[TFP] Despicable Me - Chapter Twelve
Aug. 16th, 2021 06:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: If one were interested in sobbing to oneself as the author did while writing the last half of this chapter, one might consider listening to “Fate” by Bleak ft Ana Johnsson while reading it. ;)
Despicable Me
Chapter Twelve
Smokescreen loiters inside the conference room, making excuses for why he’s still lingering when anyone asks. Ultra Magnus is the last to go, bent over his datapad with his new assistant – Minimus – hurrying along next to him.
All in all, Smokescreen would call that council meeting a success. Sure it’d been a bit rocky at first, but then it smoothed right out, and they got down to business. A few raised voices, a few revved engines, but no outright shots were fired or fists were thrown.
Maybe this peace is going to hold steady after all.
But that’s not what has Smokescreen lingering. Instead, he’s poking into the corner where he swears he saw Optimus early on, at the beginning of the meeting. There’s nothing here. No paint streaks or footprints or evidence that Optimus had been here at all.
But between the time he saw Optimus before and that weird dream… Smokescreen’s starting to wonder if maybe it’s not all in his head. Is he really seeing Optimus? Is it like an echo of him? A ghost?
Smokescreen gives up. There is no physical evidence here, and if someone walks in on him staring into the corner or at the floor, they’ll probably drag him off to Ratchet for that scan Smokescreen absolutely doesn’t need.
What he doesn’t expect, however, is to find Megatron lurking in the hallway just outside the conference room. He leans against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed over his chassis. Soundwave is usually attached to his hip, and has been since he’s been freed from the medbay’s clutches, but right now, he is nowhere in sight.
Smokescreen cycles his optics, sort of nods his head at Megatron to acknowledge him, but doesn’t stop to chat. It isn’t really his duty to follow Megatron around anymore. Since Soundwave woke up, he’s been pretty mellow, and Ultra Magnus decided he didn’t need Smokescreen watching his every move. If Megatron is going to frag up, he can do it on his own terms.
“You saw him. Didn’t you?”
Smokescreen freezes mid-step and half-turns back toward Megatron. “Saw who?” he asks, feigning ignorance.
Megatron pushes off the wall and strides toward Smokescreen. “Optimus.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Smokescreen says. He presses up against the wall, not that Megatron is being at all threatening, but there’s an intense look in Megatron’s optics, and he’s got this urge to make himself as small as possible.
Crimson optics narrow. “You saw Optimus Prime, and that is why you fell.”
Slag.
Smokescreen glances to the left and right, but the hallway is empty. There’s a camera pointed in his direction, but if Megatron does anything, it’ll be too late by the time help arrives. “Optimus Prime is dead.”
“I’m no fool. I know this.” Megatron’s engine growls, thin and reedy. “Tell me you saw him.”
Smokescreen’s spark hammers in his chassis. “I don’t know what I saw,” he blurts out in a panic. “Maybe it was a ghost or a trick of the light or maybe it was Optimus, even though it couldn’t have been because he’s dead. So I don’t know.”
Megatron stares at him, and that’s not any less unnerving.
Smokescreen slides a step to the left but Megatron’s arm shoots out, blocking his escape. “I guess you… saw him, too?” he ventures.
“Far too often for my comfort,” Megatron mutters. His gaze falls away, down the hall opposite of Smokescreen, but there’s nothing there. “I thought I was the only one.”
“Do you dream about him?” Smokescreen asks, though maybe it’s stupid to poke Megatron who looks a bit like cornered prey. But Pit, Smokescreen’s trapped, too. He might as well get some answers while he’s at it.
“No.” Megatron’s tone is flat and disappointed. “He only haunts me while I am conscious.” His gaze returns to Smokescreen, and Smokescreen swears he sees something like grief in Megatron’s optics. “How long have you been seeing him?”
“If I had seen him, and I’m not saying I did, then this would be the second time.” Smokescreen’s cheeks heat beneath Megatron’s intense stare. “If you don’t count the weird dream, I mean.”
Megatron pushes off the wall, leaning out of Smokescreen’s personal space. The click-click of an audibly cycled ventilation fills the space between them. “Does he speak to you?”
“Just in that one dream.” Smokescreen grimaces in memory. “Primus, too. He’s a jerk.”
“I imagine so.” Megatron, at least, doesn’t look at him like he needs to be relentlessly scanned by Ratchet. “I have found Primus to be selfish, cruel, and one-sided in his affection.”
Right.
Smokescreen coughs into his hand. He eyes the open hallway to his left and right, wondering if Megatron would notice him try to slide away.
A few awkward seconds tick by.
“Um, if it helps, he kind of looks… happy?” Smokescreen offers in a desperate bid for freedom. “No, not happy. Approving? Proud? Something like that.”
“Perhaps.” Megatron looks at Smokescreen, up and down, like he’s weighing and measuring and deciding. “Or maybe we’re seeing what we want to see as two mechs so desperate for approval from someone who can no longer give it.”
Ouch.
That hits below the belt, as Jack would say.
Smokescreen gnaws on his bottom lip. “I dunno. If that was all it was, how could we both be seeing him?” he asks. “Doesn’t it make more sense that he’s here to watch over us?”
“So you admit it then.” Megatron stands there, feet braced, shoulders strong, but there’s a hesitation in his optics. A fear, maybe. “You’ve seen him.”
Of course. If he’s been seeing Optimus for a lot longer, Smokescreen imagines he probably thinks himself crazy. Maybe he’s worried about the dark energon lingering, or worse, Unicron seeping in to take over again.
