[TF] Frame of Reference 03/07
Jan. 16th, 2020 06:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Frame of Reference
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
Part Three
No matter how long Megatron spends glaring at the map, the circumstances don’t change. He has no idea where the Ark-22 is hiding. He can’t find the bulk of the Autobot forces. He can’t return to Cybertron.
The war, such as it is, has reached a stalemate. It’s less a war than it is a series of skirmishes where neither faction gains the upper hand.
His circuits itch to fight. It gnaws on him, this lack of forward progress, and the carcass of Cybertron they’ve left behind speaks of a lack of victory.
“Megatron.”
“I asked not to be disturbed,” Megatron says, though it’s with less venom than he might have offered another of his subordinates -- like Starscream.
“This, you must see,” Soundwave says, unintimidated, and he steps completely into the tactical room, the door closing and locking behind him. There’s a dull, swamping noise, the sound of a privacy screen being raised.
Megatron cycles his optics and lifts his head. There is one mech he trusts to bring him pertinent data, and Soundwave is currently handing him a datapad.
“What is it?”
“Optimus Prime,” Soundwave says. The single designation is enough to make both fire and ice sluice through Megatron’s lines. “He wishes to parlay. He offers truth.”
Megatron stares at his third in command, at the only mech he trusts to the core of his spark. “You’ve confirmed his intentions?”
“Affirmative.”
“What absurd terms does he offer this time?” Megatron mutters, and powers on the datapad, giving the contents a quick skim.
No terms. None. Optimus doesn’t offer surrender, but a truce on both sides, an agreement to lay down arms and work -- together -- toward a peaceful resolution. Neither faction will claim victory. Instead, they will agree to serve the best interest of Cybertron.
It’s nothing Megatron has not been offered before, but there is something new. There is a personal message attached to the parlay, addressed to Megatron alone.
Megatron sinks into the nearest chair as he begins to read, and the words trickle through his processor, leaving brimstone in their wake. His hands tremble. His engine revs violently, and only Soundwave’s hand on his shoulder is a comforting weight in the wake of the abrupt outrage and ire.
“You’ve read this?” Megatron asks, though it is partly rhetorical. He knows very well Soundwave has already read the contents, scanned every inch, catalogued and categorized the words within.
“Personal coding scan confirms presence of virus, timestamped pre-war,” Soundwave says, and though he speaks in a monotone, there’s a tightness to it, to the way he grips Megatron’s shoulder, that speaks of his own anger. “Permission to scan others?”
Megatron bows his head, shutters his optics. He draws vent after vent, trying to master the rising urge to destroy, to sweep the table clear of the battlemaps, to order an immediate retaliation against the Autobots. He doesn’t know if the urge is his own, and that thought frightens him the most.
How much of his actions have been his choice? How many have been driven by the treacherous code?
“Get their consent first,” Megatron grits out, and his knuckles creak as he grips the datapad tighter and tighter. “Have Shockwave look at this as well. I want confirmation of what Optimus Prime is saying before I make a decision about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Soundwave shifts to draw away, but Megatron catches his hand before he goes too far. He tangles their fingers together, squeezing Soundwave’s hand.
“If this proves true, if this virus has been affecting us all along…” he trails off, unable to voice the worries and the possibilities unspooling in his mind like an angry tide.
How many lives could have been saved? How many Decepticons have died because the virus spurred him into irrational actions, spurred him to the death rather than a reasonable cease-fire?
Megatron bows his head. "We will, as the war drags on, be committing suicide. We won't stop. We won't know how to stop."
"Outcome can be avoided."
"By brokering a peace, you mean." Megatron cycles a vent.
Soundwave has never been one to oppose Megatron's plans aloud. He takes his concerns to the privacy of their shared berth, the only place Megatron allows himself to appear weak. Where he briefly considers such things as treaties and cease-fires and concessions.
"Is that not a failure?" Megatron asks. "I'd be bending my knee, conceding to the Autobots. I'd have betrayed the very core of what the Decepticons have fought to accomplish."
"Negative." Soundwave's denial is firm, unyielding, nearly fierce for it. "Choosing life is not failure. Optimus reasonable. Attempt can be made. Violence, after, if terms untenable."
Megatron squeezes Soundwave's hand, drawing on the strength he offers. There's a boiling inside of him, a yawing need to lift his fusion cannon and rage until there is nothing left but ashes and destruction around him. There's a screaming, that Autobots can't be trusted, that they'll never concede, they'll never allow the Decepticons freedom.
He doesn't know if it's his own fears speaking to him, or the push of the virus.
