[TF] Despicable - 11

[dracoqueen22]

Despicable Me
Chapter Eleven

Smokescreen might be awake, or he might be dreaming, he’s not sure.

There’s a city in his rear-view mirror. It stretches toward a blue, blue sky, sunlight gleaming off metallic towers and crystal windows. He doesn’t recognize the city. It’s too large to be Kaon, too well-constructed.

Is it the past? Is it the future? Whatever it is, he’s speeding away from it, tires eating up the smooth, paved road beneath him. It stretches out for what seems to be infinite miles, and ahead of him is a growing horizon, shapes popping into view -- more buildings, mechs in the skies, a thriving metropolis.

He veers away from the city, however, taking an exit into the vast wilderness, untamed land stretching between the city behind him and the city in front of him. Smokescreen doesn’t know where he is, and he’s not sure he’s the one steering himself either.

It’s weird and a bit creepy, but he’s not afraid, and Smokescreen thinks that must be because he’s already decided this is a dream. He can’t be actually hurt in a dream. And compared to some of the other dreams he’s had, this is a nice one.

He drives.

He drives, and he drives, until he leaves the cities behind, and there’s nothing around him but wilderness. Empty land. Barren land. A lot like what he remembers of Cybertron in the now, a wasteland destroyed by centuries of fighting and killing and weapons of mass destruction. And, of course, Unicron.

A spire rises into view, pointing toward the sky, a metal too dull to gleam, rust crawling over it in splotches. It forms the top of an angular building Smokescreen does not recognize, glyphs etched into the aging metal of a language he can’t read, though it looks familiar to him. Reminiscent of some of the older artifacts he’d seen in the Hall of Records.

The closer he gets, the larger the building becomes, until it towers over him, the tip of the spire so high it’s lost in the clouds. He shifts to root-mode as he approaches a pair of massive double-doors, so tall Omega Supreme could easily fit through them. Smokescreen doesn’t make the conscious decision to keep moving forward, but there’s a tug in the center of his chassis, pulling him to the doors.

They open before he has a chance to touch them, swinging inward, a pale and ethereal light spilling out in a long line. It’s warm when Smokescreen steps into it, warm and inviting, like an oil bath. But it’s bright, making it impossible to see into the interior.

He goes inside anyway. This is just a dream, and clearly, it means something, otherwise he wouldn’t be having it.

Smokescreen isn’t sure what he expects to find. Something old and dying and rusting, maybe. But it’s just a big open space, so open he can’t find any walls, so the inside parameters don’t match the outside border. The light comes from the ceiling, not that he can see one, but it also comes from the pool in front of him, a shimmering, still liquid that carries no reflection.

It looks a lot like the Well of Allsparks, actually, except Smokescreen knows the Well isn’t enshrined. It’s out in the open, where anyone can wander in or out of it, not that anyone has emerged since the first bloom. If anyone’s fallen in, Smokescreen hasn’t heard about it.

Still.

He approaches what may or may not be a Well with the respect it deserves. He crouches at the edge, peers into the still liquid, and wonders what would happen if he touched it. He’s not sure what the effect would be in the real world, much less in this dreamscape.

What does it mean?

“It took the sacrifice of a Prime to awaken the last Well.”

Smokescreen startles, leaping to his feet and whirling around to see someone standing behind him. No, not someone. It’s Optimus, or at least, someone wearing Optimus, because that’s Optimus’ face but there’s something not-Optimus about the way he’s looking at Smokescreen.

“Who are you?” Smokescreen asks, his threat protocols threatening to engage.

Not-Optimus tilts his head, and smiles in a slow, condescending way that Optimus would never do. “You do not recognize me?”

“You’re not Optimus,” Smokescreen says, his hands forming quiet fists at his sides. There’s a weight in the room now, like something is trying to press down on his shoulders.

“I was. Once. We were the same,” says Not-Optimus. He tucks his hands behind his back and steps closer, out of reach of Smokescreen but beside him, staring down into the depths of whatever the pool actually was. “He was my favorite.”

Smokescreen follows the stranger with his optics. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It should.” Not-Optimus sighs, and it’s a sigh of disappointment, giving him a sidelong look. “They don’t make candidates like they used to.”

