Chapter Text
The entire city of Iacon witnessed the beginning of a revolution and the end of an era on the fateful day an energon storage train came speeding through with their future savior on board. The city felt the effects of the battle that Orion, his friends, and allies from the mines took part in. Rubble of once prouder pieces of architecture lay scattered in the streets. The wounded lay among the debris, citizens and guards alike. It was frightening to the ones that knew nothing about what was happening except for the fact that Sentinel was a traitor to their race.
Everyone saw the emergency broadcast. Everyone saw the image of their leader bowing to the Quintessons, but none of them knew anything other than that. Not the why, not the how. Soon after they saw it, Sentinel’s guards were locked in combat with fliers of unknown origin, the High Guard they soon found out. Then, their mining brothers and sisters were fighting these exiled soldiers. Then, the fighting stopped.
And that’s when everything changed even more.
The cogless bots scattered around the city, and the ones deep underground in the mines, the ones caught up in the confusion and anxiety the most, watched as energon began to flow through the veins of their planet. With the energon came celebration, and also long-lost transformation cogs. They received these stolen parts of themselves, and were made whole.
The members of the High Guard who were at that fateful battle, who saw Cybertron’s new Prime valiant rise from Primus’ core, spread out across the city to help those who were wounded. They also explained everything that had happened to the best of their abilities until another broadcast was sent out. On the large holographic screens that were once used by Sentinel, two bots stood, with an array of others behind them. One was painted red and blue, with smokestacks on his arms and points on his finials. The other was bulkier, sleek and metallic gray, with piercing orange optics and what remained of a tri-barreled cannon attached to his right arm.
“Citizens of Iacon, what has just transpired in our great city has surely caused fear and panic. This day is one of tumultuous emotions, and I hope that you are all safe.” A pause as the onlookers took in the sight, a kind-opticed mech addressing them that some recognized, others that did not, all of them hearing the compassion in his words. “I am here to explain what I can to all of you. Every one of you deserves to know the truth.”
And he told them his name.
“I was once a mining bot, callsign Orion Pax. Now…my name is Optimus Prime. The Matrix of Leadership was entrusted to me by Primus. I found myself in our planet’s core, and he, along with the Thirteen Primes, entrusted me with their legacy.”
Optimus’ chassis slowly opened, and resting above his spark was that fated, glorious relic. It shone blue and gold just like the city, pulsing with power. Everyone’s optics widened at the sight. Finally, it had been found. Their planet’s source of energy, the greatest piece of machinery ever created.
“The footage shown to all of you before was what me and my friends discovered when we traveled to the surface, in search of the Matrix via a distress beacon sent by Alpha Trion fifty cycles ago, found in sublevel 50 after the Iacon 5000.”
Optimus looked over his shoulder, gesturing for two bots to stand by him. Now, the group of four was on the screen.
“My name is Commander Elita-1.”
“My name is B-127.”
Optimus looked to his side, toward the silver bot, who had been silent until now. The citizens watching clearly saw the burned insignia of Megatronus Prime carved into his chassis. The two bots on screen shared a look, one that was encouraging, and the silver mech stated his name, firm with pride.
“My name is Megatron.”
Optimus continued, “Sentinel was not a true Prime. He was the one who killed the Thirteen. He then struck up a deal with the Quintessons by giving them our energon. That is why no one had seen them since the Primes’ passing.”
All of them could recall the video of the blue and gold mech bowing to the pede-less tentacled alien. They could practically hear Sentinel’s gasping breath promising to give them more energon. More energon that his own people desperately needed more than their enemies.
“The Matrix disappeared when Sentinel tried to take it, and when the energon stopped flowing…he…created us. Cogless mining bots that had the sole purpose of extracting energon, with no ability to transform or become anything more. He had been lying to us this entire time.”
“Now, Sentinel’s crimes have come to light. During the battle, his spark was extinguished. He has no hold on us any longer.”
Megatron’s voice is a contrasting force to Optimus’. Where the Prime was firm but reassuring, the silver mech kept his words short; it wasn’t his place to speak for the Prime, but he knew his word was needed as well.
After everything the Iaconians had heard, Sentinel’s death wasn’t as much of a shock to them. But who, they wondered, vanquished the tyrant? They didn’t get an answer to that question. Optimus looked at the camera once more, with ambition shining in his optics.
“Although I am now a Prime, I will not be able to tackle anything on my own.” He turned. “These bots who stand before me will also be protectors of our city. They are strong and have courage, and they will be with me throughout all of the decisions made.” He paused, and a light smile appeared on his face when he and Megatron locked optics. “I will also need all of your support. Every single Cybertronian here in Iacon will be able to choose their own path, their own way of life. We will all have a servo to lend in our city, and our planet's recovery.”