"What is the purpose," Soundwave says after a moment, and his field surrounds Megatron with warmth, with logic, with peace and calm, Megatron’s saving grace through a long, long war. "Why the fight? What is the desire?"
"To choose for ourselves," Megatron murmurs. He shoves away the rage, reaches for reason, the tenets he nestles close to his spark. "To be more than our frame, our function, our caste. To be seen as individuals, as worthy. To live."
"Answer already known." Soundwave rests his other hand on Megatron's shoulder, the bulk of him radiant against Megatron's back.
Yes. Megatron supposes it is.
"We can't win the war with this virus. At least, not in a way that matters," Megatron observes aloud. Because the virus will encourage them to slaughter, and slaughter they will, until every last Autobot soaks the ground with their energon.
What will be left? Who will be left? Will it be a victory worth having?
Yes, a voice whispers, suspiciously like his own, and thirsty for spilled energon. They deserve to perish. Suffer no Autobot to live. They have hurt, and they have crushed, and it is their fault. Kill them all.
Megatron cycles a ventilation.
Now that he knows to listen for it, he can hear the whispers. The warnings, in his own voice, speaking to an existent threat, swaying him away from a peaceful course of action.
He hadn't realized, until now, how focused he'd been on defeating the Autobots, how he'd convinced himself their death was the solution. It had never been the point.
They're already exiled from Cybertron. They've destroyed their home, their planet, leaving it a wasteland. What's left to fight for, at this point?
But to call a truce! It rankles deep inside, the idea of laying down arms, of walking beside Autobots without hurting them. Of compromise! Megatron doesn't know if the disgust he feels is his own, or a result of the virus.
"I will lose the support of the troops, bending my knee to a cease-fire," Megatron mutters with a loathing he's quite sure is his own.
He wants to writhe in his chair, to roar at the sky. The indignity, the injustice! How very like the Autobots to resort to such underhanded tactics.
Soundwave’s field rests on his, warm and comforting. “Fault not yours,” he murmurs. “Trust in Megatron will remain absolute. This I know.”
“Would that I had your confidence.” Megatron presses a kiss to Soundwave’s hand and lets him go. “Disseminate the information. We’ll debate the results later. Optimus can wait for a reply.”
“Agreed.” Soundwave lingers long enough to offer a caress via his field, and then he’s gone, leaving Megatron with battle maps he may not use, and a knowledge which sits heavy and life-altering in his processor.
~
Starscream seethes.
He takes the information Soundwave gives him, and he immediately sets about examining his own coding, locating the tainted files in an instant, the corrupting twist of the virus throughout his core processing. He wants to rip it out with fangs and talons and every weapon he carries, but he knows this is going to take a more delicate touch. The virus is too tightly ingrained in him.
He doesn’t give Skywarp and Thundercracker a choice -- not that either of them protest.
It’s surprising, because Thundercracker has been infected but Skywarp has not. They’ve both plugged into Nemesis at some point. Starscream doesn’t understand what saved Skywarp from the virus.
It’s a complication that demands further investigation. It’s also proof that the virus is genuine. It’s a present threat.
It changes things.
Starscream does not like Autobots. He does not trust Autobots. For the most part, save a select few, Autobots are predictable in their uprighteousness. Starscream does not, for a single moment, believe the existence of the virus is a plot planted by the venerable Optimus Prime.
He does believe Prime’s offer of a cease-fire is genune.
He’s not so certain the cease-fire will stand any longer than the ones before. He can feel it within him, burning and surging like a slagpit. He wants to do damage; he wants to rage against the machine. He wants to take this volcanic fury and bend it upon the Autobots, make them pay for the injustice, the terrible violation of his core self.
He works himself into a wrathful froth by the time he stomps to the conference room to join the rest of the command team. Outrage swirls around him like a tangible weight, and he steps into a room stuffed full of it.
Shockwave is stiff, furious, his optic narrowed to a thin line. Soundwave is an emotionless automaton, per the usual, and Megatron’s back is to them, his hands clasped, his gaze distant as he stares at viewscreen.
It’s waiting to connect, perhaps to Optimus Prime and the Autobots.
The door closes behind Starscream. It locks and activates a privacy screen. There are only four of them in here, and Starscream supposes that makes sense. This is a topic that can’t be shared with the general Decepticons.
“It is legitimate,” Shockwave says, without waiting for Megatron to call the meeting to order. "The virus is disseminated among those Decepticons holding a leadership post, and while the length of time it has rooted itself varies based upon promotions, the origin remains the same -- the Nemesis, pre-first volley."
Starscream's wings flick. "Well," he says as the fields in the small room turn murderous in near unison, as if their aggression and anger feeds into itself, turning them all into a rising tide of outrage. "What are we going to do about it?"