Smokescreen vents loudly. “You sound like Alpha Trion. All you’re doing is talking in riddles.”

“Trion was always fond of his riddles,” says not-Optimus. He crouches then, dipping two fingers into the liquid of the pool, sending ripples outward. “Cybertron is without a Prime, youngling. Do you not think we need to correct this error?”

Smokescreen folds his arms. “Not if history has anything to say about it. Far as I can tell, Primes have created more problems than they’ve solved.” He pauses and draws in a quiet ventilation. “I mean, Optimus is kind of the exception.”

Not-Optimus drags his fingers through the liquid again, forming a pattern that seems to glow, brighter and brighter, until he lifts his hand and a stream of the liquid catches on the tip of his index finger and comes with him. It stays solid, grows, and takes shape as Not-Optimus stands, holding out his hand for the object to manifest in his palm.

It pulses and hums, the strange choking sensation growing heavier in the room. There’s a dull ache in Smokescreen’s chassis, a sharp pull in his spinal strut. He clenches his arms and stares as the object coalesces and solidifies into a very familiar shape.

It’s a Matrix.

“Cybertron needs a Prime,” Not-Optimus says as the Matrix floats above his palm, rotating slowly in the air, held aloft by nothing. He turns his head and looks at Smokescreen, optics much, much bluer than Smokescreen remembers. “It was offered to you once before.”

Smokescreen’s optics spiral wide. He’s shaking his head as he steps back, hands raised to ward off Not-Optimus before whatever he is comes a single step closer.

“No. No way,” he says. “Not gonna happen.”

Not-Optimus cocks his head, fingers twitching, making the Matrix bob and dance in his palm. “What if I told you that Cybertron cannot flourish without one?” he asks. “What if I said that in order for Cybertron to prosper, to populate, to recover, this burden must be carried?”

Smokescreen backs up another step and frowns. “Then I guess Cybertron’s doomed,” he says, a panic rising so fast in his spark it threatens to stall his vents. “The last time we took one of those, it led to war. If I take that now--” He points a quivering finger at the Matrix. “If I go back to Kaon with it, no one wins.”

“Interesting.” Not-Optimus turns toward him, but doesn’t come any closer. “You then choose a slow death.”

Smokescreen hisses, his sensory panels flaring behind him before he can control them. “I’m saying we don’t need it.” He slashes a hand through the air. “We don’t need some fancy artifact telling us who to follow or who’s worthy. We’re figuring it out just fine on our own. The Well will bloom again. It has to. That’s all we need.”

Not-Optimus nods slowly, the corner of his lip quirking in a sly smile Optimus would have never imposed on any of them. There’s a cruelty in that smile, and Smokescreen hates this apparition who dares wear Optimus’ face but knows nothing about who Optimus was or what he stood for.

“I see now why my creation chose you,” says Not-Optimus. He flicks his hand up, the Matrix bobbing away from his palm. “This is the second time you’ve refused me. A god might start to take it personally at some point.”

A what?

Not-Optimus snaps his fingers, and the Matrix vanishes into a fine spray of dust, which rains back down into the Well below. The liquid -- protomatter, Smokescreen is starting to suspect -- doesn’t respond to the Matrix dust. Perhaps because neither it nor the pool itself is real.

“The Well will bloom again, once Cybertron is strong enough to support its existing population,” Not-Optimus says as he folds his hands behind his back. “Only time will tell if your faith in the survivors will bring about an age of peace.”

Smokescreen plants his hands on his hips and sets his jaw. “It will. I don’t need faith, because I know it’s gonna happen. We’ve even taken Megatron back.”

“So you have.” Not-Optimus chuckles quietly, and it’s not a friendly sound. Not that Smokescreen can remember a time he ever heard Optimus laugh. He has no frame of reference for how fake this fake is when it comes to humor. “Nevertheless, I’ll be watching.”

“Whoever you are,” Smokescreen mutters. He doesn’t like this mech, this dream or ghost or whatever he is.

For all he knows, this could be Unicron, trying to convince Smokescreen to wake him back up or something. No way.

Smokescreen’s not falling for it.

“You are lucky I find your ignorance charming.” Not-Optimus turns to look at the pool, his back to Smokescreen, every thing about him screaming dismissal. “You may go.”

