer went on. “I thought he must have hated me, not that I really blamed him. We gave him so much trouble during the war.”

“I never hated you,” Shockwave said quietly.

“Yes, but I didn’t know that.” Moonracer smiled at him. “We were both in the Program at the same time, and so every time I saw him in a waiting room, we would talk a little. Never about anything very serious, until one day he told me the medics wanted to see if they could fix some of the damage to his emotional centers, but he couldn’t decide whether or not to go through with it.”

“And you encouraged him?” said Megatron, thinking back on one of the memories he’d managed to salvage from his time in the darkness.

“I asked him what the old Shockwave would have done,” said Moonracer. “That seemed to help with the decision-making. After the first surgery, we started spending more time together. He was so different; I can’t describe it! Every few solar cycles, once the medics were sure they’d done no damage, they did another round of surgery. And every time, he was a little bit closer to being the mech I’d seen in the museum.” She leaned her helm against his frame. “I know we’ll probably never get back to the way he was, but I don’t mind.”

“Yes, because you would have to be the level-headed one,” said Shockwave.

“It’s a scary thought, isn’t it?” agreed Moonracer.

Despite himself, Megatron understood. Moonracer was so much like Shockwave had been during the Golden Age, idealistic and expressive. It was little wonder that he had been drawn to her.

“There is another reason I have come here,” said Megatron. “I will be receiving a frame upgrade. Tonight.”

Shockwave gave a little start. “What? How?”

“Never mind that,” said Megatron. “I expect the Senate will be displeased with me, and will not take kindly to any petition I wish to deliver. But I have a plan to win their favor back.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” Shockwave asked.

“By putting an end to the threat Megaempress poses,” said Megatron. “I will infiltrate her army and bring it down from the inside.”

Moonracer and Shockwave both stared at him in silent disbelief.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Moonracer said at last.

“You cannot be serious,” Shockwave rose to his pedes. “Do you have any idea the risk you would be taking?”

“It is my responsibility,” Megatron retorted. “I started this war, and now I will end the last vestiges of it.”

“It is certainly not your responsibility,” Shockwave was now pacing the room. Moonracer watched him anxiously. “What in the galaxy are you thinking? How could this possibly end favorably for you?”

“That’s not important,” Megatron began, but to his surprise, Shockwave gave an incredulous laugh. Megatron had not even known the mech was capable of laughter.

“Not important?” he repeated. “Is that what you’ve told Soundwave, then?”

Megatron’s tanks clenched with guilt. “I have not told him anything yet,” he admitted.

Moonracer reached out and grabbed Shockwave’s arm before the mech could start shouting. “Shockwave, listen,” she said, her blue optics boring into his yellow one. “I think I understand. This is something he has to do. Like Starscream had to rebuild the Academy, and you had to do everything that you did to make sure the laws in the Charter limited the Senate’s power.”

“That was different,” began Shockwave. “That was—”

“It wasn’t and you know it!" Moonracer cried. “Forgiving each other is easy. Forgiving yourself is hard. If he needs to go on a, a quest of self-discovery to get it, I say he should be allowed.”

“But it is suicide!”

“Not necessarily,” Megatron interrupted heavily. “I have a plan, and I do not intend to fail. But I am going to need help. Everyone’s help.”

Shockwave sat back down again, slowly.

“Explain it to me,” he said.

Chapter Text

The spacebridge had two guards on Cybertron’s side, and four on Caminus’. Megatron had been certain that the Cybertronian guards would try to stop him, but they hadn’t said a word as he and Soundwave approached.

The architecture of Caminus was not as alien as Megatron had been expecting. The style reminded him of the Golden Age, though without any of the excessively opulent ornamentation. The structures he could see seemed well-kept despite their obvious age. The sky was growing dim as the planet drew nearer to the night cycle, but the area had been brightly lit.

Megatron and Soundwave stepped away from the transport platform just as Windblade flew up to them and transformed.

“They’re ready for you,” she reported.

As Windblade led them through the streets of Caminus, Megatron tried not to stare at the natives. Most seemed to be rushing home after a solar cycle of work, and therefore were not in the mood to gawk at foreigners. He saw a lot of golden optics and unusual frames, even by the standards of modern Cybertron, but nobody seemed to recognize or even notice him.

Soundwave had not had much of a reaction to the revelation that Megatron had found a way around the Senate’s edict, and had merely asked when they would make the trip to Caminus. If he had doubts about his own safety with Megatron in a fully-functional frame again, he did not voice them.

Full frame transfers had been extremely rare during the war. Creating a completely new frame from scratch was extremely resource-intensive. Instead, mechs were repaired with the pieces of their fallen comrades. And when those mechs fell in turn, their parts would be recycled by the medics yet again.

Megatron did not know how many pieces of his own frame had once belonged to someone else.

The workshop that Windblade brought them to didn’t seem too unusual to Megatron’s optics, though he would admit he had no idea what they normally looked like on Caminus. Despite the hour, it seemed well-staffed. The owner, a mech that Windblade introduced as Gleam, hurried out from behind the desk as they entered.

“We have your frame ready for the transfer,” he reported. “Come, quickly. Were you followed?”

“No,” said Soundwave with flat certainty.

The door to the back area opened, and a familiar seeker looked out. Comet’s faceplates brightened as his optics fell on Megatron.

“You made it!” he sounded thrilled. “Let’s get started—I’m looking forward to seeing you out of that old body.”

“Will you be punished for helping me?” Megatron asked. He had known Comet had arranged for the frame to be moved to Caminus, but had not expected the mech to actually perform the transfer.

“Let them try,” said Comet, his wings flaring with pride. “Besides, do you have any idea how good this will be for business?”

Megatron was not completely comfortable with this, but he realized that he could not afford to argue. He needed a functional frame if he wanted anything resembling a fighting chance against Megaempress, and so he let Comet and Gleam lead him into the back of the workshop. Soundwave and Windblade followed behind him.

“Did you think any more about colors?” called Comet as they made their way down the narrow halls.

“…no,” said Megatron, glancing over at Soundwave for help. But Soundwave remained silent and stoic.

“Well, I think I came up with something you’re going to like.” Comet turned to face him so that he was walking backwards now, his wingtips brushing the edges of the walls. In contrast, Windblade had folded her wings down behind her back so that she wouldn’t damage anything.

Gleam led them all into a small, sterile room where Megatron's new frame was laid out on a medical berth. It was colorless and unmoving, just as it had been in Comet's shop. A few feet away was a second berth, this one empty.

“This should be a standard transfer,” reported Gleam, going over to check the monitors. “We’re just moving your protoform and spark casing over—should take less than a breem. We'll induce a short medical stasis for your own safety, and when you online, it will all be over.”

Even though Megatron knew that it would probably be a bad idea to attempt a frame transfer while online, the thought of medical stasis made him uncomfortable. But Soundwave's presence was reassuring. If not for him, Megatron never would have agreed to get onto the empty berth and allow Gleam to access his medical ports. Thankfully, the workshop actually had a cable that was compatible with the hardware in his neck.

“I’m inducing the stasis now,” reported Gleam. “Five…four…three…”

Megatron looked at Soundwave, and the world went dark.

“There is nothing more we can do,” said Ratchet. “Physically he is repaired. But the processor is a complex instrument. He may never wake.”

“Soundwave: Will wait,” came the sound of his vocal synthesizer.

“Very well.” There was a soft noise as Ratchet set one of his tools down. “I’m not keen on limiting visiting hours if there’s no work to be done on the patient. But you must not neglect your own health, especially not in your state.”

“Understood.” Soundwave reached down and grasped Megatron’s servo again. The medic sighed.

“Let me scan you,” he said.

“Unnecessary,” Soundwave’s pedesteps were heavy in the darkness as he moved around the berth. “Sparklet status: Optimal.”

“I’m more worried about your status, to be frank,” said Ratchet. “Everything you’ve done since the explosion has been for him, hasn’t it? When was the last time you did something for yourself?”

Soundwave did not respond.

“—he’s stabilizing!”

Megatron’s optics snapped online. The quiet little back room of the workshop was now full of light and noise. Monitors wailed and Comet and Gleam shouted orders and insults to one another. His spark was racing, pounding, panicking, but he felt…

…strong.

Megatron lifted his helm enough to look down at his frame—his new frame, and the appearance was enough to numb the panic emanating from his spark.

He had known Soundwave had repeatedly enhanced the armor plating from the original design, but now it seemed that he could withstand a blow from a triple-changer. Comet had selected a black base coat with traces of violet detailing that, while different from what he was accustomed to, wasn’t distasteful. Megatron had just a moment to appreciate the fact that nothing ached and he actually felt fully energized before he was flooded with new code.

Comms, chronometers, scanning systems, new forms of data storage, and flight systems all vied for attention behind his optics. Completely overwhelmed, Megatron dismissed them all. When his vision cleared, he realized that Comet’s faceplates were directly in front of his.

“There, he’s alive!” the seeker looked distinctly relieved. He pulled back and turned to address Gleam. “See, I told you—it’d take more than a frame transfer to kill him.”

Gleam retorted by ripping a cord out of the wall. The wailing monitors fell mercifully silent, and Soundwave came over and rested a servo on Megatron’s arm.

“Are you…?” Soundwave's energy field was bleeding distress.

“I’m fine.” Megatron sat up and swung his legs over the side of the medical berth. It was easier than it had been since he’d first awoken—and possible even before that. He rose to his pedes, reveling in the sensation of painless, effortless movement.

“You had us worried,” said Windblade. Megatron turned to look at her. He had almost forgotten she was even there, but apparently she had not moved from the spot where she leaned against the far wall since they first entered the room. “We thought you might have gone into spark failure.”

Megatron wasn’t sure how to address that, so he decided to ignore it completely. “I thank you for your assistance,” he said stiffly.

“I only ask that do not make me regret it,” Windblade replied, clasping her servos together.

Megatron’s optics fell on his old frame, which was still on the berth. There was nothing eerie about an abandoned frame, unless one was a sparkling. His biggest concern was getting it back to the Iacon Museum. Glyph's patience wouldn’t hold out forever.

And Soundwave was still looking up at him, expectant, waiting. He realized that Soundwave must have known Megatron had been keeping something from him. He could have just reached inside Megatron’s mind and pulled the information out, but Megatron knew that Soundwave never would.

“Soundwave, I…” Megatron hesitated, weighing the benefits of waiting a little longer. But no. He had put it off for more than long enough. “I have something to ask you.”

Comet and Gleam both fell silent, and Windblade actually made a little squealing sound before clapping her servos over her mouth. Soundwave’s lipplates parted, as if he wanted to speak, but then he seemed to think better of it.

“I should have asked you a long time ago,” Megatron went on. “I realize that. It was wrong of me…but I was afraid of your reaction. So now, I am asking…”

Soundwave stepped nearer, his energy field brightening with hopeful anticipation.

“Will you help me infiltrate Megaempress’ faction?” Megatron asked.

Soundwave’s lipplates trembled for just a moment before he rushed out of the room, leaving Megatron staring blankly after him. Of all the reactions he had been anticipating, that was not one of them. For some reason, Gleam and Comet and Windblade were all looking at him in disdain.

“You’re terrible,” said Windblade at last.

Chapter Text

“Are you glitching? Go after him!” cried Comet.

Megatron hesitated for only a moment before running after Soundwave, helm buzzing with confusion. Moving in a new frame was always a little bit awkward, and full transfers always came with an adjustment period. But in this case, Megatron was not accustomed to ease of movement anymore, and so he stumbled into the front of the workshop like an overcharged mech.

Soundwave was already gone, halfway down the street, but Megatron could still see his retreating frame through the glass storefront. Determined not to let him get away without some semblance of an explanation, Megatron slammed the workshop door open and followed him.

The new frame was effortlessly powerful, and fortunately the streets were not crowded or particularly well-lit. A few Camiens gave him odd looks, but Megatron ignored them as he found his stride. After a few awkward klicks, he was able to catch up with Soundwave easily.

Soundwave refused to look at him until Megatron took him by the arm. It was only then that he finally stopped running.

“Soundwave,” said Megatron. “Tell me…tell me what I did wrong.”

Soundwave looked up at him miserably, visor glinting in the last traces of sunlight. His lipplates twitched a little, but the only sound that came from him was the straining of his ventilation system.

“It’s Megaempress, isn’t it?” he asked. “You don’t want me to go after her. I realize that. But I have to—”

But now Soundwave was shaking his helm, his energy field heavy with misery.

“It’s not Megaempress?” Megatron was at a loss. He didn’t think he’d ever been so out of sync with Soundwave before. “Then what? The frame? Are you afraid I’ll—”

Soundwave shook his helm again.

“Then what?”

“No,” said Soundwave at last. “If you don’t know by now…”

“You’re not being fair.” Megatron almost took a step forward, but then he realized that his first instinct upon being denied was still to try to physically intimidate. Instead, he released Soundwave’s arm. “If it’s not Megaempress, then—”

A muffled thud came from Soundwave’s chest compartment. Soundwave looked down in surprise, then rested his servos on top of it. “Desist,” he ordered. But a moment later, his chest compartment opened and Ravage leapt out, landing on the ground between them.

“Ravage?” Megatron knew that the symbiont was a little bit old to be accompanying her creator places anymore. But he supposed she the most reliable one to bring along to an unauthorized excursion to an alien world.

Megatron’s newly-reinstalled internal comm system came to life as Ravage sent him a message.

[He wanted you to propose to him, you idiot,] she snarled. [Did they leave your central processor in the old frame?]

Megatron gave a little jolt. “He—I—what?”

[They did, then,] grumbled Ravage.

“But why would—why would…” Megatron looked at Soundwave helplessly. The mech began to turn away, but Megatron caught his servo.

“Did you think I was…going to…” But already Megatron was replaying the events at the workshop in his processor, and seeing them from a completely new point of view. Windblade’s final words to him suddenly made sense.

Soundwave very quietly pulled himself free and Megatron did not try to stop him.

“I am sorry,” said Megatron. He moved forward again, but this time it was not with the intention to frighten the other mech into submission. Under the very last traces of Camien sunlight, he kissed Soundwave.

Soundwave’s energy field immediately softened, his distress replaced by a confusing mix of sorrow and relief. Megatron pulled up the memory that had emerged during the frame transfer and pushed it to the front of his processor in the way that he always did when he wanted to show Soundwave something. He felt Soundwave's quiet acknowledgement as he reviewed the file.

“You have been far too patient with me,” said Megatron, stepping away to give Soundwave enough space. “I realize I cannot reasonably ask you to continue—”

But Soundwave shook his helm. “You think I expect you to heal in only a few decacycles?” he asked. “You are trying; I can see that. You are thoughtless and insensitive, but you are changing. You show genuine remorse. You never did that during the war.”

“And what about Megaempress?” Megatron began. “I know you don’t want me to go after her, but she is a very real threat. If I can—”

Soundwave shook his helm again. “I knew from the moment she attacked Cybertron that you would want to face her,” he said. “That is why I made those modifications to your frame.”

Megatron could not help but be taken aback. “You knew?” But then, why should that be a surprise? Of course Soundwave knew—Soundwave always knew. Megatron was downright foolish to think that he somehow didn’t. Even without invading Megatron’s mind, Soundwave could usually predict his intentions. Why should this time be any different?

“I know that you cannot forgive yourself,” Soundwave said. “And you think defeating her will change that. It will not, but I won’t keep you from what you see as a reprieve from your pain.”

Out of the corner of his optic, he could see Ravage stalking in the direction of the spacebridge.

It was early when they finally arrived back on Cybertron. A few mechs were already heading to work, but none of them paid him a second glance. Not even the enforcers seemed to register him as Megatron—which was fortunate, because he wasn’t ready for his frame upgrade to become public knowledge. If he was lucky, he might be able to get off-planet before anyone found out.

He hadn’t realized how much of a burden his old frame had been, physically and mentally. Relatively anonymous for the first time since the mines, the universe suddenly seemed to be full of possibility.

They did not return to the hospital. Instead, they went to Shockwave’s home, where Shockwave and Starscream were both waiting for them.

At the sight of Megatron’s new frame, Starscream flew into a shrieking rage.

“Are you glitching?” he yelled, circling Megatron’s new frame like a nitrotiger evaluating its prey. “Have you been paying attention to anything anyone has told you about anti-warframe hysteria!? Do you even care!?”

“Starscream—” Megatron began.

“No! Don’t pretend like you don’t know! And you!” Starscream pointed at Soundwave. “You let him go through with this! Him, I can expect to be an idiot, but I would have thought you would at least realize why this was a terrible idea!”

“Starscream,” said Megatron. “You are behaving like a sparkling.”

“Oh, so caring about the future of our race makes me a sparkling? Where did you even find someone to perform the transfer?”

“I went off-world,” said Megatron unhelpfully. Starscream fell silent, clearly running through all the potential colonies in his processor.

“But that is not why we are here,” said Soundwave, taking advantage of the silence. “Megatron has announced his intention to infiltrate Megaempress’ faction.”

Shockwave had remained seated at the table for the duration of Starscream’s rant. Now he activated a holographic projector that showed a star chart for the area surrounding Cybertron. It was tagged with red lights.

“I might be able to extrapolate their location based on last known activity,” said Shockwave. “There have been scattered sightings, though none since their attack on Cybertron. But I warn you—it could be a long and fruitless process, and might catch the attention of the planetary guard.”

“Do you have an alternative?” asked Megatron.

“Yes.” Shockwave glanced at Starscream warily. “I believe it would be far simpler to prompt Megaempress to come to you.”

Megatron thought of Lunaclub and Moonheart, and their assurance that they would see him again.

“If Megaempress believed you were being held prisoner, she would probably send a rescue mission for you,” Shockwave rose from his seat at last. “If you managed to get yourself arrested…”

“No!” Starscream interrupted. “Any misbehavior on his part could be disastrous for us!”

“I am aware.” Shockwave deactivated the holographic display. “But this is the most reliable method. And we can mitigate the worst of the damage by having another mech be the aggressor. A civilian frame, ideally. Perhaps even a former Autobot.”

“You want to convince a civilian-frame to pick a fight with him?” Starscream gestured to Megatron incredulously. “Where on Cybertron do you expect to find a mech who would agree to do something like that?”

Shockwave tilted his helm to the side. “I believe you are acquainted with one,” he said.

Chapter Text

Megatron still understood why his first impression of Skyfire had been that he would make an excellent warrior. He was massive, even by the standards of transport class mechs, and had towered over everyone else stationed on earth—including the Decepticon triple-changers.

But Skyfire’s size and strength (as well as the resources the Decepticons had expended to pull him from the ice) had been rendered pointless by Skyfire’s rejection of the Decepticon cause. Too gentle for the cutthroat, ambition-driven mechs that made up Megatron’s army, Skyfire had left for the Autobots only a few solar cycles after his recovery.

It had seemed to Megatron’s optics that Starscream cared significantly more for Skyfire than Skyfire did for Starscream. Oh, Skyfire was certainly romantic, and thoughtful and considerate, but what was any of that really worth if there was no loyalty behind it?