"I need more time to further study the ramifications and reach of the virus," Shockwave intones, with only the barest echoes of interest in his vocals. "However, while retaliation may be our standard reaction to such an attack, the existence of the virus suggests it may not be the wisest course of action."
Starscream presses his lips together. Trust Shockwave to offer multiple sentences when a few words would have sufficed.
"Optimus Prime presently wary of attack," Soundwave says without looking up from the communications console. "Understands possible ramifications of information."
"Am I the only one considering the possibility of using this to our advantage?" Starscream asks before Shockwave can speak again, boring them all.
Megatron's optics narrow. "What do you mean?"
Starscream flicks a hand dismissively. "Optimus is a soft-spark. No doubt he sent this datapad to us because he feels guilty about it. That gives us enormous bargaining power."
"To what end?" Shockwave asks.
"To the end where we stop throwing ourselves at the Autobots to the inevitable extinction of the Cybertronian race and consider a cease-fire," Starscream all but snaps, his wings jerking upright at the condescension in Shockwave's tone. "Which, by the way, is the complete opposite of what the virus wants from us. I, for one, am not interested in doing the Senate's work for them."
Starscream is tired.
This is an endless wall they batter against, and he’s starting to see there’s only one true path on the other side. A path where everyone is dead, no one has won, and Cybertron rusts into oblivion, with the only story the universe knows, is how Cybertron consumed itself and took billions of innocent lives with it.
Starscream doesn’t want that to be their legacy.
He braces himself for Megatron’s derision. He knows, before the words leave his lips, Megatron will brand him a coward. They’ll argue. They’ll fight. Starscream will wake in the medical bay again, under Hook’s tender mercies, and nothing will have changed.
Maybe he can blame the virus for that as well.
“It was too easy to forget why we started fighting in the first place,” Megatron says, and there’s a weight to his vocals, a gravity which surprises Starscream. He turns to face them, and his expression is solemn.
There’s not a hint of anger when he looks at Starscream. If anything, he seems to echo Starscream’s fatigue, though his armor rattles against his protoform, as if he’s fighting an internal battle and struggling to emerge triumphant.
“Maybe we can blame the virus, or maybe we should blame ourselves,” Megatron continues. “It was easy to let the virus take hold because we were angry, and we were hurt, and we saw no recourse but to lash out. We started for all the right reasons.” He pauses, cycles a ventilation, and there it is, the flash of anger, but it’s not directed at Starscream. “There’s a point we could have stopped. We didn’t. I don’t want to make that same mistake.”
Starscream almost gapes. Is Megatron agreeing with him? Has the discovery of the virus fried his processor?
“You wish to broker a treaty with the Autobots?” Shockwave asks, and while his tone doesn’t betray any emotion, there is surprise in the way he looks at Megatron and shifts in his seat.
Megatron lifts his chin, bristling like he expects a fight. “A truce is in everyone’s best interest, but only if the terms are acceptable. I won’t lay down arms and surrender, and I won’t let Optimus dictate our behavior.”
“Action acceptable,” Soundwave says, but Starscream would have guessed as much. Soundwave never disagrees with Megatron. At least, not where anyone else can hear. “Cease-fire preferred.”
Starscream crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “I want a cure for the virus.”
“It’s going to require a united effort,” Shockwave drones, and if he has any plans to protest the idea of peace, there’s no sign of it. “What the Autobots lack in coding specialists, I can fulfill, but I am not Ratchet. Application and dissemination will be his specialty.”
Starscream almost can’t believe his audials. Not only has his suggestion been heard, but it’s been accepted.
Maybe the virus has friend his own processor.
“Very well. I will make it a point of discussion,” Megatron says, the most reasonable Starscream has ever heard him. It makes pride bloom in his spark. Pride and relief and maybe, something that almost feels like hope.
Maybe they don’t all have to die. Maybe there’s an end to this. Maybe, maybe.
“Soundwave, contact the Autobots. Inform them I wish to discuss a truce.”
~
It is surprisingly easy, for all that Megatron expects a fight.
The Nemesis has been drifting for so long, aimless without a present battle, that the idea of discussing a cease-fire with the Autobots is almost as exciting as an outright war. Megatron has kept the truth of the virus to his closest confidantes, for fear of starting a run of bloodlust through his troops. He’s done his best to frame the potential truce as a benefit to the Decepticon cause.
While there have been some grumblings, trust in Megatron’s leadership remains. For now. He supposes the terms of the truce will dictate how far his Decepticons will follow him.
