Chapter Text
Megatron sees poetry everywhere.
The problem is that he can't speak it. He can feel the shape of the poems around him – he can recognise them, with his poet's eyes – but none of them precipitate on his warlord's tongue.
Even here – there is a poem to be found in the nebula visible from the bridge, fading from purple to blue as they travel through it. There is a poem to be found in the way Perceptor the soldier watches Brainstorm the scientist through his own wartime lens. There is a poem to be found in the grip of Minimus’s fingers on the console before him – each one exerting more pressure than Ultra Magnus’s fingers would. There is poetry in the way he stands, next to Rodimus. The way he moves sometimes like he is unused to his own size.
Megatron turns back to the nebula. Needless to say, he finds poetry in everything he watches for a sufficient length of time.
There was poetry before the lost light, too – freshly after the Decepticons mobilised it had been everywhere. He had torn through armies with the frustration of every inarticulable tragedy and truth.
Later he laughed at dramatic ironies – the cycles of futility in Optimus and Starscream and organics and…
He spent so long in the bitter aftertaste of that poetry that he never considered writing anew. That irony – his own personal cycle of futility – went overlooked.
And then he was given eight hundred years to stumble like a child over new words. He found them, somewhat – they belong to a new person, but he found them. And maybe he is that ‘new person,’ now. These days he recognises his own reflection without fail. He navigates less by the shadows cast by Megatron the Warlord and Megatron the Poet. He stumbles in his unfamiliar smallness. He recovers with significantly less dignity than another bot might.
“I would estimate that our odds of success are roughly between sixty and eighty percent,” Minimus is telling Rodimus, with steel in his voice.
“Those are pretty good odds!”
“A twenty to forty percent chance of dying is not ‘good odds,’ Rodimus. We are not going forward with this plan.”
“I concur,” Megatron adds, like clockwork, before Minimus can turn to him for support.
Minimus’s shoulders relax minutely, and he angles a nearly imperceptible nod back to Megatron.
Then Minimus begins talking about Perceptor’s aspirations to sample the nebula, efficiently cutting off Rodimus’s complaint.
Only a lesser bot would use this as an opportunity to watch the elegant slope of Minimus’s face, and Megatron is a lesser bot now. He has sworn off greatness forever. A great bot would feel ashamed, surely, when Minimus catches him staring and shoots back a confused glance. Megatron only feels thrilled.
There's poetry in that feeling, too, the kind of poetry which a great bot has no time to indulge.
***
Megatron usually takes the first off-peak shift. One by one, the crew excuse themselves to do whatever it is they do when they aren't crew.
Megatron monitors the comms alone.
As his shift nears its end, he stands and stares out the window of the bridge, into the blue glow of the nebula. He can barely stand it. He doesn't look away.
“Megatron.”
A greeting from the door. Megatron doesn't take the excuse to look back. “Minimus.”
“I've come to relieve you. Unless you'd like to stay – the view these past few days has been quite striking.”
Megatron doesn’t move. “So it has.”
“It glows just like a spark.”
“...so it does.”
In the corner of Megatron's vision, Minimus joins him by the window. “It’s beautiful.”
Megatron clenches a fist. “I suppose.”
“You don't think so?”
“It reminds me of…” he can't bring himself to finish the sentence.
“Oh. The flowers.”
Megatron nods. He stares into the blue until his eyes hurt.
“And yet – that wasn't the most recent field of sparks you've stood in.”
“...I suppose it wasn't.”
Blue as far as the eye can see, spelling out some sort of message. So many sparks, blooming forth underfoot.
“A nebula often heralds the formation of a new star,” Minimus remarks. “It can be difficult to tell – sometimes it really is detritus from a dead star. Sometimes, though, it can be the beginning of something great. Something worth protecting.”
Megatron looks down at Minimus, who stares into the blue, rapt, clutching a datapad to his chest.
“You write poetry, yes?”
“Hm? Ah.” Minimus clutches his datapad harder, looking up to Megatron. “Yes.”
“You have a way with words.”
Minimus looks more blue than green in this light. He looks – almost guilty. “Well. I have practiced writing, certainly. However, I doubt that my memos have primed me for poetry.”
“I suppose not. Though…”
Minimus looks at him quizzically.