For the first time in fifty cycles, all of Iacon shared one emotion. Hope. It swelled within their sparks, leavened the pain and the stress they felt. Though his speech was far from perfect, it instilled a great deal of admiration into their processors. This was the presence of a true Prime. How could they have thought that it was anything but this open honesty and empathy?
“I ask for your aid as we begin to right the wrongs of the past. We will first tend to the wounded, set up medical stations around the city, and get everyone out of the mines and sublevels underground. We will set up temporary spaces for these individuals. Anyone who has space in their habsuite, or their business, I implore you to open your doors to your brothers and sisters. Then we must start to rebuild. Clear away the rubble, shake off the dust of the old era, reconstruct our towers so that they reflect our desire to reach higher than before, to make Iacon an equal place for all Cybertronians.”
He placed his servo, curled into a fist, over his spark. The Matrix responded by glowing brighter. The others do the same, one by one, facing the crowds.
“I promise all of you that we will restore our home, no matter how long it takes. I swear on my spark that I will lead you all toward a brighter future. All will be one.”
And even amongst so much destruction, Iacon rejoiced.
—
Right after Optimus’ broadcast had ended, he and his allies met in Iacon Tower. The highest floor, where Sentinel and the captured High Guard once took space in, was now a wall-less room, battered to become almost unrecognizable as the Thirteen’s past meeting hall. It would be Optimus’ as well. The seven of them, his friends Elita, B, and Megatron, and their High Guard allies Starscream, Shockwave, and Soundwave, found dozens of members of Sentinel’s guards inside. The ones that were only minorly injured were helping their comrades up. Thin blue energon trails stained the gold floor.
Optimus spoke to all of them without any malice. He extended a servo to them, offering a choice.
“If you wish to stand with us and rebuild our city, then I welcome you. Sentinel is gone; you may throw down your titles and weapons and join us.”
Megatron took a step in front of Optimus. He glowered down at the guards, barely hiding his resentment, optics shining dangerously.
“If you do not stand with us, and your allegiance still lies with the false Prime, then you are not welcome here,” he stated with finality.
They all exchanged glances under their visors. Then one spoke up, posing a bitter question.
“Where is Airachnid?”
Sentinel’s spider-like guard was last seen at the broadcast tower, knocked unconscious after they used her memory to show Iacon the truth. When they revisited the tower to give their second message, she wasn’t there. It wasn’t their top priority, but it sent a ripple of unease through the seven.
“We haven’t found her.” Elita said tensely.
The guards were silent. They looked to each other, then to Optimus. The Prime waited patiently until one of t he guards approached him.
“You are the one who restored life to our planet.” He paused, then raised his right servo to his chassis. “I stand with you, Optimus Prime.”
Slowly, a few more of the wounded guards get to their pedes, standing by their comrade and showing loyalty to the group. Optimus smiled, and so did most of the others.
But not all of the guards accepted their offer. Though they could not see their expressions, they could tell by the tightness in their shoulders that they were not siding with them. Their words only proved him right. They faced him and his comrades, barely concealed anger in their tones.
“You destroyed so much and hurt our comrades.”
“You hurt some, and you killed others. Especially you .”
One pointed directly at Megatron. B gasped, and Elita went to stand beside him. The silver mech narrowed his optics, now flashing a dangerous shade.
Another guard stepped in, practically shouting, “You claimed to have saved us, but you snuffed out so many sparks! How can you call yourself a hero like the Prime?”
Megatron growled under his breath, ready to step forward, but the guards turned their attention back to Optimus.
“And since you are the new Prime, did you believe killing Sentinel was right?”
Optimus’ expression turned grave. He looked upon all of them, identical soldiers that were trained to exact harsh punishment, turning down a better future. He did not answer. Of course, some bots could not be changed overnight.
Optimus didn’t want to say the words that needed to be said to them. When he glanced over at Megatron, the silver mech was already looking at him. He gave him a tight nod, jaw set. He approached the defiant few, ready to fight when he saw them reach for their weapons. But he did not attack them. He pointed to the gaping hole in the east wall, where the cityscape could be seen.
“If you do not stand with us, then you are not welcome in Iacon. Leave.”
The rest of the guards stood. Though they were injured, they transformed and soared out of the tower, high into the city sky. Toward the surface. The last one spat energon onto the ground. His voice was bitter and laden with mockery.
“Long live the Primes.”
It was hard to watch them leave, after all of the support they had recently received. But there would be no way to keep them there. More trouble would ensue if they stayed. There would be time to process what this meant. Their plans to rebuild had to continue.
On that day, in the battered hall, Optimus made his first order. For future decisions and ideas to be executed fairly, he set up a council, one that would aid him in his Primacy. He saw that it would be unwise to lead on his own when his allies were a great strength. There was always more than one bot in a position of power in the past. Giving all of the say to one bot did not go well before, and it certainly wouldn’t convince the citizens of Iacon that a real change was to be brought about by their new leader.