They agree to meet on neutral ground. They take short-range shuttles to an abandoned moon orbiting an equally abandoned planet, both of which are inhospitable to purely organic life, save for the single-celled organisms writhing about beneath the surface. Perhaps in a million years, they will evolve into something greater.
If that dying sun doesn’t collapse on them first.
“Don’t bother apologizing,” Megatron says, to begin the meeting, because he can read the guilt in Optimus’ optics as surely as he can read the warning and promise of violence in Optimus’ pet saboteur. “It comes as no surprise to any of us that your precious Senate was so corrupt.”
“Makes me regret blowing them to bits even less ,” Starscream drawls as he pretends to examine his talontips as though the shed energon of the Senators still visibly stains them. “Not that I ever regretted it.”
“It’s impolite to be proud of one’s murderous actions during a parlay,” Prowl says in a tight tone, but Optimus lifts a hand, and Prowl immediately quiets. He shuffles his datapads, offering an icy stare over the top of them.
Megatron ignores him.
“What’s impolite is what your predecessors have done to us,” Starscream says, and his wings curve sharply upward. “Tell us your terms so we can rip them apart.”
Prowl twitches.
Megatron swallows a sigh. The tension in the room is suffocating, and it’s making his defensive protocols glitch. “We will not be announcing a defeat.”
“We won’t ask you to either,” Optimus says, and his tone is soothing, apologetic even. “We want to agree to lay down arms immediately, to halt all aggressive actions toward one another, and to establish a neutral area where experts from both factions can begin working on an anti-viral solution.”
“Reasonable terms,” Soundwave says. “Caveats?”
Optimus shakes his head. “None. It’s a matter of trust.” He looks at Megatron then, catching his optics in a gaze Megatron can’t seem to tear away from. “Words cannot express how abhorrent I find such a virus. If there is any hope to a peaceful resolution to this war, it must happen now, before it’s too late.”
Lies, that insidious voice whispers to him. Lies and manipulations. Optimus is not to be trusted. He wears the brand of your oppressors.
Kill him.
Kill him now.
Kill him while you still draw breath.
Megatron cycles a ventilation. He draws his hands into fists before loosening them again. The voice has become more insistent, the longer he considers a cease-fire and peace and laying down arms. It’s as if the virus is doubling down on itself, determined to set him back on a violent course. He can recognize it now, but that is only half the solution.
Worse that the virus whispers truths the deepest part of his spark already fears.
“We will agree to lay down arms,” Megatron says, carefully choosing his words and forcing down the anger trying to bubble up inside of him. “We agree to work together.”
“Really?” Ratchet asks, and there’s something in the way he stares at Starscream, in the flutter of his armor, that suggests a deeper story. “Decepticons aren’t known for their collaboration.”
Starscream smiles, and it’s full of denta, far from friendly. “Neither are you, from what I hear. Thrown any wrenches lately?”
“About as many as you’ve stabbed Megatron in the back,” Ratchet retorts, and his smile echoes Starscream for its cutting nature. “Or are you going to blame that on the virus as well?”
“If this cease-fire results in petty squabbles alone, it will be a miracle,” Shockwave says, and Megatron quietly agrees with him. Though his words have the intended effect. Both Ratchet and Starscream snap their mouths shut, tension vibrating between them.
There is a story there, Megatron is even more sure of it. He’s aware Starscream had attended Iacon’s storied academy on scholarship, and it would have been around the time Ratchet did as well. Perhaps there is more history than Megatron had cared to discover.
“Removal of the virus should be our first priority. In order to do so, we need to understand how it was created and it’s purpose,” Optimus says, likely in a desperate attempt to steer the conversation back on track.
Megatron nods slowly, until the realization pierces the steady background cadence trying to control him. “You intend to return to Cybertron.”
“There’s a fair chance the databases in Iacon hold the information we seek,” Prowl replies with the barest twitch of his wings. “They may even save us the trouble of trying to build an anti-virus from scratch.”
“We’ll work together,” Optimus says. “Autobots and Decepticons, uniting for a common interest, a hope we both share -- the elimination of the virus and the restoration of our home. Is that agreeable?”
It’s subtle, but it’s there, the gnawing of the virus around his reason. He should lift his blaster, should destroy the arrogant Autobots and all they stand for. He should fight until the end. It’s weakness to surrender. It’s weakness to lay down arms.
He’s stronger than his impulses.
The weight of a dozen stares rest on Megatron from all sides. Starscream’s hope, and Soundwave’s encouragement, and Shockwave’s cold regard. The Autobots with their barely hidden sneers, and their distaste, and a few warm bursts of hope.
“Yes,” Megatron says, and he offers Optimus a hand, keeps his tone firm as if to say to everyone present, and the repulsive program within him, that he’s his own mech. “We agree.”
