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Chapter Text

62 Years Before the Decepticon Uprising / Civil War

Altihex / Crystalline Resort

Megatron leaned slightly, reaching over with a cygarette between his pointer and middle talons, to activate the end of it on the charger by the berthside.

His client didn't seem to mind the minute jostling, sprawled over his stomach, her helm resting on his chestplates, and drifting somewhere between sleep and awareness. She stirred a little, and Megatron gently stroked along her backplates with his free hand, trying to soothe her back to sleep.

It wasn't so much consideration that fueled his careful movement, but a general preference for the rare moments when a rich, out of touch, high-caste bot shut up. So far, few things in his experience accomplished that as well as a thorough interface.

A more effective method would come in time, all funded by them. Megatron savored the bittersweet promise of it as he took a long drag.

It was made slightly funnier by the concept this femme had dreamed up for her session. Some idea of taming him, but sweetly. Of laying with The Sparkeater-Cannibal Monster of the Pits of Kaon, and being not just spared, but adored by him. Of convincing him to resist his instincts, despite how delicious she was, all to validate some magnetism she supposedly possessed.

Possession. Wasn't that the glitch of it all? The high castes and their wretched system couldn't kill him, but not for lack of trying. So their backup plan was to try to own him.

In offering vast sums to his mysterious, anonymous master, in hopes of purchasing him and his legend for themselves.

Short of that, because his 'master' was not an idiot, in offering lucrative sponsorships in return for wearing and showing off their ridiculous merchandise in the arena or at events.

And in offering enough to let any mid-caste bot retire comfortably, just for a night of indulgence in their fantasies, or for the clout.

Everything, a transaction.

Megatron contemplated the sleeping femme through the smoke he released from his mouth. In the dark, the low light of his red optics tinged that smoke and softly lit the graceful planes and angles of her back, and the ring of puncture marks where his fangs had pierced the juncture of her shoulder and neck, at her own invitation.

Yet another transaction. But in this case, the only cause of any mixed feelings on Megatron's part. Energon already processed by a living body hit so much quicker through the lines than any other kind, and he preferred to blame the following surge of emotion on that rush. The willing offering of something so vital and intimate, that level of trust, had reawakened something beyond hunger as she rode him.

For a moment, Megatron could pretend she was someone he could actually connect with, his own absurd fantasy fueling a passion that he would have otherwise had to fake. Some warm, glowing notion that she might have been trusted to know how deep his hunger really went:

Where she might grasp the truth of how he longed to transform from the threat he had made of himself, to some twisted semblance of the protector he had always wanted to be.

Even now, the thought made his tank growl, vibrating softly beneath the femme, preparing for a dozen different processes, and a stretch he knew he'd be aching for all week.

Sometimes you develop an unhinged response to the scrap hand you're dealt, Megatron mused silently, taking another drag. And sometimes you cope with that unhinged response by getting a kink for it.

The bite-marks drew his gaze again, a less futile place to put his mind. He had not spilled a drop, kissing and licking up the energon that had welled until it congealed, the living metal slightly swollen with nanites working to clear damaged microcomponents and fuel the regeneration of new ones.

Her energon would pair nicely with the smoke, Megatron considered, halfway tempted to scoop her up, cradle her against his chest, nuzzle her throat, and drink, and drink...

Until her lines dried up and her Spark gave out, where she might catch a glimpse of what he truly thought of every cruelty and delusion that had brought them together in this farce.

But that thought was born only of anger, which would never be sated without the long road of preparation ahead.

His past self, that miner with ideas as bright as the dawn he had once glimpsed and never forgot, who had believed those ideas could be carried out if only he conveyed them properly to a world that might be mended by them, might have wept in sick fury to know what would become of him.

Megatron watched the dawn pass leisurely through towering windows in a berthroom more ornate than anything he could have ever imagined from down in the mines.

When the rich bot awoke and asked him what he wanted for breakfast, Megatron turned the charm back on and obligingly purred that he'd gladly make a meal of her again, once she refueled and recovered.

She seemed to like that, if the feast she ordered her servants to deliver was any indication.

"Can you eat regular energon?" she asked, balancing a gelled treat on the tips of her fingers. Another offering, and he recognized what transaction was expected here, too.

That didn't stop him from enjoying this one, either. No matter how the gelling agents tended to cake onto and obstruct the lining of his tank. He'd need to get it scrubbed later, but that was more fun than any coupling he'd had so far. A chance to pretend the little, non-sentient brushing tool was someone locked up inside, exploring like he was their warm, new home. Massaging back as if someone could ever enjoy being held so impossibly close.

The anticipation of that private indulgence made him hard and wet again.

Megatron answered by capturing the little treat in his mouth, overreaching slightly to capture her fingers with it. Just barely letting his fangs graze them, laving them with his tongue as it curled around the treat, and letting her feel everything tighten as he swallowed. He sucked her fingers clean on the retreat, making a show of licking his lips as if her own flavor was even better than the morsel she offered. Like he wished it had been her.

She promptly jumped on him and they fell into another round of interfacing, which culminated in a balancing act where he had to judge how much of himself to relax on top of her, pressing her into the berth-sheets with just enough threat of crushing to excite. Both his engines growled against her back, and he settled his weight around her, almost simulating trapping her inside him.

She seemed to enjoy the restriction, but complained of the heat during her afterglow.

Megatron rolled off of her and passed her both liquid energon and coolant. Then reclined on his side, half curled around her as his spike depressurized, and gently wiped up the mess they'd made.

"Help yourself," she said, gesturing toward the feast of confections they had nearly knocked over several times.

Megatron made a game of it while she recovered, reaching over her, grabbing a handful, tossing them in the air one by one, and catching them in his jaws. If he was due for a tank-cleaning later, he might as well make it a good, long one.

Between the two of them they finished the whole plate, occasionally feeding each other, or sharing a bite that turned into a hungry kiss, and Megatron found himself comfortably full for the first time in a long while.

And as the session's allotted time came to an end, and as they cleaned each other up, she looked up at him with a familiar, pitiful hesitance.

"I had a really good time," she said shyly.

He gently took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "I'm glad to hear it," he purred. "You were delicious."

She hummed happily and leaned into his chest, looking up at him sweetly. "Would you... maybe like to see me again sometime? But on a date?"

He gave her an apologetic look, trying for remorseful while reaching for patience. Some bots had the grace to let business stay business. Or at least the wherewithal to understand the lunacy of what she was asking.

Some bots, on the other hand, had also tried to use the guise of catching feelings as a means to try and snare him, hoping to claim the Sparkeater Champion as their own personal, pet bodyguard and arm-candy, trying to bribe him with the promise of a steady supply of Sparks he wouldn't have to fight death matches for, and trying to twist his arm into revealing his 'master's' identity, in the interest of getting his 'master' to finally sell him to them.

Jaded as Megatron had become over the years, this high-caster did not strike him as one of that camp. Perhaps she was a good actor. But in picturing her as well-intentioned, Megatron found a modicum of patience for her that made delivering a rejection while maintaining some level of charm a little easier.

"It's for the best that we don't, sweetspark," Megatron promised. "It was a lovely fantasy. But sooner or later, no matter how much I might come to love you, my hunger always wins."

She watched him quietly, hardly blinking as her optics searched his face. "Are you speaking from experience?" The soft devastation in her voice almost made him laugh.

He looked away, transmuting mastering his amusement into something that he hoped looked more like quiet pain. He could see the insipid little tabloids now, if this got out: Sparkeater Champion's Secret Lovers - Of Course He Ate Them. Or something trite like that.

Amidst all the lies he had crafted, and the thousand more fabricated on his behalf, what was one more rumor?

Two days later

Cybertron / Pits of Kaon / Hidden Lab

Starscream slapped a datapad down onto Megatron's abdominal vents.

The only reason Megatron didn't jolt awake was because the long chain of locks opening on the blast door had already crept into his awareness. As had Starscream's sharp heels clicking across the floor; the motion and pressure of him striding through the lab, wings high, field resolute.

The only high-caste bot Megatron had any patience for, Starscream was too damned intelligent to ever stick his helm up his own aft, much less anyone else's, and too obstinate to do anything by halves. Sharp and irreverent in equal measure, and apparently willing to throw in with Megatron's developing faction of disposables when he'd already grown up in wealth and status, he was in a league of his own.

Doubly-so, because he was the first (and only one so far) outside the faction to solve the Sparkeater Scheme. Someone that dangerously clever had to be kept close. And either Starscream felt the same about him, or he saw Megatron more as a lunatic who'd collapse the entire faction if he wasn't properly watched.

Megatron cracked an optic open, squinting up at the Vosian Prince from his resting spot on a cot by the autoclave in the hidden lab. "Use your words," he grumbled around a yawn.

"Watch yours," Starscream warned, pointing at the datapad. "You can't just say scrap like that to a client. What you say to one person, you say to everyone. You've lived long enough in a spotlight, I shouldn't have to tell you!"

Megatron finished stretching, flexing and realigning the plating on his shoulders and back, and popping his neck with a realignment check. After propping one hand behind his helm, he used the other to pick up the datapad for a look at the damage.

A tabloid. 'Deadly Romance: Lost Lovers of the Sparkeater Champion'.

"Trite," Megatron judged.

"It does not matter how trite it is when the world is eager to believe it," Starscream snapped. "You want to build a following? Scrap like this will push bots away."

"Unless they're suckers for tragic figures," Megatron noted, skimming the first couple of paragraphs.

"What, the tragedy that you supposedly can't fragging help yourself?" Starscream scoffed, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. "True in ways even they couldn't make up."

"Oh, they really went for it," Megatron muttered as he read. "Hmm. And I never said any of this, just left her with an implication."

"That's all they need," Starscream emphasized as if trying to instill wisdom in an unruly sparkling.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Megatron reached up, offering the datapad back. "How people rush to fill in the blanks, all on their own. It's too easy."

"Reputations can be intentionally cultivated, you know that, right?" Starscream checked, waving the datapad off. "Best you read that again. The damage you just blithely encourage clearly hasn't sunken in yet."

"This isn't your palace in Vos," Megatron returned, tossing the datapad up to clatter ontop of the autoclave with a careless flip. "And you didn't join up to fix my public image. You figured out the necessity of it."

Starscream regarded him with a frown that bordered pity and contemplation. "You're easier to read than you think. And you give too much of a frag to not give a frag about this. I know what it's like, to have hoards of strangers insinuate and accuse."

"If that was enough to stop you, you would never have come here," Megatron noted. "There will be plenty more where that came from before the smoke clears."

"Of course it's not going to stop me," Starscream glared. "But that doesn't mean you can just keep making scrap harder for the movement with your carelessness."

"They will make of us whatever they will, no matter what," Megatron said, not entirely ungently. "Fighting it is a waste of resources we cannot spare, and we have work that must be done regardless. Besides." He sat up, giving his upper backplates and shoulders another languid stretch. "Take it from a gladiator: Play along with what the crowd wants to see, let them distract themselves with their own expectations and fantasies, and it won't even occur to them that you're up to something else."

54 Years Before the Decepticon Uprising / Civil War

Cybertron / Pits of Kaon

Impossibly, Drift woke up.

His first two thoughts about this were:

1) that he had not had his tank this full in a good while,

and 2) that his death must have actually been his worst syk hallucination yet.

Except there was no fragging way that was a trip. Getting eaten by a Sparkeater had been one of the most horrifically real experiences of his life. All to the deafening roar of a stadium you could park a Titan in. He could still hear it, through distance and layers of metal. The rises and falls, like an auditory tide.

Where the Pits had found a real fragging Sparkeater, Drift did not want to know. When he had been caught and unceremoniously sentenced damnatus, and told that he'd be shipped off to be executed at this messed up mech's claws in a deathmatch, he couldn't even process it. Sparkeaters were just a myth.

He had even overheard Ratchet arguing with an amica about it, one of the last times he'd visited the clinic. Some upbeat data-class mech named Jazz, who had apparently attended a match or two, and bought into the idea.

Ratchet wasn't having it. "It's possible he has a poorly-understood condition, or a psychological disorder," Ratchet had allowed. "But there's no such fragging thing as Sparkeaters."

"You'll get one shot," one of the security detail that had shipped Drift here had warned, tucking a dagger into his hand. "Don't let him see it coming."

Drift only had time to notice the compartment in the hilt, the subtle shift of an unidentified liquid, and the channel running the length of the blade.

And then they'd dropped him out onto a vast stretch of black sand, littered with wreckage for obstacles, and ringed on all sides by towering stands full of countless bots he'd never met, all expecting to watch him die.

The Sparkeater looked like a mech. He was big, hardly any paint on him except for a few accents around the joints or the markings below his eyes and mouth. All silver and harsh angles, but he moved and watched like a living thing. Drift could hardly call the look in his red optics 'hungry' or 'crazed'. Resolved, perhaps. Lucid. And seemingly unarmed.

It was just a part he played, right? A gimmick. But gimmick or not, this was still a deathmatch.

One shot. Drift kept the dagger hidden in his forearm plating, used the field of scrap for cover, and bought time with the weapons he had found along the way.

He was a good shot, he'd learned. Especially when cornered. The group of enforcers that had murdered Gasket were all cold a week before Drift was tracked down and caught. He had overheard the judge speaking with some other official right before his sentencing:

"This glitch might be wily enough."

One bolt from a rifle he'd picked up managed to actually catch the Sparkeater in an optic. A glancing shot, but it had shattered the lens. And whether the mech was a monster or not, he sure as frag snarled like one. The crowd had lost their minds, so loud Drift could barely hear himself think.

And when the Sparkeater closed in on him, Drift managed to misdirect him, feinting with a hand ax, and broke the other optic with a pommel strike.

Drift knew frag-all about the gladiatorial games before arriving here. But from the crowd's reaction, no one had managed to blind the Sparkeater Champion before.

Make sure the fragger didn't see it coming: Check. Now he just had to deliver.

Drift had almost started to feel confident before the mech caught him by his arm and ripped the whole thing out of its socket with a quick jolt.

The sheer strength and speed of him was the most terrifying part. How one second, Drift was in one piece, and the next, the limb was just gone. All in the same time it would take to snap a rust-stick between one's fingers, and with just as little effort.

It was not a clean separation. Energon coated his side, the already low levels in his system dipping lower, leaving him dizzy. His vision darkened and ringed with static.

The blinded mech grabbed him like he didn't even need to see him anyway. So quick and sure, Drift wondered for a moment if the optics had been fake. If he ever even had any to begin with.

His chestplates were wrenched open with that same, swift ease, and Drift understood that if everyone was right about what this mech could do, then returning to the Well was the best he could hope for now. It had never before occurred to him that something out there could trap his Spark, keep it from Reunion, and drain it to nothing.

The silver mech had fangs. Drift only caught a glimpse of them in a mouth opened wider than should be possible, fast closing in.

Drift transformed his remaining forearm mid-strike, flipping the hidden blade into his hand as it plunged toward the Sparkeater's neck cables.

A big hand caught it, the blade plunging through the Sparkeater's palm just as those fangs started to close beyond the curve of Drift's Spark. A little hiss announced the toxin within the blade releasing into the Sparkeater's wound.

It did not even slow him down. Something deep, that lived in all the atoms Drift had previously considered himself, tugged sharp and wrong. An unmooring on a level he had not previously comprehended. Some deep intuition brought a terrible clarity to his fraying mind: He did not exist outside this monster's mouth anymore.

To be engulfed was to feel every connection snap.

To his body. To things he promised himself he would never let go of. To people he never fully comprehended that he had already seen for the last -

He had died mid-realization. And then, impossibly, he woke up.

This place smelled and sounded like a clinic. Disinfectant gel, the acrid tang that followed welding and soldering, the quiet hum of monitoring equipment...

Drift kept his optics shut a little longer. As long as he did not look, he could pretend it was Ratchet's.

A living field brushed his, so gentle and soothing Drift did not even tense up at first. A stranger, but one who meant well. One who, impossibly, understood.

And after being surrounded by people who wanted him dead, or who wanted to use him to kill someone else, no matter how monstrous, that hit him right in the Spark he had thought he had lost.

Drift opened his optics, and found himself on a medical pallet in a softly lit chamber. The walls were rough, like they'd been carved out of bedrock, lined with anatomical diagrams, workbenches filled with tools, and racks of energon, coolant, and oil. A big, industrial sink, divided into sections, dominated the far wall, and a squat autoclave sat in the corner.

A tall, uniquely angular mech, dark with violet biolights and a full facial screen, regarded him from, by his field, what was intended to be a non-intrusive but politely attentive distance.

"Query: Location and rating of pain?" a deeply resonant voice requested.

Drift sat up as quietly as he could. An old, softened tarp, one that had covered him from the chestplates down, slid to pool in his lap.

His arm was reconnected, but his shoulder, and all the supporting mechanisms below his pauldron, were sore as nanites worked to integrate the repairs. He lifted it, rotated it, tested his digits, and everything responded smoothly, even though it ached.

His chestplates were intact. No longer crumpled or popped off their tracks. His Spark hummed reassuringly beneath.

"I was dead," Drift said, eyeing the dark mech warily. "How am I not dead?"

The dark mech extended a datacable from his torso, lifting one of the appendages at its tip to his visor in a shushing gesture. "Answer: Secret."

Drift eyed him up and down, wondering who this was and how fast he would have to move if that soothing field turned out to be a trick. Eaten by a Sparkeater only to be dropped into a trafficking ring, what a fragging day...

"Status: Officially dead," the dark mech continued. "No longer damnatus."

Drift frowned, half-fearing this was all a desperate dream spun by his dying brain module. "You... somehow revived me? To what? What do you get out of this?"

