Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The revelation began, as most disasters did aboard the Nemesis, with Rumble's big mouth.

It was a rare moment of peace. The Autobots had gone to ground after their latest defeat, Megatron was sequestered in his personal quarters reviewing tactical data, and the rest of the Decepticons had scattered to their usual haunts. In the rec room, a motley collection of soldiers sprawled in various states of repose. Rumble sat perched on a supply crate, swinging his legs. Frenzy balanced on the edge of a console. Skywarp was attempting to juggle three energon cubes, much to Thundercracker's visible dismay.

"You ever wonder," Rumble said, his voice cutting through the ambient hum of the ship, "what Megatron's got under that helmet?"

The juggling stopped. An energon cube hit the floor with a shatter.

Frenzy's visor brightened. "What, like the top of his head?"

"Yeah, under the helmet." Rumble gestured vaguely at his own head. "I mean, think about it. We've been fighting this war for millions of years. Has anyone actually seen what's under there? Could be anything."

Silence descended like a blanket. It was the particular quality of silence that preceded either brilliance or catastrophe, and with Decepticons, the two were often indistinguishable.

Thundercracker was the first to speak. "That's... actually a good question."

"It is not a good question," Skywarp protested, already grinning. "It's a great question."

From the corner, where he'd been running diagnostics on his seismic cannon, Frenzy sat up straighter. "Hold on, hold on. Are you telling me that in all the time we've been serving under Lord Megatron, not a single one of us has seen the actual top of his head? What's under the helmet?"

"The helmet comes off for repairs," Thundercracker pointed out, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Yeah, but Hook does those repairs," Rumble countered. "And when's the last time Hook gossiped about anything that wasn't construction related?"

This was an excellent point. Hook's idea of exciting conversation involved load bearing calculations.

"Battle damage: probable," came a monotone voice. The gathered Decepticons turned to find Soundwave standing in the doorway, his posture as impeccable as ever. No one had heard him approach. No one ever did. "Cranial scarring: extensive. Possibility: high."

"Or," Rumble said, warming to his theme, "maybe he's got like, I don't know, nothing. Super boring cranial plating. That's why he covers it up."

"Could be a status thing," Frenzy suggested. "You know, mysterious leader, keep the troops guessing."

Skywarp teleported directly in front of Soundwave, his optics bright with mischief. "But you've gotta be curious, right? You're with him all the time."

Soundwave's visor flickered. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, in a tone that might have been considered thoughtful for anyone else, he replied: "Curiosity: acknowledged. Conclusion: insufficient data."

And just like that, the seed was planted.

****

By the next solar cycle, the question had spread through the Decepticon ranks like a virus. It started small, whispered conversations in corridors, speculative discussions during patrol shifts. But it grew. It metastasized. Within three cycles, there wasn't a Decepticon aboard the Nemesis who hadn't pondered the mystery at least once.

Theories multiplied like turbofoxes.

In the science bay, Shockwave paused in his experimentation to consider the question with the gravity it apparently deserved. "The structure of Cybertronian cranial plating," he announced to no one in particular, "follows predictable patterns based on frame type and original function. Gladiatorial frames typically feature reinforced frontal plating with minimal aesthetic modification. However, the question remains: what lies beneath Megatron's helmet casing?"

He pulled up a holographic schematic of generalized Cybertronian anatomy and began annotating it with possible configurations. "What is covered could range from standard cranial plating to extensive reconstructive work—decorative crests, battle damage requiring permanent covering, or potentially nothing of note whatsoever."

The hologram rotated slowly in the air, each scenario branching into sub-possibilities, which branched into further hypotheticals. Within an hour, Shockwave had generated forty-seven distinct theories, ranked by logical probability. He saved the file with meticulous care. This was science. This was important.

Meanwhile, in the officer's lounge, Starscream was taking a decidedly different approach.

"It's obviously something humiliating," he declared, gesturing dramatically with one hand while holding an energon cube in the other. "Why else would he be so protective of it? I've known Megatron for eons. The mech is many things, but humble about his appearance has never been one of them."

Thundercracker, who had made the mistake of sitting within conversation range, sighed deeply. "Maybe he just likes the helmet."

"Don't be ridiculous. No one likes their helmet that much." Starscream began pacing, his wings twitching with barely contained energy. "No, there's something he's hiding. A weakness. Perhaps damage from Optimus Prime that he doesn't want anyone to see. Or..." His optics glinted. "Perhaps what's under there is just extraordinarily plain. Can you imagine? The great Megatron, fearsome leader of the Decepticons, with the most unremarkable cranial structure in the galaxy. Completely standard. Nothing special at all."

"I think you're projecting," Thundercracker muttered.

Starscream ignored him. His processor was already spinning with possibilities. If he could somehow prove that Megatron was hiding something embarrassing beneath that helmet, the implications for the command structure could be... significant. Not that he wanted to usurp Megatron's position, of course. That would be treason. He simply wanted to understand the truth. For scientific purposes. And if that truth happened to be politically useful, well, that was merely a fortunate coincidence.

He filed the thought away for later analysis and returned to his energon with a self-satisfied smile.

Down in the construction bay, the Constructicons had gathered for one of their regular team meetings. Hook was midway through a presentation on optimized welding techniques when Scrapper interrupted.

"Anyone know what Megatron's got under the helmet? Like, the actual top of his head?"

The presentation stopped. Six pairs of optics swiveled toward Scrapper.

"That's random," Mixmaster observed.

"It's been bothering me," Scrapper admitted. "We've repaired almost every Decepticon on this ship at some point. But Megatron always has Hook handle his personal maintenance, and Hook never talks about it."

All optics turned to Hook.

The Constructicon medic straightened, attempting dignity. "Patient confidentiality is a cornerstone of medical ethics. I would never betray Lord Megatron's trust by discussing the details of his personal repairs."

"So you have seen it," Long Haul said.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't not say it."

Hook's optics dimmed in irritation. "This is absurd. I'm a medical professional, not a gossip."

"But you've gotta admit," Bonecrusher rumbled, "it's weird that none of us know. We've been fighting together for ages."