After all, the rest is just detail.
***
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
No matter how long Megatron spends glaring at the map, the circumstances don’t change. He has no idea where the Ark-22 is hiding. He can’t find the bulk of the Autobot forces. He can’t return to Cybertron.
The war, such as it is, has reached a stalemate. It’s less a war than it is a series of skirmishes where neither faction gains the upper hand.
His circuits itch to fight. It gnaws on him, this lack of forward progress, and the carcass of Cybertron they’ve left behind speaks of a lack of victory.
“Megatron.”
“I asked not to be disturbed,” Megatron says, though it’s with less venom than he might have offered another of his subordinates -- like Starscream.
“This, you must see,” Soundwave says, unintimidated, and he steps completely into the tactical room, the door closing and locking behind him. There’s a dull, swamping noise, the sound of a privacy screen being raised.
Megatron cycles his optics and lifts his head. There is one mech he trusts to bring him pertinent data, and Soundwave is currently handing him a datapad.
“What is it?”
“Optimus Prime,” Soundwave says. The single designation is enough to make both fire and ice sluice through Megatron’s lines. “He wishes to parlay. He offers truth.”
Megatron stares at his third in command, at the only mech he trusts to the core of his spark. “You’ve confirmed his intentions?”
“Affirmative.”
“What absurd terms does he offer this time?” Megatron mutters, and powers on the datapad, giving the contents a quick skim.
No terms. None. Optimus doesn’t offer surrender, but a truce on both sides, an agreement to lay down arms and work -- together -- toward a peaceful resolution. Neither faction will claim victory. Instead, they will agree to serve the best interest of Cybertron.
It’s nothing Megatron has not been offered before, but there is something new. There is a personal message attached to the parlay, addressed to Megatron alone.
Megatron sinks into the nearest chair as he begins to read, and the words trickle through his processor, leaving brimstone in their wake. His hands tremble. His engine revs violently, and only Soundwave’s hand on his shoulder is a comforting weight in the wake of the abrupt outrage and ire.
“You’ve read this?” Megatron asks, though it is partly rhetorical. He knows very well Soundwave has already read the contents, scanned every inch, catalogued and categorized the words within.
“Personal coding scan confirms presence of virus, timestamped pre-war,” Soundwave says, and though he speaks in a monotone, there’s a tightness to it, to the way he grips Megatron’s shoulder, that speaks of his own anger. “Permission to scan others?”
Megatron bows his head, shutters his optics. He draws vent after vent, trying to master the rising urge to destroy, to sweep the table clear of the battlemaps, to order an immediate retaliation against the Autobots. He doesn’t know if the urge is his own, and that thought frightens him the most.
How much of his actions have been his choice? How many have been driven by the treacherous code?
“Get their consent first,” Megatron grits out, and his knuckles creak as he grips the datapad tighter and tighter. “Have Shockwave look at this as well. I want confirmation of what Optimus Prime is saying before I make a decision about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Soundwave shifts to draw away, but Megatron catches his hand before he goes too far. He tangles their fingers together, squeezing Soundwave’s hand.
“If this proves true, if this virus has been affecting us all along…” he trails off, unable to voice the worries and the possibilities unspooling in his mind like an angry tide.
How many lives could have been saved? How many Decepticons have died because the virus spurred him into irrational actions, spurred him to the death rather than a reasonable cease-fire?
Megatron bows his head. "We will, as the war drags on, be committing suicide. We won't stop. We won't know how to stop."
"Outcome can be avoided."
"By brokering a peace, you mean." Megatron cycles a vent.
Soundwave has never been one to oppose Megatron's plans aloud. He takes his concerns to the privacy of their shared berth, the only place Megatron allows himself to appear weak. Where he briefly considers such things as treaties and cease-fires and concessions.
"Is that not a failure?" Megatron asks. "I'd be bending my knee, conceding to the Autobots. I'd have betrayed the very core of what the Decepticons have fought to accomplish."
"Negative." Soundwave's denial is firm, unyielding, nearly fierce for it. "Choosing life is not failure. Optimus reasonable. Attempt can be made. Violence, after, if terms untenable."
Megatron squeezes Soundwave's hand, drawing on the strength he offers. There's a boiling inside of him, a yawing need to lift his fusion cannon and rage until there is nothing left but ashes and destruction around him. There's a screaming, that Autobots can't be trusted, that they'll never concede, they'll never allow the Decepticons freedom.
He doesn't know if it's his own fears speaking to him, or the push of the virus.
"What is the purpose," Soundwave says after a moment, and his field surrounds Megatron with warmth, with logic, with peace and calm, Megatron’s saving grace through a long, long war. "Why the fight? What is the desire?"