"Query: What do you want out of this?"

Drift scoffed, flipping the tarp off him, swinging his legs over the edge of the pallet, and standing. "You're going to let me go? Just like that?"

"Provisions include: New identification; Optional cosmetic adjustments; Funds; Covert transport to city of choice." And there was nothing in that warm blanket of a field to suggest otherwise. If this mech was lying, he was an uncanny master at it.

"You're gonna pay me?" Drift reiterated, squinting.

"New start: Exceedingly difficult without funds," the dark mech said patiently. "Championship: lucrative."

"What's the fragging catch already?" Drift demanded, eyeing the nearest workbench and all the tools organized across it.

"Catch: No snitching."

Drift blinked. "That's it?"

"Snitching results: Jeopardizing life and freedom for other escaped damnati; Eliminating scheme's further success; Snitch fragging themself over by exposing their true identity. Snitch's Spark; will not be spared a second time."

"So you run a scheme where you smuggle bots out of deathmatches for another shot at life?" Drift waved one hand as if trying to roll the conversation forward to the end point. Or at least to somewhere that made sense. "Not that I'm ungrateful if that's true, but why? Who even are you?"

"Dissidents," the dark mech said.

"Is that how you ended up here?" Drift asked, feeling his shoulders relax a little as understanding began to sink in. "Were you sentenced damnatus?"

"Negative," the dark mech said, tapping his own chestplate with the datacable. "Soundwave: Entered as sponsored gladiator. Sparkeater Champion: Arrived as damnatus; Survived; Won gladiator status. Scheme: Largely his idea."

Drift found himself leaning back on the pallet as he processed that. While he had been fighting for his life, the monster hunting him down had an entirely different plan than just eating him. "I... never could have guessed."

"Good," Soundwave said. "Others: Will not, either."

The blade returned in his mind, the little hiss of the toxin releasing. He had actually - "Oh no..."

In lieu of asking, Soundwave released a little pulse of patient curiosity through his field.

Drift looked up at him again, feeling like he might purge. "There was a toxin in the blade they gave me," he said. "I stabbed him."

"Acknowledged," Soundwave said, his field unbothered.

"Is he...?" Drift experienced a meta moment of concern over his concern. A monster who turned out to be a wildly ambitious lunatic who had spared his life by faking his death - albeit in a way that was going to give him nightmares for the foreseeable future - was now probably dead because of him.

Soundwave tilted his helm, as if either evaluating the answer to the question Drift couldn't finish, or perhaps evaluating the motivation behind it. Or perhaps just talking over a private comm with someone. "Recovering," he said. "Assassination attempt: Not first, or last." He leaned forward a moment, almost conspiratorially. "Sparkeater Champion: Developed resistance to many toxins; Always excited to find and adapt to new ones."

That was some consolation, even if an unsettling one. "He sounds like a madmech."

"Tenacity: Part of his charm," the dark mech agreed.

"So what's your plan?" Drift asked. "Just continue secretly freeing damnati? I mean I get that he's a good fighter, but even if no one ever snitches on you, you can't keep this up forever. Especially since someone in power wants him dead."

"Plan: Exists," Soundwave said. "Also: Secret."

"Dissidents," Drift recalled. "Frag... This goes deeper, doesn't it?"

"Secret," Soundwave reiterated. "Not: Your problem. Consider: New identity; Destination."

"How much time do I have to think about it?"

"Duration: As long as required. Essentials: Will be provided. Condition: Must remain hidden."

"Makes sense," Drift allowed, fidgeting with his hands. "Uh... Will I get to meet him? Properly?"

That visor tilted back a bit, as if taken off guard. "Query: Want to meet Megatron?"

"Yeah," Drift decided. "I think I do."

Soundwave nodded slowly as he seemed to adjust to that. "Request: Rare," he admitted. "Acceptable."

It turned out being part of a secret execution-faking smuggling scheme, and whatever else he got up to, ate into a lot of the Sparkeater's time. Several days had passed, according to Drift's chronometer, and he'd seen and heard no sign of him.

Soundwave gave Drift a cot in the corner by the autoclave, a datapad with limited connectivity, and all the energon and medical attention he could want. He spent much of his time contemplating a new look, designation, and where to go.

Back to Rodion was tempting. Ratchet was there. But so were others who might recognize something in him, regardless of reformatting or cosmetic work. Crystal City might be a better option. It was a bit of a day trip from Rodion, but one either he or Ratchet might be able to swing on the sly.

His comm code hovered in Drift's mind. The enforcers who had caught him locked his comm down. Did his amicas even know he'd been arrested? Or why he'd been shipped all the fragging way to Kaon? There were camera drones zipping through the arena, watching every angle of the fight.

How far did that broadcast reach? Was that footage saved? Did Drift even want to know what he had looked like when -

The thought terminated in a hard No. He just hoped his amicas never saw it.

Another condition of this whole operation, in accordance with getting a whole new identity, was to initiate a whole new comm ID. Soundwave was in the process of working that out, but had not lifted the comm-lock on his old one yet. The dark mech had assured Drift that whoever he decided to contact from his old life once he stepped into his new one was Drift's own business, but reiterated the No Snitching rule.

Soundwave was out today. As another gladiator, he had to fight, too. But apparently his patron didn't sign him up for deathmatches. When Drift asked him if he was a Sparkeater, too, Soundwave had replied "Negative. Possibility: Someday." He had not sounded particularly thrilled about the idea.

So, like in some legends, it might be spreadable. Lovely. Drift found himself hoping he had not been infected, or however that worked. If true, it put a distinctly sinister spin on the whole operation. Essentially raising mechs from the dead to spread the same terrible plague...

But he felt no different than before. And no legends ever mentioned anything about a Sparkeater relinquishing any of the Sparks it ate.

Another mech had entered just as Soundwave had left, and went through an extensive locking procedure for the reinforced bunker door. Big, violet, and a clear victim of empurata. One yellow optic dominated his helm, but he did seem to be spared one hand. Small wonder how he likely got involved, since this underground gladiator team were clearly Anti-Functionists.

Drift tried not to stare at him, and for his part, the mech did not seem surprised or bothered by his presence. He merely proceeded to the primary medical pallet - the same one Drift had woken up on - and started organizing tool trays and powering up equipment.

"I'm not infected, am I?" Drift ultimately couldn't help asking.

That big yellow optic flicked toward him briefly before focusing on the organizing tasks. "No," he said. "It is not contagious, and your Spark was not changed or drained by any degree. Do not attempt to consume a Spark. It would burn and fuse your tank lining before it fades out, and without a full tank replacement, you would not be able to internally process energon and essential minerals."

He said nothing more after that, but the whole spiel seemed so routine and clinical, like he was trying to get every question out of the way, that Drift found himself reluctant to ask anything further.

Crystal City. Maybe darker plating, new alt-mode, different optic color, new name...

About an hour later, the whole parade of locks sequentially spun open on the reinforced door, and Drift sat up.

Once fully unlocked, the door slid aside. Or, it might have, if given the chance. A big, talon-tipped hand curled into the gap and slammed the whole thing the rest of the way open, shaking the whole bunker.

"If you insist on damaging the door's tracks, you can fix them yourself," the empurata'd mech warned without even looking up.

Drift reflexively froze as the large, silver mech strode in, carrying a corpse over his shoulder the way someone might carry a smaller amica who'd gotten completely trollied at the bar.

Drift experienced a surreal moment of wondering if his own body had been brought in like that.

"If it can't fragging open in a timely manner, it's as good as broken already," the Sparkeater complained, pulling the heavy door shut again and snapping each lock back into place one-handed like he'd done it a thousand times.

In the next moment, the silver mech crossed the room, slung the corpse from his shoulder, and laid it out on the medical pallet. The two mechs proceeded to select tools and start repairing the frame. Reconnecting and sealing lines, soldering, suturing mesh, welding struts and torn plating...

"Put some sealant on that, at least," the empurata'd mech admonished, tossing a bottle to the Sparkeater.

The Sparkeater caught it and frowned at a bleeding gash in his own forearm as if wondering where it came from. He squeezed a stripe of gel along the gash and tossed the bottle onto a tool tray before resuming a line of soldering.

"Soundwave tells me you've been refreshingly well-behaved," the Sparkeater noted, and it took Drift a moment to realize he was talking to him.

"He hasn't given me a reason to make trouble," Drift answered carefully.

"Then you may be surprised by how easily so many in your position find such a reason," the Sparkeater said. "That cool processor will serve you well."

"You're Megaton?" Drift checked.

"Megatron."

"And this," Drift gestured toward the corpse on the medical pallet. "It was your idea?"

Megatron's red optics, repaired since last Drift saw, flicked toward the empurata'd mech. "I've had the great benefit of being humored by some of the most patient and talented bots this planet has ever seen."

"I'm sending a recording of that to His Highness," the emurata'd mech decided.

"Eugh. He will delight in reminding me every day, I'm sure," Megatron grimaced. "Fine, Shockwave. I'll stop slamming the damn door."

"Too late."

"And here I purposefully left 'vindictive' out." Megatron rolled his optics, hooking an energon transfusion line into the corpse. "That'll teach me. Ready Phase One."

"Sixty-two percent and climbing," Shockwave noted.

They both watched one of the monitors as several of the readings climbed. Megatron kept one hand on the energon injection site, and in the other, readied what looked to Drift like a fuel-pump defibrillator, if it had been modified into a torture device.

Once whatever they were watching reached whatever target they wanted, Megatron smoothly removed the line and stuck a mesh patch over the site before it could even bleed. With a high keen, the device activated, and Megatron pressed it to the corpse's chestplates.

A shock pulsed through the corpse, limbs twitching, optics flickering, vox groaning, but it collapsed back into utter stillness.

Shockwave kept an optic on the monitors. "All stable. Proceed to Phase Two."

Megatron opened the corpse's chestplates, handed the device to Shockwave, and leaned over, resting one hand over his own abdominal plates.

Drift stood up, transfixed. Megatron leaned his face right into the frame's empty Sparkchamber, and as he opened his mouth, light spilled out.

The full orb of a bright, multicolored Spark emerged, flickering, from between Megatron's jaws. As soon as it settled into the cold chamber, Megatron teased at it with a pair of charged instruments Drift couldn't even begin to identify.

"Hold," Megatron warned. "One more... Now."

He barely got clear before Shockwave placed the device over the body's chest-plating and activated it.

The corpse jolted, optics flickering with a strained gasp, and then fell limp, optics shuttering.

But their Spark remained lit, stabilized, and spinning in its chamber. Their biolights stayed on, and a new, subtle hum from their reactivated systems joined the bunker's ambiance.

Megatron closed the unconscious bot's chestplates and gave Shockwave an exhilarated grin, like they had just won a race. "And that's a new record."

"Illogical. It's not a competition," Shockwave admonished, wheeling the tray of used tools toward the washing section.

"Everything is," Megatron argued, as if philosophically, keeping an optic on the unconscious bot's vital signs. "What is progress but dedicated competition against previous standards?"

"Beside the point. And knowing you, that marks you as your own worst enemy," Shockwave noted.

"His Highness said something to that effect the other day," Megatron muttered, turning a critical optic at his apparent mad-science lab partner. "I'm not sure how I feel about the idea of you two in cahoots."

"Then perish," Shockwave waved it off airily, retrieving a folded tarp from one of the racks.

"Every day it's like this," Megatron whispered at Drift while Shockwave's back was turned.

"What was that?" Shockwave asked, glancing over a pauldron.

"This is why Soundwave is my favorite," Megatron said without missing a beat. "He's the only one who loves me."

"Soundwave enables you," Shockwave corrected, striding back toward the medical berth and draping the tarp over the revived, unconscious bot. From the chest down, and perfectly squared. For a guy with only one hand, he made it look easy.

"As if you don't - "

Drift found himself a little stunned as the two continued their casual bickering. It hit him all over again, that this was the same monster that had devoured his Spark. And was somehow the same likely-clinically-insane visionary who had actually, secretly spared his life. Which looped into somehow being a mech just normal enough to share a kind of relaxed, if somewhat prickly camaraderie with his associates.

Someone who could take a joke without biting back. And a full demonstration of the revival process.

Like he was trying to prove who he really was.

Drift almost laughed. "Are you two really just like this, or are you tiptoeing?"

They both shut up and glanced at him, then at each other.

"Decent processor on this one," Shockwave noted before heading for the door and manually disabling its train of locking mechanisms. "I have scrap to do. Try not to scare him."

Megatron smiled so tightly after him, it was almost a sneer. He waited until Shockwave left and the locking mechanisms reengaged before turning to Drift. "I assume you have questions."

"Decent processor on yourself," Drift half-quoted, testing the waters.

"Some here would disagree with you," Megatron said dryly.

Drift tilted his head. "Strange take, when you've fooled most of the world into thinking you're a real Sparkeater."

Megatron actually smiled at him, folded his arms, and leaned against the medical pallet. "You're so sure I'm not?" he checked.

"How'd you do it?" Drift asked. "Are you an Outlier?"

"Not as far as I know," Megatron said, gesturing to his abdominal plates. "The plan required an extensive reformat, but Shockwave and I designed a system capable of stabilizing and maintaining disembodied Sparks."

Drift had to sit down again, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward on the cot. "You two actually built a working, medical-grade photon-pod? Down here?"

Megatron made a face and waved one hand in a so-so gesture. "We only got the schematics for that later. Ours, we designed from scratch, and is far more adaptable, but also requires a living mind to react and adjust to the Spark's needs. Damage a pod, and you may lose the Spark. Damage me, and my tank can still adjust to keep the Spark supported."

"Your tank does this," Drift reiterated incredulously.

"And still functions as a tank as well," Megatron clarified.

Drift stared up at him. Extensive reformat indeed. Drift was no medic, but he knew enough to have an idea of the astronomical risk such an operation would involve. He could only imagine the face Ratchet would make if he ever got his hands on this lunatic's medical history. "You're really doing this."

Megatron nodded, looking a little annoyed, as if he thought that was obvious.

"And you have other plans?" Drift prompted.

That annoyed look faded into a dry neutrality. "Aren't you curious?" Megatron drawled, light-years more arrogant than Soundwave's 'Answer: Secret'. But Drift could see his game easily enough, the line he was drawing, to see if Drift would cross. Megatron wanted to recruit him, badly enough to bid sensitive information. But he would only risk so much.

And once Drift knew too much, there would be no backing out. Megatron had already demonstrated how quickly he could kill.

"I'm a bit more than that," Drift scoffed, standing up. "You want to stick it to the Functionists who threw us both and countless others in here, and you might be crazy enough to pull it off. I want to be one of the talented bots who helps you do it."

Megatron appraised him for a moment, a sharp-edged smile forming. "From the moment you took out my optics, I hoped you would join us."

Chapter Text

47 Years before the Decepticon Uprising / Civil War

Cybertron / Iacon / Hall of Records

"Why must it always be some Great Evil?"

The silver mech on screen had a voice like the smokiest engex - the kind that burned all the way to the tank and fragged up the processor's ability to interpret its gyroscope. All accentuated by the low growl of flight-frame engines as if he had just finished one energetic tirade only to immediately launch into another.

Orion Pax paused behind Jazz's station in the Iacon Archives, snared by deep red optics, unnervingly sharp fangs, and the grim conviction behind the rhetorical question.

"What dimwit finds the challenges of our society so boring that they have to couch them in terms of a Grand Cosmological Scheme, like out of a lowest common denominator holo-vid?" the silver mech challenged, voice amplified over the din of a rally. Broadcast live from a Kaonite local station, by the glyph in the corner.

"Holy scrap, it's that guy again," Orion muttered, staring over his stack of datapads.

Jazz half-turned in his seat before flashing Orion a grin. "Ah, yeah. Latest update in the Conspiracy Theory Scrapfight. Some a' his followers have been passing around one about the Senate sacrificing sparklings to Unicron - so original, right? - and he kinda ripped into 'em for it. Not like he used to in the Arena, though."

" - superstition has captured the imagination lately? Is the reality of Functionism - of state-sanctioned exploitation, trafficking, and slavery - insufficient? Is it not enough to challenge a mundane, selfish system maintained by mundane, selfish mechs? Why must one's opponents be anything other than what they are?"

"Ascenticons," Orion remembered. "Huh. And he's not just running with this theory? He hates the Senate."

"I know, I thought he'd go for any harsh feelings he can get his claws on," Jazz chuckled. "Megatron riles up easy, but I don't think I've ever seen him this torqued off. Not even in a fight."

" - not support the cause if it is not true!" Megatron thundered, drawing both their attentions again. "The real socio-economic forces of Functionism are far more dangerous than whatever sensational game of pretend these crankshafts insist on playing! These unfounded 'theories'," he spat the word as if he detested its misuse, "covet the appearance of reason-based investigation, yet in practice amount to divination and scapegoating, self-righteous daydreams! By their dishonest nature, and no matter who they target, they offer up an illusion of security and significance, and therefore undermine the reality of both! They are a distraction from real problems, and are a self-aggrandizing virus of a mythological mindset! Imagine the progress we could have made already, how many more lives we could measurably support and inspire, if it were not for how eager so many bots are to waste time and energon obscuring real, urgent problems with petty fairytales! In an era marked by deception, we cannot afford to deceive ourselves!"

Jazz scratched his chin. "Mn. Not his most inspiring work," he assessed. "He's gonna lose numbers with that one. But, being an actual, no-fragging Sparkeater, I guess it's a touchy subject for him."

Orion's helm snapped toward him. "Wait, that one's not a conspiracy theory?"