Maybe all Megatron wants is a little reassurance, and Smokescreen can offer that, can’t he? What’ll it hurt to be honest?
So Smokescreen sighs and spreads his hands. “Yeah,” he admits. “I saw him by the surgery ward once. I think maybe I heard him talking to you when you were sitting with Soundwave. And just now, of course, in the conference room.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder to demonstrate.
Megatron deflates, but in such a small increment Smokescreen would not have noticed if he weren’t looking for it.
Optimus Prime is dead. Smokescreen’s not denying that, and neither is Megatron. But they’ve both been seeing something and someone, and while Megatron is the last person Smokescreen expected to have this in common with, he’s kind of glad it’s not all in his own head.
He figures Megatron feels the same.
“Optimus had the Matrix for a long time, you know,” Smokescreen says after a second. He scratches idly at his chassis, thinking of Primus in his dream, and the offer he’s declined twice. “Plus he carried the Allspark for a bit, and with the Well nearby…” He trails off and shrugs. “I just think he has some unfinished business.”
Megatron’s stare is heavy, but for once, it doesn’t feel dismissive. If anything, it’s more like he’s seeing something new for the first time? It’s kind of weird, to be honest.
“Perhaps you are right, Smokescreen,” he says and tilts his head, a small laugh rattling out of his chassis like he’s not used to humor and can hardly remember how to do it. “I see now why it chose you.”
Smokescreen squints. “What are you talking about?”
Megatron’s mouth twists into that wry, half-smile that looks a little more like he intends to eat Smokescreen rather than he’s amused. “As much as the Matrix has stolen from me, there is evidently reason to its madness. You would have been a good choice.”
“I… what?” Smokescreen splutters, but Megatron has already turned on a heelstrut and walked away. “How do you know about that?”
Megatron doesn’t stop to answer him.
Smokescreen has no interest in chasing after Megatron. If he isn’t going to offer an answer now, he’s not going to offer one if Smokescreen catches up to him and hassles him about it.
Wait.
Had Megatron just complimented him?
Smokescreen runs through the conversation again. What the frag!? Megatron had complimented him. He’s not even sure what boggles him more -- that Megatron somehow knew about the Matrix trying to come to Smokescreen or that Megatron is walking around offering compliments to Autobots.
Both are so unlikely Smokescreen has a strong and sudden urge to run outside and see if pigs are flying, as Jack would say.
Smokescreen vents and runs a hand over his head. At least he knows he’s not going crazy, or well, if he is, then Megatron is, too.
Huh. That’s actually less reassuring than he thought it would be.
His comm crackles to life, and Smokescreen startles as Ratchet’s voice pours into his receiver without giving Smokescreen the choice to accept the communication.
“I am in my medbay, and you are not here, and I am waiting,” Ratchet says, every layer of his vocals bleeding his agitation. “I distinctly remember informing you that your presence in my medbay was required.”
Smokescreen cringes. “But Ratchet, I told you. I’m fine!”
“Mechs who are in perfect health do not fall over without good reason,” Ratchet huffs, and Smokescreen imagines he’s venting smoke.
He tells himself it’s only because the doc-bot cares.
“Fine,” Smokescreen says, shoulders slumping, as he starts up the hallway, toward the general direction of the medbay. Luckily, it is opposite of Megatron’s departure. “I’m on my way.”
“You’ve got five minutes,” Ratchet grumps.
He passes by one of the large windows, and movement catches his attention. He pauses to investigate, but it’s not Optimus Prime he sees. It’s Megatron, taking flight and heading out of Kaon at a reasonable pace, but in the general direction of the Well of Allsparks.
Honestly, Smokescreen’s not surprised. If there’s any place on Cybertron where Megatron has his best shot of talking to Optimus Prime, it’d be at the Well.
Maybe Smokescreen oughta hoof it out there himself one of these days, see if he can get some actual answers rather than a bunch of weird dreams.
But not today.
Because if he makes Ratchet wait too much longer, well, the Pit hath no fury like a medic scorned, and Smokescreen knows better than to get on Ratchet’s bad side.
He’ll just have to worry about his answers later. Or possibly never. After all, why does it matter? The Matrix is gone. There will be no more Primes. Cybertron is getting along just fine without all that nonsense.
Maybe it’s about time to let some questions go unanswered.
~
Megatron takes to the sky the moment he steps free of the Autobot Command center, but it’s not a frantic push toward the horizon. It’s a leisurely flight over Kaon, looking down at buildings in various states of construction, mechs milling around the streets, and an odd feeling of peace in his spark.
He does not have a destination in mind. Or at least, not one he has consciously chosen. Yet, he tilts, banks into a curve, and points toward the Well. It glitters in the distance, quiet and placid within its crater.
He shifts to root mode and lands with a soft thump, a small puff of disturbed rust rising around his feet. It is near-silent here, save that of his own rattling ventilations and the ambient hum of the Well, a latent energy that cloaks the area around it.
Megatron does not know why he’s here.
He approaches the Well, but hesitation keeps him from getting too close. An irrational fear of an invisible presence shoving him into the dark depths perhaps. An inadvertent loss of balance might send him tumbling into the protomatter, and Megatron doubts it will be kind enough to restore him like it had the scout.
He is a mech who has used every last one of his second chances.
Megatron walks the perimeter instead, maintaining a healthy distance. His footsteps crunch a noise too loud for the reverent quiet.