"To choose for ourselves," Megatron murmurs. He shoves away the rage, reaches for reason, the tenets he nestles close to his spark. "To be more than our frame, our function, our caste. To be seen as individuals, as worthy. To live."
"Answer already known." Soundwave rests his other hand on Megatron's shoulder, the bulk of him radiant against Megatron's back.
Yes. Megatron supposes it is.
"We can't win the war with this virus. At least, not in a way that matters," Megatron observes aloud. Because the virus will encourage them to slaughter, and slaughter they will, until every last Autobot soaks the ground with their energon.
What will be left? Who will be left? Will it be a victory worth having?
Yes, a voice whispers, suspiciously like his own, and thirsty for spilled energon. They deserve to perish. Suffer no Autobot to live. They have hurt, and they have crushed, and it is their fault. Kill them all.
Megatron cycles a ventilation.
Now that he knows to listen for it, he can hear the whispers. The warnings, in his own voice, speaking to an existent threat, swaying him away from a peaceful course of action.
He hadn't realized, until now, how focused he'd been on defeating the Autobots, how he'd convinced himself their death was the solution. It had never been the point.
They're already exiled from Cybertron. They've destroyed their home, their planet, leaving it a wasteland. What's left to fight for, at this point?
But to call a truce! It rankles deep inside, the idea of laying down arms, of walking beside Autobots without hurting them. Of compromise! Megatron doesn't know if the disgust he feels is his own, or a result of the virus.
"I will lose the support of the troops, bending my knee to a cease-fire," Megatron mutters with a loathing he's quite sure is his own.
He wants to writhe in his chair, to roar at the sky. The indignity, the injustice! How very like the Autobots to resort to such underhanded tactics.
Soundwave’s field rests on his, warm and comforting. “Fault not yours,” he murmurs. “Trust in Megatron will remain absolute. This I know.”
“Would that I had your confidence.” Megatron presses a kiss to Soundwave’s hand and lets him go. “Disseminate the information. We’ll debate the results later. Optimus can wait for a reply.”
“Agreed.” Soundwave lingers long enough to offer a caress via his field, and then he’s gone, leaving Megatron with battle maps he may not use, and a knowledge which sits heavy and life-altering in his processor.
Starscream seethes.
He takes the information Soundwave gives him, and he immediately sets about examining his own coding, locating the tainted files in an instant, the corrupting twist of the virus throughout his core processing. He wants to rip it out with fangs and talons and every weapon he carries, but he knows this is going to take a more delicate touch. The virus is too tightly ingrained in him.
He doesn’t give Skywarp and Thundercracker a choice -- not that either of them protest.
It’s surprising, because Thundercracker has been infected but Skywarp has not. They’ve both plugged into Nemesis at some point. Starscream doesn’t understand what saved Skywarp from the virus.
It’s a complication that demands further investigation. It’s also proof that the virus is genuine. It’s a present threat.
It changes things.
Starscream does not like Autobots. He does not trust Autobots. For the most part, save a select few, Autobots are predictable in their uprighteousness. Starscream does not, for a single moment, believe the existence of the virus is a plot planted by the venerable Optimus Prime.
He does believe Prime’s offer of a cease-fire is genune.
He’s not so certain the cease-fire will stand any longer than the ones before. He can feel it within him, burning and surging like a slagpit. He wants to do damage; he wants to rage against the machine. He wants to take this volcanic fury and bend it upon the Autobots, make them pay for the injustice, the terrible violation of his core self.
He works himself into a wrathful froth by the time he stomps to the conference room to join the rest of the command team. Outrage swirls around him like a tangible weight, and he steps into a room stuffed full of it.
Shockwave is stiff, furious, his optic narrowed to a thin line. Soundwave is an emotionless automaton, per the usual, and Megatron’s back is to them, his hands clasped, his gaze distant as he stares at viewscreen.
It’s waiting to connect, perhaps to Optimus Prime and the Autobots.
The door closes behind Starscream. It locks and activates a privacy screen. There are only four of them in here, and Starscream supposes that makes sense. This is a topic that can’t be shared with the general Decepticons.
“It is legitimate,” Shockwave says, without waiting for Megatron to call the meeting to order. "The virus is disseminated among those Decepticons holding a leadership post, and while the length of time it has rooted itself varies based upon promotions, the origin remains the same -- the Nemesis, pre-first volley."
Starscream's wings flick. "Well," he says as the fields in the small room turn murderous in near unison, as if their aggression and anger feeds into itself, turning them all into a rising tide of outrage. "What are we going to do about it?"