"Oh yeah." Jazz spun toward him again. "There was a whole investigation on it, back before he took over the Pits and became the real power in Kaon. Countless fight recordings from every angle, post-fight medical checks, you name it. Sparks don't stick around long after being disembodied, but this fragger - " he gestured with a thumb over his shoulder at the screen. "You didn't even need special scanners. Get close enough after one of his deathmatches, I'm talking even hours later, and you'd sense multiple overlapping fields. From his own Spark, and the ones in his tank. Something in him keeps Sparks from phasing back to the Well. Long enough that everyone who's ever collected or analyzed data on this believes he can actually siphon Spark energy."

Orion squinted. Gross. "That… shouldn't be possible."

Ethically and practically. Sparks were weird. There were many theories on the transcendent, elusive nature of Spark energy, and more than a few blasphemous attempts throughout history to tap it as if it were the most efficient, profitable economic resource ever destined for a spreadsheet, rather than something sacred.

"You're telling me," Jazz agreed. "History's Most Wanted Mech on a Dissection Table. I wouldn't be surprised if the rumor that he's Unicronian is true, too. It doesn't seem far-fetched."

To think that there was a monster out there actually capable of cracking that forbidden mystery. To think that a Spark could actually be devoured.

And to think, the only known mech to have ever supposedly done this was now railing against conspiracy theories targeting his political opponents, despite the fact that those theories could add fuel to his own cause. And the fact that he made no secret of hating those opponents with every drop of energon in his frame.

As if he didn't just care about winning, he cared how.

" - too fragging stupid to possibly be true!" Megatron shouted. "And redundant! Where would they find the time? Look around, you don't have to look far! They're too busy sacrificing Cybertronians of all ages to poverty and oppression in the name of further enriching themselves and their wealthy sponsors!"

A reporter swam through the crowd below Megatron's improvised stage, arm transformed into an extendable microphone. "Lord Megatron!"

Red eyes closed for a brief, irritated blink before fixing on the reporter with a clipped "Don't 'Lord' me. And what?"

"Does this denouncement mean you deny the allegations against yourself?" the reporter asked over the din.

"Dozens of new, elaborate stories are concocted every day," Megatron said. "And I'm not going to demean myself or gum up the movement, scrambling to refute every lurid fantasy they project on me, especially not to those who are already braced against every word I say. We can't spare the time to sink into such a futile endeavor. Not while any Cybertronian is enslaved."

"How do you square this reaction with your known status as a Sparkeater-cannibal?" another reporter asked, shouldering in.

"Take it from a Sparkeater-cannibal," Megatron advised with a new viciousness in his sharp smile. "Unicron does not want your sparklings, and Unicron cannot give the Senate and their wealthy owners the socio-economic power they already enjoy."

"Megatron!" Another reporter called, extending their own microphone. "Given that the current status quo, especially in places like Kaon, Tarn, and Kalis, makes mechs easy prey, what motivates a Sparkeater to change it?"

"A basic sense of integrity," Megatron said with scathing indifference. "While I seek a cure for my affliction, I would be remiss in not directing my efforts toward also ending the affliction of Functionism, which claims more Sparks each year than I could in a lifetime."

More flashing lights, microphones, and cameras crowded in, but Orion couldn't hear past his own realization: 

He did not know how to build a better society, much less cure a Sparkeater. But he had access to more information than most bots on the planet, and some of that information might help with both problems.

Just figuring out a secure, untraceable way to send that information was going to be a trick and a half. Especially with bots as smart as Jazz assigned to monitor Ascenticon shenanigans.

But ultimately, and of all the articles he collected, Towards Peace cemented Orion's decision to actually go to Kaon.

Getting his hands on a copy had been a master-class in covert hacking and stealth. Towards Peace was banned as frag, but a copy did exist in the Hall of Records' Restricted Archives. Orion swiftly copied that copy as soon as he accessed it, wiped all records of that access, and covered his tracks.

He had expected to merely skim through it at first, to get the gist of what Megatron was about. But the writing was so personal and compelling, dawn had arrived through Orion's berthroom window before he even realized he'd stayed up all night reading.

And by that time, he felt like he'd known this mech all their lives.

Megatron made no mention of Spark-eating throughout the whole thing. Which Jazz thought meant he must have gotten turned later on, in the Pits of Kaon, or in some diabolical lab rumored to be beneath them. Because of course Jazz had already read a copy, too, both as the best hacker Orion knew, and one of the agents assigned to keep an eye on this upstart...

What Megatron did mention, however, and quite extensively, were the often lethal conditions energon-miners faced, the destitution, lack of privacy, rampant debt, nonexistent healthcare, disappearances, mass-graves...

And how, even on trips above ground, workers 'top-side' faced similar hardships and pitfalls in entirely different industries. The polemic was saturated with a refusal to accept this as normal, and with concrete plans to right the wrongs of a society that had so failed its people.

And then, shortly after Towards Peace first circulated, Megatron had disappeared from the Nova Point Mine, nearly all records of his existence scrubbed except for a few details that his earliest followers managed to anonymously preserve.

When he reappeared, and his name circulated once again, it was as a monster in the Pits of Kaon. But when he gained a platform and began to speak again, his conviction marked him as, somehow, still the same mech. Albeit, all the more determined, and somehow coping with a new set of instincts.

Orion took a week off, and bought a ticket to Kaon.

He had heard that Kaon was hot, situated in one of the harshest deserts of the southern hemisphere. Even at night, he felt the heat of it on the rail long before reaching the city proper, condensation beading along his plating.

The rail was due to arrive sometime shortly after dawn, and it did. But looking out the window, Orion would never have guessed. The city-state itself was dark as an eternal night.

Smog choked out any sign of building silhouettes on the horizon. If it were not for the map he had downloaded, and the algorithm he'd used to privately track his own progress through the place, he would have thought they'd just pulled into a random outpost rather than a major city station. City lights could not shine far through the thick, toxic air, and even then, only dimly.

There were several stations on the rail's route through Kaon, and Orion tried not to fidget as he waited for his stop. Occasional glowing glimpses of lava and slag pools revealed why the place seemed to stay so hot even where the sun couldn't shine.

As Orion stepped onto the platform amidst a crowd, he could already hear Ratchet advising him on a full filter replacement.

Perhaps a heavy dose of coolant, too. That was starting to sound especially refreshing.

And so many bots lived and worked in this hot, oppressive smog. How did they cope with that, much less everything else Kaon was infamous for?

Orion transformed and pulled into traffic, keeping the map and his best estimate of where he was active on his HUD. Periodic slowdowns allowed him a little more time to consider how this entire visit might go.

Where he would even find Megatron, he wasn't completely sure. He seemed to switch his routine up often. But there were a limited number of public places to check.

The Pits of Kaon was the first on that list; the old arena Megatron and his team had overthrown and turned into their fortress, base of operations, favorite spot to host rallies, and training ground.

Apparently, free combat lessons were a favorite Ascenticon recruitment tactic. Kaon, as dangerous as it was, made a necessity of knowing how to fight. And who better to learn from than one of several of the Pits' most fearsome champions? What better chance to get absolutely starstruck than receiving praise or a hand up from one of the same mechs who sought not only to teach you and your friends how to defend yourselves, but to vanquish the same societal burdens that drove you to seek their help in the first place?

And if you were lucky enough to find yourself studying under Megatron himself, how must that feel, to face a known Sparkeater, and receive not just mercy, but guidance?

To know that someone that dangerous had your back?

It wasn't simply his force of personality, rhetoric style, or his combat prowess that made him a figurehead. Megatron had the classic, archetypal allure that all manner of stories throughout the ages explored: The monster who fights monsters.

The arena compound loomed like a foreboding citadel out of the gloom, only its nearest structures defined, the rest blurred and shrouded in the overarching darkness.

Orion pulled up, transformed, and tried to take it all in for a moment. How massive and uninviting it seemed, whether he'd even be allowed in, or have to sneak through some back entrance or forgotten grate…

Not that he hadn't done a little covert trespassing before, but that experience was mostly relegated to restricted Archive sections he didn't have official clearance for.

And not that he hadn't gotten his aft kicked in a street fight before, either. But he'd seen how many labor frames here had studs on their knuckles. And those were just the bots walking around by the street.

Orion supposed if he really crossed any Ascenticon higher-ups that badly, studs and denta-work would be the least of his worries.

But if Megatron was honest about all he'd said, he might be at least slightly interested in what Orion brought.

A couple of minicons were playing cards by the main entrance. One red and one purple. The red one whistled sharply through a gap in his denta as Orion approached the open arches.

"Hold still, pipsqueak!"

Orion complied out of sheer bewilderment before he realized the red one had passed a cursory scan over him.

"All clear, just datasticks," the red one reported into his comm, slightly disappointed.

"He looks like a nerd," the purple one judged, switching a few cards while the red one wasn't looking.

"You hear to see Soundwave, pipsqueak?" the red one asked.

"That's the idea," Orion confessed. Soundwave would be the optimal candidate to receive any new data, and judge its worth.

"Cool. Don't be surprised if he makes time to see you." The red one sat back down and picked up his cards.

The purple one slapped a pair down and waved Orion through. "Go on."

Two of Soundwave's symbionts, Orion recalled as he walked through the main arch. And apparently they could peek into subspace.

Soundwave was the Ascenticons' Master of Security and Intelligence, after all. It begged the question of what else his team could do.

Navigating the Arena was no more trouble than the roads that led to it. Orion had managed to find a map of it, too, from before the Ascenticon takeover, and periodic signs made it easy to verify where he was along the way.

True to their name, the Pits of Kaon consisted of multiple stadiums. Five of them, namely, arranged in a ring, the center of which contained the highest paying, most lavish seats from which to view any battle or duel of choice.

Orion emerged high up in the easternmost stadium, and needed a moment to absorb the sheer reality of its dimensions. It struck him that he could see further in here than he could outside.

The reinforced transparisteel skylight kept most of the smog out. But the far side of the stadium was far enough that diffused light obscured all but the barest hints of structure. Giant screens lined the majority of its circumference, for broadcasting close angles from camera drones. To the west, the central, 'best seats' viewing tower loomed like a dead, scorched Titan, with broken transparisteel and no lights.

There were figures in the Pit, their colors and movement distinguishing them from black sand. Stained over the centuries by oil, ash, burning energon…

People had died down there. Both execution chamber and tomb, with no names to mark each Spark's passing. During Megatron's reign as Champion, it was known as his Feeding Pen.

And once Megatron had amassed enough leverage to upend the whole thing, he had. What the hell he was doing instead for his main fuel source, everyone was left to speculate.

Orion resisted the temptation to transform and just drive all the way down to save some time. From the state of the stairs, it wasn't the first time that same thought had occurred to someone.

And from the occasional crumpled seat on either side of the aisle, such a plan had ended poorly more often than not.

The walk down gave him more time to consider who he was actually seeing down there. A crowd of students seemed to be paired off in twos, the prominent pair consisting of a student, and…

Blue and red and steel with black and gold accents, slim, graceful build, and prominent, angular wings that seemed to dip and flare for emphasis as he instructed…

His vox did not carry the same resonance as Megatron's, but its lower registers purred. The sight and sound of him turned helms, either in person or on the news.

Starscream, Prince of Vos. Who had scandalized his House by publicly throwing in his support for the Ascenticons.

Rumor had it he had even been Soundwave's and Megatron's mysterious patron, back in their gladiatorial days. That he had not only helped fund, but participated in their takeover of the Pits.

Looking at him now, with the ease by which he deflected each incoming attack from his student, and the would-be deadly precision by which he countered, it wasn't hard to imagine:

He may not have been a gladiator, himself, but trained by Vosian royalty, he could have been.

Orion had never been to a gladiator match, but in this place, it was effortless to imagine the roar of the stadium as this regal bot either strode or soared into it. Beautiful and deadly in equal measure, he would have no doubt been a crowd favorite.

Loathe to interrupt, Orion waited atop the wall rimming the arena, and watched.

Another crowd began to form as bots trickled down into the arena. But equally unwilling to butt in uninvited, they hung back, giving Starscream's current class a respectful distance.

"You shy or something?"

Orion blinked, glancing only slightly lower at the sharp-edged, black and silver bot that had materialized beside him. His red eyes, while not exactly hostile, carried an undercurrent of challenge that made them difficult to meet.

"I - no, I…" Orion almost wished this bot would interrupt him just to get this conversation over without him having to participate too much. He had some strange sense that neither answer was the right one.

Primus, he was armed to the teeth. And watched with a merciless interest, like he recognized Orion from somewhere.

"A little," Orion lied, just to rip the mesh-patch off.

The bot huffed as if he saw through it. "Let's fix that," he said instead of calling Orion out. "Come on, shy-bot." The bot slapped his pauldron in a manner that seemed too casual for the rest of his body language, and vaulted over the edge of the barrier, landing in the dark sand with a shock-absorbing roll.

The black and silver bot whistled sharply and waved his arm in a high, cutting wave. "Next group, unarmed combat, form up on me! Let's move!"

Orion vaulted in and copied the mystery teacher's roll upon hitting the sand. Which got absolutely everywhere, grinding in his joints as he stood up and followed after.

"Charming as ever, Deadlock," Starscream called casually, adding a little flourish to the practice staff he blocked his student with.

"Aren't I just?" Deadlock drawled. "Plenty of partners to choose from today," he observed the incoming crowd, sounding somewhat close to pleased for the first time. "Pick one quick, I'm not a priest, and this is not your conjunxing! Form up in pairs and listen close!"

Orion suspected that the student he got paired with felt like he had something to prove.

That, or Kaonites and Iaconians had different ideas of what 'training' meant. Assuming this bot was from Kaon.

The blue-grey bot hit unnecessarily hard, and unnecessarily often, for a training bout. Muttered something about not being able to help himself, and Orion thought it might have sounded apologetic, if he was feeling generous.

By the seventh time Orion had gotten punched hard enough to spin him into the sand, it was difficult to feel generous anymore. He had a feeling this bot could miraculously find a sense of self-control if Deadlock had been his sparring partner.

Orion reigned his annoyance in as he spat sand and energon and got up again. It was just a training bout.

To that end, Orion focused on defensive maneuvers and staying out of reach, circling, ducking, and deflecting. He had to move quick, with minimal time to consider any sort of plan, but as it went on, he could start to get a sense of this bot's patterns, where he carried his weight -

It felt like instinct. The bot overextended with another punch toward Orion's helm, and Orion ducked. Before the momentum of that arm could wane, Orion grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him along with his own momentum, rolling the bot over his shoulders to land heavily on his back.

Apparently, the bot took this as permission to stop holding back, judging by the almost feral grin. He dealt with this by lunging, grabbing Orion about the waist, and hauling him up and over to smash him face-first into the sand.

Orion felt something give in his neck, a sharp pain radiating from a spot on the right side of his vertebrae, and knew instinctively that turning his head would only finish breaking something important.

Someone whistled sharply, and Orion wasn't sure from which direction. After the second attempt to get up had dumped him right back into the sand, he decided to just lay there and wait for his gyroscope to stop whining and tell him which way was up.

"Can you move?" Deadlock asked somewhere above him.

Orion lifted his hand with a thumbs-up. And then a raised index finger to request one moment.

"Got you good, didn't he, shy-bot?" Deadlock asked, and he sounded a little closer somehow, like he'd crouched. "Need a ride?"

Orion had to think about it for a second. "No," he grumbled into the sand.

"If you say so. Medical ward's not far. You get up when you're ready. Breakdown will show you the way, or give you a lift if you change your mind." Sand shifted as Deadlock padded back to his station and resumed instructing the class.

Orion pushed onto his hands and knees, carefully avoiding moving his neck, and had to sink back down on his folded up legs for a little bit.

It was a good move, lifting one's opponent where they couldn't manipulate their own weight or momentum. And it posed the question of how to escape such a situation, or if there was any advantage to be found in it. But Primus' sake, if he could not turn his neck, he could not practice anymore today. Possibly not even tomorrow, either.

It felt like getting kicked out when he'd only gotten started.

Day one in Kaon. If he was lucky enough to find Soundwave or Megatron at this rate, it would be while covered in dents, one optic shuttered, the supporting mesh swollen with nanites while it repaired itself, and probably a neck-brace now. Every bit as out of place as Soundwave's symbionts had observed.

Orion found himself hoping Megatron did not have any instincts regarding toying with or chasing injured prey. He would not have any fragging patience for it.

When he managed to sit up, his sparring partner was gone, and no one stepped forward to introduce themselves as Breakdown. Orion stood, turned his whole body to survey the arena, and still found no sign. The tracks in the sand barely gave anything away, there were so many.

He didn't need assistance finding the medical ward, and if his sparring partner and Breakdown were the same person, he had even less interest in being alone with him for any stretch of time.

He had a map, anyway, even if it was a little outdated.

Pulling it up in the lower right corner of his HUD, and keeping one stabilizing hand on his neck, Orion trudged for the east end of the arena. Noticing a few of Starscream's group glancing at him, he lifted his free hand in an awkward little wave.

Map or no, the halls kind of looked the same, especially while it was this hard to focus.

Orion found himself leaning against a wall to give his frame time for a wave of nausea to pass. That's when his sparring partner rounded a corner ahead of him, looking equally surprised to see him.

"Hey, uh…" the blue-grey bot took a few cautious steps forward, like Orion was a mechanimal he was trying not to spook. "I didn't catch your name," he said.

"Orion," he answered, pushing away from the wall, trying to hold himself as if nothing hurt.

"Orion, right. Didn't mean to leave you back there, just wanted to run ahead for a pack of coolant." He held it out. "You looked like you needed it before we even started."

The gesture caught him off guard, even though he felt too nauseated to drink. The contrast in harsh and careful treatment left a hot prickling sensation behind his optics and in his throat, and much the same sensation in his field.