He does not know why he’s here, save that he feels he ought to be. There’s a draw to be here, a pull that keeps him in place. There’s a feeling of anticipation in the air. He’s here, and he’s waiting.
And Optimus.
Megatron stops mid-stride as Optimus Prime appears in front of him, battle-scarred and battle-worn, but before the Forge had reshaped him. He’s every inch the Optimus Megatron remembers from the moment he stepped foot on Earth and set his optics on Optimus and his meager band of Autobots.
He looks far more solid this time, no longer translucent and distant. He feels almost touchable, though Megatron isn’t brave enough to try. He’s an arms length away, and Megatron measures the distance with an unfortunate longing thick in his spark.
“I never stopped loving you,” Optimus says, and dear Primus, it’s him. It’s his voice. Not the resonating echo of the ghost haunting Megatron’s nightmares, or the inconsistent hallucination stalking his waking hours.
“I had to bury it to fight you. The Matrix helped some, separating Orion’s emotions from my duty as a Prime, but it was always there.” Optimus’ expression ripples with a longing Megatron knows all too well. “I hoped I could get through to you, but a part of me knew it was inevitable. It was always going to end like this.”
He looks to the Well, and the edges of his frame ripple like a hologram struggling to maintain its cohesion.
“No second chances,” Megatron murmurs.
Optimus’ gaze returns to him, optics dim and haunted. “Not this time.” He touches his chassis, along his central seam, between the odd split-windshields of his Earth alternate mode. “I am one with my siblings now. What’s left of me is an echo.”
“Echo?”
“Perhaps that is not the right term.” Optimus moves closer, and Megatron swears he can hear the crunch of Optimus’ footsteps. “I am the pieces of Optimus still strongly attached to what he left behind.”
Megatron works his intake, his spark thrumming harder and faster within his chamber. Optimus is near enough Megatron should feel the heat radiating from his frame. There is none, however, just like there is no energy field to offer him a taste of Optimus’ emotions.
He is both here and not-here.
“You’ve always been stubborn,” Megatron says.
A small smile curves Optimus’ lips. “And you are not?”
He lifts a hand, and Megatron goes still, barely ventilating. When the tips of Optimus’ fingers brush his cheek, he swears he feels them. He swears his dermal net registers the pressure of the touch, the gentleness of it.
“I love you still,” Optimus murmurs.
It aches. It burns. It knots itself deep within Megatron’s internals.
“Don’t,” he says, and it rasps out of him, torn from his vocalizer. “Haven’t you haunted me enough?”
“This is the last time.”
Megatron stares at him, hands fisting at his sides, wanting to touch but fearing it’ll shatter whatever tenuous hold this echo has on reality. “I assumed as much. You’ve always been very good at leaving.”
Optimus’ hand slides away, a flinch rolling over his frame. “It was not always my choice, and now is no different.”
Megatron reacts before he can tell himself not to, and yet he’s still surprised when he grabs for Optimus’ hand and wraps his fingers around solid metal, though not quite as firm as it ought to be. Optimus’ derma is cool to the touch, and he still can’t sense an energy field.
“You have to let me go,” Optimus says. Yet, he makes no move to withdraw, as if his leaving is dependent upon Megatron choosing to free him.
“You’re the one who’s attached. Isn’t that what you just told me?” Megatron retorts.
Optimus sighs, and Megatron is thrust briefly into the past, where that sound of affectionate frustration is so familiar to him. Achingly so. “Contrary,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “You don’t need me anymore, Megatron. None of you do. I’ve seen it.”
“I will always need you,” Megatron grits out, the confession torn from a place deep inside of him where he thought it would always remain. He tugs on Optimus’ wrist, half-expecting to be rebuffed, but relieved when Optimus comes into his arms.
It’s like holding a hardlight hologram -- all of the sensation of a solid object, but none of the substance. There’s no rhythmic ventilation, quiet click of gears, thrum of a spark energy, warmth of active derma. He doesn’t carry Optimus’ scent, but it’s close enough.
For a moment, Megatron lets himself pretend.
Optimus is alive, and he casts aside the Matrix as Megatron lays aside his weapons, and they are together once more. They argue, debating forever on the best ways to bring Cybertron to a new glory, but they still go home together at the end of the day. They share a habsuite; they share a berth.
There are days of hard, grueling work. They abandon their badges; they become Orion and Megatronus once more. Orion speaks from a well of knowledge gathered in the archives; Megatronus carries the worries of the working class on his shoulders. They bring their exigent people home. They punish those who might seek to destroy the fragile peace.
They make love in the dim, lit only by their biolights and the fading streams of whichever sun they’ve decided to tether Cybertron to. Orion holds him, and Megatronus is gentle, and when they online the next day, they laugh over paint transfers, and share a washrack to make sure they don’t miss any spots.
They do, of course, and Soundwave and Ratchet are quick to point them out, to roll their optics, but secretly approve.
It’s enough, this dream.
Their love is enough.
It’s an impossible fantasy.
Megatron knows this because Optimus stirs in his arms, withdrawing from the embrace. His hands are gentle as they cup Megatron’s face, his thumb soft in the sweep of a facial spur. They are nearly of a height, but Optimus still has to look up at him, his optics so very blue and filled with grief.
“I cannot stay,” he murmurs.
“Then I will go with you,” Megatron says through a hitch in his vent, a lump in his intake.