Scavenger, who had been quietly listening from his corner, finally spoke up. "Maybe it's a tactical thing. You know, if the Autobots can't identify him without the helmet, it's harder to target him specifically."

This was actually a reasonable theory, which meant the other Constructicons immediately dismissed it.

"Nah," Mixmaster said. "Megatron's not exactly subtle. Every Autobot in the galaxy knows what his face looks like. We can all see his face. But what's on top? Under the helmet? That's the mystery."

"Then why hide it from us?" Scrapper pressed.

No one had a good answer to that.

Hook attempted to redirect the conversation back to welding techniques, but the damage was done. The question had taken root, and like any good construction project, once the foundation was laid, building upward was inevitable.

****

The first actual attempt happened purely by accident.

Laserbeak was conducting routine surveillance of the ship's corridors, as was his function. He lived for this work, the quiet glide through shadows, the careful observation, the gathering of data. His cameras caught everything: Starscream's furtive meetings with Thundercracker, the Constructicons' increasingly elaborate blueprint sessions, Rumble and Frenzy's constant whispering.

But his current mission was simple: deliver a status report to Megatron.

He found his target in the command center, standing before the main viewscreen with his hands clasped behind his back. The posture was classic Megatron, radiating authority even in stillness. Laserbeak announced his presence with a soft chirp.

Megatron turned. "Report."

Laserbeak transmitted his data packet and waited for acknowledgment. As he hovered there, his optical sensors happened to angle upward, catching the underside of Megatron's helmet at a perspective he'd never quite seen before. There was a seam there, barely visible, where the helmet connected to the underlying cranial plating. And for just a moment, Laserbeak's tactical processor wondered what might lie beneath that seam.

The thought was involuntary. Immediate. And, according to his programming, entirely inappropriate for a subordinate to entertain about a commanding officer.

He squashed the curiosity with the efficiency of long practice and departed to file his report with Soundwave.

But the seed had been planted even here, in the most loyal of Megatron's servants.

Soundwave received the data, processed it, and detected the 0.3 second delay in Laserbeak's return to the communications bay. Anomalous. He flagged it for review and pulled up Laserbeak's sensor logs.

The footage showed nothing unusual. A standard report delivery. Megatron's acknowledgment. Laserbeak's departure.

But Soundwave knew his cassettes better than he knew his own systems. That momentary pause, that upward angle of Laserbeak's cameras, spoke volumes.

Even Laserbeak was curious.

Soundwave's visor flickered through several colors as he processed this information. Logically, there was no reason for the entire ship to be obsessing over what amounted to a trivial cosmetic detail. Megatron's effectiveness as a leader had nothing to do with his cranial structure. His tactical brilliance, his combat prowess, his strategic vision? None of these qualities required knowledge of what lay beneath his helmet.

And yet.

Soundwave pulled up his own archived footage. Millions of years of service, countless interactions, and in all that time, he had never once seen Megatron without his helmet. Not during repairs. Not during recharge. Not in any context.

The logical part of his processor noted this was simply efficient compartmentalization. Megatron maintained boundaries between his personal and professional existence. Reasonable and expected.

The curious part of his processor, the part that had survived Cybertron's streets by noticing everything, quietly filed this away as a question worth answering.

He would never actively undermine Megatron's privacy. Loyalty was his foundational code. But if an opportunity to observe presented itself naturally, organically, without interference?

Well. Soundwave was nothing if not thorough in his intelligence gathering.

****

The gossip reached critical mass during a mission briefing three cycles later.

Megatron stood at the head of the command table, outlining their next assault on an Autobot energon depot. His voice was measured, authoritative, each word precisely calculated for maximum effect. Standard briefing procedure.

But for the first time in recent memory, half the room wasn't paying attention to the tactical details.

Starscream kept glancing at Megatron's helmet, his optics narrowed in speculation. Thundercracker noticed and elbowed him sharply. Across the table, Scrapper was sketching something on a datapad that looked suspiciously like architectural plans for a helmet removal device. Soundwave stood in his usual position at Megatron's right, outwardly attentive, but three of his cassettes were deployed around the room in observation positions.

Even Shockwave, who prided himself on logical focus, had his singular optic fixed on Megatron's helmet with unusual intensity.

Midway through explaining the assault vectors, Megatron paused and reached up to adjust his helmet. It was a brief gesture, his hand rising to the side of the helmet, pressing slightly as if relieving pressure, before dropping back down. He continued speaking without missing a beat, but several officers exchanged glances. They'd never seen him do that before.

Megatron, of course, noticed everything. He was not the leader of the Decepticons because of his combat skills alone. Reading a room was second nature, and right now, his room was decidedly odd.

He paused mid-sentence. "Is there a problem?"

Every optic in the room immediately found somewhere else to look.

"No, Lord Megatron," Starscream said smoothly. "Please, continue."

Megatron's optics narrowed fractionally. Something was happening. Something his troops were united in keeping from him. That alone was suspicious. Unity among Decepticons was rarer than energon on Earth.

He finished the briefing without further incident, but made a mental note to investigate. If his officers were plotting something, he needed to know what it was before it became a problem.

As the room emptied, Soundwave lingered.

"Observation," he said quietly. "Crew behavior: anomalous."

"I noticed." Megatron turned to face his communications officer fully. "What are they planning?"

"Speculation: unknown. Hypothesis: non-threatening."

That was marginally reassuring. Soundwave's assessment of threats was rarely wrong. Still, Megatron didn't appreciate being kept in the dark about activities on his own ship.

"Monitor the situation," he ordered. "If it becomes relevant, inform me."

"Acknowledged."

Soundwave departed, leaving Megatron alone with his thoughts. Which, increasingly, turned toward the strange behavior of his troops. They were distracted. Whispering. Glancing at him when they thought he wasn't looking.

If he didn't know better, he'd think they were planning a mutiny. But the energy was all wrong for that. This wasn't the tension of conspiracy. It was something else. Something almost... playful.

The thought was so absurd that Megatron dismissed it immediately and returned to his tactical planning.

****

The first coordinated attempt happened two cycles later.

Rumble and Frenzy had volunteered for maintenance duty in the command center, which should have been suspicious from the start. Neither of them had ever volunteered for anything that wasn't directly related to causing explosions. But Hook had been too grateful for the help to question their motives.