That kind of whiplash tended to have this effect on him, Primus knew why. As if he needed humiliation on top of the embarrassment. Perhaps he had taken getting dropped on his neck a little more personally than he thought.

Orion stared at the coolant pack for what felt like a moment too long before he was able to ensure his field was locked down too tightly for this bot to feel any hint of his emotions without physical contact.

"You're Breakdown?" Orion guessed, hoping to distract him in case their plating touched in the hand-off. To his relief, it didn't.

"Yeah," the mech said.

"Alright." Orion consulted his map again. If he wasn't completely turned around, the medical ward wasn't far. But that was assuming the Ascenticons hadn't done much renovating. "You can return to the training session."

Something like hurt flickered behind Breakdown's optics for a second. "First let's get you to medical, yeah? I, uh, I didn't mean to…"

Primus' sake, Breakdown had already won him over. If Orion's optics started leaking, he was going to throw up. He might just throw up anyway if he didn't sit down soon. "Please don't worry about it," Orion said cheerfully, walking past him. "It happens."

"So, uh, med's this way," Breakdown said, walking beside him. "You want any help staying on your peds?"

"No, no," Orion insisted, trying his damnest to keep any 'Don't touch me' undercurrents out of his vox. He couldn't get the lingering hurt out of his system until he'd had a while to cool down and process it, and there was no way in the Pit he'd let Breakdown feel that confused tangle of hurt through his field, especially when he was already falling over himself to apologize for causing it. "Thank you," Orion added gently.

The medical ward, it turned out, had a bit of a cue.

"Here, you have a seat, I'll get you checked in," Breakdown insisted, guiding Orion over to a spot against a wall. It was only a brief brush against his back, but it sent a shock of alarm through Orion, and a more painful shock from his neck as he instinctively tried to turn it. Breakdown recoiled sharply. 

"Sorry," Orion grimaced, wishing he could sink through the floor.

"Hey, don't be," Breakdown whispered back. "I'll see if I can grab any painkillers while you wait, yeah? But it shouldn't be long."

"I don't even know if they'll take my insurance," Orion realized aloud.

"Don't even worry about that," Breakdown waved it off. "You walk in here seeking help, you're gonna get it."

Like Ratchet's clinic in the Dead End.

Orion sank into a seat by the wall and buried his face in the coolant pack. Even if he still dreaded the idea of drinking anything, it was a blissful relief, pressed to his aching helm.

"Hey," Breakdown whispered again, far sooner than Orion had expected.

Orion lowered the pack and did his best to look up without moving his neck.

Three tabs rested in Breakdown's palm. "This is the good scrap," he warned. "I wouldn't take 'em all at once. Even in your state, you might only need one."

Orion held out his own hand for Breakdown to drop them into, rather than picking them up. "Thanks," he said.

Breakdown gave him a nod and the hint of an infectious smile Orion had glimpsed before their sparring session ate scrap. "You just gotta listen for your name, alright? There's no charge, no matter what you need. And uh, here's my comm, if you need anything." He sent Orion a ping.

Orion accepted it, integrated the comm code, and responded through their new link. [Thank you, Breakdown. Just go easier on the next bot.]

That smile turned a little embarrassed as he left. [Will do.]

No charge, Orion mused, observing the other patients waiting for their turns. Many of them did not look like they'd come in from the arena. Most of them looked like they came from the street, dealing with chronic injuries, rust patches, maybe a virus. Some sputtering coughs suggested the smog had gotten to their filters.

And as Breakdown said, they moved quickly. Every few minutes or so, one of several construction mechs, or a distinctive red racer, would appear in the far doorway and call a designation, guiding each patient somewhere in the back.

Orion briefly contemplated the rumor that this setup was the front of an underground parts trafficking ring. Or, where Megatron got his new source of Sparks. But each patient left the same way they entered, moving easier than before.

Another rumor claimed that both Deadlock and Starscream were captains of squads that busted such rings, and there were credible news articles that lent some weight to the idea. He kinda wished he'd thought to ask when he had the chance, but - 

A familiar, huge silver mech emerged from the back, ducking to see through the archway as if it was so routine as to be an unconscious habit. "Hardtop," he called, reading from a datapad.

Another racer stood up and limped over, and Megatron sidestepped to let him through.

Orion blinked at the empty space where the former Champion previously stood. Free treatment or not, he began to grasp why this place wasn't more crowded. Everyone, in Kaon especially, had seen what Megatron could do.

And given that, medical was one of the last places Orion would have expected to find him.

While he puzzled over the cosmic joke of a Sparkeater acting as some kind of physician, Orion figured he might as well diminish the distracting pain he was in. Perhaps it was affecting his processor more than he thought.

He studied the tabs in his hand, popped one in his mouth and subspaced the rest, letting it dissolve on his glossa.

Breakdown wasn't joking. Those things hit even harder than he did.

Orion awoke groggily, still sitting, a dull throb in his neck from where he'd leaned his helm against the wall.

An unfamiliar field enveloped him like a blanket, projecting only calm and a desire to help.

"Designation: Orion?" a resonant voice asked, softly, closely.

"Huh?" Orion sat up stiffly, one hand rising to soothe his neck as it protested moving. The pain was still there, just further away somehow. "Whatcha need?"

Dark plating, etched with deep violet. A bell rang distantly in his processor.

"Damn," a higher voice laughed, just beyond the calm mech's shoulder. "He got fragged up."

"Buzzsaw: Not helping," the first mech chided.

"Orion," a familiar voice called. All smoke and engex, and if Orion had been standing, hearing his name in that voice would have tipped him over. "...Soundwave?" that same voice asked.

"Affirmative." By this time, Orion had blinked his vision clear enough to identify Soundwave's facial screen, hovering close. "Symptoms: consistent. Favoring: Neck. Coolant level: Empty. Possible cranial trauma."

"No, is jus' the painkillers," Orion tried to wave it off.

For a moment, he thought there was an earthquake. As Kaon was an active region, it wasn't out of the question.

Soundwave backed up, but kept his calming field extended, and a set of strong, warm arms encircled Orion, hauling him up out of his seat and against a sturdy chassis.

"I assume there is a good reason you did not drink that coolant pack you're holding?" Megatron asked, his voice rumbling through Orion's frame, mercifully quiet as he strode for the back rooms.

Orion reflexively held on as Megatron ducked through the archway. "Don' wanna throw up," he explained. Had he anything in his tank, all the movement might have made him purge. Getting hauled around like this was undignified, but it beat shuffling on his own. The sooner they got wherever they were going, the sooner he could hold still until the building stopped spinning again.

"That's never any fun," Megatron agreed.

"Getting sand all over you," Orion complained against his pauldron.

"I'm no stranger to it," Megatron assured.

Before Orion knew it, he was being rested on a medical pallet, one big hand supporting his helm and neck on the way down. He squinted against the cold light until someone turned it low.

The coolant pack met his helm again, and another was promptly tucked into his hands.

"Lack of coolant is exacerbating your condition. I'm going to have to insist you drink," Megatron said, his red eyes the brightest points in the dim room. "Unless you would prefer it administered intravenously?"

Needles sucked, but the idea of puking sucked worse. "Yeah, the second one," Orion muttered. "Please."

"You truly must be nauseated," Megatron said, moving and prepping equipment Orion couldn't bother to track.

"Mh-hm." He didn't like to watch, anyway. Watching the needle go in always stung worse.

For a mech with such big hands, they were swift and precise. Megatron coaxed the panels of Orion's upper arm to retract, pierced his protoform just above his elbow joint, and a cool soreness flooded up his lines and into his chassis.

A mesh patch latched over the site as the needle retracted, and by that time, his brain module felt like it was cooling from the inside, restoring a sense of clarity and alertness, and soothing his nausea. Orion sighed in relief.

And then realized that this wasn't a dream.

"This is not how I hoped to meet you," Orion confessed as it all caught up to him.

"We rarely get to deliver the impressions we intend," Megatron acknowledged. "Unfortunately, it's not Soundwave's day for training. I suppose you meant to talk to him, but got roped into sparring?"

"Pretty much," Orion muttered. "Lucky it wasn't a real fight."

"It might as well have been," Megatron disagreed. "Deadlock mentioned you on our channel." 

"Oh, no," Orion groaned, pulling the coolant pack to cover his optics.

Megatron actually chuckled at that, his voice dark and warm. "You did better than you think," he said. "Breakdown is one of our more attentive students, and his sparring partners only ever last half as long as you did. You are willing to struggle where most would quit, and that can't be taught so easily. I wish I had a thousand more like you."

A confused burst of embarrassment flared in Orion's field, and he leapt on the first distraction he could think of. "Cool, hey, I brought datasticks." He started fishing in his subspace.

Strong digits curled over his wrist, halting him, but not squeezing. Orion could feel the suppressed strength humming just underneath his grip, as if it took effort for him to be gentle. "In due time, Orion," Megatron said. "While I am curious, it can wait until your neck is repaired."

"Oh." Orion relaxed, and Megatron let go of his wrist. "So, what's the treatment plan?"

"That depends on your preference," Megatron said. "You have a kinked spinal segment. But your self-repair system is one of the healthiest I've seen. On its own, it should take no more than a few days for it to realign itself. But if you don't want to wait, I can do it for you. It will be sore for a day or so, but you will be able to turn your neck freely."

"Did you already run a scan?" Orion asked, wondering if he'd simply missed the odd prickling sensation those usually came with.

"I can 'feel' it, in a sense," Megatron said with a note of sympathy.

Orion wondered if that was an innate sense Megatron had been born with, something that had been built into him later, or if it was a Sparkeater thing. He dismissed the temptation to ask, worried it might be inappropriate.

Orion did not want to spend most of his time in Kaon unable to turn his helm. But he did not come here to take up resources, especially not for a problem that would resolve itself anyway. "How would you realign it?" Orion checked, lifting the coolant pack off his optics. "Are we talking surgery?"

"Nothing so invasive," Megatron assured, moving to the head of the pallet, those big hands brushing either side of Orion's helm. Megatron loomed above him, and the only visible parts of his helm in the dark were his red optics, and the occasional flash of fangs as he spoke. "It's a little jarring," he warned, "but I've had a lot of practice doing the same for more complex cases."

He was going to just… click it back into place? With his hands? Orion blinked up at him, wondering what caliber of fuss Ratchet would kick up if he could see them now. He wondered, perhaps belatedly, if Megatron was even licensed.

After all, what medical board would license a miner-turned-gladiator under Functionism? 

What medical board, in any political climate, would license a Sparkeater?

Where the frag had he learned to do any of this?

It took him a second to realize Megatron was waiting for either permission or refusal.

Ratchet could never find out about this. 

"Cool," Orion said before he could lose his nerve. "Alright. Let's do it."

Megatron seemed taken aback by that reaction, something both surprised and charmed in the smile Orion could barely see. "As you wish," Megatron said. "You need only relax. Take several full venting cycles."

Orion complied, trying to will the tension in his chest, neck, and mind away. Megatron's digits brushed along either side of his neck, pressing gently as if sensing the components beneath. At the end of his second venting cycle, Megatron tilted Orion's helm with a sharp flick.

It was so sudden, the coolant pack flopped entirely off his helm. Hot pain burst in Orion's neck as something inside clicked in a way it wasn't supposed to.

What a terrible idea, Orion thought. Why did he agree to this? Megatron could snap his neck without thinking. Maybe he just did.

"Ow," Orion grunted, reaching up half to soothe his neck as Megatron's hands retreated, and half to reassure himself that he hadn't just been paralyzed from the neck down. His limb responded without issue, and the sharp pain was already fading to a dull ache.

"Well done," Megatron said, still watching from right above him. "When you're ready, give it a test run."

Orion carefully turned his neck, and though it was still sore, the motion did not come with any visceral sense of You're Making It Worse and Stop Right Fragging Now. One way, and then the other, he had full range of motion back.

Orion blinked up at Megatron. "Thanks. Where'd you learn to do that?"

That charmed smile took on a slight, sardonic edge. "I'm sure you can guess."

This was a medical ward, after all. One that pre-dated the takeover, according to the pre-takeover era map. "Here?" Orion asked, sitting up.

"Injury in all its forms has been a constant in my life," Megatron said, circling back to the pallet's side. "Whether mine, or another gladiator's. Learning how to unmake the same wounds we were forced to inflict on each other, well… I like to think of that as my first real act of defiance."

"But, didn't you…?" Orion wasn't sure how to gracefully finish that question. He wasn't sure he should have started it.

"Not other gladiators. Not unless they were already dying. Accidents happened, of course, but our patrons were not often eager to risk their sources of income to that extent, so deathmatches between us were rare." And though Megatron's body language and tone were casual, something in his field turned icy and bitter. "The bulk of my diet were damnati."

Criminals sentenced to execution via deathmatch in the arena, Orion had learned in his research. One of the cruelest forms of capital punishment allowed under the current law. According to rumor, Megatron himself had first arrived at the Pits of Kaon a damnatus, for writing Towards Peace.

But he kept winning fights. Attracted too much attention, gained too much of both popularity and notoriety. Gained a patron, even. He took the Pits by storm and gave the judicial system a fit because a damnatus had never survived, much less thrived long enough to become a sponsored gladiator, before.

Or since. Reports conflicted on when it started, but Megatron put on a unique show. Recordings had shown him toying with his food, dragging it out long enough to let people wonder if this time a lucky shot might end his monstrous reign. But each of his deathmatchs ended the same way:

With Megatron holding a dying frame as he swallowed a flickering spark. With him carrying the corpse on his way out of the arena as if it were an exhausted dancing partner, rather than a meal that he would finish at his leisure.

It was one thing to do what he had to, to survive. It must have been quite another to have to inflict that cruel necessity on those trapped in a position he knew all too intimately.

"You did not want to kill them," Orion realized. If his hunch was right, taking over the Pits was an even more personal endeavor than he had suspected.

Megatron's red optics flicked toward him almost as if startled. His field pulsed a sense of unease and self-reproach before it recoiled in the next instant as he waved it off. "You did not come here for stories of the bad old days," he prompted.

"Not if you don't want to recount them," Orion allowed, un-subspacing the datasticks he brought. He had to awkwardly cup the bunch of them in both hands, and a few still tumbled onto the medical berth. "Ah, I should've brought a bag."

Megatron eyed the collection with open, delighted greed. "Frag me," he cursed under his breath. Louder, he turned his helm toward the hallway. "Soundwave!"

Soundwave's facial visor peeked around the doorframe. "Query: Patient permits entry?" Somehow, the way he tilted his helm at Megatron seemed a little chiding. Orion wondered if he was imagining things. Soundwave's field still projected nothing but calm.

"Of course," Orion said at the same time as Megatron impatiently waved him in with a "What's that look for? Get in here!"

"Lifting coherent patient without permission: Violation of medical ethics," Soundwave said as he glided into the room.

"Alas, I may lose my license."

"Really, it's fine - " Orion muttered a curse as another datastick slipped free.

"With current attitude: May never obtain one."

"Oh, this is so illegal," Orion muttered. He suspected, but having it confirmed still felt like one of Breakdown's left-hooks. He couldn't even imagine what Ratchet might say.

"So is every other thing I've done, and if you believed legality and ethics always aligned you would not be here, now Soundwave, if you would be so very kind…?" Megatron gestured at the datasticks with both hands, claws flexing as if he was only just refraining from grabbing them, himself.

Soundwave unspooled a data-cable from his torso, one of its appendages lifted as if to request a moment.

"Now what?" Megatron barked, incredulous.

"Soundwave: Savoring." His visor turned toward Orion as if sharing a secret. "Megatron: Rarely this excited."

A gust of steam escaped between Megatron's bared fangs, his dorsal plating flared like raised hackles, and Orion instinctively pulled his field in tight and held very still. "Soundwave," Megatron growled quietly, the vibrations rolling through the medical berth and up along Orion's spine. "Beloved amica mine, whose Spark I cherish above my own. Why must you torment me?"

"Because Megatron:" Soundwave casually played the audio clip of "Beloved amica mine." With that, he seemed to shed the outer layers of his torso armor, the front and back unfolding into two flying minicon drones who landed on either side of Orion on the berth.

More symbionts. Their own datacables extended, selecting clusters of datasticks, and Soundwave joined in until the whole collection was divided up among them.

"Nerd-pipsqueak," the minicons' voices from earlier filtered through one of the drones' speakers. A sense of delighted recognition pulsed through their field.

"Fair," Orion chuckled.

"Data: Clean," Soundwave announced. "Cataloguing…"

Megatron leaned against a counter with his arms folded, as if consciously reminding himself to relax. But some of the deeper tension left his field.

Soundwave stiffened, visor turning blankly toward Orion, but before Orion could ask, Soundwave flipped one of the datasticks toward Megatron, who caught it so casually there may not even have been conscious thought involved.

"Medical journals," Soundwave explained, his cadence unusually rushed. "Focus: Spark anomalies and treatments. Detailed."

Megatron's jaw dropped, and the way he stared at Orion redefined covetous. "Oh, can we please keep him?" Without waiting for an answer from either of them, he pulled a datapad from his subspace and slotted the datastick in, reading through it in silent rapture.

Soundwave analyzed and laid each datastick out neatly on the medical berth, summarizing their contents as he went. "Community logistics; History of Functionist law; Governmental systems: Theory and practice; More surgical journals; Histories of revolutions and their aftermaths; Tactics of effective dissent…" Soundwave tilted his visor toward Orion in a way that felt inexplicably wry. "Towards Peace."

"Ah, that's my copy," Orion confessed. "You know all about - "

"Peace is obsolete," Megatron muttered absently, still reading.