“I still have questions,” Smokescreen says, but where the inexplicable pull had led him here, there is now a push, and he finds himself backing away from the pool and Not-Optimus without making the conscious decision to do so.

He’s not sure why.

Anger rattles through his lines, and confusion peppers his neural net, but it’s the fear in the base of his spinal strut, the sense of impending danger that has him backing faster and faster toward the open double doors.

“Who are you?” Smokescreen asks, but his voice echoes around the wall-less room, and Not-Optimus doesn’t answer him, and the pool of protomatter doesn’t so much as ripple.

“Hey!”

Smokescreen is unceremoniously thrust out of the building-temple-ruin-whatever the frag that thing is. An invisible hand shoves him back, and he tumbles down the truncated steps, landing hard on his aft, skidding on a rusty road. Pain rattles his lines, his optical feed glitching, but not so much he can’t see the doors creak shut, a light gleaming through the seam where they close, until the seam vanishes, and there’s no door at all.

The building’s still there, with its high spire, and the weirdly etched glyphs, but as far as Smokescreen can tell, no way to get back inside.

Smokescreen huffs and climbs to his feet, brushing rust from his armor and checking himself over. Everything aches, far more than the little tumble should have done. He feels like he’s run a dozen races on low fuel and even lower coolant. He’s trembling with exhaustion.

This is still a dream, right? Because he’d like to wake the frag up now.

“Smokescreen.”

He goes still, hands pausing in the midst of brushing some kind of glitter from his chassis, the familiar voice trickling up his backstrut. He can’t explain how it’s different, how he knows this time, but when he turns and his optics confirm what his audials have already told him, his spark leaps up into his intake.

It’s Optimus.

The real Optimus.

Optimus Prime before his rebuild thanks to Solus’ Hammer, Optimus with his gentle look, his gentle optics, radiating a welcome the Not-Optimus hadn’t even tried to offer.

“Thank you,” Optimus says, his armor scratched where Not-Optimus had been perfection, his vents wheezing where Not-Optimus had been eerily silent, his windshields reflective where Not-Optimus had offered nothing.

“I didn’t do anything,” Smokescreen says. He’s partly afraid this is another trick.

Optimus moves closer, and Smokescreen swears the hint of his field strikes him with warm familiarity that it sends a raw ache of melancholy through his spark.

“Twice now you’ve refused something I accepted twice,” Optimus says. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”

Smokescreen shakes his head. “No, I’m not. I’m just… stupid. And scared.” He doesn’t want the Matrix. He’s never wanted the Matrix. He doesn’t want to be Prime. He never has. He doesn’t want any of it.

“The age of Primes has gone. It is the past. There is no need for the title, for the Matrix. You made the right choice,” Optimus says, and he’s close enough to rest a hand on Smokescreen’s shoulder, the weight of it a comfort and so tangible, it’s hard to believe this is a dream. “It is a harder choice than you’ll ever understand.”

“Not really.” Smokescreen scrubs the back of his neck. “I’m a lot of things, sir. But no way am I suitable to be a Prime.”

Optimus shakes his head. “You are more than the credit you give yourself. I am proud of what you have become.”

Joy bubbles up in Smokescreen’s spark, and he can’t help but stand a little straighter, looking up at Optimus with too big of a smile. “Thank you, sir. I swear I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” Optimus lifts his gaze, and looks past him, up and up at the spire. “I am proud of all of you. Every day that passes, I am more certain I made the right choice.”

Smokescreen gnaws on his bottom lip. “You’re not coming back, are you?”

“No. I am needed no longer.” Optimus squeezes his shoulder. “Did you not just tell Primus himself this?”

Smokescreen’s optics spiral wide, and he jerks back with surprise. “That was Primus?”

Optimus is still looking up at the spire behind Smokescreen, and his expression is one of resignation and sadness. “At least I am not alone,” he says, but it is a quiet murmur, almost as though he hadn’t meant for Smokescreen to hear it.

“Sir--”

Smokescreen reaches for Optimus, but his hand passes through the Prime as though Optimus has been an apparition the whole time. Even though Smokescreen swears the echo of his hand is still on Smokescreen’s shoulder. He swears he felt the warmth of it.

“Optimus?”