(Megatron was struck by the sudden, bizarre thought that perhaps Soundwave wished Megatron was more like Skyfire in some respects. He quickly shoved it aside.)

There had been an immediate change in Starscream’s behavior when Skyfire was first rescued. Megatron had never seen him so happy—or so unnervingly docile. Something about the shuttle’s presence seemed to tame Starscream more than any punishments ever had.

Megatron could not pretend to understand his second’s attraction. Skyfire seemed to be the sort of mech that any decent Decepticon would be disdainful of.

But if Skyfire was going to help him get to Megaempress, Megatron would not complain.

The next solar cycle, Megatron and Soundwave met with Skyfire and Starscream in what, to a random observer’s optics, would seem to be a complete coincidence. The place that Starscream had selected for them to stage their brawl was a restaurant that was not so casual that a fight would go relatively unnoticed, but not so highbrow that it would damage Starscream’s own reputation.

The news of Megatron’s new frame had not yet broken—though he’d found mechs would stare intensely at his faceplates if he stayed still for too long—and so he enjoyed more of that refreshing anonymity as they were seated at a table in the corner of the room.

“I don’t want any property damages,” said Starscream in a low voice, leaning forward so that they could all hear him easily. “And I especially don’t want any injuries to bystanders. And when the Enforcers come, don’t try to fight them—”

“Starscream,” said Megatron impatiently. “I understand.”

Starscream made an irritated sound. “You say that now, but just wait!” He glanced over at Soundwave for help, but Soundwave was silent. “Just—don’t get carried away. This will be harder to smooth over if Skyfire is legitimately injured.”

Megatron opened his mouth to object, but Starscream was already scanning the room.

“Right. Now we have to wait for the right moment,” he muttered, more to himself than the others. Out of sight of anyone, Soundwave very gently rested his servo over Megatron’s, squeezing his digits gently. After a moment, Megatron returned the gesture.

And that was when Skyfire punched him so hard that he fell out of his seat and hit the ground.

“Skyfire!” Starscream shrieked in legitimate outrage—he had not expected the fight to begin without his say-so—and the room erupted into noise. But Megatron was barely aware of the others as his battle coding flared to life, delighted to be called upon again.

Megatron was up on his pedes in a moment, ready to fight. Fortunately, the space Starscream had selected for them was free of any tables or ornamentation, and so he would not have to worry about causing damages to the establishment as long as things did not get out of hand. Starscream might have been intending for them to merely playact, but the intensity in Skyfire’s field proved that the shuttle had his own intentions. Megatron was surprised, but also pleased in a way he could not completely articulate.

He had no doubt that he could win the fight easily, if he was determined to. But that would probably require damaging the shuttle quite badly, and he knew Starscream would never forgive him if he left the other mech with more than cosmetic damages.

Mechs were already gathering around to gawk, and Megatron was sure the Enforcers would arrive in less than a breem. But until then, he had every intention of giving them a show. Fortunately, his experience as a gladiator meant that Megatron had an extensive knowledge of how to make a fight look good for an audience. He aimed his first blows at the glass of Skyfire’s cockpit. Cracked glass always looked worse than it truly was, and replacing it was easy.

Megatron’s new frame was powerful, but Skyfire didn’t seem to feel the punches at all. The shuttle endured the hits stoically, then smashed his entire elbow into Megatron’s faceplates. Megatron felt his optical glass shatter and something in his jaw crack. Spitting out a mouthful of energon, he could not help but laugh.

“You’re having fun,” he called to Skyfire. “How long have you wanted to do this for?”

Skyfire did not reply, but there was no missing the hatred that burned in his energy field. It was the sort of hatred that Megatron had always loved to see in his soldiers, for it was so easy to channel into something productive. He had seen it once before in Skyfire, back in the Arctic. They had fought, if one could even call it a fight. Megatron had been energon-deprived, as all the Decepticons on Earth had been, and Skyfire’s sole strategy in ground-based combat had consisted of picking mechs up and throwing them, which was impressive if only for sheer novelty value.

They clashed again, and when Skyfire was only micrometers away from him, he spoke.

“They all think you deserve forgiveness,” said Skyfire quietly. “I disagree. You can’t even show Soundwave basic affection—and you apparently claim to care for him. How could you possibly thrive in our society?”

For some reason, this enraged Megatron far more than any of the cheap hits had. “You know nothing about Soundwave!” he snarled.

“I know more than you do,” Skyfire retorted. “I know you have done nothing to prove he wasn’t wasting his time for the past five hundred vorns.”

Maybe. Possibly. Yes. But. What right did Skyfire have to say such things? It was no business of his. Megatron wrenched back, searching for another opening. Starscream was now trying to pull Skyfire away, and from the panic in his faceplates, it wasn’t just theatrics for the benefit of their audience.

“Have you ever thought of what he wants? What he needs?” Skyfire stepped back for a moment. “Do you think of him at all when he’s not in front of you?”

Megatron turned to look at Soundwave to see what he thought of Skyfire’s assessment, but Skyfire punched him in the jaw again. This time, it genuinely hurt.

“Skyfire!” shrieked Starscream again. “That’s enough!”

But Skyfire wasn’t listening. He flew at Megatron again, fury and strength taking the place of strategy and training. Megatron avoided most of the blows without too much trouble, and finally caught Skyfire by the arms, holding them to his own chassis so the shuttle could not strike again.

“We both know this isn’t about Soundwave,” said Megatron in a low voice. “It’s about your bondmate.”

“You don’t deserve his forgiveness,” hissed Skyfire. “You don’t deserve to look at him, after everything you did.”

“Enforcers!” bellowed a voice, before Megatron could come up with a suitable response. “Put your servos in the air!”

Megatron released Skyfire’s arms, and saw that the Enforcers had indeed arrived. There were six of them in all, pushing their way through the crowd. Skyfire raised his servos, and Megatron did the same. The Enforcers had them both in stasis cuffs in a moment.

“I hope she kills you,” said Skyfire, his voice so low that Megatron could barely hear it. “It’s what you deserve.”

And as the Enforcers led him away, Megatron could not decide whether or not he agreed with Skyfire’s assessment.

The questions he faced at the Enforcer Station had less to do with his fight with Skyfire and more to do with his new frame. They asked him where he had received the upgrade, who had performed the transfer, and how he had paid for the procedure. When he refused to answer any of the questions, they brought him down to the lowest level of the building and put him in a cell.

After a few cycles of sitting in seclusion, Prowl and Barricade came into try to steer things in a more productive direction.

“For your own good, we ask that you cooperate with us,” said Barricade from the other side of the electro-bars. “We only want to understand what is happening.”

Megatron did not rise from the bench, and merely gave an unhelpful shrug.

“I do not think you understand the situation you are in,” said Prowl, his doorwings twitching. “You are not an official citizen, and therefore we can hold you for as long as we need to in order to protect our people. I suggest you rethink your strategy.”

“I have a right to a fully functional frame, citizen or not,” said Megatron.

“If you have not completed the Program, you are a danger to your fellow Cybertronians.” Prowl crossed his arms. “You cannot blame us for wanting to protect our people.”

“I was not the one who started the fight,” Megatron said. “One of your citizens was.”

“This isn’t about your petty brawl,” snapped Prowl. “Who gave you the upgrades? Was it the Decepticons?”

Megatron was genuinely taken aback. “What?”

“There are insurgents on Cybertron,” said Barricade quietly. “Likely left behind during Megaempress’s attack on Iacon. You do not have to deny it; we already know they’re here. If you tell us where they’re operating out of, we will have no reason to detain you any further.”

“There are Decepticons on-planet?” asked Megatron, rising to his pedes. “Are you certain?”

“Are they not the ones who gave you your frame upgrade?” Prowl looked skeptical.

“No,” said Megatron. “I have had no contact with any Decepticons since the attack. I went off-planet to one of the colonies for my upgrades.”

Barricade looked at Prowl.

“I think this has gone on long enough,” said Megatron. “I would like to speak to some legal counsel now.”

Prowl actually laughed, and it was a surprisingly genuine sound.

“Legal counsel is only guaranteed for citizens,” said Barricade. “I apologize, but you must remain here until we determine that you are not a threat.”

“This is not what we fought for, Barricade!” shouted Megatron, clenching his fists. Barricade, to his credit, did not flinch.

“Right now, keeping our species from extinction is more important to me than any one mech’s freedom,” Barricade said, looking Megatron straight in the optic. “For you to have received upgrades now, so soon after an attack…you have to realize how this looks. I want to believe you have changed, but too many lives are at risk for me to make that call. I am sorry.”

The two Enforcers left shortly afterwards, and even though Megatron knew everything was going according to plan, he could not help but be infuriated. That the Cybertronian government could indefinitely imprison any mech who was unwilling or unable to complete the Program was unacceptable. And furthermore, how could anyone expect any mechs from the renegade factions to ever willingly return home if this was how they could legally be treated?

It seemed there was no shortage of issues he needed to fix. The green pills, Megaempress, and now this latest injustice.

Megaempress first, he told himself. She would be an extremely formidable opponent, but he would rather face three of her than try to come up with a way to fix Cybertron’s planet-wide addiction and flawed justice system without igniting another war.

And if it came down to it, were those issues worth going to war for? It was certainly nothing compared to the crimes that the elite had committed during the Golden Age. Perhaps he’d be better off accepting the progress that had been made already and leaving well enough alone. Yes, this new Cybertron was imperfect, but it was far better than what it had been before…

But even as he mulled this idea over, Megatron knew he could never accept such a fate for his home planet.

But at what price? The population was already so low, and so fragile. Another war would drive them all to extinction, and cement his place in history as nothing more than a violent monster.

Megaempress first, Megatron told himself again. The rest can come later.

For some reason, his processor kept going back to the hatred in Skyfire’s faceplates.

Was it my fault? he had asked of the lost sparklet.

Don’t be ridiculous, Starscream had said.

But it wasn’t ridiculous, not at all.

It occurred to Megatron that perhaps rotting in a cell somewhere underneath Iacon until his name was forgotten was precisely what he deserved.

Megatron rested his helm against the wall, offlined his optics, and waited for the alarms to sound.

Chapter Text

Megatron did not know how long he had been in recharge before the sound of gunfire and shouting jolted him back online. He raised a hand to his face, and was relieved to find that self-repair had taken care of the worst of the damage to his jaw and optics.

He rose to his pedes just as the door opened. Lunaclub stared at him blankly for a long moment before her faceplates burst into a smile.

“So it’s true—you got a new frame!” cried Lunaclub happily. Her spark-twin was just behind her, and so was someone else—a black and yellow femme who didn’t look particularly enthused to see him. “Trickdiamond, get the cell open!”

The black and yellow femme was already moving to the control panel that kept the electro-bars active. After some fiddling, the bars deactivated.

“Quickly, now,” said Moonheart, glancing behind her. “They’ve already called for reinforcements.”

How many Enforcers were already dead? How many more would die before they got off-planet? Megatron forced himself not to focus on those thoughts. No, no more self-pity. He had a new mission now.

Trickdiamond went up ahead of them, and he could hear more gunfire, followed by a few slamming sounds. When they reached the upper level, the place was silent, though torn apart and unrecognizable from the clean, well-lit station he had seen only a few cycles ago.

As he looked around to assess the damage, Megatron was hit by a slew of comms. They had been blocked while he’d been down in the cells, but he was able to access them easily now. But there was no time to examine them, not with the shouts and gunfire just outside and the twins dragging at his arms. He was careful to step over or around the stasis-locked Enforcers in his path.

They took him out the back entrance instead of the front, which put them in some sort of courtyard. He could see flashing lights in the distance, and sirens were wailing again.

“How are we getting out of here?” asked Megatron, knowing they only had a matter of moments before the rest of the Enforcers arrived. Lunaclub grinned at him and pointed upwards into the starry night.

“You can fly now, can’t you?” she asked.

He hadn’t flown since waking. But now he transformed into his new altmode, a sleek stealth fighter. Lunaclub squealed appreciatively and transformed herself, shooting off into the sky. He followed after her, but quickly overtook the smaller ’copter. He had forgotten what it was like to break through the atmosphere, fire on his wings.

He cast his sensors down at Cybertron below. Iacon was a bright, gleaming jewel in an otherwise dark void. He could see no evidence that any of the other city-states had power, or inhabitants. But then, if the population was so low, what would be the point in reviving other cities? They would only stand empty.

Megatron turned his sensors away from his home planet just in time to see a violet and black space shuttle approaching.

[Blast Off?] said Megatron in disbelief.

[He’s our ride!] explained Lunaclub. [Don’t worry about Trickdiamond, she’s staying on-world for a bit. Come on!]

Blast Off’s bay doors opened, and Megatron flew inside after the twins. As soon as the doors shut behind him, he transformed back into root mode. It did not escape him how dingy and poorly-maintained Blast Off’s interior was compared to the last time he had seen the transport mech.

“Blast Off,” said Megatron. “You serve Megaempress?”

[My whole team does,] admitted Blast Off. [It’s…complicated.] He seemed unwilling to say any more, and Megatron let the subject rest, for now.

“Blast Off, we are going to have the planetary guard on us in a klick,” Moonheart was saying. “Can you—?”

[Going into transwarp space now,] Blast Off reported. [Buckle in. Or don’t, I don’t care.]

There was a jolt, and Megatron was nearly knocked off his pedes. He managed to regain his balance, and made his way towards Blast Off’s control room.

There was nothing to see in subspace. Some mechs, particularly seekers, found it eerie and disconcerting. Glancing back at the twins, he saw that they were both fidgeting, their rotors twitching back and forth. Megatron himself did not mind it, and he sat down at Blast Off’s console to wait.

After a few uneventful cycles passed, Blast Off dropped out of transwarp space. The jolt brought him out of his awkward half-recharge, and Lunaclub tapped on his shoulder.

“Look,” she said, gesturing forward. “There it is.”

Megatron looked, and saw a massive warship was directly ahead of them. It was one of the many that had been constructed at the beginning of the war, before resources had become so scarce. It showed its age, with countless multi-colored patches and weld marks marring the hull. Nevertheless, he could see the weapons stations seemed to be operational.

“That is the Crown of Stars. Megaempress’ ship, and our base of operations,” explained Moonheart. “It’s better this way. If we spend too long on one world, the Galactic Council chases us off.”

“And you’ve managed to power it?” Megatron asked doubtfully.

“Every area that isn’t in immediate use doesn’t get power routed to it,” Moonheart explained. “But about a quarter of the ship is operational, including the engines and generators. We gather energy wherever we can—mostly from dying stars.”

Megatron said nothing as they approached the warship. Lunaclub seemed to sense his apprehension and said, “Everyone is looking forward to your arrival, you know.”

“I know,” said Megatron.

As they disembarked from Blast Off, Megatron was not surprised to see the interior of the Crown of Stars wasn’t too much better than the exterior. The lights were dim, and flickered off a few klicks after they stopped sensing movement. Still, as he walked down the hallways, escorted by the twins, mechs dropped everything to salute him, their mouths half-open and energy fields buzzing with excitement.

Some mechs he recognized, but some he did not. He wanted a chance to speak with them, but he knew it would have to wait. Soon enough they were approaching an enormous set of double doors that he knew led to the bridge. They slid open at Moonheart’s touch, and for the first time in many, many vorns, he saw Megaempress.

She was a tall, heavily-built femme, sitting in the captain’s chair at the highest point in the room. Her long legs were crossed as she read over a report, giving her a casual, idyllic look that was at odds with her surroundings. As always, her paint was silver with touches of scarlet in an homage to Megatron’s traditional colors. Megatron found himself suddenly pleased that Comet had changed his paint during the upgrade.

Megaempress’s resemblance to his old frame was not a coincidence. She liked to claim to her followers that she and Megatron were from the same line of production, and had always done her best to copy his appearance. But then, Megaempress also claimed she had the power to make mechs fall in love with her. Really, one could not believe anything she said.

When she saw Megatron, her optics lit and a smile twisted across her ruby lipplates. In contrast, the violet and black femme standing guard beside her unspaced a large, curved weapon.

“Now, Flowspade!” admonished Megaempress. “That is no way to greet your Emperor!”

Flowspade did not respond, and the hardness did not leave her optics, but she lowered her weapon to her side.

“My lord,” said Megaempress, approaching with her arms outstretched. “I was beginning to fear this cycle would never come.”

“You truly intend to relinquish leadership to me, then?” asked Megatron, doubtful.

“But of course!” Megaempress exclaimed. “With you as our leader, we will easily absorb all the other factions that call themselves Decepticons. They will flock to us! And then we will turn our sights to Cybertron.”

Megaempress moved forward and wrapped her servo around Megatron’s arm. He felt a faint pinch in his wrist armor, but allowed her to pull him towards the viewscreen.

“First, we will address our soldiers,” she said. “They are waiting to hear what will happen now that you have returned. I would hate to try their patience.”

She released his arm at last and began to activate the console. Megatron looked down at his arm and saw five tiny needle marks in the plating, exactly where Megaempress’s digits had been.

It took all of his willpower not to walk up behind her and slam her helm into the keypad. Instead, he focused all of his power to his scanners, searching for any viruses or malware or whatever it was she’d tried to upload through her servos.

But all his scans came back clean. Megatron suspected—he hoped—that the modifications that Soundwave had made to his frame meant that his armor was too thick for Megaempress’s needles to fully penetrate. But he wouldn’t know for certain until he had a moment to himself.

“My soldiers!” Megaempress was saying to the screen. “Our leader has returned to us at last! Now, finally, no others can claim to be Decepticons. That honor belongs to us alone.” She paused, as though listening to imaginary applause. “But your Empress is merciful. I will welcome any who seek to join us, so long as they submit to our leadership.

“I anticipate our new allies will begin arriving soon,” she went on. “And our numbers will grow until we have the power to take Cybertron back from the cowards who embraced peace!” She reached out for Megatron’s arm again, pulling him close. “Your Emperor, my conjunx, has returned. What more proof do we need that we are the true Decepticon faction?”

Megaempress cut the connection just as Megatron ripped out of her grip.

“Why, Megatron, what’s the matter?” she pouted. “Didn’t you like it?”

“I am not,” said Megatron, “your conjunx.”

Megaempress laughed. “Well, nobody else is volunteering to fill the position, now are they?” she asked. “Don’t be so dour, it’s bad for morale.”

“Megaempress, we have gone over this,” said Megatron. “Several times. I am not your conjunx, or your bondmate, nor will I ever be.”

Megaempress seemed not to hear him as she crossed the room and sat down in her throne. “I expect we shall hear from Bludgeon soon,” she said conversationally. “His faction is comparable in power and influence to my own. Perhaps Jhiaxius as well, if he’s still online. I have already secured promises from the smaller groups.” She unsubspaced a datapad and inspected her reflection in its deactivated screen. “Flowspade, I will need to change my paint.”

“You will do no such thing,” snapped Megatron.