Orion frowned. "How so? It's every bit as relevant as when you wrote it."

Megatron shook his head, optics still glued to his datapad. "The only ones who listened threw me in here."

"Those who abuse their power threw you in here," Orion emphasized, leaning forward. "But they're not the only ones who listened."

"That is a nice thought," Megatron said, glancing up. "But there is all the difference in the world between listening and acting. The action you've chosen sets you apart, which is why I desperately hope you will stay in touch."

Orion relaxed a little, leaning back on his hands. "I've got the week off, that might be a good start?"

Megatron's gaze actually stayed on him at that, not just a quick glance, his white irises darting minutely as he seemed to calculate something. "You may find the local hotels to be more comfortable than secure," he cautioned. "The bunks here have the opposite problem, but they are free, and we have a few to spare."

"Courting," one of the minicon drones accused.

"At this rate, I might," Megatron threatened, circling something on his datapad with a stylus. "Bringing me advanced surgical journals, where have you been all my life? I'm going to be up all night studying."

"Megatron: Also nerd," Soundwave confided.

Chapter Text

42 Years before the Decepticon Uprising / Civil War

Cybertron / Iacon / Orion Pax's apartment

Orion's washrack door had an unfortunate habit of not closing properly, some issue with its hydraulics causing the latch to disengage, and to slide slowly open even after it had fully shut.

This was normally only slightly annoying, because normally, Orion lived alone, and due to his apartment's small size, it ranked low as a fun place for friends to gather.

Orion preferred to think of his place as cozy, and furnished and decorated it to accentuate that aspect, while also doing his best to err on the side of efficient storage and walkable pathways through the main room.

He could obsess over optimal flow until Unicron returned, but this unit was not built for labor frames, or ex-gladiators. Orion caught a glimpse of how Megatron hunched under the ceiling in a washrack Orion already considered tiny.

"Oh, sorry, I meant to replace the latch," Orion explained, hurrying over to close the washrack door. He kept his optics averted to afford his amica at least a little privacy while he worked to restore the rest of it.

It did not sound as if Megatron was doing anything particularly private. But the closer Orion got, the less sure he was of what it could be. An odd clicking, so soft and rapid it was almost a hiss, reached Orion's audials, and for the life of him, he couldn't guess what manner of maintenance ritual Megatron was doing.

Curiosity got the better of him by the time he set his hand on the half-open door. And he couldn't push the damned thing closed because what he saw made his fuel-pump skip.

"Is that a Tetrahexian Centipede?" Orion demanded. Those were venomous as the Pit, and he didn't even know they could get that big. "Why are you eating it?! Spit it out!"

Megatron darted a glance at him, and then twisted away from Orion while cramming the rest of the writhing thing into his maw.

"Megatron, stop!" Orion commanded. He jumped up, grabbed Megatron's nearest pauldron, and braced one ped against the door-frame for leverage to force the larger mech to turn back around. "Primus' sake!"

Their comm channel crackled as Megatron opened it brute-force so he could speak without using his occupied mouth: [It's not a - ] He had to brace one arm against a wall to catch himself when Orion's maneuver unbalanced him with a surprised "Mmf!"

Orion saw his chance and reached. "It's scrap like this that made me promise myself - "

[It's not what it looks like, Pax! - ]

" - that I'd never let you and Ratchet meet!" Orion managed to grab the end of the centipede before it could vanish completely.

Megatron's optics flared. He opened his jaws further and lunged, engulfing Orion's hand, teeth framing Orion's wrist.

They both froze.

It was hard not to recall an anecdote about how one should never attempt to take prey from a cyberwolf. Megatron's fangs did not pierce his wrist, but they held him firmly.

The heat of Megatron's red optics pinned him just as effectively. [I am not performing an act of mechanimal cruelty,] Megatron sent. His tongue surged and flexed against Orion's palm and along his fingers as he swallowed. Trailing tendrils slipped through Orion's fingertips as the last of the writhing thing disappeared down Megatron's throat.

A queasy shudder rolled up Orion's spinal system.

Megatron released Orion's hand, licked his lips with a stunned expression, and vented a huff that could have bordered a longing sigh. "Oh…"

"What in the Pits was that?" Orion demanded, trying to shake the oral lubricant from his hand.

"...A cleaning device I built," Megatron said, gathering his wits back together. His throat cables flexed as he swallowed again. "It's no more alive than a pipe-cleaner, and serves much the same purpose."

Orion stared at him. "Why would you need that?"

"I have a unique tank," Megatron's smile was as dry as Kaon's desert. "And it has unique maintenance requirements."

The fact that Megatron did not just endanger either himself or a mechanimal he'd found finally caught up to Orion's processor. He vented sharply and let his helm thunk against Megatron's pauldron in relief. "Scared the Spark outta me," he grumbled.

"Make no mistake, Orion Pax. You are a delicacy," Megatron purred, encircling him in both arms as if he wanted nothing more than to keep him where he'd climbed. "But I prefer your Spark where it is."

"And I'd rather you keep yours, too," Orion snapped, pulling back enough to glare at up him. "What I thought - Do you have any idea how venomous those are?"

Megatron's smile turned impossibly warm. "You were trying to rescue me, and I almost bit you for it," he marveled. "For the record, though, if it had been a Tetrahexian Centipede, I would have taken your hand off, rather than let it sting you."

"Bad trade," Orion judged. "You can't fix my hand if you're dead."

"You'd be surprised how many toxins I've developed immunity to," Megatron bragged, managing to duck and twist through the washrack doorway, all the while still holding Orion to him. "Monsters in the Pits, assassins within and outside of them, it practically happened by accident over the years."

Held this close, Orion could feel a subtle vibration, just barely noticeable above Megatron's passive systems, originating from behind Megatron's abdominal plates. He glanced down, resting a hand curiously over one of Megatron's vents, to better detect that vibration. "Did something just activate?" he asked.

Megatron did not answer for a second, having gone still, and when Orion looked up, Megatron seemed to have just figured out how to stop biting his lower lip. "Just the cleaning cycle," he said, somewhat stilted, as if trying to focus. Perhaps that cycle was distracting. "Forgive me, I'm battling through notifications for more solvent."

Orion made a face. Solvent was only good for internals if followed up with the proper conditioners and lubricants - and even then, only some internals. And he'd never heard of anyone needing any of those for the inside of a tank before. The 'Do Not Ingest' warnings usually foretold a bout of purging, but some solvents were strong enough to strip a tank's lining badly enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. "How strong a solvent are we talking?" he asked.

"Fairly mild," Megatron waved it off. "I brought plenty, the thing's just needy."

"Uh-huh," Orion stared down at those abdominal vents as if trying to see through them. "Maybe I should arrange for Ratchet to meet you after all."

"No need, it's quite manageable," Megatron insisted, setting Orion back on his own peds, and pulling a dark flask of solvent from his subspace.

"He'd still find your condition a fascinating case study, at least," Orion said, heading for the kitchenette. "Do you want some high-grade first? I'm gonna grab a cube."

"Thank you, but I've already topped off," Megatron assured, taking quiet, careful steps to reach the couch without knocking anything over.

Orion paused, hoping Megatron had just meant energon, and not the kind from a victim. "Ratchet might also be able to help figure out how to cure it," he said, cracking open a cube and turning back toward the living room.

"If he's up for the challenge, I'd welcome him to try," Megatron agreed, both arms resting along the back of the couch. "Any friend of yours, I'd love to meet. Are his politics anywhere close to your own?"

"Pretty damn close," Orion assessed, taking a seat in the chair across from the couch. "He's not a Functionist by any stretch. Loves taking care of people, and hates all the hoops they have to jump through just to get what they need. Ratchet is a brilliant doctor, and an even better person. If he wasn't set on his current career, I think he's the kind of bot we actually need in the Senate."

Megatron nodded, but a smirk slowly overtook his expression. "And judging from your outburst earlier, I take it he's not one to suffer fools."

Orion scoffed. "Oh yeah! If it was him who'd caught you trying to eat a highly toxic bug, you would've gotten wrenched into next week," he warned.

"Hell of a bedside manner," Megatron noted appreciatively before taking a swig. "He'd fit right in with my crew. I like him already."

"Speaking of all that," Orion glanced at the washrack. "If you don't mind my asking, how high-maintenance is your tank?"

"Not terribly," Megatron assured. "The lining is prone to gumming up, interfering with my ability to absorb and process nutrients and energy. If I let it build up, it no longer runs efficiently. Which decreases the amount of time I can last in between feedings. And if it builds up too much, it won't matter how much I eat, I'll never be satiated." He tilted his helm. "Fortunately, detergent, solvent, and light scrubbing do the trick. I just need to do it regularly."

"But why design that tank-cleaning thing to look like that?" Orion asked, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. "Surely you don't have to make it so unpleasant for yourself."

Megatron grimaced around a sip of solute. "Let's be honest, it's not the worst thing I've eaten," he groaned, lifting both arms in a melodramatic shrug. "But design wise, I'm caught between a few conflicting priorities, with no way to reconcile them. Or none that I've yet found." He gave Orion an apologetic look. "If it's any consolation, its previous iteration was even worse."

"Let me guess," Orion lifted his cube for a drink. "A cute little turbo-bunny?"

Megatron barked a surprised laugh. "Hah! Don't give me ideas! The press would love that!"

Orion laughed a little, too, but couldn't help imagining how that would have looked, earlier. His own tank soured. "I would've had to kick your aft," he warned.

"You, and all my top brass," Megatron lifted the flask in mock-toast. "Except perhaps Shockwave. But there's this very particular, scathing look he gives when he knows you're being stupid on purpose."

"So, not a turbo-bunny," Orion thought out loud. "...Or anything along that vein?"

Megatron shook his head. "No, no. This device has never looked either appetizing nor innocent, in either of its iterations. And that's not an accident." He punctuated by pointing with the hand that held the flask. "Despite what Starscream has accused me of, I do pay attention to the optics of events. Just not always in ways he appreciates. For instance, few things say 'Do Not Touch' like a venomous invertebrate. Make it look threatening, and few think to question what it really is. Call me territorial, but I'd rather swallow an unpleasant-looking cleaning tool than one that's design, if pleasant enough, invites others to mess with it."

"I see," Orion assured. Of course Megatron would rather people think he ate venomous bugs as snacks, rather than know he just needed his tank scrubbed.

"I should mention," Megatron added uncomfortably, "I had not chosen a preexisting design to model the first iteration from, and had not consciously recognized what it resembled until it was cruelly pointed out to me."

"It looked like a scraplet, didn't it?" Orion deadpanned.

"Excellent guess," Megatron allowed. "But in fairness, it's not a species native to Cybertron."

"My xenozoology's a little rusty," Orion said. "I've been meaning to brush up on it."

"Well, when you do, let me know if you find inspiration," Megatron insisted.

"Noted," Orion assured. "So what did the previous one resemble, and who pointed it out?"

"Let me set the scene, so you get the full impact." Megatron swirled his solute flask as if he wished it were engex. "Starscream - because of course it was Starscream - barged into the compound's nicest private washrack one morning. And he had brought a whole detailing kit and some of that exorbitant polish. You know, the kind that makes a bot smell so good you want to lick the fragging air around them. Anyway, we had both just gotten back from a task that was not supposed to take all night. And while we were successful, we hit a few more unexpected snags than either of us were willing to casually tolerate. And as our respective modes of expressing our frustrations only grind each other's gears even more, we had gotten rather snappish with each other…

"So he just wanted a chance to decompress," Megatron shrugged. "But he'd banked on beating me to that washrack, and our tempers with each other were still running hot. So he sees me going through my routine, the thing's halfway in my throat by this point. And to his credit, he doesn't pitch a fit or try to start a fight. He just heaves the most exhausted, bitter sigh I've ever heard and says: 'The only glitch to get a private bath in this rusty pit, and it's your ugly little pet Quintesson.'"

Orion snorted into his high-grade so hard he backfired. He struggled to set his cube down on the side-table while trying to cover his mouth, coughing and laughing so hard his vox glitched and his optics started leaking.

Megatron couldn't help his own laugh, just watching him. "And I was so offended I threw up."

Orion had partaken of a few more cubes, he was vaguely aware. He awoke with an aching helm and a longing to brush his entire intake at least four times in a row.

And a slight twinge in his back from sleeping in a pile of tarps on the floor like a sparkling playing at building a predacon nest.

That's right, he thought, lifting his helm to squint at the room until it made sense again. The berth wouldn't have fit both of them.

But Megatron wasn't on the berth, and Orion could vaguely recall a drunken debate, of them trying to out-stubborn each other on who should sleep where. Megatron refusing to take his friend's berth and leave him sleeping on the floor in his own home, and Orion refusing to leave his friend and guest with such a lack of hospitality.

The tarp pile had developed mid-argument, both trying to build and claim it, and both muttering at each other to take the damn berth already as they fell into defrag cycles.

The very last two things Orion could remember once he'd realized passing out was imminent, were 1) warning Megatron not to put him on the berth, and 2) Megatron's quietly amused promise not to.

A big hand curled along the back of Orion's helm and coaxed him down again, tucking him against a silver chassis. Megatron curled himself a little tighter around Orion, humming some half-conscious, obstinate note against the general idea of Getting Up and Doing Scrap.

Orion relaxed. Cleaning his intake, much less finding his way to the washrack, sounded like too much work.

Perhaps belatedly, Orion wondered how much Megatron would have been risking if he'd allowed himself to partake in high-grade last night. How badly would his inhibitions have to be impaired before he'd consider swallowing Orion's Spark?

Orion couldn't quite uncouple the idea from the memory of that impossibly warm smile. The control in those jaws, and the slick flex of that tongue. That soft, fervent, covetous "Oh..." as if he'd like to wrap Orion up into himself, entirely.

Probably just the high-grade talking, affecting his memory. Perhaps it hadn't entirely worn off yet. But something about it all didn't seem to line up right.

He could still barely hear the soft brushing sounds underneath Megatron's abdominal plates. Almost a soothing white-noise. The cleaning device's battery was probably low after staying active all night, but the cadence of it had not slowed at all.

Orion idly rested a hand against those plates, fingertips tracing vents releasing warm air. To think, something existed that wasn't harmed by visiting Megatron's tank. Go figure Megatron had to design such a thing... And to think Megatron could sleep so easily with all that activity inside him. Orion could only imagine getting queasy.

Those abdominal vents twitched at the touch, but Megatron didn't move otherwise. His venting remained deep and even.

"That thing have a camera?" Orion muttered quietly. "Or haptic feedback?"

A red glow softly illuminated the edges of his digits, such that Orion wondered for a moment if he had left the blinds open enough to let the morning in.

Megatron was watching him when Orion looked up, and Orion might have called his expression considering if it wasn't so sleepy. After a big, hard yawn, Megatron relaxed again, blinking lazily at him. "Curious?" he asked.

And there was something so gently surprised in his tone that Orion forgot for a moment that such a question could possibly be interpreted as mocking. "Yeah, how do you know it's brushed everything properly?" Orion blurted after he recovered.

That considering look sharpened as Megatron thought the question over. "Sensors in my lining tell me whether they're obstructed or not," he explained. "But it's good to be thorough. I'll consider a sensory suite and uplink for the next iteration."

He released Orion, rolling onto his back and stretching, arching with a pleased groan as underlying components audibly shifted and realigned.

"Much as I'd love to take the rare advantage of a calm morning to sleep in," Megatron began, sighing as he relaxed back into the nest, "I'm getting hungry. May I borrow your kitchen, or is that a faux pax in Iacon?"

Making a guest cook? Yeah, kinda. Especially after they'd slept on the floor. "I'll fix something," Orion insisted, clambering to his peds. "I think I got a few sheets of - "

Megatron's hand engulfed one of Orion's forearms, tugging just firmly enough to warn Orion that he had about a handful of seconds to sit back down on his own before he'd receive non-negotiable assistance.

"Not while you're rasping and squinting like you're fighting off a virus," Megatron scolded. "Do you have a favorite breakfast place nearby? I'll order delivery."

"As long as you don't eat the delivery bot," Orion half-joked before he could think better of it, sitting back down.

"Since you asked so nicely," Megatron conceded, unbothered. His hand relaxed around Orion's arm, but he did not let go.

"I've got some med-grade in the cupboard, I'll just have that," Orion decided. The added minerals would help his system recover. "If I can keep it down," he muttered, not enthused by the idea of trying it just yet.

"Yes, I know how much you hate purging," Megatron said, releasing his arm and patting him on the back. "I do have a med-kit, if you'd prefer your coolant injected again. Not much I can do about your breakfast, though, unless you want your energon already processed."

Orion twisted and stared down at him. He belatedly supposed that for a Sparkeater-cannibal, that maybe had to be counted among the less taboo things Megatron could possibly suggest. "I, uh... That 'Don't Eat The Delivery Bot' Rule applies to me, too," he said, as if carefully introducing the idea. He was half-sure Megatron was joking, but it wasn't that funny, and on the off chance he was serious, they were gonna have a problem.

Megatron actually threw his helm back, he laughed so hard. "You're precious," he said, wiping his optics as he calmed down. "I meant that you could take it from my lines."

Orion blinked hard, staring at him while Megatron looked like he was struggling not to laugh again. "Sure, what's a round of casual siphoning between amicas?" Orion asked, a little too stunned to actually sound sarcastic.

Megatron must have heard it anyway. "I'll get you something gentle on your system," he decided, his eyes slightly unfocused as he made the appropriate arrangements through his HUD. "If the med-grade has you feeling more like yourself, then you can enjoy something a little heartier, too. If not, my offer still stands. Extra zinc?"