“I can see how your style might translate to poetry of a unique form. Occasionally your memos form a certain pleasing rhythm.”
Minimus outright stares.
“I apologise. I must admit, I…” There's no way to put it that isn't embarrassing. Embarrassment is quite an unfamiliar little emotion. “In the functionist universe, I excelled at my role. But every war, however necessary, makes one ache for the simple joys of peacetime. My time on the Lost Light was the only part of my life that hasn't felt like a war.”
Minimus seems confused by the shift in direction, but listens diligently.
“I missed it all acutely – peace suits us, I think, despite the wars our race incites.”
“I see.”
“My point – some of the only mementos I had of that peacetime included the reports which were still in my buffer. Mostly yours. Mostly routine paperwork. I read them, when I needed to be reminded of peace.”
He can't quite read Minimus's expression. He soldiers on.
“You often sprinkle in remarks on the nature of law – on regulation, free will, punishment, militarism – when you conduct your duties. You watch your conduct very carefully and consider its ethical value. In every memo, you circle back to the purpose of the rule which is being enforced. Every memo.”
Surprised. That's the expression. Minimus is surprised. The little bot expresses it quite subtly now.
“There is a rhythm – you pose a problem, and the actions taken to right it. You provide context. You explain the realities of this case. You interrogate the justice behind the solution. Every conflict is a case study – every memo, a fastidious debrief.” He pauses, intent on pushing past his own weak-willed embarrassment. “I recommended the laws of the resistance to be scrutinized under a similar system. It seemed useful, for a newfound government. For justice to function, every law must be tested for its practical – not just hypothetical – value.”
Minimus’s mouth has dropped open just a little below his moustache. The blue light beyond the window gleams so brightly off his chest that Megatron nearly turns away.
It seems ridiculous, that after eight hundred years of fond reminiscence, Minimus Ambus is even more handsome than Megatron remembered.
“All that to say,” he finishes inanely, “your words strike me as poetic, in their own way.”
“Would you like,” says Minimus, after a long pause, “to sit with me? Off-peak shifts on the bridge can be quite dull.”
“I've never known you to dislike dull things.”
“You misunderstand – I find it quite pleasant. I would like you to join me.”
“Ah. Of course.”
They settle in at a workstation some distance from the captain's chair. Megatron has to sit at a ridiculously short stool to match its height. Minimus has to stand.
They begin to work.
Megatron takes out the same poem he has been trying to write for two weeks. Maybe today inspiration will strike. Maybe.
It doesn't.
In fact, it all seems so… rusted. Like he's playing with scrap, not working fresh metal.
He sits back and contemplates his words. Minimus glances up at the motion.
“You seem displeased.”
“This poem frustrates me.”
“Is it your own?”
“Yes.”
Minimus sets down his own work. “May I hear it?”
Ah. Well.
He clears his throat and starts from the beginning.
“The third door on the left
Will eat you –
Will split your struts to build its throne,
And every hinge of you
Will bend only to kneel.”
He cuts himself off at the line break, scowling at his words.
“I keep writing the same poem in different ways,” he tells Minimus.
Minimus blinks. “The poems you have read to me are all quite different.”
“They all draw similar inspiration. I find myself… restless.”
Minimus inclines his head in acquiescence. Many of his sentiments are nonverbal when talking with Megatron, and it fascinates him – is Megatron simply more likely to understand the nuance of an inclined head than someone like Rodimus? Is Minimus less self-conscious here?
Wishful thinking.
“It has been too long since I wrote about beauty,” Megatron muses.
Minimus glances down at the datapad in his own hands, flushing. A telling slip in composure, but what is it telling?
“Surely you don't find yourself in a similar situation,” He smiles at Minimus, “with all your talk of stars.”
“...No.”
“I’m curious – what do you consider beautiful?”
And what have we here? Minimus’s cooling system begins to whir with stress.
“I–” begins Minimus, and then falls silent. “I have nothing on the subject which is finished enough to be shared.”
“Noted.”
“Indeed, none of my works are… fit to be seen, currently.”
His cooling system continues to whir. Megatron feels… guilt? Pity? No. Something more complicated – he doesn't have words for it.
“I look forward to the day you choose to share them,” he tells Minimus. He means it.
They sit together in silence, typing on their pads. Megatron thinks about stars.