Megaempress looked up at him in surprise. “Goodness, you are in a terrible mood today,” she observed. “But I will forgive you, because I understand you must be struggling with the loss of so many vorns. Now, I have complied some data that you really must familiarize yourself with if you intend to resume leadership of this faction.” She handed the datapad over to him, and Megatron accepted it reluctantly. “That contains all our personnel data, as well as a complete inventory of our storerooms and armories. I’ve also included a few notes about the situation with the other splinter factions.”

“Who leads the Autobots now?” asked Megatron, subspacing the datapad.

“Mmm…Star Saber and Hyperdrive have the largest factions,” said Megaempress. “But they engage with one another more frequently than they do us. Truthfully, we have always been in greater danger from our own kind. I think it is fitting.” Her lips curled in a smile. “That is why I am so glad to have you here. I love battle as much as anyone else, but our resources are too low to carry on like this forever.”

“I am told Cybertron has a planetary defense,” said Megatron. “How do you expect to overcome it?”

Megaempress’ smile deepened. “I already did. Remember?”

“In borrowed alien ships,” retorted Megatron. “That trick will not work twice.”

“Am I meant to be scared of an army of sobbing civilians?” Megaempress rose to her pedes, clearly irate at the challenge. The other Decepticons looked over at her uneasily, and Flowspade raised her weapon again. “That goes for the ex-Decepticons as well as Autobots. I saw what they have become. Pathetic. Oh, some stood and fought, but most laid down and waited for death. I do not know how warframes managed to become terrified of battle, but Cybertron has managed it.”

“There is a difference between battle and five million stellar cycles of war,” said Megatron. “We were built for the former, not the latter.”

Megaempress raised an optical ridge at him. “Are you defending their weakness?” she asked.

“No,” said Megatron, in direct defiance of the blatantly obvious. He reminded himself that he was meant to be a warlord, merciless and brutal. “It is merely psychology.”

A soft laugh escaped her. “Indeed,” she said, stepping nearer to him. “How far did you get into that silly Program of theirs?”

She smelled very nice, he would give her that. “Far enough to see it was a waste of my time,” said Megatron, moving backwards. Megaempress caught him by the servo, and he felt another tiny pinch in his forearm. He forced himself not to yank away, to trust that Soundwave’s armor would protect him. It was a horrendously helpless feeling, just like…

“It’s not working,” said Optimus. His old arch-nemesis frequently came to visit him when nobody else was around. “Too much damage has been done. I do not believe we can ever be a united people once more.”

There was a sigh, a pause.

“It is my fault,” he went on. “They all tell me that it isn’t, but I know the truth. What kind of Prime was I, to inspire such hatred? At least you were honest about it. You never pretended to be good.”

“Megatron?” His vision cleared, and Megaempress was staring up at him. Her voice was cloying, sweet. “Are you not feeling well?”

No virus warnings were going off. His spark was racing, pounding, but all his scans were coming back clean. It seemed that she had once again been unable to penetrate his armor.

“Here,” said Megaempress, resting one hand on his back and leading him towards the door. “You must be so exhausted. Recharge a while, and then you can tour my ship.”

She thought it had worked. Whatever it was she had tried to do, the panic attack resembled the symptoms of it enough that Megaempress believed she had succeeded. His natural instinct was to set the record straight immediately—nobody commanded Megatron—but he realized that it could be beneficial if she believed he was not a threat.

He allowed her to steer him down the hallways, focusing his energy on the ventilation exercises Rung had taught him. Megaempress was speaking, but he could not understand her with the buzzing in his audials.

“This will be your room,” she said, gesturing. Megatron stared at the door she indicated, trying to take in the numbers on it. But he was having trouble focusing. She opened the door and guided him inside.

The room was large, but almost completely empty. It only contained a berth and a single desk, and a door that he supposed must lead to a private washrack.

“I know it’s not much,” she said, not removing her servo from his back. “But things will change quickly around here, you’ll see. Of course, if this isn’t acceptable, I’m sure I could find you…alternate accommodations?”

Megatron had to stop himself from recoiling. “That…won’t be necessary,” he said. But Megaempress only moved closer until they were chassis-to-chassis. Her other servo circled around the back of his helm.

“Such a gentlemech,” she breathed at him. “I can’t stand it.” The servo on his back slid around to his hip, digits playing at the connector panel there. “Why don’t we…”

“No,” said Megatron. It seemed an age ago that he had denied Soundwave the same thing, in the little hospital room lightyears away.

I have so much to show you, Soundwave had said.

He regretted it bitterly now.

“Don’t be like that,” said Megaempress, her tone light and playful. “Don’t you know I love you? Don’t you love me?”

Megatron struggled for an answer, and Megaempress pouted.

“I can fix that,” she said, and he felt her digits sneak under his helm and make contact with the soft silver cabling in his neck. There was a pinch—

And Megatron drew back his arm and hit her in the face as hard as he could.

Immediately, he was flooded with memories of Soundwave crumpling under his fists, crying out in pain. But when his vision cleared, it was Megaempress who stared up at him in disbelief from her spot on the floor.

“Well!” she said at last, wiping energon from her nasal ridge. “If you weren’t in the mood, you could have just said so.”

The absurdity of the statement was so impressive that Megatron found himself speechless. Megaempress picked herself up off the floor, one hand still over her face. This time, she left a generous amount space between their frames.

“You are not my conjunx,” said Megatron, and it was a relief to say the words, to know that he still could. “Nor will you ever be.”

“Then who will?” countered Megaempress. “Your best generals have bonded themselves to Autobots, and nobody else can stand to be around you.”

“Soundwave can,” said Megatron.

“Soundwave?” Megaempress laughed. “Soundwave is more tool than mech. He has his uses, and he is certainly loyal, but let’s not pretend like he is your equal. He cannot give you heirs. He cannot even bond.”

Fury boiled within him, and he forced his fists to remain at his side. “I have no use for a sparkbond, and even less for an heir,” Megatron retorted.

“Speaking of which,” said Megaempress, all of the aggression suddenly evaporating from her field. “Your delinquent creation is here. The blue one. I’m about to drop him on the next planetoid we pass by, so I suggest you go straighten him out.”

It was difficult to keep his equilibrium in a conversation with Megaempress. She always seemed to know exactly when to change the subject. “You mean Overlord?” asked Megatron.

“Yes,” said Megaempress, touching her digits to her lip-paint and examining the color that remained. The deep crimson had smeared, and was now overrun by bright pink energon. “Very ungrateful, just like you.”

Chapter Text

Megatron shut the door on Megaempress and sat down on the berth to clear his processor. She was even worse than he remembered. And now she had escalated to drugging mechs and presumably forcing interfaces—something Megatron had not ever tolerated from his soldiers.

The messages that he had received while he had been down in the prison cells were still vying for his attention. As he reviewed them, he found that there were only three that interested him: two from Soundwave, and one from Starscream. He played them back in the order they had been received.

[By the time you receive this message, you should be off-world,] Soundwave’s first message said. [The media is already beginning to cover the fight. Many of them have turned to me with questions. I am merely maintaining that you were not the instigator.] There was a long pause. [I will not recharge tonight. Please do not do anything foolish. I…I cannot lose you again, when I only just got you back.]

The message ended.

[Megatron,] that was Starscream’s voice, breathless and a little hysterical. [I—I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, I…I had no idea, honestly. He’s never, he’s never—you know how Skyfire usually is! I didn’t even consider that he might be harboring…] Starscream vented heavily. [We have a lot to talk about, him and I. I’ve been so selfish, always thinking about myself and my recovery. I should have been paying more attention to him.]

The message came to an end, and Megatron deleted it quietly.

[I am sorry to bother you twice,] that was Soundwave again, his vocalizer soft with distress. [But I cannot stop worrying. Please, if it is safe, send me a message when you are off-planet.]

Megatron opened up an encrypted comm channel, and Soundwave answered his query ping immediately.

[Megatron?] True to his word, he sounded as though he had not recharged at all. [Where are you? Are you well?]

[Yes,] began Megatron, [I am on her warship, I—]

[Have you met Megaempress?]

[Yes.] Megatron wasn’t sure what else to say, or how to articulate his experiences. The confusion and shock were still fresh. [She is awful.]

[Be wary of her,] Soundwave advised. [She has become erratic and unpredictable. She is likely far more desperate than she was during the war. You must not trust any claim she makes.]

[There is no danger of that,] Megatron assured him. [Now I must determine how her crew feels about her. Perhaps they tire of her antics as well. I hope I may be able to find some allies here.]

Soundwave’s relief was palpable, even over the comm lines. [I know you can,] he said. [Persuade them that a better life is within their reach, and they will follow you home.]

Megatron hesitated.

[Or you do not believe that is the truth?] Soundwave pressed.

[It is not that,] Megatron attempted to explain. [Only the home that waits for them is…imperfect.]

Soundwave did not respond, and Megatron suddenly was aware that he might have said the wrong thing.

[I only mean that I am reluctant to send them to a world where they cannot be citizens until they jump through the Senate’s hoops. Until they complete the program, they have no protections, no rights. I cannot promise them a fair trial. I cannot promise they will not all be imprisoned indefinitely.]

Soundwave was silent, thinking. [I understand your concerns,] he said at last.

[Give me time to assess the situation,] Megatron advised. [I will comm you again when I have decided how to proceed.]

Soundwave sent him a little databurst of acknowledgement.

[How are things on Cybertron?] he asked. [Or would I be better not knowing?]

[Most mechs are reacting with confusion at this stage,] Soundwave reported. [Some are speaking in your defense. Others believe that we must prepare for outright war again. I cannot say what stance the Senate will take. I hope you are able to resolve this quickly, before things can deteriorate.]

[I do not intend to remain here for a breem longer than I must,] Megatron assured him.

Soundwave seemed to relax a bit more. [I trust your judgement,] he said. [I…only wish this was not the route we were forced to take. All I want is for you to return to Cybertron safely. I do not care if we never become conjunx endura.]

[You don’t mean that,] said Megatron. [I know you have been waiting for hundreds of vorns.]

[It is only a title,] Soundwave insisted. [I do not require it, so long as I am with you.]

[You don’t mean that.]

Soundwave’s laugh was soft. [Perhaps. Perhaps not.]

[If it is important to you…] Megatron hesitated. [When I return…]

He could practically see Soundwave shaking his helm. [I will not discuss this now,] he said. [When you return, you may stand before me and ask me properly, but I will not be proposed to over a comm line.]

Megatron bit back a sound of amusement. [Very well. When I return.]

[Good.] Soundwave suddenly sounded exhausted. [I do not want to end our conversation, but I must recharge. I have gone without it for far too long.]

[Rest,] said Megatron. [I will update you after I have spoken with the troops.]

Alone again, Megatron decided he did not want to spend any more time in this room. He remembered Megaempress had mentioned Overlord. Perhaps it was time for some more answers.

He found the mech in the armory, sad and understocked as it was. Overlord did not look up at the sound of the door opening, and seemed to be more interested in whatever blade he was sharpening.

“You lied to me,” said Megatron.

Overlord raised his helm. Surprise registered on his faceplates for only a moment, before that bland indifference took hold again. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“When I met with you in the hospital,” said Megatron, walking closer. Overlord did not rise from his seat. “You told me you accepted the peace because you’d run out of Autobots to fight. But you knew these splinter factions were out here all along.”

Overlord shrugged, but his smile was uneasy. “You’re here now, so I’d hardly say it matters.”

“It does,” Megatron insisted. “And do you know what I think? I think you knew that if I found out about the splinter factions, I would leave Cybertron and resume command of them, and you didn’t want that for me. You tried to convince me that the new world was good.”

“For you, it could be,” said Overlord. “You, with your fawning conjunx and loyal generals, all waiting to guide you to a seat on the Senate and turn you into living proof that any warbuild can be domesticated. You could have an easy life, the sort you set out for when you started the war.”

“But you couldn’t?”

“No,” said Overlord. “I’m not a mech, I’m a weapon. You should know that; you’re the one who built me.”

Megatron said nothing. The silence felt almost oppressive. Overlord set the blade down and walked over to the room’s only window.

“Once,” said Overlord, clasping his servos behind his back and staring out into the stars, “I could talk mechs into following me. I could promise them a slaughter. I could promise them victory. But now, nobody’s interested. Even these mechs,” he made a vague gesture at the door, indicating the entirety of the crew of the Crown of Stars, “they’d rather scrounge for scraps and huddle together for warmth.”

“Starvation will do that to a mech,” said Megatron. “Endless war is not sustainable. Even you must realize that, Overlord.”

“Tell me, then,” said Overlord, turning his helm back towards Megatron. “What were you planning on doing with me after you’d killed the Prime and crowned yourself Emperor? Were you going to put me in spark extraction, or just have me stabbed in my recharge?”

“Neither,” protested Megatron, but the word came out weak and hollow.

“You see? If there was no room for me even in your Empire, how could I expect to live on Cybertron as it is now?” Overlord did not look particularly unhappy, though. “I led a splinter faction once, for about a stellar cycle. When they were all dead, I returned to Cybertron and allowed them to put me through their Program.” Overlord shrugged. “Some of it was enjoyable. Eventually I learned what they wanted to hear from me.”

“I am sorry,” said Megatron. Overlord gave him a strange look.

“You’re deluded,” he said. “I knew what I was doing when I killed that medic. I saw him, and I made my choice. I savored it. And I don’t regret it. This is what I am meant to be.”

“You’re meant to be starving on a derelict spaceship, taking orders from a commander who drugs her own soldiers?” Megatron retorted.

“This situation is temporary,” said Overlord. “I’ll find a way to convince some of these mechs to come with me. I might kill them, but it’s better than being her slave.”

Megatron was suddenly very, very exhausted. “Do whatever you like, Overlord—”

“I always do.”

“—right now, my priority is Megaempress.”

“Stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours?” There was a gleam in Overlord’s optics. “I’ll agree to that. For now.”

It was probably as good as he’d ever get, at least from Overlord.

Megatron decided it was time to go in search of some of Megaempress’s soldiers. Some of them would be loyal to her, but there was a good chance some would not be, given what he had seen of her behavior.

To his surprise, Swindle was the first mech he happened upon outside the armory.

Swindle’s optics were pale and unhealthy, and it looked like he had not had fresh paint in vorns. Awkward weld lines marred his frame, as though they had been done by someone with no medical experience. When he saw Megatron, he gave an exhausted salute.

“You are the last mech I expected to see out here,” Megatron said.

Swindle gave a soft vent. “Yes,” he agreed, but said nothing more on the subject. “You left Cybertron? Why?”

Megatron decided to try for a neutral approach. “It was not quite to my taste,” he said. “But I think you would enjoy it very much.”

“I know.” Swindle looked wistful. “I know.”

“Then why are you here?” Megatron pressed.

Swindle glanced down. “Vortex,” he said. “You know he wouldn’t get through that program in a million vorns. They’d give up eventually and put him in spark stasis. We won’t—I won’t—send him back there.”

The Combaticons had spent millions of stellar cycles in spark extraction until Starscream broke them out to inhabit the bodies he had constructed for them on Earth. Megatron found he could understand Swindle’s sentiment.

“Overlord made it through,” Megatron said. “He learned what they wanted to hear and—”

“Overlord can act normal, when he wants to,” Swindle retorted. “Tex can’t.”

He had never seen Swindle look so defeated before. It was a little eerie.

“Are there other mechs?” asked Megatron. “Other mechs who feel the same way you do?”

Swindle looked at Megatron suspiciously. “I don’t know what you’re asking. And I don’t care!” he added quickly. “I…have to go now. My lord.”

Swindle practically bolted from the room, leaving Megatron alone with even more to consider.

Chapter Text

His ration was tiny.

At first he thought it was a passive-aggressive move on Megaempress’ part, some small revenge for what had happened the previous solar cycle. But after only a breem of observing the soldiers as they came for their own rations, Megatron realized the truth of the matter. His allotment might be small, but it was actually larger than average on the ship.

Megaempress entered the mess hall, Flowspade in her shadow. Her face lit and she moved quickly, with long strides. She was at his table in a moment, smiling as though nothing was wrong.

“Megatron,” she said warmly. “Did you recharge well?”

Flowspade gave a soft growl, and Megaempress turned to her. “Darling, why don’t you fetch our rations?” she asked. Glowering, Flowspade stomped away to the energon dispenser. Megaempress gave a contented hum.

“I must go,” said Megatron, rising to his pedes.

“Must you? I was hoping we could talk.” She smiled again. “But if you insist, I shall see you on the bridge.”

Megatron did not run from anyone, especially not Megaempress. But as he pushed through the crowd of soldiers with dim optics and weak energy fields, his strides were long and purposeful. He knew he was expected on the bridge soon, and would be spending far too much time within arm’s reach of Megaempress until he could either kill her or convince her soldiers to return to Cybertron with him. Preferably both.

Unsatisfied by the ration, his tanks still complained (how had he so quickly become used to being fully energized?) and he rooted around in his subspace pocket to see if he had anything stored away. He was surprised when his servo close around the little half-eaten box of energon sweets that Esmeral had sent him. He had all but forgotten.

Now, he removed the box and studied it. It was pure white in color, made of some soft, smooth material that he could not name. Inside, each candy was round, glowing faintly, and nested in a colorful individual sleeve. Some had been speckled with rust flakes or had different-colored minerals in their center. Each was unique, and obviously hand-crafted.

For an infamous ex-Decepticon warrior who turned into a dragon, Esmeral was surprisingly domestic. Along with the candies, she had included a cheerful message in curling handwriting and signed her name with a doodle of a spark. It was so disturbingly at odds with Megatron’s current surroundings that he found himself wondering if the time he had spent on Cybertron had been in another universe entirely.

Megatron subspaced the box without eating any of the energon sweets.

Everyone rose and saluted when he walked onto the bridge. It was simultaneously familiar and alien. This was not his ship, not his base. But the mechs stared at him with awe and devotion, waiting for the command to return to their tasks.

“As you were,” said Megatron, wondering what would happen if he never returned to Cybertron and instead remade the Decepticon forces into an army once again. He forced the thought away. That was not what he had come here to do.

That was not what Soundwave wanted from him.

Megaempress swept in a breem later, clearly in high spirits. She sat in the command chair—and only then was Megatron horrified to realize that at some point, a second seat had been installed just beside it. She looked at him expectantly, but Megatron did not move.

“We are expecting a call from Bludgeon today,” she said, apparently deciding that this was a battle for another time. “He has been informed of your return. Now we will see how long it takes him to join us.”

It was, in fact, a cycle later when the call came through. Megaempress squirmed in satisfaction as the mech at the communications console called out, “Bludgeon hailing on long-range comms.”

“Come stand beside me, if you do not wish to sit,” Megaempress called to Megatron, who had been trying his best to look busy with a datapad on the far side of the room. Megatron tried not to seem too reluctant as he made his way over. When he was standing just over her shoulder, the communications mech answered the call.