Orion stiffened. "Megatron, wait. I'll pay."

"What is this, a hotel?" Megatron rolled his optics.

"No, it's a faux pax," Orion corrected. "You're my guest."

"Who showed up unannounced, who doesn't have overcharge-aches, and who nearly took a bite out of you," Megatron tacked out on his claws. "I'm paying," he summed up.

Orion pulled up a local menu on his HUD, but before he could select anything, Megatron clasped him by a pauldron.

"Don't even think about it, Pax," he warned. "Let me do something for you for a change."

In the end, they had no better luck out-stubborning each other over breakfast than they had over sleeping arrangements. Orion rushed to the door to accept twice as large an order as either of them had intended, and to give the delivery bot a hefty tip.

The med-grade was survivable, and the extra zinc appreciated.

Chapter Text

7th Year of Second Cybertronian-Quintesson War / Since Founding of the Cybertronian Coalition / Autobot-Decepticon Truce

Arcturan System / Wreckage of a Major Quintesson Hub

No remains were recovered, no matter how much or how long they dug.

A massive detonation had obliterated the Quintesson's Arcturan hub, along with any sign of Optimus and the handful of Autobots that had been imprisoned there.

Word of their capture spread fast, and both sides of the truce answered in a roaring rush, arriving too late. Soldiers ready for a rescue mission instead found themselves putting out fires, moving rubble, gleaning whatever they could from any intact Quintesson data, and searching for any sign of either survivors or corpses.

Of corpses, there were many. Mostly techno-organic tissues only vaguely recognizable as Quintesson. And metals slagged so thoroughly they could only be distinguished between possible-Cybertronian and possible-Quintesson-tech with the thinnest of confidence.

Fragging heinous, Megatron reflected, lifting a warped beam out of the way as teams of soldiers, Autobot and Decepticon, worked to clear and stabilize the area. All that talk about sharing and morale, and Optimus had not even left any Quintessons for Megatron to take his wrath out on. Instead, that wrath was left to simmer in the back of his optics and throat.

He had little way of knowing for certain whether or not this destruction was Optimus' work. But he could already hear the rationale behind it. Taking out a key hub of the Quintessons' net of control in this sector, at the cost of himself? Optimus did not go looking for that sort of trade, but when backed into a corner, that exact brand of reckless bravery made him unfathomably dangerous. Not only to himself, or to those he sought to thwart.

Perhaps they had escaped somehow, Megatron wondered. Or at least his Autobots. Optimus had a talent for finding ways out for everyone but himself. But if anyone had survived, they'd had more than enough time to contact the Coalition.

Days passed, and no scanners picked them up in any of their territories. No incoming hails from any of the missing.

No matter. Any moment now, Optimus would walk around some corner, or start chatting with someone, just within audial range. He would eye Megatron warily, as he had learned to, but he would accept their factions' united effort with open arms. They would go back to icy silences, arguments in war rooms, in dispensaries, on bridges, in medbays, and out on the fragging battlefield until the Quintessons were too dead to attempt enslaving anyone ever again.

Possibly even before that point, knowing the Prime's capacity for mercy.

He did not even need to be conscious, Megatron caught himself bargaining silently. Both the Ark's and the Nemesis' medbays were fully prepped and on standby. Teams were ready to bridge any survivors to receive immediate medical attention. Optimus would be found, he would be tended to, he would wake up, and then Megatron could wake up from this too-quiet nightmare.

Yet still, weeks later, Optimus failed to appear. And Megatron went through the motions, picking through scrap, carefully avoiding optic-contact with this new, aching absence. Holding deformed, possibly-familiar shapes while his processor refused to assign recognition to anything in this tomb, too far from home.

Orion Pax had walked into his life, from seemingly out of nowhere. Optimus Prime had risen when it seemed least possible. He blind-sided Megatron at every turn, it's just what he did, now would he please fragging hurry up and do it again -

His comm pinged. Megatron opened Starscream's report with only a shift in his optics to outwardly show it.

Still no sign in any of the other sectors, concurring with every other report thus far over the past weeks of intensive searching. And with not only the Allspark lost, but the Prime missing or dead, the Cybertronian Coalition had more to deal with than they'd bargained for. The Quintessons would rally and take advantage of this loss at their earliest possible opportunity, and searching like this was only giving them more of a head start.

Megatron did not let them enjoy it for long.

17th Year of Second Cybertronian-Quintesson War / Autobot-Decepticon Truce / Cybertronain Coalition

Cybertron / Ruins of Iacon

"I think I always knew I wouldn't be there when you die."

Night in Iacon's Capitol Plaza; deserted, silent, and still wrecked from both the Quintesson Invasion and the Uprising twenty years ago; from the slaughter of the Functionist Senate, and the corrupt, false Sentinel Prime at Megatron's hands.

And of brave, foolish, vital Orion Pax, in his attempt to prevent the massacre of not only a dethroned enemy, but of ideals he had thought Megatron shared. A major turning point in history, and the mass grave of their old life.

A far more fitting memorial than the ruins orbiting Arcturus. And after a decade of terrorizing Quintessons, and no miraculous reappearances, somewhere along the way it had finally sunken in for Megatron that Optimus was gone.

Megatron sat on the steps, right next to where Orion had fallen from Megatron's own cannon in one fateful split-second.

One instant, Sentinel's long overdue demise was imminent. The next, it was as if Orion had teleported, just in time for the fusion blast to turn the entirety of his left shoulder and a third of his chest into so much shrapnel.

Even now, 'Stop!' hung in the still air. Megatron wondered if anyone else who visited could sense it, too.

He thumbed a little vial of innermost energon. Remembered falling to his knees in this exact spot, ripping Orion's busted chestplate open, every second falling away too fast.

Remembered the dawning comprehension in Orion's flickering optics as Megatron leaned in to capture that guttering Spark before it could vanish -

It wasn't supposed to be like - This was not how he'd planned to - This was the worst possible way for -

Each thought had self-terminated as they had arisen. Nausea curled in his tank. The radiant pulse of Orion's Spark was a hot, crackling pressure on Megatron's lips and tongue -

It was like headbutting an explosion. Megatron remembered thinking in that initial split-second that Orion's Spark had escaped him and faded out, taking his with it.

But some terrible flash of more-than-light sent Megatron reeling back, bleeding from his optics and mouth. A parody of the gladiatorial paint he had worn as the Sparkeater Champion.

When his vision cleared, he was left blinking up at a newly formatted Optimus Prime, the Matrix glowing from within his chestplates. His new facemask failed to conceal anything:

Nothing remained between them but the smoking cannon on Megatron's arm.

Megatron looked up at where Optimus had gazed down at him in righteous hurt and a horrific new understanding. As if he had seen Megatron's Spark just as clearly, and found instead a black hole.

And now, far beyond too late, the confession fell as uselessly as Megatron had ever feared it would:

"Because as long as I was there, you wouldn't have."

79th Year of Second Cybertronian-Quintesson War / Cybertronain Coalition

Outer Reaches of Perseus Arm / Decepticon Flagship Nemesis

Megatron felt the great shifting of something in the Universe through Soundwave's field, blooming to fill the Nemesis bridge in a rare moment of unguarded intensity.

He leapt out of the captain's chair, blinking and recalibrating his sensory suite for as clear an understanding as possible of whatever happened next. Soundwave's fuel-pump had increased pace, and Megatron's responded in kind, engines growling, ready to move the instant he understood what was needed.

Soundwave leaned forward, half out of his own seat at the comm station, gripping the armrests like they were the last things anchoring him to the ship. 

Normally, Soundwave enjoyed the challenge of only applying as much speed and force as was necessary, turning everything he did into an energy-efficient, smooth dance. Between the energy he saved and his already impressive well of stamina, Soundwave was practically inexhaustible on the battlefield and the dance floor alike.

And he was unmatched at dancing that line. It was a holdover from his signature gladiatorial style, demonstrating to anyone lucky enough to watch him that he could move more swiftly if he wished, and simply knew it was not needed. For a mech who juggled the minutia of dozens of priorities a second, it gave him a distinctly unhurried, unbothered air. The appearance - and the truth - of his superior control in any given situation.

Soundwave's facial screen snapped toward Megatron like they were sparklings about to race.

With a quiet, bemused chuckle, Megatron relaxed, dropping the temptation to demand Soundwave tell him whatever the frag had just happened. If it were imminently dangerous, Soundwave would have already relayed, and they'd be in the thick of accounting for it. 

No, this was excitement. The likes of which Megatron had not seen in far too long.

Megatron approached, indicating his interest without demanding his amica hurry up and tell him. Soundwave would, he just needed a moment.

The station displayed a recently received report from Buzzsaw, aboard the Coalition scouting frigate Aphelion Phantom.

Soundwave had full faith in his symbionts, and betrayed no outward sign of distress whenever any of them volunteered for or accepted a remote mission, but he coveted any and every update they sent him.

Especially lately. Ultra Magnus had his own, dangerous reputation, and Megatron was not entirely pleased by the idea of Buzzsaw sharing crewspace with him. But Magnus had demonstrated repeatedly that he was among the most dependable Autobots to uphold the truce, and was pragmatic enough to cooperate on missions he deemed appropriate.

And in the unlikely event that Magnus decided to be a nuisance, Skywarp specialized in returning that particular favor. Ideally, he would only need to for any Quintessons they found.

The Aphelion's mission skirted close to a known mudball long-speculated to support organic life. Buzzsaw had confirmed this upon the frigate's arrival to that stellar system, and proceeded to gather, decipher, and document information from a distance - as was his habit whenever encountering a new, inhabited world. 

Apparently said mudball was home to a bunch of chatty little things who had recently learned how to broadcast through radio waves, and had been doing so ever since as if it were an innate bodily function.

So Buzzsaw did not even need to move in close to monitor it. A side-project which undoubtedly broke up the monotony of searching for ever more elusive signs of Quintesson activity. True to its name, the Aphelion could safely stay out in the fringes of the solar system, only periodically swooping in to absorb and convert sunlight into fuel, and to deploy probes for better intel gathering.

On a previous update, Buzzsaw had gleefully put forth the idea of changing the Aphelion's name to Nibiru. And after reading the context, Megatron was sorely tempted to make if official. Playing along with conspiracy theories was part of Decepticon culture since before they'd been called Decepticons.

But that noisy little mudball would never know their little joke, and as cooperative as Ultra Magnus could be, he had little patience or understanding for Decepticon humor, and had snuck in a lengthy, if well-worded addendum arguing against the idea.

Buzzsaw's latest report contained an amount of data so staggering, it came with an accompanying, customized navigation function to help sift through it and tag priorities.

"Music." Soundwave breathed the glyph in reverence, the harmonics of his own voice singing. "Earth: has so much music."

84th Year of Second Cybertronian-Quintesson War / Cybertronain Coalition

Outer Reaches of Perseus Arm / Decepticon Flagship Nemesis

Earth Music Fever had spread like a virus across the Coalition over the last handful of years. In retrospect, it felt like being hit by a missile.

Megatron saw it coming, and had no illusions that it would not make an impact. Some part of him had just thought he'd be able to catch or deflect it. Or more literally, that he'd be able to regard it as a bit of trivia - a glimpse into the way these particular aliens experienced and expressed their lives - before getting the frag back to work.

But these squishy little organics loved music probably as much as - Megatron had previously thought - only a Cybertronian could. He had his preferences, but in general, they wrote the kind of scrap that got into your circuits and made you want to stop everything and get down.

Soundwave and his hellions played any and every Earth song they caught out loud in their downtime. What once was a cacophony throughout the Nemesis developed into makeshift stations where they took votes and bribes for the next songs in a growing multitude of playlists. Sometimes they even put concerts together, DJs among jewel-toned lights and flowing engex.

Apparently Blaster and his own symbionts were doing the same thing over on the Ark. Occasionally, both communications teams would stage public rap-battles, broadcasted from both flagships, or join forces for some of the biggest cross-faction parties yet.

To say it was good for morale was an understatement. Inter-faction cooperation rose by an unprecedented level, such that Megatron had to double-take at some of the newer logistics reports, and verify that there hadn't been some mistake.

Given that alone, that anyone expected him to be bothered by all the music honestly confused him a little. The first handful of times he'd strode into a bridge, engine room, or even the fragging dispensary, a hush had fallen, the echoes of the last, abruptly cut-off notes ringing through the new static in the air.

Each time, Megatron continued his business with nothing more than an absent "Turn that scrap up."

Frenzy used that voiceclip in a remix not long after.

Megatron even caught himself swaying to the tunes while working, or tapping the edge of his datapads with a stylus to the rhythm, or mouthing along to foreign syllables that Soundwave had enthusiastically informed him were alien poetry.

He should have known by that point that the music wasn't a virus, it was a gateway drug.

Because Buzzsaw sent language packs as fast as he could make them, and each one settled into Megatron's processor with its own unique flavors and whimsical quirks. They each lent themselves to poetry in a myriad of fresh ways. Like seeing the universe through a new lens every time.

And the sheer amount they wrote. Much of it, hauntingly familiar. Not just in their music, but their histories, stories, fantasies, ambitions, fears, relationships... For rapidly decaying piles of hairy meat with hydroxyapatite endoskeletons, it seemed almost unfair how relatable they could sometimes be.

"Optimus would have loved them," Megatron had realized quietly.

Before long, dance-offs broke out as a favorite method of settling disputes. A favored pastime already for a species that danced in and out of each form they took, but access to so much new music revitalized it. 

"The Autobutts started it," Rumble had accused without heat, venting from exertion and reaching to steal Frenzy's energon cube.

But perhaps it was inevitable. Before either of them knew it, Megatron and Starscream were regularly wearing each other out, all the while roasting each other with mixed Neocybex and multi-lingual Earth puns in their own rap battle dance offs.

The music was so infectious that even combat turned into a dance.

One of Megatron's most recent favorite Earth songs glittered across his circuitry as he careened through the stratosphere of a barren world in his jet mode, cannon-shots echoing the percussion, spinning in and out of his root mode to cleave through Quintesson ships and aerial fighters alike, all synchronized to the rises and falls of an upbeat melody.

It was one of those songs that only sounded cheerful if you weren't paying attention. A lot of human artists seemed to gravitate toward that strategy, and Megatron found it resonant and cathartic enough to leave him slightly dizzy even when he wasn't ripping apart a suborbital battlefield alongside the Armada. 

The only hint the tune gave to its lyrics' nature dwelled in the chorus' subtly wistful melody; a longing ache, stretching but never quite reaching, that followed him all the way down to the kneeling impact of his landing.

An 'I miss you' that never made it past his own teeth. It felt good to write it with his body, even if only briefly.

But he supposed he could be projecting, he considered as he stood. Fire and debris rained down under a strange new sunrise.

Two high priority alerts pinged him simultaneously. Autobots inbound. And Skyquake's vitals hitting critical.

Megatron leapt back into his jet mode and sped back up into the remains of the battlefield as it continued to rain down.

He pinged Skyquake, and the warrior's link opened with a strained [I hear you, Lord.]

[Can you land?] Megatron asked. He could just see Skyquake's jet mode spiraling in the distance.

[Not without detonating, I expect,] Skyquake estimated.

[Transform, if you are able,] Megatron commanded, angling to kill his airspeed as he approached, and transforming, himself.

He collided with Skyquake mid-transformation, holding onto an arm as both their root modes re-emerged and re-settled. Skyquake's starboard side was shot through badly enough that Megatron was momentarily shocked that he had even risked transforming at all, energon droplets slinging from the gaping puncture as they whirled.

It looked almost as bad as Orion's had. At least Skyquake still had both his arms.

[Megatron!] First Aid sent. [We can save him, just land him, alright?]

But Skyquake's optics were already flickering with low energon warnings, his face and grip both slackening. Under what remained of his chest plating, Megatron could sense the spin of his Spark slowing, stuttering -

He would be dead before he hit the ground.

Megatron held on and rolled them both out of the path of a flaming Quintesson fighter, letting it plummet past them. [Open your Spark chamber,] he commanded.

Skyquake grimaced, struggling to focus. His chestplates shifted and ground out of the way on damaged tracks, and flickering, multicolored light spilled out.

[Megatron, don't!] First Aid tried again. [Please, don't!]

Megatron held onto Skyquake, leaned in, and engulfed that light into his mouth. Like always, a jolt swept through the frame as the Spark was forcefully disconnected from it. Megatron gathered the body into an easier carrying hold, and activated his thrusters as he swallowed the Spark whole, slowing their descent back down to the red sands below.

A small team of Autobot medics stood looking up near his landing zone, right next to a groundbridge portal. Megatron's thrusters kicked up a cloud of sand and dust as he touched down, Skyquake's body heavy in his arms. His tank growled, full of warmth, dormant processes humming and flaring to life deep under his armor.

First Aid had put one arm up to protect his visor until the dust settled. He stared for a moment at Skyquake's empty Spark chamber, pauldrons slumping. "Really?" he asked with a note of disbelief. "Just. In free-fall?"

Seeing no need to elaborate, Megatron turned and started walking away. [Soundwave,] he sent. [I need a bridge to the medbay.]

"We could have saved him, Megatron!" First Aid called after him. "How does anyone follow you, when this is what you do to them?"

"Worry about your own soldiers, Autobot," Megatron said as a new bridge flared to life before him. The same words he had given Optimus when the truce began, and the same words he always gave whenever this manner of objection was raised. "Mine know what they signed up for."

88th Year of Second Cybertronain-Quintesson War / Cybertronian Coalition

Sol System / Earth

Technically, and as far as public knowledge went, the Great Silence ended when Earth detected a cluster of flashing lights in the vicinity of Jupiter one fateful September night. Which kept flashing in no discernible pattern for about ten minutes.