Optimus’ hands are a careful caress. “Where I go, you can’t follow.”
Megatron’s hands form fists once more, and he keeps them at his side lest he do something foolish. The anger boils and burns in his lines, a tremble rolling across his armor.
“There are those who still need you.” Optimus’ gaze flicking briefly past Megatron to something immediately out of view. “No, it’s not fair, but it is the way it must be.”
“I hate this,” Megatron grits out, his spark aching, his intake raw. “You shouldn’t have bothered to show your face if this is what you had to say.”
Optimus sighs, and as much as Megatron wants to yank free, to storm away, he yields when Optimus guides him down, pressing their foreheads together. Megatron shutters his optics, venting too sharp for it to be healthy.
“Goodbye, Megatron.”
He pulls back, and Megatron comes to life, reaching for him, but Optimus is no longer solid, and his hands pass through empty air. Optimus is an apparition once more, and Megatron stumbles forward, momentum tumbling him down to one knee, perilously close to the edge of the Well.
There’s a ripple, Optimus looking down at him with a sad, soft smile, and then he’s not there at all, nothing more than ash on the wind.
Optimus is gone, and Megatron knows he’ll never be seen again. Not by him, not by Smokescreen, not by anyone.
There’s nothing and no one to fight, nowhere to direct his rage. He can only snarl at the Well, pound his fist against the ground, again and again, until the frustration turns to dents and fractured struts and external pain. To splashes of energon painting the ground, his hands raw and stinging.
A hand rests on his shoulder, warm where Optimus had been cold, tangible in the weight of its field. Megatron would have whirled and struck, if he did not recognize the harmonics of it.
He goes still, curved forward, one fist braced against the ground, energon trickling from burst lines in his knuckles. He can’t hide the agony in his field, but he doesn’t have to. He’s never had to hide from Soundwave.
“He’s gone,” Megatron says.
“Megatron cannot follow.” Soundwave’s field rolls over his, warm and reassuring.
Megatron scrubs a hand down his face, smearing away the damp that dared trickle over his derma. Orion left him long ago. It should not feel so fresh a pain.
“Apparently, I’m still needed,” he snarls.
He shoves himself to his feet, wobbling on unstable knees before he catches his balance. Soundwave’s hand slides away, but he moves up beside Megatron, still offering the comfort of his field.
“Affirmative,” he says.
One word, but an undeniable truth. Megatron can no more turn his back on Soundwave, then he could turn on his back on Orion Pax.
Megatron cycles a ventilation, his shoulders slumping. “I tire of this, Soundwave.” He lifts his gaze, staring across the placid surface of the Well, to the empty horizon. “I want to find peace.”
“There is peace in work,” Soundwave says after a long, long moment. He speaks in halting glyphs now, carefully choosing each word as though unwilling to waste a single ventilation. “Your soldiers need a home.”
Yes, they do.
Optimus Prime had left his Autobots Cybertron. He’d given them the means to repopulate. He’d helped restore Kaon to a livable state.
The least Megatron can do is assure that his Decepticons have received the same.
Megatron looks down at himself -- scarred and weatherworn, the vestiges of Unicron still stubbornly clinging to his frame. It is beyond time he did something about appearance. He cannot move forward if he lets the chains of the past continue to drag him down. He cannot lead while looking like this.
He turns away from the Well, putting it at his back, his gaze on the distant towers of Kaon. “Let’s go back to the city,” he says, feeling slightly disconnected from himself. “We have a lot to discuss before the next council meeting.”
He still has work to do. Megatron will hold on to this truth.
“Affirmative.”
Soundwave moves in front of him before Megatron shifts to alt-mode. He lifts his chin, visor making his expression unreadable, though his field remains knitted with Megatron. One arm bends, palm pressing flat to his chassis, over his empty dock and the plate concealing his spark chamber.
“Together,” he says. “You and I. Our fight. Our soldiers. Our home.”
Our.
Once upon a time, Megatronus had sat next to Orion Pax and made a vow. They would fight for the rights of the downtrodden, the dismissed, the neglected, the ignored. They would claw, denta and talon, against the powers that be, and they would do it together, until every mech had the right to be free, to choose his own path.
But Orion Pax became Optimus Prime, and Megatronus became Megatron, and the betrayal cut too deeply, stung too fiercely, shattering the promises they’d made.
Soundwave, however, has never faltered.
He has been by Megatron’s side from the beginning. Long before there was Optimus Prime, long before Orion Pax, even before Starscream and Shockwave.
Realization unfurls within him, bringing a strength to his shoulders he hasn’t felt since he first woke in the Autobot medical bay.
“Yes.” Megatron closes the space between them, laying a hand on Soundwave’s shoulder much as Soundwave had comforted him. “This is our fight. They are our soldiers, and we will bring them home.”
He gives Soundwave’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Together.”
Soundwave nods.
It’s a new vow, same as the old, but this time, it’s not borne of rage but determination. It’s duty, with a clear goal and a direct path to meet that goal.
He had loved Orion Pax, and perhaps that had blinded him.
Soundwave, however, is absolute.
He has to let go.
Soundwave takes to the sky, back to a Cybertronian alt-mode rather than the one he’d adopted for Earth, but still achingly slim without his deployers.
They will find Laserbeak, too.
Megatron casts one last glance at the Well, unsure if he’s expecting to see the shadow of Optimus or not. Either way, there’s nothing but the glimmering, silent liquid.