Smokescreen turns, to see what it is Optimus is looking at, only for a light to glare at him, blindingly bright. He throws up his arm to shield his optics, a great rushing wave of force slamming into his frame. He flies backward, slams into something solid, and jerks as his optics pop open, and he’s too late to catch himself from tumbling off the berth.

Smokescreen hits the floor with a yelp and a clatter, banging one of his sensory panels on the edge of the berth with a sharp agony that's too real to be part of a dream.

“Ow.”

He lies there, his spark beating in his chassis, his frame thrumming, and then he forces himself to sit up. He prods gently at his bruised sensory panel, giving it a twitch, but nothing seems to be broken. Thank Primus.

What the frag was all that? It can’t be just a dream.

His alarm starts to chime, and Smokescreen startles at the abrupt noise, spinning around to slap his hand over the chronometer. The shrieking noise stops, and Smokescreen sighs.

He climbs to his feet. He has to get cleaned up and grab some fuel or he’s going to be late to the council meeting.

He’ll just have to worry about weird dreams later.

~

Megatron does not hover, and he is not hovering now.

“It has only been a week,” he says, trying to keep his tone somewhere between suggestion and command. “If you are in need of rest, you should take it.”

Soundwave tilts his head, acknowledging the suggestion, but not heeding it. He disconnects the empty pouch from his intake line and rises, standing tall without so much as a wobble, his armor gleaming with full-health, though his empty dock a painful testament to Laserbeak’s absence.

“The council meets again in a month,” Megatron says, though he still finds the Terran terms for time awkward and uncomfortable in his mouth. “We can speak our truths just as well then.”

Soundwave’s cable extends, taking the empty pouch and carrying it across the room, disposing it into a recycle bin.

“Wait unnecessary,” he says, words short and brief, carefully selected. All conversation has been like this, as though Soundwave allows himself to speak, but won’t waste a single glyph when fewer will do. “Health acceptable.”

“Acceptable is not the same as optimal,” Megatron says, and he bites down the urge to make it an order, to demand Soundwave obey him. It takes physical effort, the clench of his glossa between his denta, and a long, slow ventilation. “We can wait,” he repeats.

“No.” Soundwave spools his cable and stands tall, though he does not surpass Megatron’s shoulder. “We speak now.”

Very well then.

Megatron stows further attempts to dissuade Soundwave. He understands. After waking from his own convalescence, his last interest had been in sitting around, doing nothing. There were actions to take, so he took them. He hadn’t waited for the optimal time.

And, he supposes, Soundwave has been silent for too long.

So they leave their quarters -- not shared, but connected by an inner door to allow them a modicum of privacy -- with Megatron leading the way. Soundwave had downloaded a map of New Kaon and the Autobot compound same as Megatron, but he still prefers Megatron take the lead. It is a habit Megatron soon hopes he breaks.

It discomfits him in a way he can’t properly verbalize.

They are not late when they arrive, but precisely on time, and while Megatron hasn’t been explicitly invited to the Autobots’ monthly council session, he has not been explicitly forbidden either. They are supposed to be open halls, meant for all residents of New Kaon to attend if they so choose. That so far mainly Autobot soldiers and leadership have taken that invitation is a truth Megatron intends to rectify.

Soundwave had insisted also.

There is but one chair available, the others occupied by Autobots who have carefully schooled their expressions -- but some too late to hide their surprise and distaste. Megatron slides into the open chair, and Soundwave takes a stance at his right shoulder. If he’d thought it would do any good, Megatron would have offered Soundwave the chair instead.

He prefers not to engage in such a debate in front of the Autobots.

“These councils are available for anyone to attend, are they not?” Megatron asks, spreading his hands in front of him. “Or was I mistaken in my reading of the code of conduct you helpfully left in my habsuite?”

Ultra Magnus eyes him, the only mech who has actually perfected a blank look. “You are correct. All mechs are welcome to attend,” he says as he folds his hands across a datapad laid out in front of him. “It is simply a surprise you would choose to do so.”

“Am I not a resident of New Kaon?” Megatron asks.

“You live here. I don’t know if that qualifies as making you a resident,” the blue femme says, her voice a shade too sharp to be civil. “How have you contributed to the rebuilding efforts?”

Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “Is that what you are doing here? Trading labor for the right to energon, shelter, and a place to call home?”