Just as the first theories about this phenomenon raised their heads, the Great Silence met its more literal end in a series of messages:

«Given that there's no way you didn't detect the smackdown we're having in your front yard, here's some context before you panic:»

«This is not an invasion.»

«It started as a beer-run whilst wearing our sweatpants, but it seems our opponents had the same idea.»

«So this is more like a turf fight in front of a gas station.»

«But before you shit bricks, we got it contained. You're all going to be fine. Shouldn't get much closer than this.»

«Apologies. Our xenographer delights in both metaphor and profanity, his cursory investigation no doubt leaves much to be desired, and he is adamant that an informal tone will help ease any stress our presence causes. I am not entirely convinced of this method’s efficacy. Reiterating the sweatpants comment, we are not here to cause you harm, and sincerely hope that our temporary proximity does not cause you undue defecation.»

«Also: Hello, Humanity! We come to you in peace and bearing good news: Despite the fight, the vast majority of the known Universe is not a Dark Forest.»

«I'm just sorry your First Contact with us couldn't be more chill. Here's hoping it only gets better from here.»

«Also also: You guys are super chatty. Like, you gave me so much to work with. Easiest language-pack syntheses I’ve done in a long time.»

Several Earth organizations scrambled to send messages back. However, given that it takes from half an hour to a full hour for a message at lightspeed to reach Jupiter, much less for a message to return, they expected not to receive a reply for at least an hour or two.

So what they got was not a reply, but they only had to wait just over ten minutes for it.

«Dammit. Bastards slipped our net, headed sunward. Pursuing now.»

By this time, nearly every Earthside telescope with a conceivable angle on Jupiter was pointed in its direction, following the flashing lights as closely as they could.

«Shit. Alright, we - »

A full twenty-five minutes of silence passed after that incomplete transmission. Some began to speculate that the battle had abruptly gone south for the chattier party.

They eventually resurfaced with a cryptic «Motherfucker» by the time the fight had somehow flipped known physics a double-deuce and teleported way closer, suggesting that they possessed Faster Than Light technology. Venus hovered in the distance as the new landmark to locate the fight.

«Sorry, not you guys,» the next message relayed. «Multitasking's a bitch. The motherfuckers are headed right for your planet. We're on their tail and pulling with everything we got.»

«I know you got no reason to trust us yet, but there's no reasoning with these assholes. They're petty as hell, and they'll make us fight in your proximity just to make us pull our punches. It's not the first time they've pulled this shit, it's won them battles before.»

«If they squirm away again and breach your atmosphere, we will force the fight over your oceans to mitigate falling debris damage. But just in case you see a bunch of really big shooting stars, I'd recommend getting underground, if you can.»

Another twenty minutes passed before the fateful messages:

«Entering Earth's orbit.»

«We will clean up our mess asap, and see what we can do to make this right.»

The skirmish had just entered Earth's upper atmosphere when the Aphelion Phantom was hailed by a Cybertronian signal.

«This is Optimus Prime, of Autobot Outpost Omega-One. Identify yourselves.»

Ultra Magnus slammed into the console. Buzzsaw was under no delusion that big guys moved slowly, but Primus' ports, the mech did not have to teleport! They already had Skywarp for that. He could get how Magnus might be a little emotional, but he still barely flew out of the way in time to avoid a thorough flattening.

Granted, Optimus Fragging Prime appearing back from the dead on this random mudball was a hell of a surprise, if it wasn't a desperate Quintesson diversion. 

«This is Autobot Commander Ultra Magnus, on board the Coalition frigate Aphelion Phantom,» Magnus reported as he continued piloting evasive maneuvers, vox nearly trembling with a relief so keen it threatened to summon up the grief it stemmed from. «Optimus! We thought you were dead!»

«I will explain in due time - »

Gullible Autobots were gonna be the death of him. Buzzsaw blared a warning and dove down onto the console. «Nice try, Quint!» he snarled though the ship's comm line. «You're gonna pay in blood for using his voiceprint.»

"Suspicious Decepticon," Magnus grumbled. Through his field, Buzzsaw could feel the mech fighting an unprofessional urge to roll his optics.

«Buzzsaw?» most-likely-not-Optimus asked. «I thought you might be the xenographer. Throttle back. My team and I are alive, and I will explain once we deal with the Quintessons.»

«If you are a Quint, and this is your play, you've already doomed yourself,» Buzzsaw warned, trying to ignore the reassurance of being recognized. If it was a ploy, it was a damn good one. «And if you really are Optimus, try not to die again. Your Autobots have been all mopey without you.»

«Noted,» maybe-Optimus replied wryly. «Don't die either, drinks are on me.»

And Primus, but he sounded so much like Orion, the Quints couldn't have possibly faked that.

Buzzsaw hoped.

[Alright, I get the hype now,] Skywarp confessed on the crew channel from the gun-turret. The recoil of the ship's cannons echoed over his end. [What a Chad.]

In fragging English.

Ultra Magnus turned, as if he could squint right at Skywarp from here. 

[Optics on the fight, big guys] Buzzsaw chided. And, not one to waste an opportunity, he snagged the entire exchange with Optimus and sent both it and their coordinates to both flagships over the Coalition Emergency Line. [Calling reinforcements. Let's get those drinks.]

Chapter Text

In retrospect, Buzzsaw supposed, little hints like the 'we' in 'once we deal with the Quintessons' should have jumped out at him.

And just. Optimus Prime's Jump In, Think Fast approach to nearly everything.

Granted, Buzzsaw had not known Orion for terribly long before the war, but even for so short a time, the mech had a clear tendency to hurl himself helm-first into whatever he deemed important. He had the same feral, Go For The Throat Cables audacity that Megatron had, even though they did not always share the same targets. Or conflict resolution methods.

Becoming a Prime had done frag all to temper that instinct.

And granted, Buzzsaw had not yet gathered any intel suggesting any Cybertronian presence on Earth. Due to the whole Transforming Being Extremely Useful For Infiltration and Stealth thing. So he had no idea what kind of scrap Optimus might be able to pull.

Apparently Optimus, and whoever else had miraculously survived the Arcturan Hub Detonation with him, was still fond of the good old Raiding Enemy Ships Via Groundbridge tactic. Which was absolute Subspace Trajectory Calculation Hell on whoever had groundbridging duty, unless they had a processor anywhere near as brilliant as Soundwave's.

And given the mysterious, unprompted burst of light and sparkle of flying debris from a Quintesson carrier-class ship's main engine, the fragger had probably brought Wheeljack with him in the boarding party.

In fairness, that stunt took a lot of heat off the Aphelion. However -

Distortions in the upper atmosphere heralded the arrival of a Quintesson fleet, their flowing shapes glinting in the morning light like a collective tidal wave.

[Optimus] Ultra Magnus warned, now that they had established a battle-channel. [Be advised. If you are not groundside, return there now. We are not losing you again.]

[Negative, Aphelion] Optimus responded - in a surprisingly compassionate tone for a superior officer whom a subordinate had just tried to order around. [We're not abandoning you.]

A bolt of caustic energy soared from a Quintesson battleship's cannon toward the Aphelion Phantom. And was promptly swallowed by a groundbridge.

The bolt reappeared in the groundbridge's exit point, right behind the battleship that had launched it, just inside its shields. Which promptly bloomed, glittered and dissipated over a cloud of debris where the battleship's stern had been a second ago.

[Tore 'em a new afthole!] Skywarp laughed, firing on the incoming fleet. [Fragging surgical reflexes, Omega One! Whoever's on groundbridge duty, their drinks are on me!]

[You hear that, Ratchet?] Elita-One laughed, the sound of gunfire peppering the background. [I hope for his sake Skywarp's account is stacked!]

Ratchet's voice joined in: [As much as I'd love to give them a taste of their own medicine, that wasn't me.]

Which meant -

Elation and panic vied for dominance in Buzzsaw's Spark. Elation because the only bot he knew who could pull off Subspace Trajectory Calculations that rapidly, precisely, and accurately, was Soundwave.

And panic because that, combined with the Decepticons' preferred method of dealing with Quintesson fleets, meant -

[Hold fire! Prime is in the blast-radius!] Buzzsaw sent to Soundwave's comm, while linking it to the battle-channel. [Optimus, get clear now!] he ordered as another Quintesson ship's engine burst. [We have - ]

[- is he doing up here!?] Starscream shrieked, slightly distorted from being relayed through Soundwave's link. [Megatron, hold the frag together! Don't you dare - !]

Something like a muffled groan filtered through. It sounded like Megatron trying not to purge while being electrocuted within an inch of his life. [Starscream, retreat. Soundwave, get him out of here - ]

The telltale gravity flux right behind them was the only warning they got before a groundbridge portal opened up inside the Aphelion Phantom's bridge. Given how the damn things could be used mid-battle, it could've been anybody's.

Buzzsaw instinctively folded up and prepared torpor protocols. If he was extremely lucky, he might survive whatever was about to explode, and someone would be able to track his lifesignal and pick him up among the debris.

A field so powerful it was almost a solid force washed over him. Buzzsaw uncurled in time to see Optimus striding out of the groundbridge, toward both him and Magnus. He was followed by Wheeljack, Arcee, and Elita-One, all covered in Quintesson gore.

"If we are retreating, we're not leaving you behind," Optimus said, out loud and into the mission channel. "Ratchet, we - "

[Prime: secure,] Buzzsaw sent.

Megatron's vox came through strained with agony and a soaring rapture: [Optimus - !]

Above that iconic mask, blue optics widened in recognition.

Buzzsaw's visual feed whited out, with only the vaguest hints of pale amber to indicate the deepest shadows. It took him a microsecond to realize that it wasn't some optical malfunction; the whole bridge had lit up. But it came with no shockwaves, no fanfare, no new portals, and no Reunion with the Allspark.

As the light died down, and as everyone turned to the viewscreen, the Quintesson fleet boiled in fire like an extra sunrise.

"Oh, he didn't," Buzzsaw half-laughed, half-wheezed as both realization and the shockwave finally caught up. The ship's energy shields flickered as they registered impact, and a heavy jolt swept through, forcing everyone standing to rebalance.

"He didn't what?" Ultra Magnus demanded, side-eyeing him.

"Was that antimatter?" Wheeljack plastered himself to the viewscreen, running Primus only knew how many scans.

Ultra Magnus' side-eye turned direct and accusatory.

Seeker squadrons flew past so fast and hard, if the atmosphere was any thicker at this elevation, the ship would have shuddered with the force of their passing.

It did shudder when the Nemesis followed, close enough overhead that they could feel the pulse from his cannons firing on the Quintesson fleet. His thorny silhouette eclipsed the rising sun, angling to block any return fire even as he advanced.

Primus knew his shields could take it. But Buzzsaw could already deduce from the overprotective maneuver, and that blazing intro, that Megatron was about as spun up as he could get. With Quintesson forces fewer and further in between, the Decepticon Leader leapt on every skirmish and battle as if he would never get another chance to get some proper fragging exercise.

Though this time he seemed to forgo exercise in favor of ending this scrap as quickly as possible. Given that blazing intro, Megatron had gone out ahead of the Armada. With Starscream wielding him in his cannon-mode as the opening salvo.

And from the sound of it, he had been about to unleash all that hellish power just before the Hold Fire request went through, and had sat there for several seconds choking it all back like he was edging the Galaxy's Deadliest Overload.

[Megatron?] Optimus asked.

Megatron sounded disoriented, and his vox was rough with overheating. [Huh?]

[What was...] Optimus frowned as he seemed to rethink his question. [Are you alright?]

A pleased, dizzy hum answered. [Never better, Prime.]

Prime stood there for a moment like he was searching for something to say to that. Ultimately, he chose not to. [Apologies for the delay, Ratchet,] Optimus said, both out loud and into his comm, staring out at the battlefield as it rapidly turned into an airborne, flaming Quintesson junkyard. [We are all well, old friend. The Coalition flagships have arrived.]

"That woulda been us a few seconds ago, no wonder y'all flipped out," Wheeljack noted, sheathing his swords and watching the explosions with something between thrill and reverence. He whistled low, optics tracking the Nemesis. "Upgraded the big guy's cannons, I see."

"Indeed," Ultra Magnus judged.

Between the Constructicons', Shockwave's, and Starscream's competitive creativity, and both Megatron's and the Nemesis' own eagerness to indulge them, yeah. The Big Guy had gotten quite a few upgrades since Optimus and his team last saw... Maybe the Quints had thought removing Optimus from the board was a win for them. But with Optimus had gone Megatron's last remaining sense of restraint. Few places reflected that quite as effectively as the Decepticon Science Division's budget.

And, well, the galaxy at large, given the vastly reduced Quintesson military presence.

Buzzsaw shrugged his wings, his natural instinct to brag overridden by his Not Being A Snitch. That was Autobot High Command's job. That, and constant attempts to:

1) figure out whether the rumor of Megatron gaining an antimatter super-weapon was true;

2) if so, figuring out where the frag he got it; and

3) regardless, how to take it away from him.

Among other inconveniences.

So Megatron preferred personally hunting down Quintessons, and specifically not inviting any Autobot forces along. Unleashing himself must have been more satisfying when there was More For Him. And when he didn't have to deal with the drama that came with Autobot High Command's attempts to figure out what the hell to do about him every time he cut loose.

Or when he didn't have to deal with them flipping out over his 'post-battle triage procedure'.

One would think a group who had truced with a surprisingly lucid Sparkeater, no matter how reluctantly, wouldn't be so goddamn shocked whenever he, you know, ate Sparks. Especially when Megatron limited himself to only eating the already-dying. But that scrap had almost ended the truce several times over since before Optimus had disappeared. So to put a mesh patch over a broken strut, Megatron had taken a firm Decepticons Only approach to every major battle.

In practice, this mostly amounted to jumping on any Quints as soon as they found them, before the Autobots could rally and join in. And they always tried to join in, because Primus knew they never fragging listened. Even when they found themselves swamped in their own battles, and Decepticons rushed in to clean up, they consistently ignored Megatron's orders for them to retreat. It got so bad, Soundwave had to groundbridge each dying Decepticon onto the Nemesis for Megatron to salvage in peace.

Tensions ran so high during the last Coalition High Command meeting that Megatron had finally gotten petty enough to run his tongue over his fangs during a casualty report, just to get on General Prowl's nerves.

Prowl had immediately upended the table, demonstrating how much stronger and more livid he was than he looked.

To that end, Buzzsaw felt a little remorseful about including the Ark in that Emergency Line message. But their finding out was inevitable. And if they found out that he'd left them out of the discovery that Optimus Prime was alive, they would have been even more of a helmache to deal with.

Hopefully the miraculous return of their Prime would be a sufficient distraction from the proof that the Sparkeater they bargained with had a bigger gun than they thought. At least long enough for Decepticon High Command to figure out how to stiff-arm them when they start getting nosy enough to figure out he was that bigger gun than they thought.

«Aphelion Phantom,» Prowl hailed them on the ship's comm as the Ark hovered into view above them. «You are clear for docking at Bay 02, Pad 47 for repairs. We will take it from here.»

«Acknowledged, General. Inbound for 02-47,» Ultra Magnus returned, angling for the opening bay doors on the Ark's starboard side.

"Ratchet," Optimus said into his comm again, uncoupled from Soundwave's and relatively private again. "The ground teams will need assistance shielding from all the extra debris and radiation - "

A new portal flared to life behind them.

"Many thanks." Optimus' smile was torn between relief and a new kind of tension as he looked out over the battlefield. "Send everyone my regards," he said, one hand clasping Magnus' pauldron. "I look forward to catching up with them later, after running damage-control."

"Always damage-control," Ultra Magnus agreed, covering Optimus' hand with one of his own, as if reassuring himself that his Prime really was here. "It's good to have you back, Optimus. Be safe."

"Likewise," the Prime returned warmly, before following his team through the new groundbridge.

The Aphelion glided into Bay 02 easily. And of course it did, because Magnus could park anything anywhere with a few microns of clearance. And frag, but there was clearance... The Nemesis was not small by any metric, but Buzzsaw had forgotten how big the Ark was. The whole Seeker Armada could sleep comfortably in just this bay.

"Anything you want to share?" Ultra Magnus prompted, in that Authority tone that meant Buzzsaw better cough the hell up before some nitpicky Autobot rule landed his aft in the brig.

"Cyg?" Buzzsaw offered, just to be a pest.

"Buzzsaw," Magnus warned.

"Fine, more for me." Buzzsaw slotted a cygar into his intake, activating the end of it with a zap from a data-cable. "You gotta learn to celebrate, Mags."

"While your faction possesses an antimatter super-weapon?" Magnus accused dryly.

"Oh, please," Buzzsaw blew a little cloud from his vents as Skywarp dropped out of the gun turret. "Whatever you think we have, you have your Prime back. That's a level enough playing field, right?"

"Ooh, I'm gonna tell Megatron you said that," Skywarp taunted, leaning on the console. "Unless you give me a cyg."

Buzzsaw flicked one out of subspace, and Skywarp caught it.

"We have a truce," Ultra Magnus insisted as he bee-lined for Pad 47, all under the docking bay's speed limit. "Facilitating that truce should be our primary concern, as Cybertronians, not all this talk of playing fields. Not when we should be on the same team."

"You Autobots are always whining every time that 'same team' invents a fun new toy," Skywarp snapped. "It's like you've never heard of making deals and bartering and shit. We gonna have to send Swindle over to teach you some basic economics?"

Ultra Magnus pointed sharply in the direction of the fight, or whatever was left of it at this point. "That was not a toy. That is a frankly insane amount of power, which must be regulated, and only used responsibly, if ever at all."