Megatron shifts to alt-mode and gives Soundwave chase, back toward Kaon, to a new war, but one made of words and compromise.
Optimus Prime is dead, Megatron is not, and the world spins madly on.
***
Chapter Twelve
Smokescreen loiters inside the conference room, making excuses for why he’s still lingering when anyone asks. Ultra Magnus is the last to go, bent over his datapad with his new assistant – Minimus – hurrying along next to him.
All in all, Smokescreen would call that council meeting a success. Sure it’d been a bit rocky at first, but then it smoothed right out, and they got down to business. A few raised voices, a few revved engines, but no outright shots were fired or fists were thrown.
Maybe this peace is going to hold steady after all.
But that’s not what has Smokescreen lingering. Instead, he’s poking into the corner where he swears he saw Optimus early on, at the beginning of the meeting. There’s nothing here. No paint streaks or footprints or evidence that Optimus had been here at all.
But between the time he saw Optimus before and that weird dream… Smokescreen’s starting to wonder if maybe it’s not all in his head. Is he really seeing Optimus? Is it like an echo of him? A ghost?
Smokescreen gives up. There is no physical evidence here, and if someone walks in on him staring into the corner or at the floor, they’ll probably drag him off to Ratchet for that scan Smokescreen absolutely doesn’t need.
What he doesn’t expect, however, is to find Megatron lurking in the hallway just outside the conference room. He leans against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed over his chassis. Soundwave is usually attached to his hip, and has been since he’s been freed from the medbay’s clutches, but right now, he is nowhere in sight.
Smokescreen cycles his optics, sort of nods his head at Megatron to acknowledge him, but doesn’t stop to chat. It isn’t really his duty to follow Megatron around anymore. Since Soundwave woke up, he’s been pretty mellow, and Ultra Magnus decided he didn’t need Smokescreen watching his every move. If Megatron is going to frag up, he can do it on his own terms.
“You saw him. Didn’t you?”
Smokescreen freezes mid-step and half-turns back toward Megatron. “Saw who?” he asks, feigning ignorance.
Megatron pushes off the wall and strides toward Smokescreen. “Optimus.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Smokescreen says. He presses up against the wall, not that Megatron is being at all threatening, but there’s an intense look in Megatron’s optics, and he’s got this urge to make himself as small as possible.
Crimson optics narrow. “You saw Optimus Prime, and that is why you fell.”
Slag.
Smokescreen glances to the left and right, but the hallway is empty. There’s a camera pointed in his direction, but if Megatron does anything, it’ll be too late by the time help arrives. “Optimus Prime is dead.”
“I’m no fool. I know this.” Megatron’s engine growls, thin and reedy. “Tell me you saw him.”
Smokescreen’s spark hammers in his chassis. “I don’t know what I saw,” he blurts out in a panic. “Maybe it was a ghost or a trick of the light or maybe it was Optimus, even though it couldn’t have been because he’s dead. So I don’t know.”
Megatron stares at him, and that’s not any less unnerving.
Smokescreen slides a step to the left but Megatron’s arm shoots out, blocking his escape. “I guess you… saw him, too?” he ventures.
“Far too often for my comfort,” Megatron mutters. His gaze falls away, down the hall opposite of Smokescreen, but there’s nothing there. “I thought I was the only one.”
“Do you dream about him?” Smokescreen asks, though maybe it’s stupid to poke Megatron who looks a bit like cornered prey. But Pit, Smokescreen’s trapped, too. He might as well get some answers while he’s at it.
“No.” Megatron’s tone is flat and disappointed. “He only haunts me while I am conscious.” His gaze returns to Smokescreen, and Smokescreen swears he sees something like grief in Megatron’s optics. “How long have you been seeing him?”
“If I had seen him, and I’m not saying I did, then this would be the second time.” Smokescreen’s cheeks heat beneath Megatron’s intense stare. “If you don’t count the weird dream, I mean.”
Megatron pushes off the wall, leaning out of Smokescreen’s personal space. The click-click of an audibly cycled ventilation fills the space between them. “Does he speak to you?”
“Just in that one dream.” Smokescreen grimaces in memory. “Primus, too. He’s a jerk.”
“I imagine so.” Megatron, at least, doesn’t look at him like he needs to be relentlessly scanned by Ratchet. “I have found Primus to be selfish, cruel, and one-sided in his affection.”
Right.
Smokescreen coughs into his hand. He eyes the open hallway to his left and right, wondering if Megatron would notice him try to slide away.
A few awkward seconds tick by.
“Um, if it helps, he kind of looks… happy?” Smokescreen offers in a desperate bid for freedom. “No, not happy. Approving? Proud? Something like that.”
“Perhaps.” Megatron looks at Smokescreen, up and down, like he’s weighing and measuring and deciding. “Or maybe we’re seeing what we want to see as two mechs so desperate for approval from someone who can no longer give it.”
Ouch.
That hits below the belt, as Jack would say.
Smokescreen gnaws on his bottom lip. “I dunno. If that was all it was, how could we both be seeing him?” he asks. “Doesn’t it make more sense that he’s here to watch over us?”
“So you admit it then.” Megatron stands there, feet braced, shoulders strong, but there’s a hesitation in his optics. A fear, maybe. “You’ve seen him.”
Of course. If he’s been seeing Optimus for a lot longer, Smokescreen imagines he probably thinks himself crazy. Maybe he’s worried about the dark energon lingering, or worse, Unicron seeping in to take over again.