The six bots with him were declared members of this council. They would aid him in making decisions regarding their next steps forward. This position was a new one for Optimus; there was so much he didn’t know about leading. This was a responsibility that he knew he couldn’t shoulder on his own. After all, this change wasn’t brought about by himself. All six of his allies accepted the position, promising to work together and to follow Optimus’ command.
—
Almost a jour had gone by since Iacon started to recuperate and rebuild. Immediately after this first order, the streets of Iacon were flooded with bots from the mines and the train stations. It was difficult to find room for them all when they were escorted out. Shops, businesses, hostels, and habsuites with residents that could spare some room opened their doors to let them stay; even the broadcast center were some of the bot's temporary homes. When all were accounted for, the mines were closed off, shut down temporarily so the city could focus on the larger matters at hand.
Optimus and the council members visited every sector before closing them off. For Megatron and Elita, it was a bitter reunion especially. B was curious and stunned by the size of the sectors he visited, stating it was nothing like the sublevels. They had a lot more room than he did. The High Guard members were appalled. Cybertronians designated to live in almost darkness, sharing a space with so many others, made the three rightfully angered. Starscream made a big show of closing off the sectors he was assigned to, and he got more than enough positive fanfare for it.
Rebuilding wasn’t much of a trivial matter. It was the physical labor the task required that sucked up most of their time. The High Guard members were the communicators to the city; when Optimus gave instruction, they flew out to inform the people. The Prime got the chance to learn more of their names and have proper, albeit short, conversations with them. Most notable would have to be Skywarp and Thundercracker, two seekers that were part of a Trine with Starscream. That was long ago, when they first were enlisted in the High Guard, Skywarp informed him.
“Scream’s real cocky a lot of the time. But he protected us on the surface. We owe him our lives.”
More notably, Optimus learned that two minicons, Rumble and Frenzy, and two cassettes, Lazerbeak and Ravage, were in the High Guard’s forces. They were under Soundwave’s protection, and had scouted Quintesson movement on the surface after their banishment. Minibots and cassettes were rare in Iacon, and his meeting with the four was an interesting experience.
The remaining three members of the council weren’t sitting by during the project. They were also assisting in the process, along with Optimus. They were out in the city for long parts of the days, clearing away rubble and putting it into carts to wheel away. A lot of the bots they were working with were honored to have them there. Elita met up with Jazz, Arcee, Ironhide, Prowl, and Hound, who were residing in the same temporary housing unit. B made a lot of new friends, many of which being Racers from the Iacon 5000. These same bots, and all of the others, were shocked to see their new Prime working amongst them. But Optimus, with his humility ever abundant, told everyone that asked him what he was doing there that he wasn’t going to stand by during this entire process.
“ We need all the help we can get. I am no exception. ”
He sounded like a true leader the more he talked to everyone. He kept his helm held up high, using his new-found strength to move the biggest pieces of debris. And even then, with dust covering him and exhaustion clearly weighing him down, any bot could tell he was a Prime, that he was the mech behind it all.
Energon refineries were the next task. There were few in the city, a lot fewer than there once had been. Those factories were working double time to pump out cubed energon to the masses. Now that the blue energy source ran freely, bots were able to gather it with laughable ease, compared to before. There was enough to give to everyone every day. No ones’ systems were drained. No one was ever looking at depleted tanks.
Having that energy made them work harder. Their shared ambition of fixing their city, brick by brick, slab by slab, soon came to fruition. Iacon had been cleared of the destruction of that fateful battle. All of its citizens were safely out of mines. Energon continued to flow like a never-emptying spring. When they gazed upon all that they had accomplished so far, the city seemed to shine with new vigor. A new life had been breathed into it. Primus was there. His spirit rested in Optimus Prime’s care through the Matrix. Though it was only the first step, it was one of the most impactful.
And with every new order that came about, Sentinel’s rule loosened its iron grip on the city.
—
The Cybertronians that had recently obtained their transformation cogs were fitting back into city life without much difficulty. As a member of Prime’s council, Megatron kept up to date with every bot in Iacon’s transition into the city. Real, permanent homes were opening up to them. Most had their own place now, and had new jobs. New lives. Exactly like he does.
The Archives could only provide so much information about what a council member working with a Prime was in charge of and responsible for. Him and the others were “winging it”, as B put it. They worked as a cohesive unit, proposing next steps to Optimus and to each other, delegating on what to focus on next, who to send out for what, and more. After getting everyone out of the mines, they began rebuilding the city. After they started to rebuild, they set up more energon refineries. Then they patrolled the city, helping out where they could.