"I need more time to further study the ramifications and reach of the virus," Shockwave intones, with only the barest echoes of interest in his vocals. "However, while retaliation may be our standard reaction to such an attack, the existence of the virus suggests it may not be the wisest course of action."
Starscream presses his lips together. Trust Shockwave to offer multiple sentences when a few words would have sufficed.
"Optimus Prime presently wary of attack," Soundwave says without looking up from the communications console. "Understands possible ramifications of information."
"Am I the only one considering the possibility of using this to our advantage?" Starscream asks before Shockwave can speak again, boring them all.
Megatron's optics narrow. "What do you mean?"
Starscream flicks a hand dismissively. "Optimus is a soft-spark. No doubt he sent this datapad to us because he feels guilty about it. That gives us enormous bargaining power."
"To what end?" Shockwave asks.
"To the end where we stop throwing ourselves at the Autobots to the inevitable extinction of the Cybertronian race and consider a cease-fire," Starscream all but snaps, his wings jerking upright at the condescension in Shockwave's tone. "Which, by the way, is the complete opposite of what the virus wants from us. I, for one, am not interested in doing the Senate's work for them."
Starscream is tired.
This is an endless wall they batter against, and he’s starting to see there’s only one true path on the other side. A path where everyone is dead, no one has won, and Cybertron rusts into oblivion, with the only story the universe knows, is how Cybertron consumed itself and took billions of innocent lives with it.
Starscream doesn’t want that to be their legacy.
He braces himself for Megatron’s derision. He knows, before the words leave his lips, Megatron will brand him a coward. They’ll argue. They’ll fight. Starscream will wake in the medical bay again, under Hook’s tender mercies, and nothing will have changed.
Maybe he can blame the virus for that as well.
“It was too easy to forget why we started fighting in the first place,” Megatron says, and there’s a weight to his vocals, a gravity which surprises Starscream. He turns to face them, and his expression is solemn.
There’s not a hint of anger when he looks at Starscream. If anything, he seems to echo Starscream’s fatigue, though his armor rattles against his protoform, as if he’s fighting an internal battle and struggling to emerge triumphant.
“Maybe we can blame the virus, or maybe we should blame ourselves,” Megatron continues. “It was easy to let the virus take hold because we were angry, and we were hurt, and we saw no recourse but to lash out. We started for all the right reasons.” He pauses, cycles a ventilation, and there it is, the flash of anger, but it’s not directed at Starscream. “There’s a point we could have stopped. We didn’t. I don’t want to make that same mistake.”
Starscream almost gapes. Is Megatron agreeing with him? Has the discovery of the virus fried his processor?
“You wish to broker a treaty with the Autobots?” Shockwave asks, and while his tone doesn’t betray any emotion, there is surprise in the way he looks at Megatron and shifts in his seat.
Megatron lifts his chin, bristling like he expects a fight. “A truce is in everyone’s best interest, but only if the terms are acceptable. I won’t lay down arms and surrender, and I won’t let Optimus dictate our behavior.”
“Action acceptable,” Soundwave says, but Starscream would have guessed as much. Soundwave never disagrees with Megatron. At least, not where anyone else can hear. “Cease-fire preferred.”
Starscream crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “I want a cure for the virus.”
“It’s going to require a united effort,” Shockwave drones, and if he has any plans to protest the idea of peace, there’s no sign of it. “What the Autobots lack in coding specialists, I can fulfill, but I am not Ratchet. Application and dissemination will be his specialty.”
Starscream almost can’t believe his audials. Not only has his suggestion been heard, but it’s been accepted.
Maybe the virus has friend his own processor.
“Very well. I will make it a point of discussion,” Megatron says, the most reasonable Starscream has ever heard him. It makes pride bloom in his spark. Pride and relief and maybe, something that almost feels like hope.
Maybe they don’t all have to die. Maybe there’s an end to this. Maybe, maybe.
“Soundwave, contact the Autobots. Inform them I wish to discuss a truce.”
It is surprisingly easy, for all that Megatron expects a fight.
The Nemesis has been drifting for so long, aimless without a present battle, that the idea of discussing a cease-fire with the Autobots is almost as exciting as an outright war. Megatron has kept the truth of the virus to his closest confidantes, for fear of starting a run of bloodlust through his troops. He’s done his best to frame the potential truce as a benefit to the Decepticon cause.
While there have been some grumblings, trust in Megatron’s leadership remains. For now. He supposes the terms of the truce will dictate how far his Decepticons will follow him.
They agree to meet on neutral ground. They take short-range shuttles to an abandoned moon orbiting an equally abandoned planet, both of which are inhospitable to purely organic life, save for the single-celled organisms writhing about beneath the surface. Perhaps in a million years, they will evolve into something greater.