The plan was simple. While performing their assigned tasks, they would position themselves near Megatron's command throne. If the opportunity arose to accidentally bump into him, perhaps causing the helmet to shift just enough to see underneath...

It was not a sophisticated plan. But Rumble and Frenzy had never been accused of sophistication.

They made it approximately twelve minutes before disaster struck.

Rumble was balancing on a stepladder, ostensibly checking the overhead sensor array, when Frenzy "accidentally" bumped the ladder's base. Rumble windmilled his arms, overcorrected, and launched himself directly at Megatron's throne.

Where Megatron was currently sitting.

The Decepticon leader's hand shot out with the precision of someone who'd spent millions of years in combat. He caught Rumble by the back of his plating and held him suspended in midair, dangling like a turbofox kit caught in mischief.

"Explain," Megatron said, his voice dangerously calm.

"Uh." Rumble's optics flickered. "Gravity malfunction?"

"Gravity malfunction," Megatron repeated, utterly flat.

"Yeah. Real sudden. Very unexpected. Not our fault at all."

Megatron's grip tightened fractionally. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that you and your brother have been loitering near my throne for the past half hour, making increasingly obvious attempts to position yourselves within reach of my person?"

Silence. Even Frenzy, who usually had a backup lie prepared, came up empty.

Megatron set Rumble down with exaggerated care. "Get out."

They got out.

In the corridor outside, Frenzy groaned. "Well, that went badly."

"You think?" Rumble rubbed his back plating where Megatron's grip had dented it slightly. "We need a better plan."

"We need a smarter plan."

"Same thing."

They retreated to the rec room to regroup and discovered they weren't alone in their failure. Skywarp had attempted to teleport behind Megatron during a training exercise, only to find that Megatron had apparently anticipated this and moved at the exact moment of materialization. Skywarp had rematerialized inside a wall and needed Thundercracker's help to extract himself.

"I'm starting to think he knows," Skywarp muttered, nursing a dented wing.

"Of course he knows," Thundercracker said. "We've been obvious."

"Have not."

"You tried to teleport onto his head."

"It was a calculated risk!"

In the science bay, Shockwave was revising his approach. Direct observation had proven ineffective. Megatron's situational awareness was too acute. Therefore, an indirect method was required.

He began designing a microscopic drone, something small enough to escape notice, equipped with high-resolution cameras and capable of autonomous navigation. If he could program it to hover near Megatron during his private hours, the mystery could be solved without any direct confrontation.

It was logical. It was efficient. It was only slightly invasive of privacy in ways that made even Shockwave's singular moral compass twinge uncomfortably.

He built it anyway. For science.

****

The Constructicons took a more hands-on approach.

"Okay," Scrapper said, spreading blueprints across their shared workspace. "Here's what we know. Megatron's helmet is attached via magnetic locks here, here, and here." He pointed to three spots on the schematic. "Standard security configuration, probably voice activated removal."

"So we need to simulate his voice?" Mixmaster suggested.

"No, that's too complicated. Plus Soundwave would detect the forgery." Scrapper tapped the blueprint thoughtfully. "What we need is a scenario where removing the helmet becomes necessary for some external reason. Something he can't predict or prevent."

Long Haul leaned over the plans. "Like what?"

"Like a malfunction." Scrapper's optics brightened. "We engineer a situation where his helmet's systems start overheating. Nothing dangerous, just uncomfortable enough that he has to remove it for diagnostics."

Hook crossed his arms. "I'm not sabotaging Lord Megatron's equipment."

"It's not sabotage, it's... controlled technical difficulty."

"That's literally what sabotage means."

"But it's for a good cause!"

"What cause? Satisfying our nosiness?"

The other Constructicons exchanged glances. When Hook put it that way, the whole thing did sound rather petty.

"Look," Scrapper said finally. "We've been fighting this war for millions of years. Don't we deserve to know what our leader actually looks like? All of him?"

"I don't think it works that way," Hook replied, but his voice lacked its earlier conviction.

They continued planning anyway.

*****

Three cycles later, Megatron's helmet began emitting a low-frequency whine during a command briefing.

It started soft, barely noticeable beneath the ambient noise of the ship. But it grew steadily louder, rising in pitch until even the Decepticons with the poorest auditory sensors could detect it.

Megatron paused mid-sentence, his hand rising to his helmet. The whine intensified. His fingers pressed against the side of the helmet again—that same spot he'd touched during the last briefing—and his optics flickered briefly before refocusing.

"Lord Megatron?" Soundwave stepped forward. "Difficulty: detected. Diagnostics: recommended."

"It's fine," Megatron growled, but his hand remained on his helmet, and several Decepticons could have sworn they saw him wince.

The whine climbed higher. One of Soundwave's cassettes, caught too close, squeaked in distress.

"Medical bay," Hook said, appearing seemingly from nowhere. "Now. That's either a cooling system failure or an audio feedback loop, and either one could cause serious damage if left unaddressed."

Megatron looked like he wanted to argue, but the whine had reached a pitch that was genuinely painful to auditory sensors. With a frustrated snarl, he stalked toward the medical bay, trailed by Hook and half the command staff, all of whom suddenly remembered urgent business in that direction.

In the medical bay, Hook pulled up diagnostic equipment with practiced efficiency. "I'll need to access the helmet's internal systems," he said, reaching for his tools.

Megatron caught his wrist. "You can run external diagnostics."

"Lord Megatron, if this is a cooling failure, I need to see the connection points."

"External. Diagnostics."

They locked optics. Hook, to his credit, didn't back down immediately. "You could suffer permanent auditory damage."

"I'll risk it."

The whine suddenly cut off.

Silence flooded the medical bay. Megatron's hand was still on his helmet, but the pressure of his grip had visibly lessened. After a moment, he pulled up his own internal diagnostic readout and scanned it with narrowed optics.

"Curious," he said, his voice soft and dangerous. "The malfunction appears to have resolved itself."

Hook's confidence wavered. "Sometimes these things are intermittent."

"Are they." Megatron's gaze swept across the gathered Decepticons, all of whom were suddenly very interested in the medical bay's ceiling. "How fortunate that I was surrounded by concerned subordinates when this intermittent malfunction occurred."