They had to record everything into the Archives, as well. That job went to Optimus, naturally. To think that he had snuck into the building so many times, and now, he was able to walk among the data pads and old memorabilia freely.
Megatron is in Iacon Tower currently, having just come back from meeting with the several dozen newly appointed members of the refineries. They were having no major problems. The old pumps were made functional again so the energon could be easily transported to their factories without manual labor. He has to give the report to Optimus, and is currently on his way to the meeting hall. As he passes by a few scattered members of Sentinel's ex-guards, they nod their helms to him in respect. He does the same, keeping his expression neutral as he makes his way through the gold glittering hallways.
It was too much. The thought always came back to his processor every time he came back here. All of this splendor, all of this ornate detailing in the columns and statues set on inlays in the walls. Is this how Sentinel lived, while his old self was so used to dulled blues and grays and rusting metal?
He keeps himself in check, as he did every other time his processor wandered away from his new duties, not wanting to let his harsh thoughts get the better of him. Not when that day is still recent. He couldn’t feel that way again.
Now, Megatron has other occupations that fill up his thoughts. This new position of his, though temporary and awaiting another title, is one he can’t stray away from. Iacon is close to becoming whole again, and he would not fail its people.
He would not fail his friend.
Optimus is the reason he was there, walking these halls and having a servo in the restoration of their home. Without him, Primus knows where he’d be, if the Matrix would have even been found.
Megatron forces the memories away with a shake of his head. He keeps his processor clear, huffing to himself and trying to look unbothered on the outside.
“ I will not squander this opportunity. I have to prove myself. ”
“To whom?” his own mind taunts him, “ To the ones who surely called you an ally and friend that you made afraid when you ripped that traitor cleanly in two?”
Yes, them. Elita and B. There has been no time since his first apology to apologize again. Megatron sorely needs to.
He needs to apologize to Optimus. Underneath the firm, stoic facade he put up for the citizens, to show them he was strong and able to assist their Prime, his spark aches. It had gotten worse once the high of saving their planet wore off. What could he do to console it? Too much has to be done. Too much has to be put before himself and before any private matters.
D-16 had been through much worse. He’d seen death in the mines, the quick and slow kind. He saw the leader he once adored become branded as a traitor mega-cycles ago. He had been physically branded himself by said leader. But, oh, this wasn’t pain he was familiar with. It should have gone away the moment Optimus saved him. The moment he kissed him.
This weakness, this…whatever it was that was trying to steer him off course, would not do so.
The hallway he’s walking down opens up into the meeting hall. The major wreckage had been cleared long ago, with the golden effigies of the Thirteen that survived the fight set up along the back wall in between curtained windows. The side walls have been torn down entirely, opening the space up to the high altitudes and glittering splendor of the hanging buildings nearby. The only thing placed in the room is a curved table and seven chairs. And Optimus.
The red and blue mech is standing by the open wall to the right of the room. He’s deep in thought, typing something up on a larger data pad. He stops, however, when he hears pedesteps coming his way. His expression, once drawn up into tight concentration, softens when he sees Megatron. Megatron only raises an optical ridge, almost amused.
“Don’t be so glad to see me. You know I’m only bringing you more work.”
The Prime’s optics glitter and he smiles. “Still rolling with the aloof greetings,” he replies fondly, before asking, “How did the meeting go?”
“Better than expected. The bosses are having no trouble with the old machinery in the refineries. Transportation hasn’t been an issue either,” he rattles off the report, and Optimus nods.
“Good, I’ll update the file. It’s a miracle everything has gone so well.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re the one leading.”
Optimus turns his head, then his entire frame, toward Megatron. He gestures to the cityspace set before them with a light wave of his servo. Overhead, the skyways were bustling with activity. The light blue glow of energon veins weave through the architecture.
“You know the council has been a big help as well. We wouldn’t be this far along without them. Or without you.”
They lock optics for a long moment, Optimus’ sincere. He’s smiling at him again. Megatron wishes his spark would reciprocate the affection with as much tenderness, to beam back, but he can’t bring himself to. He tries, however, and lets out a semblance of a good-natured laugh.
“How flattering, Pax.”
It’s the Prime’s turn to raise an optical ridge. He stows his data pad under his arm, taking a step closer to the silver mech.
“Ah, pulling out the old name now , I see,” he quips, and when he’s in reach of the other, he grabs one of Megatron’s servos.
The kiss he plants on his curled digits is warm, tender in a way only Orion Pax could be. His old friend was still with him, Megatron thought. The silver mech watches their interlocked servos, then watches Optimus raise his helm to kiss him on his cheek.
“How have you been doing?” he asks suddenly, “It’s been tough on all of us, and I’m sorry I haven’t had time to talk to you earlier.”