She scowls at him, but it is Smokescreen, throwing open the double doors and running inside as if his aft is on fire, who breaks the tension.

“Sorry, I’m late. I overslept, I guess, and then my washrack wasn’t working right, and I couldn’t get my energon to…” He trails off as he skids to a halt near the chair Megatron currently occupies. “Oh. That’s where I… hm.”

Megatron lifts both orbital ridges now. “Am I in your chair?”

“We don’t actually have chairs, that’s just where I usually sit, but that’s okay,” Smokescreen says, flashing a grin that has the audacity to be sincere. He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m young. I’ll just stand right over there.”

“Young?” Megatron echoes.

Heat stains the speedster’s face, his sensory panels jerking up in a manner that has no business being charming. “I wasn’t trying to be insulting!” he sputters. “I’m just… I meant…” He abruptly stands up straight and says, “I’m going to stand over here,” and retreats to the other side of the table, where he takes up a post behind Wheeljack and leans against the wall, trying to look casual about it.

“We might need to look into getting more chairs if this council is going to get any bigger,” Knock Out drawls, casual in his own seat, but obviously leaned closer to Bumblebee, and Megatron is no fool.

He may be on the outside, but he has heard the gossip, and has seen the proof. Knock Out and Bumblebee are lovers, and while part of Megatron rages at the idea, another part of him can only imagine what Optimus would say. How he would have gravely nodded in approval.

Orion would have smiled and deemed them charming.

“We should have anticipated that our numbers would eventually grow,” Ultra Magnus concedes, taking the interruptions in stride, given what Megatron knows of his uptight nature. “Even if no one has taken advantage of it until now.”

Megatron leans back in his chair, and Soundwave angles closer to him, his arm brushing Megatron’s shoulder. “Am I unwelcome?”

He’s challenging them, and he knows it, but far better to see where he stands now, see how far their beliefs carry them. Is it mere lip-service or do they truly intend to make Cybertron a fair and equal place?

Everyone looks to Ultra Magnus.

Ultra Magnus stares at Megatron, unflinching. “You are welcome here,” he says at length, unfolding from a forward hunch and sitting back, lifting his datapad. “Same as any Cybertronian who wishes to make their voice heard.”

The double-doors rattle open once more, and Megatron is not the only one who turns to look, wondering who else has decided today is the day to speak. Megatron cycles his optics, orbital ridges crawling toward the shadow of his helm, as Predaking stoops to angle his massive frame through the doorway, wings folded tight against his back.

“I am told this is where the council conducts their meetings,” he rumbles as he looks around the room, straight and tall and unyielding. “I have come to speak for my kin.”

In the following silence, every staggered ventilation sounds much larger than it ought. It’s Smokescreen, however, who leans into view and says,

“I don’t think we have a chair big enough for you.” He looks genuinely apologetic about it. “Though I’m also thinking our conference room isn’t big enough anymore.”

“You can say that again,” Wheeljack says, but he’s grinning as he leans back and props his feet on the edge of the table, crossed at the ankles, heedless of the glare Ratchet aims in his direction. “Did I mention how glad I am I didn’t skip today’s session?”

“You mean like you usually do?” Ratchet asks, tone sour, armor ruffled, possibly because of Wheeljack’s lackadaisical attitude, or possibly because the number of Decepticons in the conference room has grown in the past five minutes.

“I am fine to stand today,” Predaking says, over their bickering. He folds his arms, an imposing presence unbothered by how he seems to make the Autobots uneasy. “I will expect better accommodations in the future. We are part of Cybertron. We will attend all future sessions.”

“Wonderful,” Arcee mutters.

Starscream twitches, but his tone is carefully even when he says, “If Cybertron is to recover, we’ll need every voice.”

“Perhaps not every voice,” Ultra Magnus says, his voice edging toward wry. “This meeting chamber is only so large. I suggest we start discussing a system of representatives chosen by popular vote.”

“Popular vote?” Megatron echoes, narrowing his optics. “The Autobots and the newsparks outnumber all Predacons and former Decepticons. Are you attempting to bar us entry under the guise of a fair system?”

Bulkhead shifts uneasily, his chair creaking beneath him. “Nah, what I think Ultra Magnus is trying to suggest is representatives from a bunch of different groups. Right?”