No one spoke.

"Get out," Megatron said quietly. "All of you."

They got out.

In the corridor, Scrapper slumped against the wall. "He definitely knows."

"Of course he knows," Starscream snapped. "Did you really think you could engineer a fake malfunction under Soundwave's nose and get away with it?"

"You didn't have any better ideas!"

"I have plenty of ideas. I'm simply waiting for the right opportunity."

"Sure you are."

Behind them, Soundwave stood silent and watchful. His internal recordings showed the exact frequency pattern of the "malfunction," and a quick analysis revealed it matched the acoustic signature of a device he'd detected in the Constructicons' bay three cycles prior. He filed this information away without comment.

Megatron was handling the situation. Soundwave's role was to observe and, if necessary, prevent these absurd attempts from escalating into actual danger.

Though he had to admit, the creativity was impressive.

*****

By the following week, the attempts had reached levels of complexity that bordered on the artistic.

Starscream, after much deliberation, had decided on a psychological approach. If he couldn't physically remove Megatron's helmet, perhaps he could manipulate the leader into removing it himself. It would require subtlety, patience, and a deep understanding of Megatron's psychology.

Three things Starscream had in debatable supply.

His opportunity came during a tactical meeting where he'd carefully orchestrated the attendance to include only bots he knew were curious about the helmet. The meeting itself was legitimate, discussing Autobot movements in the northern quadrant, but Starscream had seeded the conversation with careful comments.

"Of course, the Autobots have the advantage of recognition," he mused, studying a star chart. "They know exactly who we are at a glance. Makes it easier for them to coordinate targeting."

Megatron's response was a noncommittal grunt.

Starscream pressed on. "Although I suppose that's a tactical choice on our part. We've certainly cultivated distinctive appearances. Makes us memorable. Intimidating." He paused, as if struck by a sudden thought. "Though one does wonder if there's a point where mystique becomes a liability."

"Get to your point, Starscream."

"No point, Lord Megatron. Simply an observation about image versus substance." He gestured airily. "After all, what we look like has no bearing on our effectiveness as soldiers."

Several Decepticons shifted uncomfortably. The subtext was about as subtle as an orbital bombardment.

Megatron set down the datapad he'd been reviewing and fixed Starscream with a look that could have melted battle plating. "If you have a question, Starscream, ask it directly."

The room held its breath.

Starscream's wings twitched. He'd been outmaneuvered and they both knew it. "No questions, Lord Megatron."

"Good." Megatron returned to his datapad. "Because my appearance, with or without my helmet, is not a subject for tactical discussion. Are we clear?"

A chorus of affirmatives filled the room.

Starscream slouched in his chair, defeated. So much for the psychological approach.

****

Shockwave's drone lasted approximately thirty seconds in Megatron's quarters before Laserbeak detected it, captured it, and delivered it to Soundwave for analysis.

Soundwave examined the tiny device with something approaching exasperation. It was beautifully engineered, nearly invisible to standard sensors, and equipped with recording equipment that would have made a professional spy jealous.

It was also completely inappropriate.

He destroyed it without comment and made a note to have a conversation with Shockwave about appropriate boundaries in scientific inquiry.

****

The breakthrough, when it came, happened entirely by accident.

Ravage had been conducting her regular security patrol of the ship's maintenance conduits when she  detected an unusual energy signature near the ventilation hub. Investigation protocols demanded she check it out, so she squeezed her considerable bulk through the narrow passage and emerged in a junction point just above the officer's wash racks.

It was late in the ship's cycle. Most Decepticons were either on duty or in recharge. The wash racks should have been empty.

They were not.

Through the ventilation grate, Ravage could see Megatron standing beneath one of the solvent showers, his back to the door. And his helmet was sitting on a nearby shelf.

Ravage froze.

Every protocol in her programming screamed at her to retreat, to give her commander privacy, to delete this entire incident from her memory banks. But her optical sensors, operating on automatic, had already captured several clear images.

She could see the top of Megatron's head. The actual cranial structure without the helmet covering it.

It was... entirely unremarkable.

The plating continued up from his visible face in standard configuration. No elaborate crests, no decorative fins, no extensive battle damage beyond what was already visible. His helm was smooth, angular, perfectly normal for a gladiatorial frame. There were some old scars on the back of his head, visible even from this distance, remnants of countless battles. But nothing extraordinary.

From this angle, Ravage could see that Megatron's cranial structure was standard for a gladiatorial frame, perhaps slightly more angular than average but nothing unusual. He looked like a regular Cybertronian who'd been through a war. Because that's what he was.

Ravage's tactical processor ran through several possible responses. She could report this to Soundwave. She could keep it to herself. She could accidentally-on-purpose let the information slip to the other curious Decepticons, ending this absurd obsession once and for all.

Or she could do what her loyalty programming demanded: respect her commander's privacy and pretend this never happened.

She chose the latter.

Ravage retreated through the conduit system, erased the images from her active memory, and filed the entire incident under "classified personal observation, no distribution, command override required for access."

When she returned to Soundwave to report the completion of her patrol, her cassette bay showed nothing unusual. The secret remained secure.

But Soundwave knew his cassettes. He detected the fractional hesitation in Ravage's report, the careful omission of her route through the wash rack area, the locked memory file that hadn't been there before patrol began.

Soundwave said nothing. Simply archived the observation and moved on.

Ravage had seen something. Something she'd chosen to keep private. And if Ravage's loyalty programming deemed it worthy of protection, then Soundwave would respect that decision.

Even if he was desperately curious about what, exactly, Ravage had discovered.

****

The final attempt came two weeks later, and it involved everyone.

Chapter Text

It started with Rumble and Frenzy, who'd decided that if subtle wasn't working, perhaps overwhelming force was the answer. They recruited Skywarp and Thundercracker. Who mentioned it to the Constructicons. Who brought in Mixmaster's new adhesive solvent that could theoretically dissolve magnetic locks.

Starscream heard about the plan and, not wanting to be left out of what was clearly going to be a historic moment (or a historic disaster), insisted on coordinating the attempt.