Megatron takes a click to answer, but he does so truthfully. Or, as truthfully as he could, because he couldn’t be certain about exactly what he was feeling.
“I’m not sure.” Before his friend can speak with some sort of comfort, he says, “But it doesn’t matter. It matters more how you’re faring.”
His responsibilities most definitely paled in comparison to his friends’. Amidst the hours toiling in the city and searching through the Archives, he told the council that he had procured many documents recording the Thirteen’s responsibilities as Primes. A lot of the duties were dated, made in times of peace. He read up on them anyway, keeping all of it in mind as he was beginning to shape himself into a model leader.
It did weigh him down, Megatron had no doubt. He was doing a fair job at keeping up with the change, something he himself could not claim to be true about his own position.
“As good as you’d expect. It’s odd having such a close connection to someone,” is his answer, ever honest and open with him, and he glances down at his chassis.
Megatron could hear it humming if he trained his audials on the sound. It rises even over the thrum of his spark, commanding attention. He’s seen how other bots stare at it, how their optics fill to the brim with hope when they settle upon the Prime’s sturdy new frame.
“Does it talk to you?” That was one of the first questions he had about the Matrix, though there is more that he doesn’t want to ask then and there. It was a touchy subject, a wound still too raw to prod at.
Optimus is still holding his servo. He squeezes it lightly as he thinks, looking out at the city. Their two suns were slowly setting on the surface, plunging Iacon into a delicate twilight stage where gold turned to amber.
“Not exactly. I can…feel what Primus feels, if he wishes me to. It’s been nothing but good feelings, thankfully. He’s recovering well.”
Megatron nods, wondering for a moment how it would feel. To have their maker so close to his spark. Could Primus feel what Optimus felt as well? Could he speak to him if he wanted? What about the Thirteen?
If it were him in the position, what would he say to Primus?
“ A million apologies. Ones that would never be enough and could never clean my slate fully. He saw, they all saw what I did. ”
Megatron never wants to find out what it is like to carry the Matrix in his chest.
Apparently, his brooding catches Optimus’ attention. Yes, the mech could still read him all too well. It’s a relieving fact, so much so he repeats it to himself several times.
“ He’s still my Pax. He still cares for me. He knows me. ”
“I’m being serious, D. How are you? You’ve been working so hard ever since we started,” his friend states, the old name slipping off of his glossa just like “Pax” did on Megatron’s, “And you’re still hurt.”
His optics flit down to the branding on Megatron’s chassis. The burly silver mech huffs out a short ex-vent. He brings their intertwined servos ( still intertwined through the entire conversation, blissfully natural to both of them though it was such a foreign gesture) up to optic level. He copies what the Prime did earlier, carefully kissing his digits, leaving his dermas there for a prolonged moment to show his earnesty.
“You have so much that you need to focus on right now. Don’t waste your time on me,” Megatron tells him when he looks from his wound back up at him.
Optimus shakes his helm. “I am not wasting anything. I’ll always have time for you, D, even as a Prime. Please don’t forget that.”
His friend shouldn’t be this worried. It should be the opposite. Ever since being put on his temporary council, he has been the member around him the most. The Prime surely didn’t want to say, but there was a reason he was the first member he’d turn to when speaking about the matters of the city. He was playing a barely concealed game of favorites. Megatron was fine with this; he was able to watch over his friend a lot of the time. Their old promise rings true more now than ever.
He wasn’t going to tell him about his fears, about the emotions slowly eating away at his once hope-filled spark. They had to go away in due time.
Right now, he has to fix his city and protect his friend. He has to prove that Optimus made the right decision in trying so hard to bring him back to his side.
“I won’t,” he promises, before Iacon is cloaked in night.
—
Megatron’s time to recharge had never been long. The small amount of time he had to rest wasn’t enough for him to feel rejuvenated. It simply gave him enough energy to move forward, and that was all. When the end of a solar-cycle came about, and there was no more for the council to do until the next cycle, the seven finally got a chance to rest. Their habsuites were on one of the higher levels of the tower, once office spaces, now barely furnished rooms with only recharge slabs and a few of their old possessions.
Everyone has their own room except for Optimus and Megatron. When they had the recharge slabs moved to that level, Elita was the bot giving orders to the guards. She didn’t even ask either of them if they wanted it to be that way. Neither of them asked for the arrangement to be changed.
With this time of rest, they recharged together for the first time since the Iacon 5000. The short bits of sleep they had previously were by themselves; one was busy while the other wasn’t. They say nothing to each other but a short good night, and go to opposite sides of the room. The lone window stays open, letting the midnight lights wash through the room. Megatron truly doesn’t process the implication of being in the same room as Optimus, when the Prime could have picked one of their other two friends. He could have a whole wing to himself, and here he is, instantly offline when his helm hits the slab, every crease in his faceplate smoothing out as the tension in his frame eases. Megatron watches him for a while, too tired to wonder about anything. He shut his orange optics, and he too is offline in a click.