Bludgeon was standing on the bridge of his own ship. His optics were dim, and there were cracks in his skeletal pretender shell, revealing the Cybertronian frame beneath. Behind him stood a few mechs that Megatron recognized—Windsweeper and Needlenose. As Bludgeon surveyed the scene before him, he sneered.

“That is not Megatron,” he said dismissively and without preamble. “You are wasting my time.”

Megaempress didn’t seem annoyed. “I am not in the mood for games, Bludgeon,” she said with a wave of her servo. “If you wish to doubt what is in front of your optics, it is no great loss to me. Others will pledge their allegiance in the next solar cycles.”

Bludgeon still seemed hesitant. “If I were to pledge my allegiance,” and there was a heavy emphasis on the word ‘if’, “it would be to Megatron, not to you.”

“I would not expect otherwise,” said Megaempress pleasantly.

“You are not an unintelligent mech, Bludgeon,” said Megatron. “Your factions are all on the verge of collapse. Your petty bickering must come to an end now if the Decepticons are to return to their former glory.”

Bludgeon seemed to hesitate. He glanced back at Windsweeper and the other mechs, as if hoping for their input.

“I am not impressed by this pointless infighting,” said Megatron. “This is not strength. This is not power. This does not strike fear into anyone. Cybertron is laughing at you—those civilians you mock? They say you live in deplorable conditions out of stubbornness and spite. The Galactic Council sees you as vermin, to be chased from one star to the next. You are not warriors holding true to my ideals. You are sparklings throwing a tantrum because you wanted to keep playing at war, no matter the cost, and did not even have the sense to band together and remain a viable threat to anyone!”

The bridge was utterly silent. Lunaclub had stopped her twittering. Even the mechs at the monitors were no longer typing into their consoles. Megaempress looked a little bit dazed.

“It is you,” said Bludgeon with satisfaction.

By the time Megatron left the bridge, Bludgeon had sworn loyalty to him and his ship was en route to the Crown of Stars, where the agreement would be formalized. As Megatron walked back to his quarters, he wondered if this new development would benefit or hinder him. Bludgeon was a formidable foe, and he doubted he could talk the mech into returning to Cybertron. But he had a few hundred mechs at his command. Perhaps they would be more open to the idea?

A smaller shape was hurrying down the hallways ahead of him, helm lowered and energy field held tight. Megatron suddenly had another idea.

“Swindle,” said Megatron, and the smaller mech flinched. He only uncurled when he saw Megatron striding towards him with no aggression in his own field.

“My lord,” said Swindle, shifting from pede to pede as Megatron approached. “I apologize, but I am needed—”

“Just a moment, Swindle,” said Megatron. Then, after a quick sensor sweep to make sure nobody else was nearby, he unsubpaced Esmeral’s box again and removed the lid so that the little glowing spheres were clearly visible.

Swindle’s optics brightened, and his energy field was suddenly filled with desperation.

“What do you want?” Swindle whispered.

“I am not asking for much,” said Megatron. “Only a list of names. Any mechs who you think might be willing to return to Cybertron.”

Swindle seemed paralyzed, his optics darting back and forth between the box and Megatron’s faceplates. Megatron did not allow his disgust with himself to show—taunting a starving soldier with energon sweets.

“I…don’t know,” said Swindle, but his energy field told a different story.

“Yes you do.” Megatron shoved the box into Swindle’s servos. There might have been tears in the smaller mech’s optics.

“Alright.” Swindle glanced around furtively and subspaced the box. “Just—just give me a few breems.”

Megatron nodded. Then he added, “Bludgeon’s forces will be joining ours in a matter of solar cycles.”

Swindle nodded absently, his processor clearly on other matters already.

“You are an affable mech,” Megatron pressed. “If you can provide me with the names of his mechs who might be willing to—”

“No!” cried Swindle, looking up sharply. “That’s…that’s too much, I can’t—I can’t take a risk like that, she’ll—”

“She’ll what?” asked Megatron. Swindle fell silent for so long that Megatron was afraid he was glitching up.

“She’s not like you,” said Swindle at last. “You—you had standards. You had rules. You killed mechs for doing the sort of things she does.”

Megatron’s spark suddenly felt very, very cold. As he walked away from the smaller mech, he opened a comm line to Soundwave. Soundwave answered immediately with a pulse of relief and affection.

[Soundwave,] said Megatron. [I need bribes.]

Chapter Text

Bludgeon’s forces arrived on the Crown of Stars the next solar cycle. Like Megaempress’s soldiers, they were faded and weak, with low morale and dim optics. Still, their faceplates lit when they saw him standing beside Megaempress, and that somehow made it even worse.

Bludgeon did not hide his contempt for Megaempress, nor did Megeampress pretend to have any respect for Bludgeon. Under normal circumstances, he would have knocked their helms together for wasting time. But right now, their petty distractions could only benefit him.

There had been no word from Jhiaxius yet, but apparently that was not unexpected. Some smaller factions, headed by mechs with names that Megatron barely recognized, were also expected on the Crown of Stars shortly. The largest of these splinter factions only numbered fifty mechs, but Megaempress seemed delighted regardless.

Despite this, little progress was made. Megaempress and Bludgeon seemed to be more interested in sniping insults at one another than planning an attack. Megatron feigned annoyance, but did nothing to get his errant generals back on track, and occasionally made comments that he knew would prompt more bickering. At the end of the solar cycle, he returned to his quarters satisfied that nothing had been accomplished.

The washracks only had cold water, and Megatron marveled at how quickly he’d become accustomed to the luxuries of Iacon after waking. As he dried himself, he caught a glimpse of the newly-repainted Decepticon brand on his chest. He’d had it done the previous solar cycle, and was not certain how he felt about it. It was familiar, certainly, and had been crafted to represent everything that he believed was true. But it seemed that at some point, its meaning had changed.

Or perhaps he had changed.

Megatron walked back into the berthroom and froze. Something—someone—was waiting in the shadows. He raised his arm, only to remember for what was certainly the thousandth time, that his fusion cannon was gone.

“Excuse me, rude,” said a familiar voice. The panic cleared, and two small shapes stepped from the shadows. The twins. Rumble and Frenzy. Both were looking up at him disdainfully.

“Where—did you come with Bludgeon’s forces?” asked Megatron, his legs suddenly weakening at the thought that he might have hurt them.

Frenzy shook his helm, and Rumble said, “Naw, we hitched a ride with Trickdiamond. She didn’t even notice. Trickdiamond’s back, by the way, so be careful.”

Megatron didn’t really know what the they meant by that—Trickdiamond wasn’t significantly more dangerous than any other Decepticon, and in fact was more satisfied with commerce than fighting. But Rumble spoke again.

“Boss said you needed bribes,” he explained. “We got energon cubes, energon cubes, and, uh, energon cubes.”

“That’s perfect,” said Megatron. The twins both looked at him warily, and he recalled that their last meeting had been less than ideal. “How is…how is Soundwave?”

Frenzy shrugged and Rumble glanced away.

“I know I reacted badly when I first awoke,” pressed Megatron, desperate to have the twins’ forgiveness. “I am sorry for that.”

The twins looked at one another in shock. “You’re sorry?” they asked in unison.

“Of course I am,” said Megatron. “Soundwave has shown me loyalty beyond anything I could have asked for, and I have taken it for granted.”

Rumble scuffed at the ground with his pede. “Well…it’s been a while,” he said. “It’s…things have changed. We figured you wouldn’t like them, but we didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”

“You didn’t?” asked Megatron.

“Not that we’d’ve ever told Soundwave that,” said Frenzy hastily. “It’s just…you know? And…you know?”

“Yes,” said Megatron. The blackness had passed by in an instant to him, but to those who were online, it must have seemed like an eternity. Would he have remained as steadfast as Soundwave if their positions had been reversed? Would he have built a world like the current Cybertron if it had meant a chance at saving Soundwave’s life?

He liked to believe that he would have, but he knew he would have been too proud to ally with the Autobots. And even if he had been desperate enough to ask for a cease-fire, he knew he was too abrasive to maintain an ongoing peace the way that Soundwave and Shockwave and Starscream had managed to.

“I regret that I was not able to spend more time with your new siblings,” said Megatron. “I hope that can change when I return to Cybertron.”

The twins brightened up. “They’re really interested in you,” said Rumble. “We’ve told ’em stories, and they’ve seen Soundwave’s memories when they dock in. I think they think you’re their sire, like Ratbat did.”

For some reason, that only made him feel worse. Megatron decided to move on.

“Swindle is here,” he said. “He’s already given me a list of mechs that might return to Cybertron, if I can guarantee their safety. If I give him more cubes, he may also be able to get me names from Bludgeon’s faction.”

The twins began removing energon cubes from subspace, cubes that were far larger than any Megatron had seen in his time on the ship. They were bright and clear, with no impurities, and cast the entire room in a warm pink glow.

“I think this will do,” said Megatron, knowing that this was probably the understatement of the stellar cycle. Then he added, “Can Soundwave get me a remote audience with the Senate? I have a proposal for them.”

Rumble and Frenzy exchanged looks again.

“We’ll find out,” said Rumble. “Just…be careful what you say to them. Some of them aren’t so happy with you right now.”

It was, in fact, halfway through the night-cycle when the twins roused him from his recharge, saying that the Senate was ready to talk with him.

There was no console or viewscreen in the room he had been given, but the twins said not to worry about that. They slipped down the hallways—or rather, the twins did. Megatron merely tried to walk silently, for all the good his efforts did—until they reached a door that seemed to lead only into blackness.

[This leads to a part of the ship that nobody uses,] explained Rumble as they took their first steps into the darkness. The only illumination was the light from their own optics, and the biolights on their frames, but the twins seemed to have no difficulty with it. Megatron moved slowly, certain that the smallest misstep would knock something over and bring the entire crew running.

Eventually, they made it to an offline console without raising the alarms. Rumble and Frenzy set to work, somehow bringing the machine—but nothing else in the surrounding area—online.

“We’ll make sure nobody intercepts your transmission,” whispered Frenzy, keying in a frequency for him. Rumble was already hardlined into the console, monitoring for any sign of detection. “But try to keep it short.”

The call was accepted, and Megatron found himself looking at the interior of the Senatorial Palace’s meeting room. The entire senate was gathered, all twelve senators, as well as the young Prime. This session was clearly being held in secret, for there were not even any bodyguards in the room, as far as Megatron could see.

“I hope there is a good reason for this,” said one of the formerly-neutral senators that Megatron could not recall the name of. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Alright, enough,” said Rodimus, rubbing at his optics. “Megatron. Soundwave has explained the situation to us, and we’ve had enough mechs confirm his story that we’re willing to hear you out. Are you truly on Megaempress’s warship?”

“Yes,” said Megatron. “She has a few hundred soldiers under her command, but they are very poorly fueled. In their current state, they are not a significant threat. Nevertheless, the loss of so many soldiers will cripple Megaempress’s faction. I believe I also have a chance of convincing some of Bludgeon’s mechs to defect as well.”

Rodimus rubbed his nasal ridge. “This would be a lot easier if you’d told us of your plan before you broke out of prison,” he said.

“Would you have let me do it if I had?” countered Megatron. Rodimus didn’t seem to have an answer for that.

“Megatron,” said Deathsaurus. “What is it you want from us?”

Megatron paused a moment to collect his thoughts. “The lower-ranking mechs here don’t care about the war anymore, from what I have seen,” he explained. “They’re just trying to survive. The only reason they haven’t returned to Cybertron is they think they’ll fail out of the program and be put in spark stasis.”

None of the senators replied immediately.

“These mechs are living in unbelievable conditions,” Megatron pressed. “They would be happy to return home, if I could promise them they would be full citizens, with the same rights and protections as anyone else living on-planet.”

“If they can make it through the Program, they will be,” said Metalhawk.

“That’s not good enough,” insisted Megatron. “Maybe that worked five hundred vorns ago, but the situation has changed. You need to change with it. If not, these mechs will die, either of starvation or infighting.”

“Let them, then,” said one of the neutrals that Megatron did not know the name of. “We have no need for such barbaric—”

“Hipotank!” hissed Bluestreak, looking horrified. “These are Cybertronians we’re talking about!”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Rodimus, sounding completely serious for the first time that Megatron could recall. “If we’re the only thing stopping them from coming home, then it’s our responsibility to change. The Program has been good for us, but that doesn’t mean it’s for everyone. Maybe we need to rethink it. Our priority right now should be getting as many mechs home as we can. We can worry about the details later.”

“You cannot be serious,” said Metalhawk flatly. “Even if, by some miracle, none of these mechs are violent and aggressive, any number of them could be double-agents. If we agree to Megatron’s terms, we could be opening ourselves to a new age of instability.”

“I, for one, am not even convinced that this is not some plan for Megatron to invade Cybertron with no resistance,” said Hipotank, with an accusatory look at him.

“Alright,” said Rodimus. “How can we get these mechs home without risking our own safety?”

“We cannot,” insisted Metalhawk, but Rodimus ignored him.

“We have to try,” said another senator. Megatron did not know his name, but he had the look of an Autobot about him. “If these mechs will submit to our custody, just until we’ve verified Megatron’s story, I think we can—”

“You cannot seriously be entertaining this, Speedstream!” cried Hipotank.

“I will only allow these soldiers to surrender if they will be treated as citizens from the moment they set pede on Cybertron,” Megatron said, leaning forward towards the screen. “If the Senate decides to hold them beyond the initial investigation, every soldier will receive legal representation within a joor.”

Rodimus glanced back at the others. Some of the senators were muttering again. “I think we’re going to have to discuss this further,” he said. “Can you hold out for a solar cycle or two? Just until we’re able to come to a consensus.”

“Yes, but no longer,” said Megatron. “Megaempress is already beginning to unite the Decepticon factions. If she decides we are strong enough to launch an attack, I will have difficulty delaying her.”

“Soundwave will contact you when we have come to a decision,” said Rodimus. He glanced down at his servos, then up at Megatron’s faceplates again. “For what it’s worth…I want to trust you. It’s just…”

“I know,” interrupted Megatron. “That’s my doing, not yours.”

Rodimus nodded, formal and professional once again. Megatron marveled at how different he seemed from the irresponsible sparkling he’d appeared to be upon their previous meetings. “Just hold on a little longer,” the Prime said. “I want this just as much as you do.”

And to his great surprise, Megatron found that he believed him.

Chapter Text

The Crown of Stars touched down on a little planetoid the next solar cycle, and remained there for another two. This was in order to give the various splinter factions a neutral place to gather. Once they were all convinced that Megatron was not an imposter, they would join Megaempress’s crew and be on their way.

At first, Megatron had been surprised that the other Decepticons were willing to abandon their own ships in favor of Megaempress’s. But when the first few arrived in the landing fields, he understood. The Crown of Stars might have seen better days, but it was in mint condition compared to the ships that the other splinter factions relied on. The only exception to this that he had seen was Bludgeon, who was making no secret of the fact that he would not be relinquishing his ship under any circumstances.

As he disembarked from the Crown of Stars, Megatron reflected that the little alien world was not terribly unpleasant. The sun was small and distant, but the ground was not too uneven and there were natural lava flows lending light and energy to their surroundings. Some of Megaempress’s soldiers had been at work for the last few solar cycles, trying extract some extra energy from the lava.

Not too far away, Swindle was discussing something with Trickdiamond. True to Rumble and Frenzy’s claims, the femme had returned to the ship two solar cycles ago. But he still wasn’t certain why he had to watch out for her, save for the fact that she was loyal to Megaempress.

Swindle’s optics were unusually bright and healthy, but he refused to look Megatron in the faceplates as he passed by. Megatron decided to leave him be. Over the course of the last two solar cycles, Swindle had given him a few more lists of designations, just as Megatron had hoped he might.

Those designations spiraled through his processor now. They were the ones he might save. The ones he might bring home.

That was, if the Senate ever got back to him.

Megaempress came up behind him and interlocked their elbows. Today her lipplates were painted violet. “What do you think?” she asked, glancing over at the various groups of mechs that were clustered across the plateaus. “Aren’t they just pathetic? Doesn’t it break your spark?”

Megatron had spent the morning walking among the camps, speaking to various leaders and trying to gauge their situations. He would not have called any of them pathetic, but at the same time he did feel deeply guilty for what he had observed.

Glowstrike and Saberhorn were leading a faction of mechs that all had bestial alt-modes. Though they only numbered twenty-three, they looked a little less energon-starved than some of the others Megatron had seen and actually appeared to be the most cohesive group.

Meanwhile, a mech named Agoraptor led a splinter faction of forty-four mechs. Megatron was not at all familiar with the mech, and he had immediately annoyed Megatron by striking one of his soldiers for asking a question.

And Stockade was apparently leading a faction as well, but he and all thirty of his soldiers seemed to be on some sort of mind-altering substance and had difficulty answering any of Megatron’s questions.

“I did not see Jhiaxius here,” said Megatron.

“No,” agreed Megaempress. “He did not respond to my messages. Perhaps he is dead after all. Or perhaps he thought I was luring him into a trap. Still, I am not displeased with the numbers I am seeing here.” She turned to Megatron. “Are you ready to make your address?”

“Soon,” said Megatron evasively. She had been asking him this question for the last solar cycle, and he had put it off every time.

“It is only a matter of time before the Galactic Council turns up to ask us what we think we are doing,” Megaempress warned. “I doubt any more factions are coming to join us—and even if they are, they’re so small that I hardly care about them.”

“I will address the troops today,” Megatron promised. “I only need a few more cycles to gather my thoughts.”

Megaempress looked at him with suspicion in her ruby optics. But he knew that she would not question him in front of the soldiers, and so Megatron pulled his arm free and walked away.

The designations that Swindle had given him were circling around him, just as the designations in the Iacon Museum’s monument had. Could he save them all? Could he save any of them? Would his words be a relief, or just proof that the warlord that they had once venerated was worse than deactivated?

Perhaps they would all turn on him. And perhaps that would be the closest thing to justice that Megatron could hope for.

What would really change if Megatron never returned home? Soundwave would mourn, but Soundwave had been mourning for five hundred vorns. Shockwave and Starscream would move on with their lives. Moonracer might think of him fondly, once in a great while. Skyfire would probably celebrate.

A comm interrupted his thoughts. It was Soundwave’s frequency, and Megatron answered it immediately.

[Soundwave!] said Megatron. [I need good news.]

[And I have it,] Soundwave replied. [The Senate has declared that they will accept any mechs you bring home as full citizens, though they will be quarantined from the general population for a short time in order to prevent any outbreaks of violence or the spread of viruses.]

[I suppose that’s better than anything I was expecting,] granted Megatron.

[Yes. However, there is…a condition.]

Megatron sighed. [Let me guess. I’m under arrest.]

[I am afraid so,] confirmed Soundwave. [But they will not be allowed to hold you indefinitely, I will make sure of that. I think they are only afraid that the mechs you bring back will be looking to you for orders.]