Even Soundwave's cassettes got involved, providing reconnaissance and distraction protocols.

The plan was elaborate, bordering on baroque in its complexity. It involved synchronized distractions, a faked emergency call from Earth, strategic positioning throughout the command center, and at the critical moment, Mixmaster's solvent applied directly to the helmet's locking mechanism while Megatron was distracted by what would appear to be an urgent tactical situation.

What could possibly go wrong?

Everything, as it turned out.

The faked emergency call was too obviously fake. Soundwave identified it as fraudulent within three seconds. The synchronized distractions were too synchronized, happening with mathematical precision that no genuine emergency would produce. And Mixmaster's approach with the solvent was spotted by Laserbeak, who immediately alerted Megatron to the incoming threat.

The Decepticon leader, to his credit, let the chaos play out for almost thirty seconds before he'd had enough.

"STOP."

The single word, delivered in Megatron's command voice, froze every Decepticon in a ten meter radius.

He stood from his throne, his optics sweeping across the assembled conspirators with the kind of cold fury that had won him countless battles. "I am going to ask this once. What is the meaning of this absurd theater?"

No one spoke.

Megatron's gaze landed on Starscream, who'd been doing his best to blend into the background. "You. Explain."

Starscream's wings dropped. "I... we... there was a concern about... tactical preparedness?"

"Try again."

The Air Commander's voice box cycled several times before he managed to speak. "We wanted to see what you looked like without your helmet. What's under it."

The admission hung in the air like an unexploded bomb.

Megatron stared at him. Then at the other gathered Decepticons, who were all suddenly fascinated by the floor. "That's it?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "All of this... chaos, conspiracy, and frankly impressive coordination... because you're curious about what's under my helmet?"

"When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous," Rumble muttered.

"IT IS RIDICULOUS."

Several Decepticons flinched.

Megatron stood there, his hands clenched into fists, his frame radiating barely controlled anger. For a moment, it looked like he might start throwing people into the brig. Or out an airlock. Or both.

Then, incredibly, his shoulders sagged.

"You're all idiots," he said, but the fury had drained from his voice, replaced by something that might have been exhaustion. "Brilliant, creative, occasionally terrifying idiots."

He reached up and, with a soft hiss of magnetic locks disengaging, removed his helmet.

The reaction was immediate and unanimous: disappointment.

Because under the helmet, there was exactly what they should have expected: the top of Megatron's head. Standard cranial plating. No crests, no spikes, no elaborate decorations. Battle scarred in places, yes, like old damage poorly repaired, the evidence of millions of years of conflict continuing up from his visible face. But nothing extraordinary.

Of course they could already see his face: the scarring around his optics, the war-weary expression, the angular jaw. They'd always been able to see that. But the top? The back? What the helmet actually covered?

It was just... normal.

"There," Megatron said, holding the helmet in one hand and turning slightly so they could see the back of his head as well. More scarring, a few dents, standard plating. "Satisfied?"

Starscream found his voice first. "That's... you just look like yourself. There's nothing there."

"What exactly were you expecting? A second face? Secret Autobot insignia? Decorative crests I'm hiding?" Megatron's tone was dry. "I wear the helmet because it's functional. The armor plating protects vulnerable areas. The targeting systems integrate with my optics. It's a tool, not a mystery. What it covers is standard cranial plating. That's it."

"But you never take it off," Frenzy protested. "We thought there had to be a reason."

"The reason is that I'm usually working, and the helmet is part of my standard combat configuration." Megatron settled the helmet back onto his head, and the magnetic locks engaged with a soft click. "Also, some of you have a disturbing habit of trying to shoot me in the head, and I prefer having the extra protection."

He looked at Starscream as he said this.

Starscream had the grace to look vaguely guilty.

"Now." Megatron's voice hardened again. "This obsession ends here. You've seen what you wanted to see. There is no grand secret. No hidden weakness. No elaborate decorations or modifications. Just standard cranial plating. Which, I shouldn't need to remind you, is not relevant to our mission, our goals, or your duties as Decepticons."

Murmured agreements filled the command center.

"Dismissed. All of you. And if I catch anyone attempting to remove my helmet again, I will personally ensure they spend the next solar cycle doing maintenance on the waste recyclers."

The room cleared in record time.

Only Soundwave remained, standing at his customary position.

"Observation," he said quietly. "Crew morale: surprisingly improved."

Megatron slumped into his throne. "They held together for a joint operation. I'll give them that."

"Conclusion: shared goal promotes unity."

"Even if the goal is completely absurd?"

"Affirmative."

Megatron cycled a deep vent. "I should have just shown them weeks ago. Saved everyone the trouble."

"Counterpoint: anticipation builds investment. Mystery encourages creativity. Exercise provided valuable intelligence on crew coordination capabilities."

Despite everything, Megatron felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "Are you suggesting I deliberately manufactured this situation as a training exercise?"

"Hypothesis: unverified."

"You're terrible at lying, Soundwave."

His communications officer's visor flickered in what might have been amusement. "Skill: unnecessary. Loyalty: absolute."

And that, Megatron supposed, was really all that mattered.

****

In the rec room that night, the Decepticons gathered for what had become an impromptu debriefing. Energon cubes were distributed. Complaints were aired. The general consensus was that they'd all wasted several weeks obsessing over something that turned out to be completely mundane.

"I can't believe that's all it was," Rumble groaned, his head in his hands. "Just normal cranial plating."

"What did you expect?" Thundercracker asked. "He's Megatron. He's always looked like Megatron."

"Yeah, but under the helmet, he could've been anything. Crests, spikes, crazy battle damage, something!"

Frenzy shook his head. "Nah, Thunder's right. We built it up too much in our processors. Made it into this big mystery when it was just... helmet. Head. Normal stuff."

Skywarp, who'd been unusually quiet, suddenly spoke up. "Did anyone else notice the scars on the back, though?"

The room's attention shifted to him.

"What about them?" Starscream asked, swirling his energon cube.

"I don't know. Just..." Skywarp struggled for words. "They were old. Really old. Some of them looked like they were from before the war even started."

A contemplative silence fell over the group. It was one thing to know intellectually that Megatron had been a gladiator in Kaon's pits. It was another thing entirely to see the physical evidence of that history carved into the back of his head, the parts usually hidden by the helmet.