This is the exact night the nightmares start.
He sees the surface of Cybertron, bathed in vivid color. The mountains shift beside him. The green foliage on the ground, peeking through metal plates, rustling in a strong wind. Then it all comes to a halt.
He’s back in Iacon, standing in a gold tower. Pain comes crashing down onto him. His frame falls to the ground. He grabs at his chest. Something isn’t right. When he pulls his servos away to look at them, they have energon on them. He’s howling out in pain.
Then he’s standing over a grave. Everything is silent. The wind is rushing by, but he doesn’t hear it blow. The vivid colors of the surface pool into dull tones of red, flooding his vision. The mound of rust at his pedes shifts, and an arm shoots out, reaching for the sky.
“D!”
Megatron wakes up on his slab with a jolt. All of his systems were instantly onl ine. He had been breathing hard, his intake constricted and ex-vents shallow. Looking around the room, the silver mech tries to calm himself down. It takes a while.
It was almost early in the next solar-cycle. The suns were rising. Yellow light filters in. It bounces off the pristine silver walls. Megatron looks over at Optimus. His back is to him, and he’s still deep in recharge.
He leaves the room wondering what the nightmare means.
—
There were more scenes and more details the second time the ni ghtmares happened. He is on the surface of Cybertron, among the refracting mountains, jagged plains, and bright green flora. It’s all so beautiful, but it doesn’t last. He’s thrust into a vision of Iacon, glimmering almost menacingly. His body is dropped into the highest room of a tower that looks too similar to Iacon Tower. He sees a tall mech walking beside him, taunting him with words he can’t hear. But the mech’s tone is prattling with madness.
Then his chassis is burning once more. The mech has pointed a weapon at him. Sparks fly in front of him. When he rips his servos away, energon is leaking down them. He’s pede-deep in it when he hazily looks around, confused and angered.
When he yells out, the gold tower is clouded over in black. Another vision emerges. The pain is gone, and so is his bleeding. But now someone else is hurt. They were falling backward, toward a dark pit. He grabs their arm before they can fall. There were words coming out of his mouth; he can’t hear them, but the more he speaks, the more enraged he becomes, though he has no idea why.
And he lets the mech he’s holding onto go.
The surface is red and quiet. He feels older. There is a numb pain spreading through his frame and processor. The grave is there again, marked only by a sword sticking out of the rusty ground. He stands there, staring down at it. It bears no marker to indicate who or what is buried there. Megatron has no desire to figure it out. He was tired, his spark pulsing weakly behind his armor. Even if he wanted to walk away from it, he doubts he could.
The arm shoots out from the ground once again. It reaches for him. This time, he falls back, hearing a sorrowful voice break the eerie silence that once surrounded him.
“D! Help me!”
Megatron wretches himself out of stasis to escape the nightmare, the phantom mech’s words continuing to ring in his audials. Several alerts appear in his HUD, warning him of his frame overheating. He holds a servo to his head, forcing himself to regulate his breaths. It was still night. The room is dark save for a beam of light shining through the window.
And there is Optimus, right across from him, still in recharge. Although what he saw nano-clicks ago was anxiety inducing, and all too unclear, Megatron pushes those feelings away. He focuses on Optimus, watching him vent slowly, taking in the peaceful expression on his faceplate. It reminds him of the nights in the mines, when D-16 would wait for his friend to fall asleep first, just so he knew he wasn’t faking stasis just so he could explore out in the city or the Archives.
Megatron heaves out a frustrated ex-vent. “Slag,” he swears, more to himself than to anything else.
He tries to fall back into recharge. It takes longer than he would care to admit.
—
“I got the chance to talk with one of the medics that worked in our sector a little while ago.”
Elita speaks to her three friends gathered in the main hall, their reports from the day already logged. Life is moving as smoothly as it could go for the Iaconians they were looking out for. So far, their plans have been successes.
“Who is it?” Optimus looks up from his data pad and asks, the only one seated at the council’s table.
The pink femme has both servos on his hips, somewhat relaxed in posture. “Ratchet. Believe it or not, he was looking for me.”
Megatron hums. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”
B looks among the three. He’s closest to Elita, so he steps up to her.
“Ratchet? Is he nice? He sounds like a cool guy,” he asks.
Elita shakes her helm. “He’s one of the grumpiest mechs I know, B. Nice isn’t the word I’d use to describe him. Caring, maybe, in a stern way.” She clears her intake with a cough. “Anyway, he opened a clinic nearby with Wheeljack, and he wanted to offer his medical assistance to anyone who needs it here.”