[I’ve been locked up before, and I will probably endure it several more times before I offline,] Megatron said. [I am about to address the troops. If this goes well, I will be returning to Cybertron with some soldiers. If not…]

[I love you,] Soundwave said. [I always have, and I always will. No matter how this ends.]

[I never doubted that,] said Megatron. [And…I…] Why were the words so difficult to say? They would mean so much to Soundwave, and yet he found himself choking on them. It was easier, so much easier, to merely think the words in Soundwave’s direction and know the other mech would hear them. But they were too far away for telepathy.

[I understand,] said Soundwave.

[Soundwave, wait—] Megatron protested. [I can say it.]

[You do not have to,] Soundwave replied gently. [You have never had to. I have always known. I felt it the first time we shared sparks, and every time since. Words are nothing compared to that.]

[You have done everything for me,] said Megatron. [But what have I done for you?]

[You cannot be serious,] Soundwave sounded incredulous. [If I had not joined the Decepticons, what do you think would have become of me? Of my symbiotes? You saved our lives. Why should I not love you?]

[It is not enough,] said Megatron. [It is not equal. I need—I need to do more. I should have done more.] Regret seized at his spark.

[Do not say such things,] Soundwave scolded. [We are not in competition with one another; we are partners. I will not have it be otherwise.]

Megatron sent him a pulse of affection, which Soundwave immediately reciprocated. [I will comm you as soon as I am able,] he said at last.

It was time to address the troops.

As the sun began its descent across the alien sky, Megatron stood on a natural rock formation and addressed the soldiers gathered below. They were all looking up at him in wonder and awe, excitement flowing from their energy fields. Just behind him was Megaempress, accompanied by the four femmes that made up her personal guard.

“My soldiers,” he said. “Much has changed since I last addressed you. We are no longer the unstoppable force that destroyed the Cybertronian caste system and declared ourselves the equals of any civilian-spark. Instead, we are scattered across the galaxy, fighting one another instead of our true enemies. I do not approve of this.” His optics darkened. “But I understand. I was not here to guide you and so it was, in part, my own doing.”

The soldiers were still watching him, their optics curious and a little confused.

“I appreciate your loyalty,” he went on. “You have all taken a great risk in coming here, and now I have one final request of you.” He risked a glance at Megaempress. She was smiling, as usual. He knew she was expecting him to launch into a plan for their takeback of Cybertron. He knew, because he had told her that he would.

“Five hundred vorns ago, you were offered peace,” said Megatron. “But you rejected it. Today, I am granting you a second chance. Before this solar cycle ends, I will be returning to Cybertron, to the mechs who wish to make progress. Anyone who chooses to join me will be accepted as full citizens under Cybertronian law.”

A murmur went through the crowd as mechs began to look around at one another in confusion.

“I have spoken with the Senate,” Megatron continued. “And they have agreed to my terms. You do not deserve to die of starvation simply because you know you cannot make it through their Program. Cybertron can be your home again, if you only ask for it.”

The murmur turned into a confused outcry. Megatron raised his voice to be heard over it.

“If you choose to remain here, that is your right!” he called. “But I will not lead you into battle. The new Cybertron is imperfect, but I believe we can fix it—as citizens, rather than conquerors.”

A horrible shriek cut off anything more he might have said. Megaempress was stalking towards him, and finally, finally, she wasn’t smiling anymore. Her faceplates were twisted into an expression of pure rage.

“You traitor!” she screamed, losing all composure. Megatron forced himself to remain in place as she grabbed her rail gun from her back and readied it. She could not fire the weapon at such short range, not without killing herself as well.

Megaempress seemed to come to the same realization, and set the weapon back. Instead, she unsubspaced a double headed battle-axe. Megatron removed a blaster from his own subspace pocket, one he had taken from the armory in anticipation of this moment.

“I will destroy you,” Megaempress hissed, stalking towards him like a predator. “And then I will go to Cybertron and hunt down that drone you call a conjunx. I will kill every last one of his little sparklets, and then I will merge my spark with his so that he can see what I did to you.”

“We’re not sure about this,” said Hook. “If the Autobots turn on us…”

“They won’t,” said Starscream impatiently.

“If they do, they could kill Megatron in an instant,” Hook went on as if Starscream had not spoken. “And then they could go on to destroy the rest of us as well.”

“Oh dear, if only the six-mech combiner team had some means of self-defense,” retorted Starscream.

Megatron ripped free of the memory and dodged the axe’s blade at the last moment. He fired the blaster, but the shots only left scorch marks on her heavy armor. She laughed cruelly and swung again.

There was a sudden weight on his chest.

“This is Glit,” said Soundwave. “He is a cybercat frame, just as Ravage is.”

Something cold touched his face.

“Glit!” Soundwave scolded gently. “Desist.”

As Megatron returned to reality, he had the sudden odd notion that he was fighting himself. But then his vision cleared and he realized it was not himself at all, it was only Megaempress, and the frame she had designed in his image.

He had to get the axe away from her, or find a better weapon to even the odds. As he circled her, trying to keep to a spot that was too close for her rail gun and too far for her axe, he desperately scrolled through his frame’s specifications. Had Soundwave given him any weapons?

The frame had no guns—disappointing, but hardly surprising. There were no blades, either. But his search was bringing back…yes! There were two canisters built into the wrists of his gauntlets. Incendiaries? He activated the software without reading any of the descriptions.

The armor on his wrists shifted, revealing round, hollow openings that would spray some sort of substance. He would have to thank Soundwave when he returned home. As Megaempress moved forward again, he raised one wrist and shot her in the face.

But what emerged from the canisters was not roaring flames or boiling acid or any one of the myriad substances that he was familiar with. Instead, a light, fine mist sprayed forward. The droplets struck Megaempress’s faceplates softly, and she had just enough time to give him a look of contempt before the axe fell from her servos and she hit the ground, clawing at her own optics and gagging.

Megatron grabbed the axe and moved away, his helm spinning with confusion. Was this some sort of ruse? He went back to the software descriptions that he had ignored.

Lachrymator Agent (Spray Module)

Warning: Product contains extract oil of the Praxian Yellow Flame Crystal. Do not ingest. Aim away from faceplates.

Megaempress was retching as though she was trying to purge. Her four guards were gathering around her, making sounds of confusion and worry. Megatron shifted his grip on the axe and spoke.

“You are unfit to lead anyone, let alone my army,” he said, prompting the five of them to all look up at him in surprise. “Your actions are reprehensible. If you wish to survive this solar cycle, you will leave this planet and never seek to command any of my soldiers ever again.”

Megaempress rasped something, but it was lost to another fit of coughing. Flowspade unsubspaced a little energon cube and held it to Megaempress’s lipplates. Lunaclub and Moonheart crouched down on either side of their leader, and Trickdiamond was rifling through her own subspace pocket for something that might be of use.

Her optics streaming, Megaempress spoke again. This time she had recovered enough that Megatron could actually hear what she was saying.

“Combine and form Megatronia!”

Chapter Text

Enormous purple optics stared down at him contemptuously.

Megatron had forgotten about her. How had he forgotten about her?

In his defense—a massive pede descended from the sky and Megatron leapt aside just in time—in his defense, Megaempress hardly ever used her combined form, and Rumble and Frenzy had been extremely vague with their warnings.

He was still gripping Megaempress’s battleaxe, for all the good it might do him. Megatronia (and what gave her the right to his name?) was a combiner, and even he had never taken one down alone. Without his fusion cannon, he knew he had no chance.

One enormous fist slammed down to crush him, and Megatron tensed, waiting for the right moment to spring aside. But the blow was intercepted by another giant servo. Megatron stared up into the faceplates of Bruticus, who was holding Megatronia’s wrist firmly in place.

“Traitor!” Megatronia shouted.

“Enough,” countered Bruticus, slamming his other fist into her faceplates. She struck back, kicking him squarely in the chest and sending him flying backwards across the open plain. Megatron transformed and launched himself into the air, processor spinning. Before he could try to think up another plan, a black and red seeker flew up beside him.

[Did you mean it?] the seeker asked. [You’ll get us back to Cybertron?]

[Yes,] said Megatron.

[Then I’m with you,] said the seeker. And before Megatron could ask any more questions, the seeker began to circle Megatronia’s helm. He was firing shots at her faceplates, aiming for the optics. Megatronia growled and swatted at him, but the seeker dodged her servo.

Bruticus was rising again. Megatronia was clearly the more outright powerful of the two, but Bruticus was better fueled, thanks to Swindle’s profitable information gathering enterprise. Still, Megatronia’s hits were devastating, sending the other combiner mech staggering backwards.

But now other mechs were joining the fight. Most were from Megaempress’s own splinter faction, but he recognized a few of Bludgeon’s mechs, many of Glowstrike and Saberhorn’s, including the two leaders themselves, and several of Agoraptor’s. They were weaving between her pedes, trying to unbalance her, or flying up to her faceplates to blind her.

Megatron landed on a rock formation and risked a glance back at the ones who had not chosen to join in the fight. They were watching silently, their optics hard and body language defensive, but made no move to support Megatronia either.

But Megatronia had spotted him now. Knocking the other soldiers away with a wide sweep of her arm, she began to stomp towards him, her violet optics burning with hatred. Megatron readied the battle-axe, his optics focusing on the main join in her nearest wrist. If he could just destroy that, she would be without the use of her servo.

He swung as she neared, but missed the joint by little more than a micrometer. Rolling to avoid the giant, grasping digits, he sprang back to his pedes and swung again. This time, he did not miss, and Megatronia screamed in pain.

She flailed her arm, soaking him in a deluge of energon, and slammed her useless servo down on the rocks again and again. Megatron dodged, but the energon was slick and he lost his footing. As he shook his helm to get it out of his optics, he felt someone grab his arm and jerk him to his pedes.

Whoever had grabbed him shoved him now, out of the path of Megatronia’s servo. Megatron slammed against the ground, catching himself with both servos. When his vision cleared, Overlord lay, unmoving, in the spot where Megatron had been a moment before. A massive vertical gash split his frame in half from neck to torso.

Megatronia was now clutching at her damaged wrist. Her faceplates split into an ugly smile at the sight of Overlord’s broken frame.

“I’ve solved another one of your problems for you,” she said. “You’re welcome!”

Megatron shifted his grip on the axe and stared into her arrogant faceplates. He did not know what was more infuriating, the fact that she spoke so casually of the death of his first creation or the fact that she might be right.

“I have had enough of you,” said Megatron, activating his antigravs and immediately diverting full power to them. He did not have thrusters in his pedes like a seeker would, but this was nearly as effective. He rose to Megatronia’s faceplates, and she swatted at him like an inset with her undamaged servo. He dodged and powered straight into her faceplates, the axe’s blade tearing up her cheek and into her optic, seeking the brain module behind it. Her undamaged hand grabbed at him, but he spun the axe, slicing one of her digits deeply.

Behind the torn metal of her faceplates, he could see the brain module. He lifted the axe for the killing blow. But before he could land it, Megatronia collapsed beneath him, separating into her component parts as she fell.

Megatron landed on the ground awkwardly as the femmes staggered to their pedes.

“You—haven’t—won,” gasped Megaempress, but Megatron disagreed. Lunaclub—the servo he had crippled—was practically unconscious, gasping as her spark-twin held her close to her own chassis. Trickdiamond was already backing away from the group. Only Flowspade stood beside Megaempress, her weapon ready.

“You have the right to continue fighting if you wish,” said Megatron, addressing not just Megaempress but all the Decepticons gathered there. “But I will have no part in it. And if you ever manage to become powerful enough to threaten Cybertron, know that I will be there to stop you.”

Glowstrike was the first to break the heavy silence. “I am curious,” she said. “Has the senate truly decreed that we will be citizens?”

“They have,” confirmed Megatron.

Glowstrike looked over at her co-commander. “What do you think?” she asked quietly.

“Can anyone run for Senator?” asked Saberhorn.

“Fine!” shrieked Megaempress. “I didn’t want you filthy beasts in my faction! I don’t want any of you in my faction! All of you, get out of my sight!”

“Gladly,” said Glowstrike in a calm, cool voice. She turned to her own mechs. “Or was anyone hoping to stay?”

It seemed that none of them were. Megatron looked back to Megaempress.

“You said yourself that endless war is not sustainable,” he told her. “Will you not reconsider? It is impressive that you survived out here this long with so many mechs looking to you for protection. You are capable of leadership, and if you abandon your detestable practices, there could be a place on Cybertron for you.”

Megaempress glided towards him, her faceplates oddly devoid of emotion. She reached one servo out and rested it on his shoulder affectionately.

“It is too late for me, just as it was too late for Overlord,” she said softly. Her other servo came up to brush his faceplates. “We both know it.”

Something brushed his neck gently, so gently that he might have mistaken it for some sort of local insect. But Megatron knew better. He seized her forearm, wrenching it between them. Her servo was open, and five thin needles protruded from her fingertips. There was no guilt in her optics as she looked at him, only a strange serenity.

He twisted her arm until he heard the joint crack. She shrieked and clawed at him, but Megatron drove his elbow into her throat, forcing her to the ground. The needles tore at the upper layer of his armor, but Megatron grasped both sets in his fists and snapped them away from her digits as one.

Then he slammed his fist into her spark plating until her optics went dark.

Flowspade, silent as ever, came forward. Megatron tensed for another fight, but she put her weapon back in her subspace pocket. She knelt and gathered Megaempress in her arms. Then she turned and walked away, her long shadow eventually disappearing into the gathering dusk.

After a moment, Trickdiamond raised her hand. “I don’t suppose it’s too late to change sides?” she asked. When a few mechs gave her disbelieving looks she added, “What? Have you seen Cybertron now? It’s nice.”

“I just need a medic,” babbled Moonheart, who was still supporting Lunaclub. “You can arrest me if you want, or I’ll leave afterwards, but I just need—”

“Do we have any medics here?” asked Megatron. Two of Megaempress’s mechs, both painted in the traditional green of Cybertronian medics, hurried forward. Megatron decided to let them work and went back to the other Decepticons.

Bludgeon caught his optic for a moment, but he did not speak to Megatron. Instead, he turned his optics to the red and black seeker that had been the first to help in the first against Megatronia. “Skyfall, we are leaving.”

The seeker raised his chin. “No,” he said, but Megatron was near enough to sense the terror in his energy field.

Fortunately, Bludgeon did not argue. He merely turned away and began walking back towards his ship. His mechs began to follow him—but then Windsweeper broke free of the group, running behind Megatron for safety.

Bludgeon’s optics burned, but he did not address Windsweeper. Instead, he glared at his mechs and snarled, “Would anyone else like to go?”

All was silent for a moment. Then Needlenose stepped away and took a place beside Windsweeper.

Bludgeon sneered and marched back to his ship, the remains of his faction trailing awkwardly behind him.

“Anyone else?” asked Megatron, looking to Stockade and Agoraptor. Agoraptor shook his helm and began walking back to his ship as well, but almost half of his soldiers remained behind. Stockade merely blinked up at him, apparently confused by the question. Megatron was not sure what substance he and his mechs were on, but it seemed to have taken a serious toll on their processors.

“Very well,” said Megatron. “I am leaving at sundown, and I am taking the Crown of Stars. Those of you who wish to join me should be on board half a cycle before launch.”

He looked up at Bruticus, who had been watching the proceedings with uncharacteristic solemnity.

“And what about you?” Megatron called up to him.

Instead of replying, the team disassembled. Megatron gave them a moment to adjust to the separation, then asked again, “Is your team willing to give Cybertron a chance?”

To his surprise, Onslaught shook his helm. “Not yet. I’m sorry. Maybe someday.”

“We’re done with being Decepticons, though,” added Brawl. “We’ll find some other way to get by. But not Cybertron. ‘S not for us.”

The entire team glanced at Vortex. Vortex, for his part, was smiling obliviously.

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Megatron. “But if you ever change your minds, I will speak to the Senate on your behalf.” He looked down at Swindle. “I could not have done this without your aid. I apologize that it took me this long to get here.”

“At least you came,” said Swindle. “You’re the only one who ever bothered to try.”

It was still at least two cycles until nightfall. Until then, he just wanted to be alone, to reflect. Megatron moved across the open plains, not in any particular direction, letting the glow of the lava flows light his way.

He had not killed Megaempress, but he knew that her chances of survival were low, even with Flowspade caring for her. Perhaps one day she would manage to return, and he would have to finish what he had started. It seemed unlikely that she would find another way to live. But then, he had managed it. Perhaps she could as well.

Why had he not killed her outright? Megatron looked down at his servos, scarred from where her needles had torn at him in her last desperate attack. At least he had broken them off, and she was unlikely to ever find someone with the skill to replace them.

He’d have torn off her interface cables too, if he’d thought of it.

But even so, he felt a sickening dread rise up within him. Was it really so different from what he had done to Starscream so many times, to Soundwave only twice? Was this simply who he was, a mech who resorted to violence because he was too unintelligent to win others through negotiation? He could make the argument that Megaempress had deserved it, but five hundred vorns ago he would have confidently stated that Starscream deserved it, too.

He sat down on a low stone and pressed his helm into his servos. No, it had to be different. He wasn’t sure how—but it had to be.

He would not be able to live with himself otherwise.

Something caught his optic—a light, green and pulsing. Megatron looked around and, after a moment, realized that Overlord’s frame lay among the broken stones. The damage was hideous, and the colors were slowly, slowly seeping away to be replaced by the ashy pallor of death.

Yet somehow, impossibly, Megatron could see the green light of his spark. He stared at it in disbelief for a long moment. Then he jerked to his pedes so quickly that he nearly lost his balance.

“Medic!” he yelled.

Chapter Text

True to his word, the Crown of Stars departed the nameless planetoid at sunset. A hasty count told him that there were nearly three hundred mechs aboard. The majority of those were from the faction that had been led by Megaempress, but they also had Glowstrike and Saberhorn’s twenty-three, another twenty deserters from Agoraptor, all thirty from Stockade’s (who still seemed to have a very weak grasp on what was going on) and the three that had defied Bludgeon.

Once the ship was safely in transwarp space, Megatron left the bridge and headed for the medbay. He had to find out what Moonheart and Lunaclub were planning on doing once Lunaclub was repaired.

He’d given a short but harsh warning about infighting just before takeoff and it seemed it was being taken seriously. As he walked down the halls, he could see mechs of various splinter factions asking one another questions.

As he entered the medbay, his first thought was that it was oddly crowded. Pausing a moment to take in the scene, he realized that medics from all the different factions were gathered around a single medical berth.

Megatron wondered if Lunaclub was truly that near to offlining and, if so, why these medics cared so much. But as he pushed through the crowd, he saw it was not Lunaclub on the berth.

It was two sparklings.

A mech and a femme, they sat side by side and observed everything with enormous crimson optics. They looked to be close to Crossfire’s age, but Megatron was certainly no expert in sparklings.

“Would someone like to explain this to me?” asked Megatron, drawing all optics to himself. “I was unaware that anyone here had sparklings.”