"He looked tired," Thundercracker said quietly.

"He always looks tired," Starscream countered, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

"No, I mean really tired. Like..." Thundercracker paused, searching for the right words. "Like the war's been going on too long, you know?"

They all knew. They all felt it, in their own ways. But seeing it reflected in Megatron's unguarded features—even just the top of his head, the scarring that continued beyond what they usually saw—had been unexpectedly affecting.

"He's been leading us for millions of years," Scrapper mused from his corner. "Fighting constantly. Never really stopping. When's the last time any of us saw him take an actual break?"

No one had an answer.

"Maybe that's why he wears the helmet," Mixmaster suggested. "Not to hide anything, just... to keep going. Put on the armor, become the leader, don't have to think about how tired you are."

It was surprisingly insightful for Mixmaster, and the gathered Decepticons absorbed it in silence.

From his position by the door, Soundwave listened and recorded. He wouldn't share this conversation with Megatron. Some things were better left as private observations among the troops. But the shift in perspective was notable. They'd started this obsession out of curiosity and perhaps a bit of boredom. They were ending it with something closer to understanding.

Not respect. They'd always respected Megatron's capabilities as a leader and warrior. But now there was an added dimension. Recognition of him as a person, not just a position. Someone who carried the weight of command and let it show, even in the scarring on parts of himself he usually kept covered.

"So what now?" Rumble asked, breaking the contemplative mood. "We just go back to normal? Pretend the last few weeks didn't happen?"

"We could start a new mystery," Frenzy suggested with a grin. "Figure out if Soundwave actually has a face under that visor."

From the doorway came a single, flat word: "Negative."

Every Decepticon in the room jumped. Several energon cubes hit the floor.

Soundwave stood there, his posture as unreadable as ever, his visor betraying nothing. "Curiosity: acknowledged. Investigation: prohibited. Consequence for attempts: severe."

"Noted," Starscream said quickly. "Absolutely noted. No investigation into Soundwave's face. Got it."

"Affirmative." Soundwave remained in the doorway for another moment, as if to emphasize his point, then departed as silently as he'd arrived.

The room collectively exhaled.

"Well," Skywarp said eventually. "That's that, I guess."

"Yeah." Rumble picked up a shard from his broken energon cube, dismayed. "Back to the regular war."

"Back to the regular war," the others echoed, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

****

In his private quarters, Megatron stood before a small mirror he rarely used. The helmet was off again, sitting on his desk like an accusation. He studied his reflection with critical optics, trying to see what his troops had seen.

His face was the same as always: the scars around his optics, the angular lines, the war-weary expression. But he turned his head, examining what the helmet usually covered. The cranial plating that continued up and back. The additional scarring there, older damage that most never saw. A dent above and behind his audio receptor from a particularly brutal match in the pits. A crack along the back from where Optimus Prime's blade had gotten through his guard during their battle in Tyger Pax. Dozens of smaller marks, each one a memory, a failure, and a lesson learned.

Nothing special. Nothing worth all the fuss.

At least, not to their optics.

He reached up and touched the side of his helm where he'd felt the pressure during those briefings. Where something beneath the visible plating had ached from being compressed too long. His fingers traced along a seam that was almost invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.

The outer helmet protected what everyone could see. Standard cranial plating, battle-scarred and unremarkable.

But beneath that...

Megatron's fingers found the hidden releases, the secondary locks that no one knew existed. A soft click, barely audible even in the silence of his quarters. The outer cranial plating—what his troops had just seen, what they thought was the final layer—shifted slightly.

With careful, practiced movements, he removed it.

What lay beneath made his previous reveal look like a clever deception.

Hidden sensory panels. They sat flush against his cranial frame when sealed, smooth and unobtrusive, but each could hinge outward on fine joints. With a deep vent, he deployed them and the arrays fanned open like segmented fins. Narrow struts unfolded to reveal gilded sensor nodes embedded along their surfaces. Light caught on the etched circuitry, a faint gleam tracing the lines of hypersensitive receptors. Leftovers of his gladiatorial modifications, built to give him a fraction of a second’s advantage in the pits, to sense incoming attacks, to read shifts in air pressure that told an opponent’s movements.

Folded in, they were invisible. Folded out, they were his greatest advantage.

They were also horrifically vulnerable.

A single well-placed strike to any of these panels could send his entire sensory network into cascading failure. Pain beyond description. Temporary paralysis if he was lucky, permanent neural damage if he wasn't. It was why the secondary plating existed at all—a smooth, unremarkable shell to protect what he couldn't afford to lose.

It was why the helmet never came off.

The outer plating was just cosmetic, really. Battle-scarred, yes, but ultimately replaceable. This, though…this was the real secret. An irreplaceable vulnerability he could never let his enemies see. Could never let anyone see.

His troops…he would let them think their curiosity was satisfied. Let them believe there was no mystery after all.

Megatron studied his reflection, at the shifting sensor panels that marked his former gladiatorial status, enhanced beyond normal parameters, left with vulnerabilities that would horrify his troops if they knew. Starscream would see opportunity. Soundwave would see tactical liability. The others would see weakness in their supposedly invincible leader.

He couldn't afford any of that.

With careful precision, he replaced the outer plating. The seams sealed with barely a whisper, becoming invisible once more. The standard, scarred cranial structure returned, hiding the truth beneath layers of deception.

This was his burden to bear. His secret to keep.

Ah. He looked old. He felt old.

When had the gladiator of Kaon become this war-weary commander? When had the revolutionary who'd dreamed of toppling Cybertron's corrupt systems become just another tired soldier counting the cycles until the next battle?

There was no single moment. Just a gradual erosion, like water wearing away stone.

The helmet, at least, provided a barrier. When he wore it, he could be Megatron the Leader, Megatron the Conqueror, Megatron the Terrifying. He didn't have to think about the old pit scars on the back of his head, or the weariness that seemed to seep into his very plating. He didn’t have to think about the delicate sensory panels hidden beneath layers of armor, the ones he’d carefully shielded before letting the others look.