There weren’t any severe injuries shared among the four, or in the High Guard ranks. The only bots injured were the members of Sentinel’s guard that chose to stay. They had fixed themselves up after they swore loyalty to Optimus; the Prime was glad that there were no significant casualties among them. As for the defectors, he couldn’t say for certain whether they were able to provide medical attention to each other.
“A check-up wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Optimus concludes after thinking the matter through. Ratchet, Wheeljack, and all of the other medics stationed around Iacon have been tending to the citizens. They need to be looked after as well.
Elita nods and steps a few paces away from the group. She had already set up a comm link with the white and red medic, and she calls him up quickly. B starts to get excited about the prospect of a check-up.
“I haven’t had a check-up in so long!” he tells Optimus and Megatron, smiling widely like the prospect of getting said medical examination was yet another amazing thing to happen to him.
It was, both of them realize on their own. The bot had no medical attention given to him in Sublevel 50. Instead of telling him it wasn’t a big deal, they let him be happy about it. The medical exams they’ve had in the past weren’t the greatest, since most of the time they were in Ratchet’s med bay because of a slip-up in the mines. Rarely did they get any regular wellness check-ups.
“Is there anything wrong with you, Orion? I mean, since you got the Matrix, you have all that extra armor!”
Optimus just laughs, subconsciously looking over his frame. “I don’t think so.”
Megatron ends up doing the same. He remembers there was something he did need to get fixed that he didn’t have with him.
“I suppose I could ask him to fix my arm cannon.”
Said weapon is hanging in his room on the wall, still cleaved in half cleanly through the middle, courtesy of Optimus’ energon axe. Prying it off of his arm had been a challenge. He soldered the sparking wires in his arm after he removed it, rather haphazardly, but the welds held after all this time. He knows the medic wasn’t a weapon’s specialist, but perhaps he knows another doctor that could repair it.
B nods along with him. “Oh, yeah, you could! So you can walk around all cool and badass, like me!” The bot puffs out his chassis, holding his fists in front of him. His two blue blades slide out, glowing and hot. He beams at them proudly. “They still work! Hah!”
Megatron smiles, unable to hide it. B starts slicing at the air, pretending like he was fighting. He makes sure to keep his distance from anything that could be cut down. Elita glances behind her shoulder for a moment, optics cycling with fondness, before turning her attention back to her call. Optimus finally gets up from his chair, having filed away that last of their reports. He’s standing right beside Megatron. The silver mech only realizes this when he glances to his left. The Prime gives him a warm look. Megatron is instantly comforted, the ever-present tension in his shoulders loosening.
“D,” his friend whispers, “Ratchet could help with…”
He trails off, and his optics flicker down to Megatron’s scarred chassis.
“ Right, ” he thinks tightly, shoulders bunching up again, defensive.
“I’ll ask about it.” is all he says in reply, trying to keep his voice level.
He doesn’t see the expression his friend wears, one that clearly shows he wants to say something more to him. Megatron starts to walk away before he gets the chance. He decides that it might not be the best time to ask about it. There were more bots in the room with them now, guards patrolling the building and returning from surveying the city streets.
—
“Are you certain you want it fixed?”
Ratchet’s question has an edge to it, one that grates wrongly in Megatron’s audials. It hasn’t been long since he and the medic exchanged words, and even though a lot has changed in the medic’s line of work, he still sounds exasperated. The silver mech is sitting on a stark and pristine medical berth in an even more stark and pristine office. This was one of the few rooms designated for doctors in Iacon Tower. Both of them feel out of place here. Although Ratchet’s new place of work was an upgrade from his cramped office in the mines, it isn’t as decadent as this one.
“I asked, didn’t I? If I didn’t want it, I would have found a new one already,” he responds sharply, orange optics narrowed in the doctor’s direction.
Ratchet simply stares back, barely bothered by his rising tone. He then turns his back to him, with the two separated parts of his arm cannon on the work bench in front of him.
“I’ll send it to Wheeljack,” he concludes, picking up the pieces and carrying them out to the other room, where his friend was examining members of Sentinel’s guard.
Megatron has to wait a while for the other medic to fix it. Meanwhile, Ratchet does a routine check-up on him. It doesn’t go as smoothly as he had hoped. Since gaining a transformation cog, there were changes in the examination. The medic asks him question after question about it, how it felt, about the new alerts in his HUD. And he pokes and prods around his armor, making his plating crawl and his servos ball into fists at his sides. He didn’t like being so uncertain about the subject, how strange it felt to have gained these enhancements and not even knowing much about them.
When Wheeljack brought back his cannon, it looks as if it was never damaged in the first place. He sets it on the workbench, giving Ratchet, who was fixing a lens on a magnifier a fond pat on the shoulder. “All fixed for ya, Ratch.”
“Thank you, Wheeljack,” the medic states.
