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He shifted his optics back to Megatron. The gladiator never looked down — did he see that mark as well?
His comms chimed. Your Majesty, Prowl's voice was calm as always. A third-grade insurrection event reported on Velocitron. Colonial dissidents have seized the primary relay station and are broadcasting illegal content across the planetary network. The Head of Intelligence went on with a smoothness that spoke of a decision already made. Recommendation: Dispatch a peacekeeping unit to secure the site. Your approval?
The crowd cheered. Megatron raised his sword, and — in a senseless, mechanical motion, as if he had done it a thousand times — lifted his helm to look up at the high box in the center of the stands.
The crowd hushed as they looked to their Emperor, waiting for the verdict.
He should have demanded a full report from Prowl. The Head of Intelligence would no doubt have everything ready for review, despite the fact that they both knew the Emperor's approval was nothing more than a formality at this point. The long years of entrusting the empire to bureaucracy had left all raw, uncurated details beyond his reach.
How did he agree to the ascension in the first place? Prowl had argued that monarchy was the only political system that was going to hold the post-war Cybertron together, and that the open fights would serve as both propaganda and entertainment. And he went along with it, as if being pushed by a current he was helpless to resist.
Or perhaps he was just tired.
Approved.
Optimus cut off the commlink. He raised his right hand, and — as he had repeated numerous times in the past stellar cycles — pointed his thumb downwards.
Megatron kept his optics fixated on Optimus. He didn't look away when the sword drove into his opponent's chest.
The crowd roared. A camera drone swept in for a close-up. As it passed in front of Megatron, there was a brief moment when it looked as though the gladiator was staring straight into the lens. But as it moved on to complete its 360-degree sweep, it became clear that the gladiator's gaze never shifted. And some of the crowd began following his gaze — toward their Emperor.
Optimus rose and left.
Since when did the gladiator develop that habit of looking at his optics when delivering the kill? Optimus thought bitterly. The gladiator was trying to shift the blame onto him, no doubt, but all the Decepticon captives who refused to surrender he had killed in these open fights could never compensate for the lives lost to the Great War -
The Matrix hummed, echoing his emotions and magnifying them. Optimus halted and leaned against the wall as he tried to weather the pain.
Despite Prowl's and Ultra Magnus' objections, he insisted that he was to be left alone in the open fights every lunar cycle. Entourage is a demonstration of weakness — that was the excuse he gave Prowl. It was easier to carry the guilt when no one else was watching him buckle under it.
The Matrix gradually quieted down. Optimus took a deep breath into his ventilation system and continued walking.
If the Matrix had instilled Primus' will in his spark, then through his hands, it wielded the god's violence.
Primus' wrath was justified enough. After all, what did they deserve for wreaking havoc on Primus' creation? No matter what was left out of Prowl's statement broadcast to their interplanetary allies[1] — there was never any escape from the sins of the Autobot autocracy, was there? The Senate. The Functionist Council. The real reason he took the AllSpark off-world[2]. The list went on — knowing Prowl, they might have added quite a few items to the list. And now, as he walked the empty corridors, yet another thought pressed against his spark — one he dared not name, not even in the silence of his own mind.
The war didn't just consume him. It revealed something in him he couldn't unsee. He felt it every time he hurled himself onto the battlefield with the terrifying power the Matrix infused into his frame. The Autobots had worshipped him for it, ready to die for a leader they believed was willing to sacrifice himself. But only he knew the truth.
He himself, and Megatron.
Megatron, who had watched him from across the arena floor, optics locked, unblinking — as if the gladiator recognized the insatiable hunger beneath whatever face he was wearing as Emperor of Cybertron. The same hunger he felt every time the Matrix flooded his frame, every time the power coursing through his circuits felt less like duty than like a whim. He had felt it when he shattered Megatron's transformation cog at Hell's Point. He had felt it when he cleaved Megatron in half in the Vorsk Offensive, from shoulder to crotch. He had felt it when he pulled that lever to electrocute Megatron[3]... When the electric current arced through his archenemy's chained chassis, he sensed not indignation but something darker, something that answered back. And he hunted it, again and again, until the war was finally over, and he could no longer tell the difference between Primus' wrath and his own.
He stopped in front of the gates he was all too familiar with. They were purely mechanical, with an Autobot insignia engraved at the center. He stared at the sigil.