“They’re not sparklings,” said the mech that had been Megaempress’s head medic. “I mean, they are, but they’re not, they’re—they’re Overlord.”

Megatron stared at the medic, then back at the sparklings, and back to the medic again.

“His spark…it was cracked nearly in two,” the medic explained. “And they would not reintegrate with one another. We put each half in its own protoform, and this was the result. I’ve never seen anything like it, but frankly, I don’t think any other mech would have survived at all.”

The sparkings both stared up at Megatron, solemn and silent. The femme was primarily black, and showed signs of having some sort of jet altmode. The mech was dark blue, and would someday be some sort of tank if he kept to his specifications.

“Do they remember anything?” Megatron asked.

“Very little,” said the medic. “His brain module was destroyed. Anything they do remember would be stored in his spark. But only time will tell how much information that really is.”

Megatron leaned down to look at the sparklings. The pair clutched at one another’s servos as he drew nearer, but did not flinch away.

“Do you know who I am?” asked Megatron.

The sparklings seemed to confer for a moment, pulling their helms together and whispering in tiny, soft voices. Then the femme said, “Sire-creator?”

Megatron did not know what to say. He had not been expecting that. He opened up his mouth to explain that he was not their sire-creator, they had no sire or carrier because their shared spark had come from Vector Sigma, but what came out was, “Yes, I suppose so.”

The sparklings both seemed to relax a little at the confirmation.

“And what are your designations?” Megatron pressed.

“I’m Mega,” said the femme. She glanced over at her companion. “He’s Giga.”

“I see,” said Megatron. “And…do you remember anything else?”

“We got hurt,” said Giga. Mega nodded in agreement. “But the medics fixed us. And now we’re going home.”

There were so many things that he wanted to ask them, the foremost being why, but he sensed that the sparklings would be unable to tell him. The answer, whatever it was, had been lost when Overlord’s brain module was destroyed.

And perhaps it was all the same in the end, because he had a feeling Overlord would have never told him anyway.

How much of Overlord remained in Mega and Giga? He would have to wait and see. They seemed impressionable enough that a responsible caretaker could divert Overlord’s worst tendencies into something constructive before they grew large enough to cause real harm.

“What are we going to tell the Senate?” mused Megatron.

“We can’t pass them off as twins,” said the medic. “Their sparks are the correct shape, but any first-year student with the most basic scanner would see they don’t have a traditional twin-bond. Do you think the Enforcers would lock up a pair of sparklings?”

“I’d like to think not,” said Megatron. “But Overlord was about to stand trial for murder when he left Cybertron. I doubt there is any legal precedent for a matter like this. I will contact Soundwave for his advice before we arrive. Now, where are Moonheart and Lunaclub?”

It turned out that the twins had been sequestered in a private room. Lunaclub was covered in bandages and fresh weld marks, but she was online and smiling cheerfully—though that smile dimmed a bit when Megatron entered the room.

“My lord,” said Moonheart stiffly, rising to her pedes as he entered. He was too exhausted to correct her.

“Moonheart,” he said. “I see Lunaclub has had her repairs. What were you intending to do next?”

Moonheart looked down at her sister. “I was hoping we could leave,” she said quietly. “Not back to Megaempress, if she’s even still online, just…away.”

“You are not interested in returning to Cybertron?”

Moonheart’s lipplates twitched, and he could tell she was fighting back a nasty comment. “No,” she said at last. “We are not.”

“Trickdiamond is staying,” said Megatron. “In fact, I believe she is looking forward to her citizenship.”

“We are not Trickdiamond,” Moonheart sounded irate. “Now, are we free to go, or will you simply offline us?”

Megatron looked at Lunaclub, who gave him a smile that said her painkillers had not completely worn off yet. “Tell Starscream I said hello,” she slurred. “And tell that shuttle of his that he’s fat.”

“I will make a point of it,” lied Megatron.

Sensing that she would not be executed today, Moonheart sat back down into the chair beside her sister’s berth.

“If anyone can help her, it’s Flowspade,” Moonheart murmured in a voice so low that Megatron almost missed her words. She looked up at Megatron. “Flowspade was the only one who really loved her. But Megaempress wanted everyone to love her. It killed Flowspade, knowing she wasn’t enough to make her happy. But maybe now that everyone else is gone…” Moonheart gave an awkward little half-shrug, her rotors twitching. “Who knows. Who knows.”

“I don’t think I’ll miss her,” Lunaclub informed the ceiling. “She was fun, but she was always needling people so they’d agree with her. That’s not right. There should be a law.”

“There is,” said Megatron. “Several, actually.”

“Oh, good. Good.” Lunaclub nodded and said no more.

“Then with your permission, we will take an escape pod once the ship emerges from transwarp space,” said Moonheart. “We won’t trouble you again.”

Long-range comms were no good while the ship was in transwarp space, and so Megatron’s call to Soundwave would have to wait until they had emerged once more. He sat in Megaempress’s old throne on the bridge and contemplated all that remained to be done.

Behind him, Giga and Mega were chasing each other around, tackling one another and generally getting underpede. Megatron didn’t recall agreeing to take them, but they were following him nonetheless. Shouting at them when they became too unruly ensued their good behavior for about a half-breem if he was lucky. Then the running would begin again.

He desperately needed recharge, and caught himself drifting into unconsciousness more than once. The only thing that kept him awake was the uncomfortable sensation of the dried energon all over his frame. Looking down at himself, he realized that he should probably visit the washracks before they got to Cybertron.

He did not know what the washracks in Iacon’s prison would be like, but he was not feeling optimistic.

“Come on, you two,” he called to Mega and Giga. They scrambled after him like turbopuppies, and the several members of the crew gave audible vents of relief as they headed out the door.

Not even the icy waters of the washracks were enough to jolt Megatron awake. Working the dried energon out of the seams of his armor occupied his processor enough to keep him upright, but once that was done he offlined his optics and fell into recharge under the spray.

He was pulled back online by someone poking him in the face.

“Is he dead?” Mega was asking. “I get his helmet if he’s dead.”

Megatron onlined his optics. Giga had one tiny servo on his faceplates, and was apparently trying to shake him awake. Mega stood in the doorway to the washracks, dancing from pede to pede eagerly.

“He’s not dead,” Giga reported. “Just recharging.”

“You two,” grumbled Megatron. “What are you doing in here?” He dragged himself upright and deactivated the water.

“You were gone a long time,” said Mega, stepping into the room now that there was no chance of getting sprayed by cold water. “We thought maybe you left. Or died. Or left and then died.”

“Nobody is leaving or dying,” said Megatron, wondering if it might be worth returning to the plan of foisting the pair off onto another Decepticon couple and hoping the medics didn’t look too closely at their sparks. He removed a threadbare drying cloth from a shelf and dropped it on Giga’s helm. “Dry yourself or you’ll rust.”

“Can we go back to the bridge?” asked Mega eagerly.

“We left the bridge because you two were distracting the crew from their work,” Megatron pointed out, though that was only half-true. “If you want to be on the bridge, you must behave responsibly. If not, you can look forward to assignments as janitors.”

The sparklings exchanged looks of horror. “No!” they cried in unison.

“Then behave yourselves,” said Megatron. “Now, come with me. We are almost to Cybertron.”

A blockade awaited them when they emerged from transwarp space. Megatron was not surprised—it would have been foolish for the senate to allow them to land without first being inspected by the planetary guard.

The guardsmechs boarded the Crown of Stars and Megatron gave them a rapid explanation of events. After doing a sweep of the ship and finding no weapons beyond what was standard, they seemed to relax.

“We are going to take you down to the planet in groups,” one of the guardsmechs explained. “The Senate doesn’t want this ship entering orbit until…until they’re certain.”

Two cycles later, Megatron stepped out onto the surface of Cybertron in stasis cuffs with Mega and Giga each clutching at one of his legs. They had refused to go with any of the Enforcers that had tried to coax them away with energon sweets, and attempting to physically remove them resulted in screaming, scratching, and biting.

A crowd had gathered at the edge of the landing site, mostly comprised of civilians straining to see who had returned home. Additionally, several camera crews with the insignias of Cybertronian broadcast stations had set up their equipment. Enforcers dotted the perimeter, their optics on the newly returned soldiers.

Megatron was aware that all optics were on him, and the sparklings that clutched at his legs. The reporters were all talking very quickly and very quietly to their viewers, optics darting between Megatron himself and their camera lenses.

There was a shout, and Megatron saw a sudden movement from the crowd. The Enforcers were yelling in dismay at a civilian who had broken free of the others and was now running directly towards the ex-Decepticons.

She was some sort of arachnid frame, and surprisingly quick on her many pedes, dodging Enforcers as they tried to intercept her path. Megatron tensed, preparing for an attack. But she sprinted past him as though she had not even seen him.

Then Skyfall stepped forward with his arms outstretched. Without slowing, the arachnid transformed into a femme and leapt into Skyfall’s chassis, nearly knocking the seeker off his pedes with the force of her impact. Skyfall took a few steps backwards to regain his balance and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her faceplates in his neck, her entire frame trembling.

The Enforcers were approaching slowly, obviously unsure of what to do in this situation and hyper-aware of the cameras pointing at them. Skyfall was murmuring apologies into her audial while the femme halfsparkedly smacked her fist against his chest.

“Kissing is gross,” Mega proclaimed to nobody in particular.

A pair of Enforcers came to lead them into the base, and Megatron was grateful to be away from so many prying optics.

Inside, Megatron could see the familiar shapes of Shockwave and Soundwave waiting at the center of the room. At the sight of Shockwave, Mega and Giga began whispering eagerly and released Megatron’s legs for the first time since they’d touched down on Cybertron.

Megatron reached out to stop them, but the two slipped through his digits and ran right up to Shockwave. Shockwave’s single yellow optic looked down at the sparklings, then up at Megatron, and down at the sparklings again.

“It seems they recognize you,” called Megatron.

As Shockwave knelt to greet Mega and Giga, Soundwave stepped away from them and strode towards Megatron purposefully. He did not stop until he was pressed against Megatron’s chassis.

Megatron held him until finally, after what seemed like almost an entire breem, Soundwave lifted his helm.

“I couldn’t convince them all,” said Megatron.

Soundwave looked into Megatron’s optics again, but he didn’t speak. He did not need to. After a long moment, he rested his helm against Megatron’s chest again.

They stayed like that until the Enforcers came to take Megatron to his cell.

Chapter Text

Someone had taken a particularly well-composed shot of Skyfall holding his long-lost love, and the photograph had rapidly made it to what seemed like every major news outlet on the entire datanet.

If Megatron squinted, he could see himself in the photograph, just behind the two in their now-iconic pose.

It was quickly shaping up to be the most comfortable imprisonment Megatron had ever endured. He’d had no shortages of visitors to his cell over the past few solar cycles, and when visiting hours were over, he had unrestricted access to the datanet.

Soundwave was with him almost constantly, though they spent only a little bit of time discussing the new Cybertronian citizens and Megaempress’s defeat. They had come to a silent agreement that they would not discuss the issue any further until the Senate reached a formal decision on what would be done to rehabilitate the soldiers, and what Megatron’s future would look like.

Shockwave brought him daily updates about Mega and Giga, who were staying with him for the time being. Megatron knew that Shockwave was not completely comfortable with having Overlord in the same house as Umbra, but the two seemed to be settling in well.

Rung visited, though he did not have any formal sessions with Megatron, and Megatron found that he was not yet prepared to speak about what had happened during his absence. Orion Pax also visited. He was as painfully optimistic as he’d always been, saying that he believed the senate would release Megatron without a trial, and within a matter of solar cycles.

Overall, the entire thing felt less like an arrest and more like an exceptionally boring retirement.

On the third morning of his imprisonment, Starscream came to see him at the start of visiting hours. The seeker looked well, as he always did, though the ornamentation on his frame were simpler, less extravagant.

“I was beginning to think you had forgotten me,” said Megatron.

“My apologies. I had to make sure public opinion was in your favor before I was seen visiting you.” Starscream gave a little smirk, and Megatron honestly couldn’t say whether or not he was telling the truth. “Fortunately for you, it seems that most mechs seem to feel you’re some sort of hero.”

“Shut up, Starscream,” said Megatron, who suddenly had a helm-ache. Starscream gave a low, nostalgic laugh at that, and sat himself down on the opposite bench.

“We talked,” said Starscream. “Skyfire and I. About everything.”

Megatron decided to take a stab at this. “Ah,” he said hesitantly. “Good?” His tone raised a little in a not-quite question.

“I didn’t realize how much hate he still carried,” continued Starscream. “We’ll be working on that for a little while, I think. Fortunately, it seems it’s only aimed towards you.”

Megatron could not help but laugh at that. “Fortunate indeed.”

“Stop that, you know what I mean. He can still function. If I hadn’t put him in a position where he was expected to fight you, this might have never arisen.”

Megatron was not sure if he believed that, but he said nothing. Starscream went on talking, first about Skyfire, and next about his sparklings, but then he veered off into some recent scandal wherein Octane had been caught in an affair with one of the delegates from Paradron at a private party in the Senatorial Palace.

Megatron let himself be distracted by the silly, pointless drama until Starscream finally ran out of words. They sat in silence for a long while until Megatron finally spoke.

“Do you ever feel like you don’t deserve it?” Megatron asked.

“Every moment,” Starscream said. “But I’m not going to waste my time trying to quantify who deserved freedom and who should have been put in spark extraction. We all did…we all did things…that we regret. Locking ourselves away and wallowing in guilt isn’t going to change the past, and it’s not going to make the future better either.”

“I thought defeating her would help,” said Megatron. “I thought bringing home more soldiers would let me forgive myself. But I can only think about the ones who wouldn’t come. I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished anything at all.”

Even as he said the words, though, he could see the image of Skyfall embracing Crystal Widow behind his optics.

“You did something none of us even bothered to try,” said Starscream. “And it’s admittedly impressive. Who cares if it doesn’t help you forgive yourself? You made the lives of a few hundred mechs a lot better than they were a deca-cycle ago. You’ve still accomplished something.”

“I was obligated to do it,” said Megatron. “It was my fault they were out there to begin with.”

“What, now you think you’re the only mech in the galaxy with free will?” Starscream gave him a skeptical look, and Megatron immediately thought back to his conversation with Deadlock.

“That’s not what I meant,” Megatron objected. “You—you know what I mean.”

“Yes. And I’m telling you, if it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else,” said Starscream. “Maybe someone worse. Someone more like me.”

“What?” blurted Megatron, taken aback, but Starscream went on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“You didn’t start the war because you wanted to kill mechs,” said Starscream. “Did we have a little bit too much fun killing Senators? Probably, yes. But we were fighting for a cause. And besides, something good did come of it eventually. It took millions of stellar cycles, but we did manage to make Cybertron better. That wouldn’t have happened without you. You can be proud of that.”

“The war would not have ended if I hadn’t been injured,” pointed out Megatron. “The best thing I did for our race was spend five hundred vorns in stasis.”

“Then you can be proud of that, too,” said Starscream.

Megatron looked down at his knees, unconvinced.

“You were surprised,” said Starscream slowly, “when I told you that I forgave you. At the time, I thought it was funny. But it wasn’t until afterwards that I realized that you hadn’t yet learned that it’s far, far easier for us to forgive one another than it is for us to forgive ourselves.”

“I realize that now,” said Megatron.

“I remember just before we formalized the treaty,” Starscream said. “We’d been negotiating for decacyles at that point, but there was one particular solar cycle that the meeting had gone on for triple the length we’d scheduled for, and I was leaving the room, completely exhausted, when it suddenly hit me that this was real. It wasn’t a trick, or, or a convoluted scheme to destroy the Autobots. We were really on the verge of peace. And I remember thinking, ‘how am I going to survive? I don’t know how to be a normal mech anymore.’”

“And Skyfire helped you?” Megatron had a feeling he knew where this was going, but Starscream shook his helm.

“That would have made a good story, but no. Not until later. We might have had a cease-fire, but I refused to speak to him for about a vorn. It was…petty, but it felt good to be cruel. It was familiar. Nothing else was.” Starscream gave a shrug, but Megatron could see the guilt in his optics. “But there was so much work to be done, and it didn’t leave us with a lot of time to dwell on the past. Sometimes I’d take projects specifically for repentance, but in the end it didn’t really matter what I did, as long as it was something. And…eventually I started feeling like someone new. And I think the work helped, but the passage of time was just as important.”

“Time,” repeated Megatron.

“Yes. You’ve been online for what, two lunar cycles?” Starscream shook his helm. “For you, the war was practically yesterday. No wonder you don’t feel like you’ve made any progress. It’s too early.”

“I can’t do anything about that,” said Megatron, suddenly frustrated. Fighting Megaempress had been straightforward, despite the difficulties. But patience…he had always struggled with patience.

“You can’t,” agreed Starscream. “But you don’t have to. We’re moving further away from the war every solar cycle. Every klick. And eventually you will too.”

Soundwave knew that something had happened the moment he stepped into the cell. He hurried to Megatron’s side and immediately settled against his chassis.

Megatron pressed his memories of Starscream forward for Soundwave to review. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he never had to explain anything to Soundwave. Showing him his memories or emotions was so much easier than clumsy, awkward words.

When Soundwave was finished, he said, “I told you on Caminus that defeating Megaempress would not ease your guilt.”

“And you were right,” said Megatron. “I should have listened.”

“But Starscream was correct in his assessment. What you accomplished was admirable.” Soundwave removed his visor. “I am proud of you.”

Megatron felt a strange sensation in his vocalizer. “I…perhaps you are correct. But I cannot stop dwelling on what I failed to do. There are still Decepticons out there. Eventually…I’ll have to face them.”

“Then you expect to leave Cybertron again in the future?” asked Soundwave.

“Yes,” said Megatron, deciding that there was no point in denying it. “But not now. Perhaps in a few vorns. After his remaining soldiers have had some time to reflect on their decisions.”

Soundwave leaned against his chassis, one servo resting over Megatron’s spark. Megatron covered Soundwave’s servo with his own, tightening his digits around it.

“I will go with you, next time,” said Soundwave.

Megatron looked at him. “What about your cassettes? The new ones. They’re too young for…”

“I will go with you,” repeated Soundwave. “That is non-negotiable. You may begin asking me for details when there is less than a stellar cycle remaining before our departure.”

Megatron could not argue with that. And besides, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted Soundwave with him for the next expedition. He would not be able to pretend to be the leader of the Decepticons next time around. He would have to approach the splinter factions openly and honestly.

“Stop thinking about it,” murmured Soundwave, pressing his faceplates into Megatron’s neck.

“What would you prefer I think about?” he replied, but his mind was already going back to the day in the Iacon hospital when Soundwave had offered him his spark. Soundwave lifted his helm.

“Here?” Soundwave asked, sounding doubtful.

“Only if you want to,” said Megatron. He knew there weren’t any cameras in the cell, but there were some just outside.