Maybe all Megatron wants is a little reassurance, and Smokescreen can offer that, can’t he? What’ll it hurt to be honest?
So Smokescreen sighs and spreads his hands. “Yeah,” he admits. “I saw him by the surgery ward once. I think maybe I heard him talking to you when you were sitting with Soundwave. And just now, of course, in the conference room.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder to demonstrate.
Megatron deflates, but in such a small increment Smokescreen would not have noticed if he weren’t looking for it.
Optimus Prime is dead. Smokescreen’s not denying that, and neither is Megatron. But they’ve both been seeing something and someone, and while Megatron is the last person Smokescreen expected to have this in common with, he’s kind of glad it’s not all in his own head.
He figures Megatron feels the same.
“Optimus had the Matrix for a long time, you know,” Smokescreen says after a second. He scratches idly at his chassis, thinking of Primus in his dream, and the offer he’s declined twice. “Plus he carried the Allspark for a bit, and with the Well nearby…” He trails off and shrugs. “I just think he has some unfinished business.”
Megatron’s stare is heavy, but for once, it doesn’t feel dismissive. If anything, it’s more like he’s seeing something new for the first time? It’s kind of weird, to be honest.
“Perhaps you are right, Smokescreen,” he says and tilts his head, a small laugh rattling out of his chassis like he’s not used to humor and can hardly remember how to do it. “I see now why it chose you.”
Smokescreen squints. “What are you talking about?”
Megatron’s mouth twists into that wry, half-smile that looks a little more like he intends to eat Smokescreen rather than he’s amused. “As much as the Matrix has stolen from me, there is evidently reason to its madness. You would have been a good choice.”
“I… what?” Smokescreen splutters, but Megatron has already turned on a heelstrut and walked away. “How do you know about that?”
Megatron doesn’t stop to answer him.
Smokescreen has no interest in chasing after Megatron. If he isn’t going to offer an answer now, he’s not going to offer one if Smokescreen catches up to him and hassles him about it.
Wait.
Had Megatron just complimented him?
Smokescreen runs through the conversation again. What the frag!? Megatron had complimented him. He’s not even sure what boggles him more -- that Megatron somehow knew about the Matrix trying to come to Smokescreen or that Megatron is walking around offering compliments to Autobots.
Both are so unlikely Smokescreen has a strong and sudden urge to run outside and see if pigs are flying, as Jack would say.
Smokescreen vents and runs a hand over his head. At least he knows he’s not going crazy, or well, if he is, then Megatron is, too.
Huh. That’s actually less reassuring than he thought it would be.
His comm crackles to life, and Smokescreen startles as Ratchet’s voice pours into his receiver without giving Smokescreen the choice to accept the communication.
“I am in my medbay, and you are not here, and I am waiting,” Ratchet says, every layer of his vocals bleeding his agitation. “I distinctly remember informing you that your presence in my medbay was required.”
Smokescreen cringes. “But Ratchet, I told you. I’m fine!”
“Mechs who are in perfect health do not fall over without good reason,” Ratchet huffs, and Smokescreen imagines he’s venting smoke.
He tells himself it’s only because the doc-bot cares.
“Fine,” Smokescreen says, shoulders slumping, as he starts up the hallway, toward the general direction of the medbay. Luckily, it is opposite of Megatron’s departure. “I’m on my way.”
“You’ve got five minutes,” Ratchet grumps.
He passes by one of the large windows, and movement catches his attention. He pauses to investigate, but it’s not Optimus Prime he sees. It’s Megatron, taking flight and heading out of Kaon at a reasonable pace, but in the general direction of the Well of Allsparks.
Honestly, Smokescreen’s not surprised. If there’s any place on Cybertron where Megatron has his best shot of talking to Optimus Prime, it’d be at the Well.
Maybe Smokescreen oughta hoof it out there himself one of these days, see if he can get some actual answers rather than a bunch of weird dreams.
But not today.
Because if he makes Ratchet wait too much longer, well, the Pit hath no fury like a medic scorned, and Smokescreen knows better than to get on Ratchet’s bad side.
He’ll just have to worry about his answers later. Or possibly never. After all, why does it matter? The Matrix is gone. There will be no more Primes. Cybertron is getting along just fine without all that nonsense.
Maybe it’s about time to let some questions go unanswered.
Megatron takes to the sky the moment he steps free of the Autobot Command center, but it’s not a frantic push toward the horizon. It’s a leisurely flight over Kaon, looking down at buildings in various states of construction, mechs milling around the streets, and an odd feeling of peace in his spark.
He does not have a destination in mind. Or at least, not one he has consciously chosen. Yet, he tilts, banks into a curve, and points toward the Well. It glitters in the distance, quiet and placid within its crater.
He shifts to root mode and lands with a soft thump, a small puff of disturbed rust rising around his feet. It is near-silent here, save that of his own rattling ventilations and the ambient hum of the Well, a latent energy that cloaks the area around it.
Megatron does not know why he’s here.
He approaches the Well, but hesitation keeps him from getting too close. An irrational fear of an invisible presence shoving him into the dark depths perhaps. An inadvertent loss of balance might send him tumbling into the protomatter, and Megatron doubts it will be kind enough to restore him like it had the scout.
He is a mech who has used every last one of his second chances.
Megatron walks the perimeter instead, maintaining a healthy distance. His footsteps crunch a noise too loud for the reverent quiet.