He shouldn't come here. And yet he kept doing so, every lunar cycle after the open fights. He suspected the only reason he agreed to these open fights held in the Emperor's name — and perhaps the only reason he accepted that title at all — was that he got to be left alone afterwards for a brief moment. A moment he chose, every time, to share with his archenemy.
He hesitated, and pushed the gates open.
The former Decepticon warlord sat in the dark, chains bolted to the floor. His optics ignited the moment Optimus walked in.
"You flinched."
"What?" Optimus frowned as the gates emitted a grating screech when they slid shut. He'd have to invent a reason to get them lubricated soon. The last thing he needed was the sound carrying up the corridor.
"You flinched when I delivered the kill." Megatron's lips curled into a faint smile.
Optimus folded his arms. "Your point?"
"Don't pretend you are what you are not. You enjoy it, don't you?" Megatron hissed. "Come on, look me in the optics and say you don't enjoy watching me bleed for you."
"Alternatively," Optimus replied, keeping his tone even, "you could just surrender, and be done with all this."
"And you wouldn't want me to do that, would you?" Megatron stood up and took a step forward — as far as the chains allowed. "You miss it, the war." The former Decepticon taunted. "So you keep coming back here, to seek what you need, in me."
He extended his cuffed wrists toward Optimus in a familiar gesture, waiting.
Optimus wanted to say something back — that was how it always began between them — but he thought of the colonial incident Prowl had reported earlier. He would demand a follow-up report from Prowl this time, right after he was done... He ignored Megatron's provocation and walked up to unlock the cuffs.
"Keep it quick. One round."
"Something on your mind?"
The former Decepticon warlord studied him as they circled, his red optics glowing in the dim light.
Optimus didn't answer. He adjusted his stance, keeping Megatron centered in his sights. The air between them was thick with the static of old violence, crackling and waiting to arc.
"You're distracted," Megatron ventured, feigning a strike. He tilted his helm as a flicker of mischief flashed across his optics. "Trouble with the colonies?"
Optimus snapped his battle mask on and lunged.
They clashed. Metal screamed against metal, sparks raining between them. Optimus pressed forward, each strike precise and relentless. But Megatron wasn't fighting to win — he was fighting to read him, studying every hesitation, every micro-expression behind his battle mask.
"You know, I really don't think it's wise to broadcast the open fights to the colonies." Megatron gasped as he barely parried a blow. "They might get ideas."
Optimus struck harder, and the Matrix whirled in approval. He should've held back — his opponent had only just finished another fight. But no matter — Megatron would take him, unmoderated, untempered — like no one else would.
Their weapons and frames entangled. The wide arcs of combat collapsed into something tighter, closer — a grinding press of plating against plating, the hum of the energon blade vibrating between them.
"Lighten up, Prime. Rejoice in what you've achieved! You gave them peace, didn't you?" Megatron sneered. "Peace built on the same foundations I laid. Order. Control. The hand of a leader who knows better than they do." He leaned in and whispered at the Prime's audials. "Peace through tyranny."
"Calling me a tyrant doesn't make you any less so." Optimus squeezed each syllable through gritted denta.
"No, it doesn't." Megatron laughed. "But at least I was honest about it." He tilted his helm, optics burning. "As for you — how much more do I need to bleed before you admit you like it?"
In a blur of violent motion, Optimus found his energon blade caught along Megatron's shoulder plate. Against his better judgment, he drove it in, scoring deep, energon welling in the gash.
"There you are!" the former Decepticon warlord breathed heavily, leaning into the cut. His free hand came up, gripping Optimus's wrist, holding the blade deeper as he pulled the Prime closer. "Now tell me..."
"Where does pain end and pleasure begin... with that sword in your hand?"[4]
The heavy gates groaned shut, sealing the cell behind him. The clang of the locks faded, leaving Optimus alone in the cold, sterile silence of the corridor.
He leaned back against the unyielding metal wall, his cooling fans whirring softly in the quiet. The air still tasted of ozone and energon. He looked down at his hands. A drop of violet energon clung to the edge of his thumb, slowly drying into a dull, rusted stain — like the color of the Decepticon insignia that used to be on Megatron's chest.
Optimus shut his optics before opening them again. He pushed himself off the wall and walked toward the exit.
Maybe one day the colonies would rise against Cybertron, and maybe they would do it under Megatron's symbol all over again — he wouldn't know. He wouldn't know how to unmake this empire that was thrust upon him, any more than he knew what the Matrix or the war had molded him into.