Soundwave shifted into a sitting-up position and opened his chest compartment. The cylinder that protected his spark slid open, just as it had last time, and all the times before. Familiar indigo light seared his optics, but Megatron reached forward to take the spark into his servos. Soft glowing filaments of light kept it connected to the core of Soundwave’s spark chamber.

Soundwave went still as Megatron brushed his digits over the scars, finding the ones that were familiar, and then the new ones that had been created in his absence. Soundwave half-slumped against the wall, his golden optics glimmering and vents straining. Megatron was suddenly struck by how difficult it must have been for Soundwave—five hundred vorns without any sort of intimacy.

He opened his own chest plates, a little awkwardly since he had not yet done this in his current frame. But the commands were more or less the same, and soon he could see the green light of his own spark.

He pressed his chest to Soundwave’s, and Soundwave held himself as close to Megatron’s frame as he could manage, one leg slung over his hip. Their sparks slowly began to merge, trading data and synchronizing with one another—

And then Soundwave gave a cry of shock and pulled away.

For a brief, absurd moment, Megatron thought he’d somehow managed to find some new awful way to hurt Soundwave. But Soundwave was not looking at Megatron at all. Rather, he was staring in horror at a point just over Megatron’s shoulder. Megatron turned his helm to look, and it was only then that he saw the guardsmech standing just outside the cell.

Soundwave was struggling to get his chest compartment closed, but the guardsmech looked equally mortified.

“I’m sorry!” said the guard, throwing up his servos in front of his faceplates, which were rapidly turning magenta. “I didn’t know, I—uh. Uh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll come back later, I’m sorry.”

Megatron closed his chest rapidly and turned to face the guard. The guard refused to meet his optics as he approached the bars.

“And why are you here?” Megatron asked.

“Uhhh,” the guard glanced back at the door wistfully, clearly thinking of the reprieve it would grant him. “The Senate. The Senate…they said…they said to tell you…that you’re free to go.”

Soundwave was still curled up in the corner of the cell, both arms wrapped firmly around his own chest, but now he tilted his helm to the side.

“What about my trial?” asked Megatron.

“Nuh, uh, uh, no trial,” babbled the guard, who was staring down at his own pedes rather than look Megatron in the face. “I mean. Let me start over. I’m sorry, uh. There’s not, uh, gonna be a trial. They, uh, decided, to drop the charges. Due to. Uh. Extenuating circumstances. So…we just need to do some paperwork, and then you can. Uh. Leave.”

Megatron looked back at Soundwave again. He had replaced his visor, but his energy field was still burning with embarassment. Megatron had a feeling that Soundwave would never willingly return to this Enforcer Station ever again.

“I think we would all appreciate that,” said Megatron.

Chapter Text

The new cassettes were not at all shy around Megatron, and he quickly became accustomed to extra weight on his frame. Glit liked to walk across his shoulders in the same way Ravage had in her younger vorns, whereas Squawktalk frequently perched on his wrist in the way Laserbeak had been famous for.

Of the three new symbiontes, only Beastbox had a frametype that Megatron had never seen before. He was small and simian, and apparently happy to hang from Megatron’s elbow, or his back, or any other part of his frame that he could get hold of.

Soundwave’s apartment was in a quiet part of the city, and the days were generally peaceful. For the last three solar cycles, he had awoken to Soundwave’s arms wrapped tightly around his frame and the enormous crystal harp in the window scattering sunlight across his faceplates. The only real complaint that he had was Soundwave's new symbionts were so young that they recharged in his chest compartment every night, which meant their opportunities for sparkmerging were few and far between.

But on this particular morning, Megatron could not help but feel strangely discontented. He had done little since his release from prison, aside from spending time with the symbionts and checking up on Mega and Giga’s progress with Shockwave. He knew it made Soundwave happy to have him near and not pursuing any self-imposed missions, but Megatron was not sure how much more domesticity he could tolerate. He found himself turning on the news broadcast every breem, only to switch it off after a few restless klicks.

Soundwave, who was preparing some sort of specialty energon in the next room, followed his progress with worried optics.

“Megatron,” called Soundwave at last. “You must not step so heavily. I have neighbors downstairs.”

Megatron had a feeling that anyone who might be inclined to come to Soundwave’s door to complain might find themselves regretting it once they realized who the source of the noise was, but he sat down anyway.

From what he had seen in the news, the newest citizens of Cybertron were slowly adjusting to their new lives. Some were still at the Iacon hospital, being treated for the effects of long-term starvation or ancient injuries that had never been properly tended.

The ones healthy enough to rejoin society had been taken in by other Cybertronians, who were serving as unofficial hosts to the ex-soldiers until they found their footing. There had been no incidents yet, only frequent purging from the dramatic shift in energon quality.

He wondered how many of them were already relying on those green pills.

“What is the name of the medication that everyone is taking for panic attacks?” asked Megatron abruptly.

“Cytan,” said Soundwave. He set down the cube he’d been working with. “Do you require…?”

“No,” said Megatron. “Nothing like that. I am only concerned about the population’s dependence on it.”

Soundwave called to his symbionts, and they all leapt down from their various spots on Megatron’s frame to receive miniature energon cubes from their carrier. Once they were settled, Soundwave came to sit beside Megatron with larger cubes for the two of them.

“Mechs are abusing the substance, anyone can see that,” said Megatron. “There should be tighter regulations. I can’t be the only one who feels this way, especially after the attack on Iacon. The scientists who created it should be fined.”

“It was not the developer who made the drug publicly available,” Soundwave reminded him. “The Senate did that on their own.”

“Then I will petition the Senate. And the developer should have taken a stand against it. He should have been aware of the dangers.”

“Megatron,” said Soundwave reproachfully. “You must be reasonable. The issue is complex.”

Soundwave was correct, he knew. But Megatron had never been a patient mech, and it seemed his conversation with Starscream had not helped in that regard. Starscream’s assertion that time and distractions would ease Megatron’s guilt was only serving to convince him that he must act quickly.

“Can’t you be satisfied with what you have already accomplished?” asked Soundwave hopelessly, but they both knew the answer to that. Soundwave sighed and rested his helm against Megatron’s shoulder.

“I will give you Ratchet’s contact information,” said Soundwave. “He will be willing to discuss the issue with you. But not until this evening. Today we are going out.”

Megatron’s curiosity, thankfully, overrode his irritation. “Where?” he asked.

“Drink your energon, and you will see,” said Soundwave.

Soundwave brought him to the Iacon Hospital, and for a moment Megatron thought that he was going to be forced to speak to Rung. But they did not go up the familiar steps. Instead, Soundwave led him around the side of the building to the gardens that Megatron had sometimes wandered through with stiff, laborious pedesteps back when he had been in his old, weakened frame.

Motormaster was sitting on the same bench that he’d been on the last time Megatron had seen him. Megatron hesitated at first, not wanting to intrude, until Soundwave gently pushed him forward.

Motormaster looked up at him, squinting a little in the sunlight.

“Motormaster,” said Megatron. “I thought you were returning to Earth.”

“Yeah.” Motormaster scuffed his pede against the ground. “I did. And then I came back.”

Megatron waited.

“I heard about what you did,” Motormaster mumbled. “And Soundwave says you’re doing better.” He inclined his head towards the mech, who had placed himself by the courtyard entrance. “And I thought I was kind of harsh when we talked, so…”

“Not at all,” said Megatron, moving to sit beside Motormaster. “You were right. Everything you said was true.”

Motormaster looked down at his pedes again.

“I’m…I’m not too good with words,” Motormaster said at last. “Especially not when they matter.”

“Neither am I,” Megatron reassured him.

“You?” Motormaster laughed, and made optical contact for a brief moment. “You can’t fool me. I’ve seen your speeches.”

“That’s different,” said Megatron. “That’s very different.” He thought of how much easier his life would be if he had Soundwave and Shockwave and Starscream constantly editing everything that came out of his vocalizer.

“Yeah?” Motormaster went back to staring directly ahead. “I’ve been talking to Soundwave, and, uh…I think it’s good. What you did. For those Decepticons, I mean. Bringing them home. You’re different now, from how you used to be. I’m not the only one who thinks so. And…I mean, maybe you don’t want to, but if you did, I could bring my brothers to see you sometime.”

It took a klick for Megatron to understand what Motormaster was offering, but when he did, he could not hold back a small smile. “Of course,” he said. “If they’re comfortable with it.”

Motormaster turned his helm to look at Megatron, the anxiety dropping from his field. “They are! I mean…it’s been a while. They’re a little different from what you remember, probably,” he explained. “’Specially Breakdown, he’s a lot better.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Megatron.

Motormaster looked down again. “It’s…a lot has happened,” he said. “I don’t really know where to start. After the war, we didn’t know what we were doing. Soundwave tried to take care of us, but we thought we were adults and didn’t listen to him, or anyone. We got in a lot of trouble at first. A lot of trouble. There were mechs who wanted to put us in spark stasis.”

Megatron frowned. “You were sparklings. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. We were pretty terrible.” There was deep embarrassment in Motormaster's field as he shrugged. “Luckily, Orion stood up for us. It helped a lot. He saw we weren’t happy on Cybertron, and said we could go back to Earth if we promised not to hurt any of the humans or do anything dumb. We weren’t really planning on listening to him, but it actually worked out okay. They sent the Aerialbots to make sure we didn’t, I dunno, take over any human cities or whatever. I don’t think the Aerialbots minded so much. They missed Earth too.”

“Do the Aerialbots also live on Earth?” asked Megatron.

“No, they’re back here, mostly. Bolt—uh, Silverbolt’s in the planetary guard, but he, uh, visits…” Motormaster’s voice trailed off, and a look of horror crossed his face. His optics brightened to a panicked shade of lavender. “Never mind! The cease-fire. I was talking about the cease-fire. Uh. We were on Earth for a while but Breakdown was getting worse. Worse than any of us had ever seen. He couldn’t even refuel. So we went back to Cybertron to get him help, and they put him in the Program. I thought it was stupid, but he actually liked it, and after a few vorns he was doing a lot better.

“They asked if the rest of us wanted to try the Program. It wasn’t mandatory, they said, cuz they weren’t counting us as veterans because of our age. I only said okay because I was curious about what they were doing in there. I was sort of wondering if Breakdown had been, I dunno, brainwashed or something. But it was just talking about stuff. A lot of talking about stuff.” Motormaster vented deeply. “I think I did more thinking in my first session than I ever had since the day I came online. And I started realizing stuff about the war, like how we shouldn’t have been fighting at all.”

“You were very young,” said Megatron.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Motormaster nodded vigorously. “And I also realized I was hitting my brothers too much. Way too much. Even when they hadn’t done anything wrong. So…I wanted to stop doing that. It took a little while, because…” Motormaster’s voice trailed off, and he glanced over at Megatron warily, as if expecting to be scolded.

“I see,” said Megatron quietly.

“Ever since I came out of Vector Sigma, I always wanted to be just like you,” Motormaster mumbled to his pedes. “But I’d never actually thought about whether or not that was a good thing to want to be. After a few stellar cycles, I decided it wasn’t.”

Megatron’s throat felt strange again. He tried to clear it, but all that came out was a harsh cough.

“Soundwave said you used to be different,” Motormaster went on. “Before the war got really bad. I never knew you back then, but I think maybe you’re becoming that way again. That’s what everyone says, anyway.”

“I hope they are correct,” said Megatron.

“Yeah. Me too.” Motormaster gave a small nod. “I’m glad you woke up. At first I wasn’t, because I didn’t think you’d be able to change. But I guess anyone can. If. If the circumstances are right. And if they want to.” He looked Megatron in the faceplates again. “Shockwave told me about Mega and Giga. Who they really are.”

“You have seen them?” asked Megatron.

“Yeah! Pictures only, I mean, but yeah. I can hardly believe it.” Motormaster shook his helm, but he was smiling again. “Overlord was such a jerk.”

“Oh yes?” asked Megatron, trying not to laugh.

“He was!” Motormaster proclaimed, all the heavy weight of the past falling from his energy field. “Do you know—the first time we met, do you know what he said to me? I was so excited to finally meet him, and he said, ‘So, why are you dressed like an Autobot?’ And then he shoved past me and spent the next two cycles hitting on Fortress Maximus!”

This time, Megatron could not suppress his laughter. After an awkward moment, Motormaster joined in.

“If anyone can set Overlord straight,” said Motormaster. “It’s Shockwave. He’s almost as strict as Soundwave was, even after he got his surgeries. I think he’s—they’re—going to be okay.”

“I hope you are correct,” said Megatron.

“And you, you’ve got Soundwave,” said Motormaster, looking to the edge of the courtyard, where the nearest thing he had to a carrier-creator was observing in vigilant silence. “So unless you screw it up, you’re gonna be okay, too.”

Chapter Text

Ratchet’s reputation preceded him. Even before the war, he had been famous for his skill, and had served Sentinel Prime during the so-called Golden Age. Upon arriving on Earth, he and Wheeljack had teamed up to create the Dinobots, followed by the Aerialbots. And despite being a medic, he could more than hold his own in a fight.

Megatron had been uncertain about contacting Ratchet at first. The mech could be a valuable ally, but also a terrible enemy if he decided to oppose Megatron’s efforts out of spite. Megatron hadn’t really connected with any ex-Autobots aside from Orion, and he wasn’t sure how he would be regarded.

After much deliberation, he waited until after Soundwave’s symbionts were in recharge and sat down at the console to made a video call.

Ratchet’s image appeared on the screen after a few klicks. The mech looked exhausted, and Megatron kicked himself mentally. The medic had probably spent the entire day treating the newly-returned soldiers for their many ailments, both mental and physical. He probably wasn’t in any sort of state to listen to Megatron’s ideas.

“Megatron,” he said, not bothering to hide his confusion. “Wh—are—is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” said Megatron. “I apologize for bothering you at this hour. If you’d like to arrange a time to meet—”

Ratchet waved his servo and picked up the cube of high-grade that was resting on the surface of his desk. “I’m fine, this is nothing,” he said. “You said everyone’s fine? Nobody’s bleeding?”

“Yes,” Megatron. “I…I was actually hoping to discuss some concerns I have about the population’s reliance on Cytan.”

Ratchet’s optics lit with curiosity. It seemed the mech carried no hostility towards him, and Megatron had a feeling that he had made the right decision in contacting him.

“How much do you know about Cytan’s history?” asked Ratchet.

“Rung told me a little,” Megatron admitted. “He told me that it was originally intended to prevent carriers from losing their newsparks.”

“In the first hundred vorns after the war, only three sparklings survived,” Ratchet said. “Two were Sunstorm’s, but Sunstorm spent the majority of the war in stasis. He had no direct combat experience, because Shockwave felt that he would create too much collateral damage on a battlefield. As a result, he has never had one of the panic attacks that cause sparklings to reabsorb.” Ratchet crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “The other sparkling was Elita’s, and hers only survived because of her sigma ability.”

“What happened?” asked Megatron.

“She connected herself to a generator and put her own processor in a temporal bubble for the entire carrying period,” explained Ratchet. “I would never have allowed it, had she asked for my aid. She was very, very fortunate that they both survived. None of the others did. It wasn’t until the neutrals started returning to Cybertron that we had any other sparklings at all.”

“Until the drug was developed,” said Megatron.

“Yes,” said Ratchet. “It was created by a scientist whose conjunx lost the sparklet he was carrying. At first I wasn’t worried. Then mechs started asking for their prescriptions to be extended beyond the carrying period. I…I didn’t see the harm in it.”

“How could you not?” demanded Megatron. “Those drugs were never meant for—”

“You. Weren’t. There,” said Ratchet, so forcefully that Megatron’s mouth snapped shut. “We were one hundred vorns into the peace and we had hundreds of veterans that were getting nowhere in the Program. Our medics were spending every waking moment trying to treat endless panic attacks. The hospital that you woke up in was originally built to house mechs that were too psychologically shattered to function. The neutrals were pressuring us to put them in spark stasis until we found a better treatment option. So don’t you dare try to lecture me!”

“I…am sorry,” said Megatron. The fire in Ratchet’s optics dimmed a little. “Do you think the scientist that created it would back us if we claimed it’s been misused?”

“Yes and no,” said Ratchet. “Cytan is excellent for treating panic attacks, and I see no reason to stop using it that way. But I don’t think anyone anticipated how reliant we would become. That’s the real issue here. What you saw when Megaempress attacked the city, mechs risking their lives because overdosing was easier than facing reality…that’s what I’m fighting.

“My hope is that the worst of the panic we saw back then was caused by a combination of factors: the trauma of the past, and the uncertainty of the future. Now that Cybertron’s government has stabilized, we can consider one of those issues dealt with. I’m still reluctant to push for legislation, though. The last thing we want to do is send the population into another panic. If mechs think the substance they’ve been depending on for four hundred vorns is about to become difficult to get ahold of, they’re going to start behaving erratically.

“I also think that the population isn’t as addicted as it thinks it is,” added Ratchet. “I think the act of medicating has become just as soothing as the drugs themselves. There are mechs that would be fine without it, but would never think to stop because it’s become a force of habit. If I can round of a group of mechs who would be willing to participate in a case study, I might be able to prove it.”

“How long do you think that would take?” asked Megatron.

“Vorns,” said Ratchet bluntly. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but this sort of thing needs to be handled carefully. And that’s assuming I can get someone to fund me.”

“Why not the creators of Cytan themselves?” asked Megatron. “I’m sure they have the resources.” For the last few lunar cycles, he had thought of Cytan’s creator as a merciless, faceless corporation. But if what Ratchet had claimed was true, perhaps the mech could be reasoned with.

Ratchet looked a little bit surprised. “Perhaps,” he said slowly. “I…I suppose it would not hurt to ask, though I would feel strange doing it.”

“If the creator intended to help mechs—to help his conjunx—he should be opposed to what is happening now,” Megatron insisted. If the mech cared anything for the future of their race, Megatron knew he could be reasoned with.

The next solar cycle, Soundwave returned to work at Iacon’s security center. He had used up almost all of his leave time, he’d explained to Megatron, and needed to return.

Left to his own devices, Megatron did some quick research and found that Cytan’s corporate headquarters were located in an impressive multi-office building in central Iacon. In truth, Megatron wasn’t expecting to get far—if the security guards didn’t throw him out, surely the executives wouldn’t be interested in speaking to him.

But a few cycles later, he found that the building had no security measures beyond requiring him to sign in with a bored guard. When he asked what floor the offices were on, the guard consulted a datapad before passing on the correct number without any follow-up questions.

Megatron decided that after he was done lecturing Cytan’s creator about civic responsibility, he was going to also tell him a thing or two about security measures.

When he stepped off the lift, he was immediately greeted by a cheerful secretary who gasped when she realized who he was. When he told her that he didn’t have any sort of appointment, but was hoping to schedule one with the developer, she bounced out of her seat and disappeared into a back room.

This, he supposed, was the part where he would be escorted off the property. But after about a breem she returned, telling him that if he would only wait a half-cycle, he could meet with the developer that very day.