If that dying sun doesn’t collapse on them first.
“Don’t bother apologizing,” Megatron says, to begin the meeting, because he can read the guilt in Optimus’ optics as surely as he can read the warning and promise of violence in Optimus’ pet saboteur. “It comes as no surprise to any of us that your precious Senate was so corrupt.”
“Makes me regret blowing them to bits even less ,” Starscream drawls as he pretends to examine his talontips as though the shed energon of the Senators still visibly stains them. “Not that I ever regretted it.”
“It’s impolite to be proud of one’s murderous actions during a parlay,” Prowl says in a tight tone, but Optimus lifts a hand, and Prowl immediately quiets. He shuffles his datapads, offering an icy stare over the top of them.
Megatron ignores him.
“What’s impolite is what your predecessors have done to us,” Starscream says, and his wings curve sharply upward. “Tell us your terms so we can rip them apart.”
Prowl twitches.
Megatron swallows a sigh. The tension in the room is suffocating, and it’s making his defensive protocols glitch. “We will not be announcing a defeat.”
“We won’t ask you to either,” Optimus says, and his tone is soothing, apologetic even. “We want to agree to lay down arms immediately, to halt all aggressive actions toward one another, and to establish a neutral area where experts from both factions can begin working on an anti-viral solution.”
“Reasonable terms,” Soundwave says. “Caveats?”
Optimus shakes his head. “None. It’s a matter of trust.” He looks at Megatron then, catching his optics in a gaze Megatron can’t seem to tear away from. “Words cannot express how abhorrent I find such a virus. If there is any hope to a peaceful resolution to this war, it must happen now, before it’s too late.”
Lies, that insidious voice whispers to him. Lies and manipulations. Optimus is not to be trusted. He wears the brand of your oppressors.
Kill him.
Kill him now.
Kill him while you still draw breath.
Megatron cycles a ventilation. He draws his hands into fists before loosening them again. The voice has become more insistent, the longer he considers a cease-fire and peace and laying down arms. It’s as if the virus is doubling down on itself, determined to set him back on a violent course. He can recognize it now, but that is only half the solution.
Worse that the virus whispers truths the deepest part of his spark already fears.
“We will agree to lay down arms,” Megatron says, carefully choosing his words and forcing down the anger trying to bubble up inside of him. “We agree to work together.”
“Really?” Ratchet asks, and there’s something in the way he stares at Starscream, in the flutter of his armor, that suggests a deeper story. “Decepticons aren’t known for their collaboration.”
Starscream smiles, and it’s full of denta, far from friendly. “Neither are you, from what I hear. Thrown any wrenches lately?”
“About as many as you’ve stabbed Megatron in the back,” Ratchet retorts, and his smile echoes Starscream for its cutting nature. “Or are you going to blame that on the virus as well?”
“If this cease-fire results in petty squabbles alone, it will be a miracle,” Shockwave says, and Megatron quietly agrees with him. Though his words have the intended effect. Both Ratchet and Starscream snap their mouths shut, tension vibrating between them.
There is a story there, Megatron is even more sure of it. He’s aware Starscream had attended Iacon’s storied academy on scholarship, and it would have been around the time Ratchet did as well. Perhaps there is more history than Megatron had cared to discover.
“Removal of the virus should be our first priority. In order to do so, we need to understand how it was created and it’s purpose,” Optimus says, likely in a desperate attempt to steer the conversation back on track.
Megatron nods slowly, until the realization pierces the steady background cadence trying to control him. “You intend to return to Cybertron.”
“There’s a fair chance the databases in Iacon hold the information we seek,” Prowl replies with the barest twitch of his wings. “They may even save us the trouble of trying to build an anti-virus from scratch.”
“We’ll work together,” Optimus says. “Autobots and Decepticons, uniting for a common interest, a hope we both share -- the elimination of the virus and the restoration of our home. Is that agreeable?”
It’s subtle, but it’s there, the gnawing of the virus around his reason. He should lift his blaster, should destroy the arrogant Autobots and all they stand for. He should fight until the end. It’s weakness to surrender. It’s weakness to lay down arms.
He’s stronger than his impulses.
The weight of a dozen stares rest on Megatron from all sides. Starscream’s hope, and Soundwave’s encouragement, and Shockwave’s cold regard. The Autobots with their barely hidden sneers, and their distaste, and a few warm bursts of hope.
“Yes,” Megatron says, and he offers Optimus a hand, keeps his tone firm as if to say to everyone present, and the repulsive program within him, that he’s his own mech. “We agree.”
After all, the rest is just detail.