“I did my best with it. I’d test it out before using it.” He addresses Megatron, and the silver mech doesn’t miss the way his optics roam over him. He was keeping his distance from the medical berth. Megatron simply nods his head, and Wheeljack leaves.
After filling in a data pad with the check-up information, Ratchet finally moves on to reattach the cannon. There’s a lot of disbelieving scoffing when he opens his plating on his right arm and his rushed welding of circuits came into the medic’s trained view.
“I’ve seen worse work done by a bot who lost an optic!” he sputters as he starts picking at the soldering.
Megatron’s frown deepens. “That wasn’t my concern. I had bigger things to worry about.”
Ratchet gives him an irritated look, then looks back down at his arm. He grabs a small welder from the table.
“I’m glad I found Elita when I did…” He trails off as he flicks the welder on.
“You were called here to work, not nag.”
The welder hits a wire roughly. Megatron curses loudly, jerking his arm away. The medic has a barely concealed smirk on his faceplate.
“Do you want it back on or not? I will do what I was called here to do without distraction, and without any backtalk.”
Megatron grits his dentae, wanting nothing more than to retaliate. Even now, the medic found a way to get under his cabling, even when he clearly didn’t want to pick a fight. Slowly, he props his arm back up on the berth, and Ratchet peers over it. He begins to melt away the previous soldering, the welder hissing and sending small orange sparks dancing across the berth and through the air. Megatron watches every movement with a pinch in his optical ridge. He’s silently reminded of all the times he was sent to Ratchet when something went wrong. When a cave collapsed that he was in, when his jetpack went out and he crashed into an energon cart faceplate first, when his drill’s engine overheated and practically exploded in his servos.
Those were the few instances he visited the doctor for himself. A lot of the time, it was Pax that got injured. D was there to accompany him; he was scared of all the tools the first time he was in Ratchet’s med bay.
“Feeling better?”
The question the doctor poses snaps Megatron out of his accidental dive into the past. He grunts in return, now noticing how fast Ratchet had worked. His cannon is back on his gauntlet. When the doctor steps back, finished with his work, Megatron tests the weight of it, swinging and bending his arm. It charges up, the familiar purple glow in the three barrels glinting off of the gold surfaces of the room.
“Don’t fire it in here,” Ratchet warns.
Megatron wordlessly powers it down. He isn’t sure if he likes the feeling of it on his arm again. After using it to harm so many.
He hears Ratchet sigh. “Don’t detach it from the base like last time. It has the ability to collapse and fit in the subspace under your arm guard.”
He was going to do exactly that when he got back to his room. He stands from the berth, about to stride to the door as quickly as he could. He couldn’t stand the staleness and spotless sheen of this room any longer.
“Thank you for your time, Doctor,” he says flatly without much gratitude.
Loud pedesteps follow him. A servo flies out in front of his face.
“Ah, ah, not so fast. You haven’t told me about the mark on your chassis.”
Megatron stills for a click. He looks over his shoulder, orange optics cycling. Ratchet saw it when he first arrived, clearly, and he thought it was a miracle from Primus that he hadn’t mentioned it. Of course, that isn’t the case anymore.
“Why do you need to know?”
“It wouldn’t be a proper check-up if I didn’t address all concerns.” The medic crosses his arms. He was only a helm shorter than Megatron, but he wasn’t showing he was intimidated. Unlike Wheeljack and the guards.
“It’s not a concern,” he bluntly retorts.
“Well, then, tell me how you got it,” Ratchet counters.
Megatron shakes his helm. “It’s not your concern, either.” He looks at him in the optics, pointing an accusatory digit at him. “Did Optimus set you up to this? I’m sure he mentioned it to you, that soft-spark.”
Ratchet purses his dermas, gaze flitting around the room before he lets out a long ex-vent.
“He said something about it, yes, but I’m not asking for his sake. I’m doing it for yours.”
Even though his tone lightens, and something along the lines of concern coat his words, Megatron does not feel any more inclined to open up. He doesn’t need to, not to Ratchet, who only knew D-16, who only had surface knowledge of what the mech went through in the mines alongside Orion Pax.
If he was able to get him off of his back, then so be it. He’d indulge the medic.
“When I was taken back here with the High Guard, Sentinel branded me. I did not bow to him.” The words he speaks sound like they were being spoken by another bot. They were full of loathing, of pure rage. Just with those words, he relives the entire root of his problems once again, kneeling in that awful room, being knocked down so effortlessly and being branded in just the same way. Ratchet can’t see it, but he brings his left servo up to the mark. Its jagged lines are warm under his digits, still new and taunting.
The medic is silent. Megatron savors the sound, jutting his chin upward.
“There’s your answer. And for my sake…I’m keeping it.”
He was never more relieved to step into the golden hallway, away from the memories of that day.