His troops had wanted to see what was under the helmet. Well, now they knew. Or at least they thought they did. There was nothing special there for them to see.

They'd never know about what lay beneath even that surface. And that was how it needed to stay.

He lifted the helmet in both hands, the metal cool and heavy. Lowering it into place, the crown settled over his head and the cheek guards closed in to frame his face. The locks engaged with a muted click, sealing the familiar weight around him. Protection. Armor. Shield against the world. The chamber looked the same as before, but he did not.

He was Megatron again. Leader of the Decepticons. Conqueror of worlds. Feared across the galaxy.

What was under the helmet didn't matter. At least, not the parts they could see.

The rest would remain his secret. His burden and vulnerability to bear alone

****

The next morning, ship operations resumed their normal rhythm. Patrols were assigned. Maintenance schedules were updated. The Autobots launched a probe of Decepticon territory, and a strike team was dispatched to drive them back.

It was all perfectly routine.

Except for the small changes, barely noticeable unless you were looking for them.

Starscream still postured and complained, but his comments about Megatron's leadership lacked their usual venom. He'd seen the weariness in his leader's features, the old scars that usually stayed hidden, and something in him had reluctantly acknowledged that maybe carrying the weight of the Decepticon cause for millions of years earned a bit more credit than he'd been giving.

The Constructicons completed their assigned repairs with their usual efficiency, but Scrapper made a point of adding extra reinforcement to Megatron's throne. Just a small thing. Better structural support, less likely to fail during the stress of combat. Megatron probably wouldn't even notice.

Hook, during Megatron's next maintenance appointment, worked in careful silence. He didn't comment on the old scars. Didn't ask questions about their origins. Just did his job with the professional competence that had made him the Decepticons' primary medic. But his touch was perhaps a fraction gentler than usual, his welds a bit more precise.

Soundwave continued his duties with characteristic efficiency. His cassettes still gathered intelligence, still monitored threats, still maintained the communication networks that kept the Decepticon army functioning. But Laserbeak's patrol routes now included an additional pass by Megatron's quarters during late cycle hours. Just checking. Just making sure.

Ravage never mentioned what she'd seen in the wash racks. The memory remained locked in her classified files, protected by multiple layers of encryption. But sometimes, when Megatron passed in the corridors, the mechanical cat would fall into step beside him for a few moments. Silent companionship, nothing more. A small gesture of solidarity from one soldier to another.

Even Rumble and Frenzy, who'd started the whole obsession, found themselves inexplicably more attentive during briefings. They still caused trouble. Still pushed boundaries. Still drove Hook to distraction with their antics. But when Megatron spoke, they listened. Really listened. Because they'd seen the weariness in his features and the scars he usually kept covered, and recognized it as something they all carried to some degree.

****

Three weeks after the incident, Megatron called a command staff meeting to discuss a new offensive strategy. The usual suspects gathered around the tactical display: Starscream, Soundwave, Shockwave, Scrapper representing the Constructicons.

Midway through the presentation, Megatron reached up and removed his helmet, setting it aside on the command table.

The room went absolutely silent.

Megatron glanced up from the tactical display, one optic ridge raised. "Problem?"

"No, Lord Megatron," Starscream said carefully. "Just... unexpected."

"The command center is secure. The helmet was causing pressure on a sensor relay." Megatron returned his attention to the display. "Now, as I was saying, the Autobot supply line through the northern quadrant presents an opportunity..."

The meeting continued. After a few cycles, everyone adjusted to the sight of Megatron without his helmet. It became just another detail of the environment, no more remarkable than the hum of the ship's engines or the glow of the tactical displays.

When the meeting concluded and everyone filed out, Soundwave lingered behind.

"Observation," he said. "Helmet removal: significant."

Megatron picked up the helmet, turning it over in his hands. "It's just a piece of equipment, Soundwave."

"Correction: symbol. Voluntary removal indicates: trust."

Megatron's optics dimmed slightly. Trust was a dangerous thing to offer in a war that had lasted millions of years. Trust could be exploited. Could be weaponized. Could be used against you.

But these were his Decepticons. Flawed, chaotic, occasionally insubordinate, but his. They'd followed him from Cybertron to Earth and beyond. They'd fought at his side through countless battles. And they'd spent weeks conspiring together over the galaxy's most mundane mystery, united by nothing more than curiosity.

He trusted them with what they could see.  With what he allowed them to see.

"Perhaps," Megatron conceded. "Or perhaps I'm simply tired of the constant pressure on my neck cables."

"Acknowledged." Soundwave's tone suggested he didn't believe that explanation for a moment. "Returning to monitoring duties."

He departed, leaving Megatron alone with the helmet and his thoughts.

After a long moment, Megatron placed the helmet back on his head and felt the familiar weight settle into place. Armor. Tool. Symbol. It was all of these things and none of them. Just another piece of equipment in a war that had no end in sight.

But maybe, just maybe, it didn't always have to be a barrier. Maybe sometimes it could simply be a choice.

He filed the thought away and returned to his tactical planning. The war wasn't going to win itself, and the Autobots would be launching their next offensive within the cycle. There was work to be done, battles to plan, troops to coordinate.

Some things never changed.

****

In the rec room, the conversation had already moved on to more pressing matters: namely, whether or not Shockwave actually needed to recharge or if he just powered down standing up to conserve energy.

"I'm telling you, I've never seen him in a recharge berth," Rumble insisted.

"That doesn't mean he doesn't recharge," Thundercracker argued. "Maybe he just does it in his lab."

"Or maybe he's secretly a robot."

"We're all robots, you idiot."

"You know what I mean. A robot robot. Like, not actually alive, just really sophisticated programming."

Frenzy leaned back, grinning. "Want to investigate?"

A collective groan rose from the assembled Decepticons.

"No," Starscream said firmly. "Absolutely not. We are not doing this again."

"Aw, come on. It'd be fun."

"It would be a disaster. Just like the last time."

"The last time worked out fine!"

"We nearly got thrown in the brig!"

"But we didn't. And now we know what's under Boss's helmet. Educational experience all around."

From the doorway, unnoticed by the arguing Decepticons, Soundwave recorded the exchange with the closest thing to fondness his programming allowed. They were learning. Slowly, chaotically, but learning nonetheless. The Decepticon army had always been a collection of misfits and rebels, united less by ideology than by a shared refusal to accept the status quo.