He does not know why he’s here, save that he feels he ought to be. There’s a draw to be here, a pull that keeps him in place. There’s a feeling of anticipation in the air. He’s here, and he’s waiting.
And Optimus.
Megatron stops mid-stride as Optimus Prime appears in front of him, battle-scarred and battle-worn, but before the Forge had reshaped him. He’s every inch the Optimus Megatron remembers from the moment he stepped foot on Earth and set his optics on Optimus and his meager band of Autobots.
He looks far more solid this time, no longer translucent and distant. He feels almost touchable, though Megatron isn’t brave enough to try. He’s an arms length away, and Megatron measures the distance with an unfortunate longing thick in his spark.
“I never stopped loving you,” Optimus says, and dear Primus, it’s him. It’s his voice. Not the resonating echo of the ghost haunting Megatron’s nightmares, or the inconsistent hallucination stalking his waking hours.
“I had to bury it to fight you. The Matrix helped some, separating Orion’s emotions from my duty as a Prime, but it was always there.” Optimus’ expression ripples with a longing Megatron knows all too well. “I hoped I could get through to you, but a part of me knew it was inevitable. It was always going to end like this.”
He looks to the Well, and the edges of his frame ripple like a hologram struggling to maintain its cohesion.
“No second chances,” Megatron murmurs.
Optimus’ gaze returns to him, optics dim and haunted. “Not this time.” He touches his chassis, along his central seam, between the odd split-windshields of his Earth alternate mode. “I am one with my siblings now. What’s left of me is an echo.”
“Echo?”
“Perhaps that is not the right term.” Optimus moves closer, and Megatron swears he can hear the crunch of Optimus’ footsteps. “I am the pieces of Optimus still strongly attached to what he left behind.”
Megatron works his intake, his spark thrumming harder and faster within his chamber. Optimus is near enough Megatron should feel the heat radiating from his frame. There is none, however, just like there is no energy field to offer him a taste of Optimus’ emotions.
He is both here and not-here.
“You’ve always been stubborn,” Megatron says.
A small smile curves Optimus’ lips. “And you are not?”
He lifts a hand, and Megatron goes still, barely ventilating. When the tips of Optimus’ fingers brush his cheek, he swears he feels them. He swears his dermal net registers the pressure of the touch, the gentleness of it.
“I love you still,” Optimus murmurs.
It aches. It burns. It knots itself deep within Megatron’s internals.
“Don’t,” he says, and it rasps out of him, torn from his vocalizer. “Haven’t you haunted me enough?”
“This is the last time.”
Megatron stares at him, hands fisting at his sides, wanting to touch but fearing it’ll shatter whatever tenuous hold this echo has on reality. “I assumed as much. You’ve always been very good at leaving.”
Optimus’ hand slides away, a flinch rolling over his frame. “It was not always my choice, and now is no different.”
Megatron reacts before he can tell himself not to, and yet he’s still surprised when he grabs for Optimus’ hand and wraps his fingers around solid metal, though not quite as firm as it ought to be. Optimus’ derma is cool to the touch, and he still can’t sense an energy field.
“You have to let me go,” Optimus says. Yet, he makes no move to withdraw, as if his leaving is dependent upon Megatron choosing to free him.
“You’re the one who’s attached. Isn’t that what you just told me?” Megatron retorts.
Optimus sighs, and Megatron is thrust briefly into the past, where that sound of affectionate frustration is so familiar to him. Achingly so. “Contrary,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “You don’t need me anymore, Megatron. None of you do. I’ve seen it.”
“I will always need you,” Megatron grits out, the confession torn from a place deep inside of him where he thought it would always remain. He tugs on Optimus’ wrist, half-expecting to be rebuffed, but relieved when Optimus comes into his arms.
It’s like holding a hardlight hologram -- all of the sensation of a solid object, but none of the substance. There’s no rhythmic ventilation, quiet click of gears, thrum of a spark energy, warmth of active derma. He doesn’t carry Optimus’ scent, but it’s close enough.
For a moment, Megatron lets himself pretend.
Optimus is alive, and he casts aside the Matrix as Megatron lays aside his weapons, and they are together once more. They argue, debating forever on the best ways to bring Cybertron to a new glory, but they still go home together at the end of the day. They share a habsuite; they share a berth.
There are days of hard, grueling work. They abandon their badges; they become Orion and Megatronus once more. Orion speaks from a well of knowledge gathered in the archives; Megatronus carries the worries of the working class on his shoulders. They bring their exigent people home. They punish those who might seek to destroy the fragile peace.
They make love in the dim, lit only by their biolights and the fading streams of whichever sun they’ve decided to tether Cybertron to. Orion holds him, and Megatronus is gentle, and when they online the next day, they laugh over paint transfers, and share a washrack to make sure they don’t miss any spots.
They do, of course, and Soundwave and Ratchet are quick to point them out, to roll their optics, but secretly approve.
It’s enough, this dream.
Their love is enough.
It’s an impossible fantasy.
Megatron knows this because Optimus stirs in his arms, withdrawing from the embrace. His hands are gentle as they cup Megatron’s face, his thumb soft in the sweep of a facial spur. They are nearly of a height, but Optimus still has to look up at him, his optics so very blue and filled with grief.
“I cannot stay,” he murmurs.
“Then I will go with you,” Megatron says through a hitch in his vent, a lump in his intake.
Optimus’ hands are a careful caress. “Where I go, you can’t follow.”
Megatron’s hands form fists once more, and he keeps them at his side lest he do something foolish. The anger boils and burns in his lines, a tremble rolling across his armor.