There wasn’t really anywhere to sit, but the office was pleasant, with enormous windows and gleaming white furniture. He caught glimpses of a few other mechs peeking out at him from the back offices, but pretended he did not notice.

The secretary seemed to be a little starstruck, but told him about a neighbor of hers that was housing one of the recently-returned Decepticon soldiers.

“Are you worried for your safety?” he asked her. The femme shook her helm.

“Not at all,” she said. “I haven’t met him yet, but everyone says he’s very quiet. Besides, if he wanted to hurt people, he’d have just stayed with his faction, wouldn’t he?”

Megatron soon found himself following the secretary down a hallway. She stopped just outside a door and gestured for Megatron to go ahead. He turned back to her, and she gave him an anxious smile as the door slid shut between then.

The office was extremely large, and seemed to be a strange fusion of a standard executive office and a researcher’s lab. On one side was expensive furniture and impressive crystal growths. On the other half was a long work table covered with glass and steel laboratory equipment. It was all meticulously organized, and Megatron had just enough time to take it all in before he locked optics with Skyfire.

Skyfire’s expression was unfathomable, but Megatron had a feeling that would quickly change.

“I…will show myself out,” said Megatron, turning around and striding towards the exit as quickly as he could without outright running. He was going to kill Ratchet. Was this the mech’s idea of a joke? Or revenge? Or—

Just as he was about to open the door, Skyfire said, “Wait.”

Megatron waited. And as he waited, he thought of the glittering ornaments on Starscream’s wings, the expensive apartment in central Iacon, the fact that he had not heard Starscream speak of doing actual work at any point…and realized that he was standing in front of an extremely powerful mech.

“I have disliked all this talk of forgiveness,” said Skyfire, stepping around his desk and moving forward. “Not because I disapprove of the concept, but because I feel that it places a demand on the victim. If a victim refuses to forgive, we say there is something fundamentally wrong with him. Meanwhile, the abuser gets to live on with the smug satisfaction that he’s now somehow become the injured party. One last parting blow, if you will.”

Skyfire could kill him. If the mech had a weapon somewhere in his office, he could shoot him in an instant. He could claim that Megatron had been threatening him. Nobody would doubt his word.

“There are schools of thought that claim I will never know peace if I refuse to forgive. I believe they are incorrect. My life is better than anything I could have hoped for. My bondmate is beside me, and our sparklings are healthy and happy. Forgiveness may be one path to contentment, but it is not the only one. When I am asked to forgive, I feel like I’m being told to say that what happened was acceptable. I feel like I’m being told that my anger is an inconvenience to others, and I should remain silent.”

Still, Megatron did not speak.

“Mechs have told me that it gives you power over me, when I withhold forgiveness,” continued Skyfire. “But I don’t see how. I do not think of you unless you are standing directly before me. I do not lay awake at night, dreaming up schemes of revenge. There is nothing in this universe you could compel me to do without my own consent. That is why I believe that it is just an empty platitude that mechs recite because it easier to try to browbeat someone into granting forgiveness than tolerate a tense social situation.” Skyfire gave a soft noise of amusement. “Or perhaps my processor operates differently from the majority. If that is the case, I think I am better off for it.”

“I did not come for forgiveness,” said Megatron. “I did not even know I would be meeting you today.”

“Yes,” said Skyfire. “I have heard you have been consulting with Ratchet and Rung. You believe the population is misusing my invention.”

“I saw mechs overdosing in the streets when Megaempress attacked Iacon,” Megatron said. “And Rung believes that it is hindering long-term recovery. I’m not disputing the good it has done. But the senate should have never removed the regulations on it.”

“The Senate acted without my knowledge,” said Skyfire. “I will not be blamed for that.”

“I’m not here to assign blame. I only want to know if you will help us,” said Megatron. “Ratchet believes that he can prove that we don’t need to be as reliant on Cytan as we are. If you will finance his research, he might be able to convince mechs to complete the Program properly.” Megatron remembered something Rung had told him lunar cycles ago. “Didn’t you help design the Program?”

“I did,” said Skyfire, a hint of suspicion in his optics. “What of it?”

“Then you should know there were plenty of mechs who were only granted citizenships because they’d medicated themselves to the point that they no longer cared about the past. I don’t think that was what you wanted, was it?”

“I thought you were opposed to the practice of earning citizenships?” retorted Skyfire.

“I am. But the point stands. There are citizens of Cybertron who are not getting the help that they need because they were led to believe that they had fully recovered. That benefits nobody.”

“Have you ever tried Cytan?” asked Skyfire.

“No,” said Megatron. “Have you?”

He could tell from the shocked expression on Skyfire’s faceplates that he had not. But instead of answering, Skyfire walked over to the enormous window and watched the aerial traffic drift past.

“We were going to name him Sunfire,” said Skyfire at last. “Because we found out about him the same day that Cybertron was harnessed to our current star. I understand you saw the memorial?”

“Yes. I. I am sorry,” said Megatron.

“I know,” Skyfire looked back at him, and his optics seemed to soften. “And that’s what intrigues me. I would not have expected all this from you. It seems to me that you are genuinely remorseful. In some ways…I dislike it. It makes it difficult to hate you as much as I’d like to.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” said Megatron.

Skyfire gave another soft laugh. “Yes, I thought you might,” he said. Then, “Ratchet will have his funding. I’d have given it vorns ago, if he’d only asked.”

Chapter Text

A celebration of the armistice was held once every vorn, a city-wide festival that completely took over central Iacon for one night-cycle and a good part of the day as well. Megatron, naturally, had been completely unaware of the celebration until only a few solar cycles before it was due to start.

On the morning of, a news broadcast covering festival preparations had been followed by a discussion about Cybertron’s other city-states. Mechs that Megatron had never heard of were debating whether there were enough resources to justify revitalizing one and, if so, which one.

Kaon, of course, thought Megatron, wondering why this was even a question. Yes, it would be a little difficult transporting resources to the other end of the planet, but if Iacon had been the first city-state to be restored, it would only be fair to have the next one be the most historically significant Decepticon holding.

“Soundwave,” called Megatron, looking away from the broadcast. “Have you heard talk of planning to reconstruct the other city-states?”

Soundwave shook his helm. “It is a common topic of discussion at the festival, but nothing will be done for many vorns. Do not take it too seriously.”

Logically, Megatron knew that was probably for the best at this point, but he could not help his disappointment. The fact that their population had been so reduced that everyone fit comfortably inside a single-city state still made his spark sink.

He turned the broadcast off. He and Soundwave hadn’t had much time to discuss…things…since his return. With three very young symbionts to care for, and the elder ones coming and going at all hours, they seldom had peaceful moments alone. Soundwave’s eldest five symbionts were now old enough that they only needed to dock in with their carrier once in a very long while, but they still alternated between Soundwave’s apartments and their own.

Laserbeak was the warmest towards him, perching in her usual place on his arm whenever she was around. Buzzsaw was a little more reserved, but did not peck at his digits when Megatron touched his helm. The twins seemed to be back to their usual selves, but they spent the least amount of time at Soundwave’s apartment.

And he had not seen Ravage since the night he’d received his frame upgrade.

By late afternoon, Ratbat, Glit, Beastbox and Squawktalk were clamoring with excitement for the celebration, climbing over his shoulders to show him image captures from previous vorns. He agreed to take them to watch the festival set up, if only to give Soundwave a few klicks of peace.

When they arrived at central Iacon, mechs were decorating nearby buildings with strings of colorful lights and vendors were setting up booths. As he followed a few paces behind the symbionts, half-sparkedly calling for them to not wander out of his line of sight, he noticed a skittish-looking mech also looking around at the preparations cautiously, his energy field suggesting he might actually be expecting to be attacked. After a few klicks, Megatron realized this mech was one of the ones who had followed him back to Cybertron—though he could not recall which faction he was from.

The mech could not have been one of Glowstrike and Saberhorn’s, because he was not a beast-frame. Nor could he be one of Stockade’s, as all of his mechs were still in Iacon hospital being treated for what the medics had finally identified as long-term nucleon poisoning. And Megatron did not remember him from the Crown of Stars, so that only left Agoraptor as his ex-leader. Remembering the way he’d seen Agoraptor strike one of his own soldiers, Megatron suddenly understood the mech’s anxiety.

The mech was not alone, though. There were two other war-frames accompanying him, watching him attentively. From their lithe frames and relaxed energy fields, he could tell these two were clearly long-term citizens of Cybertron. Megatron wondered if they were the neighbors of the secretary in Skyfire’s office, or simply another pair who had opened their home in a similar way.

As the mech caught sight of the symbionts, he froze. Then he leaned over halfway.

“More of Soundwave’s sneaky sparklings?” mumbled the mech in a jittery voice, but he patted Glit on the helm anyway. When Glit did not rip his servo off, but instead rose up and pressed his front legs against the mech’s knees to allow for more petting, the mech relaxed a little and then shuffled back to his companions.

As darkness fell upon the planet, the first few vendors began to open their booths and the lights that had been put up switched online, revealing complex artistic designs that had not been at all evident in the daylight. Mechs quickly began to fill the central city, and it was not long before he received a query ping from Soundwave, seeking to join them.

Megatron saw many, many sparklings in the crowd—though he was, as always, careful to never approach one, and even ignored them outright if they looked like they had grounder lineage. The last thing he wanted was to activate an ex-Autobot’s guardian programming by looking at a sparkling for too long.

Though he would never harm a sparkling intentionally, he knew that he had earned himself a reputation for the opposite. He had no idea how those rumors had started, as the planetary energon shortage had meant that there had hardly even been any sparklings around to murder by the time the Decepticon faction gained any true military power. But he had been pleased that mechs had yet another reason to fear him, and had done nothing to discourage the rumors at the time.

Mechs were drinking high-grade, though Megatron had been told the celebration didn’t traditionally get too rowdy until the later hours. The attitude of the crowd seemed to be upbeat, and he could barely hear the music playing through the speakers that had been set up through the streets over the noise of mechs talking and laughing.

The mechs in the crowd were all brightly painted, with decorative face-paint that seemed far flashier and elaborate than anything he had seen so far. Lips and optics were highlighted, and biolights pulsed in a rainbow of colors. Even at victory parties during the war, he had never seen a crowd so colorful. But unlike the victory parties, there was no undercurrent of panic, of desperation, of hunger.

Soundwave found them quickly enough, though he was immediately led away by his symbionts to a particularly impressive candy display. Megatron stood back and watched Soundwave interact with his symbionts from a distance. He was suddenly stuck by the fact that Rumble and Frenzy, and Ravage, and Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw had never been allowed to have an idyllic, innocent sparklinghood like their younger siblings. Intellectually, he had always known this, but only now did the true significance of it weigh on him.

There was no going backwards, he knew. He could not give Soundwave’s older symbionts those experiences that had been stolen from them by a corrupt government and strict caste system. But he could still mourn the loss, the way he still quietly mourned so much else.

“Hey!” cried a cheerful little voice. Megatron looked around and saw Skyfire, holding both of his sparklings, one in each massive servo. Starfire was drooling on his sire-creator’s plating, but Skyfire did not seem to notice or mind. Crossfire was waving at Megatron eagerly. Then he wriggled free of Skyfire’s grip and landed on the ground, igniting his little thrusters for just a moment to slow his descent.

“New body!” cried Crossfire happily. “You got one!”

“You already knew that, Crossfire, you saw it on the datanet,” Starscream stepped forward from behind Skyfire’s frame, a rust stick in his servo.

“Datanet’s different from real life,” explained Crossfire seriously. Before anyone could answer, there was a flash of sapphire light as Stormwarp teleported in.

“CANDY!” yelled Stormwarp with a slightly hysterical gleam in his optics, grabbing Crossfire by the servo and dragging him in the direction of the nearest vendor. Crossfire waved goodbye and allowed himself to be pulled away. Skyfire followed after them quietly.

“Soundwave seems to be doing well,” said Starscream after a long moment.

Megatron was cheered by the observation. He had thought Soundwave seemed happy, but was also aware of his own limitations when it came to gauging the emotions of others. “He says he wants to accompany me on my next expedition to bring back more Decepticons.”

Starscream raised an optical ridge. He had painted his lipplates and lined his optics in a high-shine jet black paint for some reason. “You’re going out there again?”

“Not for a while,” said Megatron. “But eventually, yes. I believe it is my responsibility.”

Starscream looked thoughtful. “I wonder if Orion Pax will follow your example, then. There are Autobots out there as well.”

Megatron had not thought of this. He’d barely thought of the Autobot splinter factions at all while he had been with Megaempress. He examined his feelings to see if he felt any compulsion to reach out to the remaining Autobots. He did not. Not, at least, while there were still Decepticons to bring back. Perhaps when he was finished with that he would reconsider, even if it was simply for the satisfaction of achieving total completion of his task.

“I do not know,” said Megatron. “Perhaps they would not listen to him. He is not Prime anymore, after all.”

“He’d probably have a harder time than you did, even if he still had the Matrix,” mused Starscream. “Most of the Autobots that are still fighting rejected the peace because they were angry that the Decepticons were not being subjugated as punishment for starting the war. Not because they were afraid of being unable to adapt to a peacetime world.”

Megatron decided that this was a problem for a different day.

“What about the symbionts?” asked Starscream, looking across the crowd in Soundwave’s direction. “Are they still mad at you?”

“No. I don’t believe so. They seem to be doing well. Though…I have not seen Ravage since Caminus,” Megatron admitted.

Starscream’s wings tensed and he looked at Megatron suspiciously. “When were you on Caminus?”

Megatron supposed there was no point in keeping it a secret anymore. “For the—”

“—upgrade,” Starscream completed, his optics darkening with outrage. “I’ll kill her. This time I mean it. I’ll—”

“She was helping us, Starscream,” said Megatron, who could sense a rant coming on.

“Ha! That’s what you think! Don’t be fooled, she did it just to spite me!” Starscream glowered, and Megatron knew better than to try and reason with him. Fortunately, perhaps sensing his carrier’s bad mood, Crossfire came back and took him by the servo and led him over to a stand that was selling various frame ornamentations.

Not long after that, Megatron encountered Shockwave and Moonracer in the crowd. Mega and Giga were with them, each holding one of Moonracer’s servos and chewing on rust sticks. They were staring around at everything with wide, confused optics. The two seemed to be subdued by all the activity surrounding them.

“Are things…going well?” Megatron asked Shockwave.

“Yes, actually,” said Shockwave, who was holding a recharging Umbra to his chassis. “Mega and Giga have not shown any malicious behavior so far, and we have been watching them carefully. We hope to enroll them in school after they have officially been assessed.”

Mega and Giga’s medical files were sealed to all but the highest-level medics in Iacon. The official story was that they were indeed the creations of two now-dead Decepticon renegades, and nobody had questioned the story too deeply. And even if one did suspect something was amiss, who would ever believe that they were two halves of an infamous Decepticon warrior?

“Have you introduced them to other sparklings?” asked Megatron.

“We like Overcharge!” piped up Giga.

Megatron raised an optical ridge at that designation, and Shockwave explained, “Astrotrain and Blitzwing’s creation.”

“And Concussion!” contributed Mega.

“Ramjet’s,” said Shockwave, with a hint of disapproval in his tone as Megatron fought to keep a straight face.

“And Diabla bit me,” Mega went on. “So I like her. Even though she’s too little to play with. You should come visit us, too. We want to ask you questions.”

Megatron was taken aback. “What sort of questions?”

“I dunno—oh!” Mega was suddenly distracted by a particularly elaborate light display. “What’s that? What’s that for?” She began wandering towards it, pulling Moonracer and Giga along with her, Megatron’s question already forgotten.

Megatron debated going after them, but before he could make up his mind, something light touched his shoulder. He turned around and looked down into Windblade’s faceplates. On top of her usual strange red face-paint, she had also added touches of gold and blue.

“I was hoping I’d see you here,” said Windblade. “I…I am glad things went well for you.”

“I could not have done it without your help,” said Megatron. “You didn’t get in too much trouble, did you?”

Windblade smiled. “The Senate was unable to secure a warrant for any Camien security footage,” she said. “Then you escaped, and the issue was completely forgotten.”

“You!” shrieked Starscream from halfway down the street. He had spotted Windblade, and now he was stalking towards her, energy field boiling with outrage.

In response, Windblade crouched down and put her arms out. Crossfire immediately released Starscream’s servo and ran to Windblade to give her a hug.

“Look how big you are!” she cooed at him.

“Don’t you ignore me!” yelled Starscream, stomping closer. Windblade gave no sign that she had heard him as Starscream continued to shriek accusations, one of which involved the theft of something called ‘lipstick.’

After a few amusing klicks, Soundwave approached Megatron, sans symbiotes, and pulled him in another direction. Off the main avenue, things were quieter, and Megatron realized that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for.

“Soundwave, I…” the words caught in his throat. “That is…we have not had much time to talk.”

Soundwave nodded. “Yes. My symbionts have taken priority in these last few solar cycles. I apologize.”

The soft notes of the distant music floated through the darkness. Out of the corner of his optics, he could still see the glow of the main avenue. It seemed to be simultaneously oppressively near and impossibly distant.

“That’s not your f—that’s not what I meant,” said Megatron hastily. How was he off-script already? Processor whirring, he struggled to rebalance himself mentally. “I only—when we spoke, over comms, while I was with Megaempress…”

Soundwave took both of Megatron’s servos in his own and began to rub his digits over them soothingly.

“You have been more patient with me than I would have believed possible,” Megatron said. “And I do not believe I could repay you in a thousand lifetimes.”

“Megatron,” protested Soundwave. “As I told you before, I do not require repayment for—”

“I don’t mean repayment,” Megatron said. “I only wish to become someone worthy of such loyalty.”

Soundwave made a soft noise that sounded like amusement and leaned his helm against Megatron’s chestplate.

“I am loyal because you have always been worthy,” said Soundwave quietly. He must have seen the guilt that flashed through Megatron’s processor at the words and added, “I knew you were capable of change. Just as I was.”

“Then…” Megatron struggled with the words he had spent cycles perfecting. “Soundwave…if you still—if I haven’t completely ruined—if you—” Off-script. Again. Fix it. Fix it. The very least, the very least he could do was ask properly—

Soundwave raised his helm to meet Megatron’s optics.

“Will you—” began Megatron, but Soundwave was already speaking, simultaneously, so that his answer came out at the same instant as Megatron’s question in a rush of confused noise.

Then Soundwave was holding him so tightly that he thought his plating might bend. He released Megatron at last, only to wrap his arms around Megatron’s neck to pull himself closer to his faceplates. Through the glass of Soundwave’s visor, Megatron thought he might have seen a glimmer of tears, but there was no pain in Soundwave’s energy field, only joy.

When Soundwave pulled him into a kiss, Megatron offlined his optics and forgot the tears. He could hear Soundwave’s irregular sparkbeat against his chassis as though it was his own. And after a few long moments, he forgot everything else, secure in the knowledge that Soundwave could hear the words he did not speak aloud.