“Yes, that is precisely it,” Ultra Magnus says, his tone faintly apologetic. He folds his hands over his datapad again. “For example, Predaking would likely represent the Predacons. Ratchet or Knock Out would attend for the interest of the medical community. Shockwave or Starscream might represent the scientific community.”

Ah.

Megatron allows himself to relax into the chair, Soundwave’s field wrapping warm against his, encouraging. “And I would speak for the Decepticons unless they wish to nominate another.”

“Negative,” Soundwave says. “Megatron speaks for us.”

The pride blooms in Megatron’s spark before he can stop it, and despite his efforts to school it from his face, the corner of his mouth lifts nonetheless. He returns the touch of Soundwave’s field to his, resolving to think of a better way to portray his gratitude at some point in the future.

“Until there is protest, of course,” Megatron wisely demurs, because oh, how it must burn the Autobots to see him being conscientious and reasonable. It must be that much harder to hold on to their hate when he’s not making it easy.

Ultra Magnus nods and shuffles his datapads. “As more Decepticons return, then that will be something to approach. For now, I don’t see why we can’t all mutually agree to treat Megatron as the Decepticon liaison.”

“I’ll agree to anything so long as it gets this meeting over faster,” Wheeljack drawls.

“Yes,” Predaking says with a twitch and stretch of his wings. “I have a newling soon to decant, and I don’t wish to miss it.”

“I see no reason to delay the meeting any further,” Ultra Magnus says. “Shall we get started?”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the assembled Cybertronians, and Megatron fights the urge to smirk triumphantly. Instead, he accepts the datapad Soundwave hands to him and flicks it on. While he trusts Soundwave to record the meeting for them to dissect in greater detail later, he’d like to take his own notes as well.

It’s curiosity which drives him to the intranet directory, and while Ultra Magnus drones the meeting’s agenda, Megatron types his own designation into the search bar. The results return immediately.

Decepticon Citizen.

His spark flutters with approval. When he searches Soundwave’s designation, he receives the same identification tag.

Acceptable identifiers for now, but if Megatron has his way, eventually they will drop the faction insignia, until the only truth which matters is that they are all citizens of Cybertron. Progress, however, comes in stages.

Movement rises in Megatron’s peripheral vision. He glances up to acknowledge it, only to freeze. There, behind Ultra Magnus’ shoulder, is Optimus. Freshly made after the Matrix had taken Orion from him, his armor gleaming and unscarred, shoulders heavy with the new burden of leadership.

He is, however, smiling. Approving. Peaceful.

“What the--” Smokescreen’s near-yelp echoes around the conference room, followed immediately by the clatter as he trips on nothing and lands on his aft.

Megatron, like everyone else, turns to look at the rookie, who’s staring off into the corner behind Ultra Magnus with wide optics, a flush to his faceplate. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, and realization slams into Megatron like a load of construction beams.

He follows Smokescreen’s line of sight and sure enough, it seems to land exactly where Optimus stands, an apparition in the corner. His gaze moves past Megatron, to Smokescreen, and then he wavers like a heat mirage before vanishing as if he’d been an apparition after all.

“Sorry,” Smokescreen says, waving one hand, clambering to his feet. He’s smiling, sheepish, unassuming, rubbing the back of his head. “I might have dozed off a second there. Sorry. Keep going.”

Smokescreen looks at the now empty corner, his optics widening by a fraction Megatron might not have noticed if he wasn’t looking for it, but then he shakes his head and leans back against the wall.

“Seriously. I’m fine,” Smokescreen says.

Ratchet snorts. “That’s debatable.” He eyes the younger mech with the look all medics get when someone might need a tune-up. “Come to the medbay later. I want to scan you.”

“What? I’m fine, Ratchet!”

“Then it’ll be quick.” Ratchet turns back to the table as if Smokescreen’s attendance is a foregone conclusion. “Now. About those supplies I need?”

It takes nothing more than that to get the Council meeting back on track, and for all attention to divert from Smokescreen and back to the various matters at hand. No one is particularly interested in a rookie’s clumsiness, though he’ll probably hear a word of chastisement from Ultra Magnus later.

Megatron, however.

Megatron is very curious indeed.

***