“There are those who still need you.” Optimus’ gaze flicking briefly past Megatron to something immediately out of view. “No, it’s not fair, but it is the way it must be.”
“I hate this,” Megatron grits out, his spark aching, his intake raw. “You shouldn’t have bothered to show your face if this is what you had to say.”
Optimus sighs, and as much as Megatron wants to yank free, to storm away, he yields when Optimus guides him down, pressing their foreheads together. Megatron shutters his optics, venting too sharp for it to be healthy.
“Goodbye, Megatron.”
He pulls back, and Megatron comes to life, reaching for him, but Optimus is no longer solid, and his hands pass through empty air. Optimus is an apparition once more, and Megatron stumbles forward, momentum tumbling him down to one knee, perilously close to the edge of the Well.
There’s a ripple, Optimus looking down at him with a sad, soft smile, and then he’s not there at all, nothing more than ash on the wind.
Optimus is gone, and Megatron knows he’ll never be seen again. Not by him, not by Smokescreen, not by anyone.
There’s nothing and no one to fight, nowhere to direct his rage. He can only snarl at the Well, pound his fist against the ground, again and again, until the frustration turns to dents and fractured struts and external pain. To splashes of energon painting the ground, his hands raw and stinging.
A hand rests on his shoulder, warm where Optimus had been cold, tangible in the weight of its field. Megatron would have whirled and struck, if he did not recognize the harmonics of it.
He goes still, curved forward, one fist braced against the ground, energon trickling from burst lines in his knuckles. He can’t hide the agony in his field, but he doesn’t have to. He’s never had to hide from Soundwave.
“He’s gone,” Megatron says.
“Megatron cannot follow.” Soundwave’s field rolls over his, warm and reassuring.
Megatron scrubs a hand down his face, smearing away the damp that dared trickle over his derma. Orion left him long ago. It should not feel so fresh a pain.
“Apparently, I’m still needed,” he snarls.
He shoves himself to his feet, wobbling on unstable knees before he catches his balance. Soundwave’s hand slides away, but he moves up beside Megatron, still offering the comfort of his field.
“Affirmative,” he says.
One word, but an undeniable truth. Megatron can no more turn his back on Soundwave, then he could turn on his back on Orion Pax.
Megatron cycles a ventilation, his shoulders slumping. “I tire of this, Soundwave.” He lifts his gaze, staring across the placid surface of the Well, to the empty horizon. “I want to find peace.”
“There is peace in work,” Soundwave says after a long, long moment. He speaks in halting glyphs now, carefully choosing each word as though unwilling to waste a single ventilation. “Your soldiers need a home.”
Yes, they do.
Optimus Prime had left his Autobots Cybertron. He’d given them the means to repopulate. He’d helped restore Kaon to a livable state.
The least Megatron can do is assure that his Decepticons have received the same.
Megatron looks down at himself -- scarred and weatherworn, the vestiges of Unicron still stubbornly clinging to his frame. It is beyond time he did something about appearance. He cannot move forward if he lets the chains of the past continue to drag him down. He cannot lead while looking like this.
He turns away from the Well, putting it at his back, his gaze on the distant towers of Kaon. “Let’s go back to the city,” he says, feeling slightly disconnected from himself. “We have a lot to discuss before the next council meeting.”
He still has work to do. Megatron will hold on to this truth.
“Affirmative.”
Soundwave moves in front of him before Megatron shifts to alt-mode. He lifts his chin, visor making his expression unreadable, though his field remains knitted with Megatron. One arm bends, palm pressing flat to his chassis, over his empty dock and the plate concealing his spark chamber.
“Together,” he says. “You and I. Our fight. Our soldiers. Our home.”
Our.
Once upon a time, Megatronus had sat next to Orion Pax and made a vow. They would fight for the rights of the downtrodden, the dismissed, the neglected, the ignored. They would claw, denta and talon, against the powers that be, and they would do it together, until every mech had the right to be free, to choose his own path.
But Orion Pax became Optimus Prime, and Megatronus became Megatron, and the betrayal cut too deeply, stung too fiercely, shattering the promises they’d made.
Soundwave, however, has never faltered.
He has been by Megatron’s side from the beginning. Long before there was Optimus Prime, long before Orion Pax, even before Starscream and Shockwave.
Realization unfurls within him, bringing a strength to his shoulders he hasn’t felt since he first woke in the Autobot medical bay.
“Yes.” Megatron closes the space between them, laying a hand on Soundwave’s shoulder much as Soundwave had comforted him. “This is our fight. They are our soldiers, and we will bring them home.”
He gives Soundwave’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Together.”
Soundwave nods.
It’s a new vow, same as the old, but this time, it’s not borne of rage but determination. It’s duty, with a clear goal and a direct path to meet that goal.
He had loved Orion Pax, and perhaps that had blinded him.
Soundwave, however, is absolute.
He has to let go.
Soundwave takes to the sky, back to a Cybertronian alt-mode rather than the one he’d adopted for Earth, but still achingly slim without his deployers.
They will find Laserbeak, too.
Megatron casts one last glance at the Well, unsure if he’s expecting to see the shadow of Optimus or not. Either way, there’s nothing but the glimmering, silent liquid.
Megatron shifts to alt-mode and gives Soundwave chase, back toward Kaon, to a new war, but one made of words and compromise.
Optimus Prime is dead, Megatron is not, and the world spins madly on.