They questioned everything. Even their own leader's choice of headgear.

It was frustrating. It was inefficient. It was occasionally dangerous.

It was also what made them Decepticons.

Soundwave filed the recording and moved on to his next task. The Autobots had been spotted near one of their energon mining operations. Prime would likely attempt to disrupt their extraction efforts. Megatron would need to be informed.

He found his leader in the command center, studying star charts with the kind of focused intensity that suggested he'd been there for several hours without break.

"Report," Megatron said without looking up.

Soundwave delivered the intelligence, watching as Megatron's tactical processor immediately began calculating response vectors and deployment strategies. Even after millions of years, the speed of his strategic thinking was impressive.

"Deploy a patrol wing," Megatron ordered. "Three seekers, ground support from the Constructicons. I want surveillance on that mining operation before Prime can organize his forces."

"Acknowledged." Soundwave turned to implement the orders, then paused. "Additional observation: crew morale remains elevated following helmet incident."

Megatron's hands stilled on the star chart. "Are you suggesting I should regularly remove my helmet to maintain morale?"

"Negative. Suggestion: occasional visibility promotes loyalty. Emotional connection: beneficial."

It was the closest Soundwave ever came to offering unsolicited personal advice, and Megatron recognized it as such. He cycled his optics, processing the statement.

"I'll take that under advisement."

"Sufficient."

Soundwave departed to coordinate the patrol, leaving Megatron with the star charts and a lingering sense that his communications officer was more perceptive than was strictly comfortable.

But then, that was why Soundwave was his second in command. The mech saw everything, understood everything, and had the tactical sense to know when to speak and when to remain silent.

Megatron returned to his planning. The Autobots wouldn't wait for him to have an existential crisis about leadership visibility. And whatever philosophical insights his troops had gained from their absurd helmet investigation, the war continued regardless.

Some truths were simple: Wars were won through strength, strategy, and the will to see them through to the end. Everything else was secondary.

Even what lay beneath helmets.

Especially what lay beneath helmets.

****

Months later, a new recruit arrived at the Nemesis. A young vehicon, barely out of basic training, assigned to Soundwave's communications division. On his first day, he made the mistake of asking Rumble a question during downtime.

"So, uh, I was wondering. What's Megatron look like under his helmet?"

The rec room fell silent.

Rumble and Frenzy exchanged glances. Starscream looked up from his datapad, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Thundercracker shook his head slowly, already anticipating disaster.

"Kid," Rumble said, with the weight of hard-won experience, "trust me on this. You really don't want to know."

"But everyone always talks about the helmet and I just thought maybe there was something—"

"There isn't. It's just standard cranial plating. Some scars. Nothing interesting."

The recruit looked disappointed. "Oh. That's kind of boring."

"Yeah, well, boring is good sometimes. Boring means we're not all planning elaborate schemes to invade our commanding officer's privacy." Rumble paused. "Which we would never do. Because that would be inappropriate and potentially dangerous."

"Definitely," Frenzy added. "Super dangerous. Could get you thrown off the ship."

"Or assigned to waste recycler maintenance," Thundercracker supplied helpfully.

"Or both."

The recruit nodded slowly, processing this information. "So... just don't ask about the helmet?"

"Now you're getting it."

"And definitely don't try to remove it?"

"Stars, no. Do you have a death wish?"

"Just checking." The recruit retreated to a safer distance, leaving the veterans to their energon and their memories.

After he was gone, Skywarp leaned over to Rumble. "You think he'll actually listen?"

"Not a chance. Kids never listen."

"We could warn him."

"Nah. Let him figure it out the hard way. Character building."

They shared a grin, the kind that came from surviving your own stupidity and living to laugh about it later.

Across the room, Soundwave made a note to keep extra surveillance on the new recruit. Not to prevent him from investigating the helmet mystery. That was inevitable. A rite of passage, almost.

No, the surveillance was to ensure that when the recruit did inevitably attempt something foolish, Soundwave could intervene before anyone got seriously injured.

It was the least he could do. For crew cohesion. For operational efficiency.

And perhaps, just a little, for the entertainment value.

Even Soundwave needed something to break up the monotony of war. And watching new Decepticons discover the hard way that some mysteries were better left unsolved provided a certain grim amusement.

In his quarters, Megatron sat at his desk, reviewing supply reports. The helmet sat beside him, unassuming and within easy reach. He could hear the faint sounds of the Nemesis around him: engines humming, systems cycling, the distant echo of troops moving through corridors.

His army. His ship. His responsibility.

And somewhere in the rec room, they were undoubtedly gossiping about something ridiculous. Probably placing bets on how long the new recruit would last before attempting his own helmet investigation.

Megatron felt something that might have been amusement flicker through his processor. Let them gossip. Let them conspire. Let them waste time and energy on mysteries that didn't matter.

As long as they showed up when it counted, fought when necessary, and followed orders when the battle began, they could wonder about what was under his helmet all they wanted.

They’d never find the real answer. And that was exactly how it needed to be.

He picked up the helmet, studying its familiar contours. After millions of years, it was as much a part of him as his own plating. A tool. A shield. A choice.

And maybe, occasionally, just a helmet.

He placed it back on his head and the weight settle. He vented deeply. Megatron the Leader locked into place, ready for whatever came next.

Because the war continued. The Autobots wouldn't stop. The mission remained incomplete.

But for just a moment, in the privacy of his quarters, he'd been just Megatron. Not the Conqueror. Not the Terrifying. Just a mech with layers of secrets and too many years of war behind him.

It was enough.

It had to be enough.

And tomorrow, when his troops looked at him with their knowing expressions and their hard-won understanding, when they saw the helmet and knew what lay beneath—standard plating, old scars, nothing extraordinary—he would let them believe it. Maybe that would be enough too.

The war would end someday. Or it wouldn't. Either way, they'd face it together.

Even if some of them were idiots who couldn't leave well enough alone.

Especially because they were idiots who couldn't leave well enough alone.

Those were his Decepticons. And helmet or no helmet, he'd lead them until the very end.