Skywarp scoffed, rolling his cyg from one corner of his mouth to the other with his tongue. "Stronger bots than you have tried to regulate Megatron. Good fragging luck."

Ultra Magnus squinted, his systems quieting as his field turned jagged. "Are you saying that was Megatron himself? That he somehow did that?"

"Don't be daft," Buzzsaw laughed it off, reaching one data-cable over to zap Skywarp on the elbow.

"Ow! Brat!"

[You can snitch on me, but make scrap harder for Megatron, and I'll end you,] Buzzsaw threatened over their private comm link. Of course, Megatron had done frag all to hide it this time. But there was no faster way to kill a ruse than to give up on it at the first sign of cracks.

"No, idiot," Skywarp covered, glaring at Magnus. "Like, regulate Megatron's decisions! You Autobots always approach it all wrong, like, I know you all love red tape, but since when has it ever impressed him?" He tapped his own helm. "Economics, remember? Offer something sweet if you want him to bite."

"Do not..." Ultra Magnus had to take a moment to gather himself. He even slowed the ship down to a stationary hover for a moment. "Do not use that metaphor. Not with him."

"Relax, that's not what I meant," Skywarp insisted, slumping and leaning an elbow on the console with much exasperation. "Offering him Sparks would just piss him off anyway."

Ultra Magnus squinted again as if he was trying to make that last statement make any sense. Or perhaps trying to wrap his processor around the idea that the Autobots could ever make such a gruesome offer. Which, in fairness, was entirely incongruent with reality. Thank Primus.

"He'd take it the wrong way," Buzzsaw sighed, figuring he better take the reigns before Magnus wandered somewhere worse. Damage control, indeed. "Like you're trying to domesticate him."

"Are you speaking from experience?" Ultra Magnus demanded, disgusted.

"Well, an experience I witnessed," Buzzsaw clarified. "Early on, just after we overthrew the Pits, some kingpin in Kaon's underground offered him a feast of trafficked bots. Kept calling them 'livestock', and wanted Megatron to 'turn' him in exchange... So Megatron turned that idiot into a pile of components. Kept him alive through most of it, too."

"And ate his Spark?" Ultra Magnus checked, indulging some flicker of morbid curiosity.

"Nah. Love the poetic justice and all, but he's a picky eater," Buzzsaw huffed, resettling his wings and taking another drag. "His condition isn't quite like the legends say; not all Sparks tempt him the same. Some, he actually can't stomach. Some, not even he can resist, even if he wants to."

Like Orion's. No one said it, but it hovered heavy in the air.

"And you think that makes for a level playing field?" Ultra Magnus deadpanned as he oriented the Aphelion on Pad 47. "When your leader wields power so carelessly, and craves the Spark of ours?"

"Well, that's the fun paradox with him," Buzzsaw shrugged his wings before rising and perching on Skywarp's pauldron. "The more Megatron wants you alive, the more he loses himself when your Spark starts to fade. And he hates that state. Few things rattle him like that loss of self-control, and the guilt that follows."

"Guilt," Ultra Magnus repeated skeptically. Which, of course an Autobot would doubt Megatron capable of such. There was no point arguing with them over it, and Buzzsaw mentally kicked himself for even letting it slip.

"So if he wants you alive, no one fights as hard as him to keep you that way," Buzzsaw continued. "And now you can rest easy! Because now that we've found him, we're never losing Optimus again." He flicked another cyg toward Magnus, who easily caught it. "This is a good day, Mags. Don't forget to celebrate."

Skywarp rolled his optics, but dutifully took that as his cue to warp them both out.

[You yapped to hell and back, and you called me a snitch?] Skywarp grumbled over their private line as they soared toward the Nemesis.

[The official story ain't snitching,] Buzzsaw countered.

Earth / South Africa / Western Cape

The majority of the wreckage hit the Southern Atlantic, with Brazil's eastern coast, and Africa's western coast, getting the clearest views of the brief, second sun that had flared overhead around dawn, the colorful aurora it left, and the long rain of flaming debris that followed.

Some of that debris angled uncomfortably close to populated areas. Fortunately, Wheeljack had time to finish an assortment of shield generators before joining the skirmish team. And each generator also possessed a gamma-sink to siphon and trap organic-unfriendly radiation in subspace pockets, to be safely converted.

Bumblebee, Bulkhead, Jazz, and Cliffjumper raced to plant and deploy them through each at-risk town, village, and city before groundbridging to the next. Elita, Arcee, Wheeljack, and Optimus joined in shortly, dividing up the remainder of the generators and locations.

Taking a moment to pause and look up, it was no wonder why. Quintesson ship pieces of varying size, too many to count, left searing, smoking trails as they hurtled down. That pause turned into only the briefest of hesitations before Bumblebee gunned his engines, working double-time.

Some places, the roads were clear, with people sheltering in place. Bumblebee appreciated that, it made making them safer in a timely manner far easier. Other places, the roads were clogged with terrified people attempting to evacuate. Not that Bumblebee could blame them. They didn't know anyone was looking out for them yet.

Ratchet insisted that groundbridging 'on the proper fragging ground' was far easier than bridging to and from moving targets in the uppermost atmosphere, but that very same work had left him ragged, in need of coolant and a good recharge. They could all hear it in his vox.

So Bumblebee tossed secrecy out the window, transformed, and just ran around traffic wherever it built up. The Aphelion's crew had already given the game up anyway.

Eighty-one years, by the local count. Eighty-one years of dodging humans, befriending some, slowly decoding the Iacon Database, hunting relics, synthesizing energon, building a hidden base and an actual, working groundbridge generator... Eighty-one years of Optimus sending encoded Autobot messages out into a region of space so far removed from the Coalition, the whole team couldn't help but wonder if they'd already seen the last of them...

On one hand, it was kind of Spark-warming, seeing how fast and hard both sides of the Coalition responded to finally finding them.

On the other hand, it looked like the Decepticons were just as heavy-handed as ever, and that Optimus' caution was entirely warranted.

Fear for Earth gripped Bumblebee's Spark. This was a bad place for a three-front war, if it came to that. Dragging their war with the Quints here was bad enough already.

"Moenie hieraan raak nie," Bumblebee cautioned gently as he knelt and planted his last generator in the center of Grabouw. The group of four humans just across the street watched him warily, occasionally peeking around a van they had been in the midst of loading.

The generator buzzed to life, unfolding, extending, and projecting a holomatter hexgrid 100 meters into the air above. In the distance, the hexgrid over Cape Town knitted with it around their edges, forming an extended dome over the region.

"Dit is hier vir jou beskerming," Bumblebee said with a salute before spinning into his Camaro disguise and gunning it back north to regroup.

And it was heading north on the N7 that Bumblebee detected a Decepticon signal just on the edge of his sensors. One whose speed and rapidly descending elevation matched the bright streak of violet careening down into the Atlantic, just off the coast.

Bumblebee locked on and pinged them, wondering who they were and whether or not he should call Ratchet. If they were badly injured, leaving them in Megatron's claws was not an option.

Static answered just before impact broke the connection.

It was about a six hour drive to reach the closest point on land to where the fallen Decepticon had crash-landed off the coast. And according to their lifesignal, survived.

Bumblebee called Ratchet for a groundbridge this time, and reluctantly advised him that the medbay may be required.

[Already prepped] Ratchet assured. [I figured someone would need it before this scrap ends. Just surprised it's a Decepticon.]

[We're getting you a vacation after this,] Optimus promised, pulling up in truck-mode alongside Bumblebee.

Together, they veered off-road over sand and rocks, transforming to traverse the more difficult spots on their way to the shore.

They found Skywarp lounging on the beach, watching falling, distant debris streak through the cloudy sky into the ocean, and smoking a cyg. The crash-landed Decepticon's signal remained active, but submerged about two hundred meters into the water, slowly dragging closer.

"No love lost in your faction, huh?" Bumblebee marveled, pausing just outside swatting range. "Not even gonna try and fish them out?"

Skywarp regarded him with a lazy smirk, and didn't bother to get up. "Not until he cools off enough to handle. Doctor's orders."

Optimus, who had already strode a few paces into the water, stopped, his field withdrawing close around him.

Bumblebee blinked. "Cool off, what...?" Thermal scans revealed the water here was several degrees warmer than it ought to be, and the temperature increased dramatically the closer it got to the center of a wide radius. Bumblebee detected a few curious fur seals swimming along the perimeter of that warmth, as if they couldn't help investigating, but knew better than to get any closer.

And at the center of that heat, a glowing-hot outline of a large Cybertronian figure matched the location of the lifesignal.

"How fragging hot did he get?" Bumblebee demanded, a little freaked out. "And a brine-quench is the worst! It's gonna make him so brittle, he's gonna need a complete overhaul!"

"Probably not," Skywarp shrugged. "He's got a comically high heat capacity. It's why he's taking so long to cool down."

"If that's true, how'd he overheat that bad in the first place?" Bumblebee demanded. "If it was just re-entry burn, he would've cooled off within minutes, especially in the water!"

"He's got a few theories," Skywarp sighed, as if Bumblebee was just being annoying. "Don't you two have terrified squishies to protect?"

"All at-risk zones have been accounted for and addressed," Optimus said, staring out over the waves.

This scrap did not compute. Bumblebee stared down at Skywarp. "Does he even have circuitry left?"

"You want his medical history, you can ask him yourself," Skywarp invited. "Won't be long. I'm bribing him with coolant."

Steam began to rise off the waves, and rapidly gathered into a fog as the water over one approaching spot began to roil and glow.

A familiar helm emerged, glowing almost as hot as his blood-red optics. Water boiled and hissed against his jagged, flared plating, and steam poured from his opened vents, wafting and billowing from his frame as he strode toward shore.

Bumblebee took a step back, silently hoping Optimus would follow, that they could just leave. But Optimus stood waiting as his former friend and nemesis approached.

"'Never better,' you said," Optimus called with a shake of his helm.

"Worried for me, Prime?" Megatron laughed, as if delighted by the idea. However the hell his vox survived, overheating lent it even more of a growl than last remembered.

"And everyone in your blast radius, as usual," Optimus allowed, giving the scattered trails of smoke and fire in the atmosphere a pointed glance.

"Better my blast radius than the Quints'," Megatron argued, ducking and dunking his helm back underwater for a moment. The water hissed and sputtered against his overheated armor, but that armor glowed a bit less when he re-emerged. "And look at you," he continued, lifting glowing, steaming arms to gesture toward the hexgrid shields on the horizons. "Still minimizing collateral wherever you go! The locals are lucky to have you."

There was a kind of postponed wrath in that last sentence. Bumblebee wondered if he imagined the jealousy coursing underneath like a vast subterranean river.

"All that time, and you could not have cobbled together a goddamn quantum comm relay?" Megatron seethed. "Do you expect me to believe that Wheeljack of all mechs does not know how?"

Optimus just watched him stoically.

"Soundwave has just informed me," Megatron snarled as he continued toward shore, "That you and your team have been sending out radio signals?" He slapped the surface of the water hard, sending up a shower of droplets that mostly evaporated before they could fall. "As if radio can reach anyone from this remote fragging backwater!"

Something in the set of Optimus' stance relaxed. "Worried for me, Megatron?" he returned.

Megatron raised his arm. Not his cannon-bearing one, but he pointed a talon at Optimus like he could still shoot him with nothing more than that. "I'm going to shrink you," he threatened, vox thrumming like an earthquake. "And keep you locked in a compartment inside my armor for the rest of your days."

"Aw, really?" Optimus asked, mildly amused. "What happened to all that talk of freedom?"

"What happened..." Megatron glowered at him as he finally trudged up onto the rocky shore, wreathed in steam. "...to not jumping in front of my cannon?"

"I did not realize you..." Optimus' optics narrowed as he studied Megatron, and he tilted his head in a kind of resigned realization. "...Are the antimatter weapon."

Megatron huffed a little gust of steam at him and held out a hand imperiously toward Skywarp.

Skywarp flipped to his peds and tossed a coolant pack. Megatron caught it without even looking, bit it open with his fangs and drank it all in one go. Bumblebee could hear it sizzling on the way down; watched condensation bead and steam from Megatron's throat cables. Wisps of evaporated coolant escaped his mouth after he finished.

"Disregarding the madness of building such a thing into yourself," Optimus noted, looking him over as the last of the heat-glow darkened. "It's never left you like this before, has it? Still think it was a good idea?"

Megatron frowned at the half-melted coolant pack stuck to his hand, and glared at Optimus like he was thinking of going for the energon in his lines next. "When I don't have to swallow it," he growled.

Without waiting, he turned and stalked toward Skywarp, who flashed by his side, carefully took his hand - somewhat insulated with that coolant pack stuck to it - and warped them both away in a surge of light.

Optimus contemplated the last place they stood, the hush of the surf, the loudest thing left. Bumblebee stood quietly with him while lingering steam dispersed in the wind.

"According to the local definition," Starscream noted, leisurely circling the floor-inset oil-bath in Megatron's darkened washrack. "Nearly detonating yourself holding back like that for your long-lost rival may have been the gayest thing you've ever done."

"According to the local definition," Megatron returned, cracking a deep red optic open as he lounged neck-deep in oil so hot it shimmered. Which had been about as cold as they could get it before he'd stepped in. "Fuck this homophobic planet."

Starscream had never even realized the potential self-destruction involved in Megatron strangling his own firing mechanism at the peak of his power. Or what he would ever take such a risk for. If he had held back even a second longer...

Starscream had half-wondered if he would ever see Megatron alive again, when he'd followed the order to retreat from his leader-turned-possible-antimater-bomb. Or if there would even be a corpse left behind. But Megatron had managed to channel most of that energy where it was intended to go, and as he always did, survived the rest.

"Oh, throttle back," Starscream rolled his optics, kneeling and swapping the empty coolant pack on Megatron's helm for a fresh one. "It's not an insult among them anymore."

"Progress," Megatron noted, grabbing the new coolant pack, popping the seal with his fangs, and draining it. He groaned in relief as he finished, blowing a cloud of evaporated coolant from his mouth, and pressed the newly emptied pack to his helm, taking advantage of any lingering chill it contained. "But in so many other ways, it's like a miniature, pre-war Cybertron... Do you think Prime would help me conquer them if I can prove it's for their own good?"

"In your dreams, perhaps," Starscream reclined on his side along the edge of the bath, lightly tapping his talons along Megatron's helm, feeling the pads of his digits flash uncomfortably hot just before pulling back to repeat the process. "Tragically, one mech's fun little bonding exercise is another mech's nightmare."

"Then let me dream for a little while," Megatron sighed, closing his optics and tolerating the contact. Probably because Starscream's talons were relatively cold.

"His Majestic Tyranny dreams of collecting exotic pets?" Starscream asked, pushing his haptic sensors' heat tolerance by dragging one talon along the side of Megatron's helm.

"They make decent music," Megatron argued in favor of the idea. "And did you know their blood is iron based?"

Starscream grimaced and spat out a sarcastic "Yum."

"Mmm..." An intrigued little flutter in Megatron's field, there and gone in a flash, just made it all worse. "Snack-sized, aren't they?" he speculated. "And so soft... I bet they'd squirm nicely."

Starscream shuddered and gagged, and Megatron unleashed one of those quiet laughs that still managed to vibrate through the floor.

"As if you're in any danger of running out of material to horrify Autobots with," Starscream sneered, waving one hand as if physically shooing the idea away.

"As a professional, I must always be prepared," Megatron noted reasonably.

"Now imagine if you directed your professional efforts toward winning Prime over instead of annoying him every chance you get."

"How ambitious!" Megatron turned his helm just enough to aim a mischievous optic and a fanged grin at Starscream. "I'm listening."

"Tell the truth," Starscream leveled at him, point-blank.

A surprised laugh escaped Megatron, but some of his mirth faded around the edges. "Yes. Why annoy Prime when I could just drive a blade through his Spark? And the truce while I'm at it."

"Less driving a blade into it, and more removing the one you already stuck there," Starscream countered. "As it stands, this scrap is unsustainable. Now that Prime is back, the Autobots will actually have a chance at thwarting us again. You have an opportunity to mitigate that. Or to at least give him a crisis strong enough to distract him for a good while."

"You're serious," Megatron realized.

"You think I'm trying to waste both our time?" Starscream asked. "You said you were listening."

All remaining good humor faded from the optic Starscream could see, and oh, how the full spectrum of Megatron could shift in real time... How that creative, relentless visionary could transform into a coldly malevolent force of nature.

"'We will name them what they are'," Megatron quoted softly. "And your plan is to tell the truth, Decepticon?"

"I don't mean literally tell the Autobots the truth," Starscream glowered back. "Of course they won't believe it if we tell them. I'm saying be clever about it. Reveal just enough for them figure out the rest for themselves."

"Even if I leave the pieces for Optimus to put together," Megatron pointed out, "and even if he does, he's smart enough to suspect my hand in it. And to brace for the blade in my other."

"So? Just don't stab him," Starscream smirked. "I'm sure you can manage that if you really try."

"The Autobots are not as clever or persistent as you, Starscream," Megatron frowned. But he sounded more mech-floundering-for-excuses and less sentient-black-hole again. "You solved my scheme during its heyday. Not one of them ever managed to."

"Are they smart enough or aren't they? Make up your mind. And Prowl is fairly clever," Starscream vouched grudgingly. "Don't you dare tell him I said that."

"I hope he gets both revelations on the same day," Megatron laughed, raising the empty coolant pack in mock toast. "May he blow a gasket."

"Prime is, too," Starscream continued, trying for casual in case that black hole reappeared. "He would be more likely to welcome the idea. Once he gets over it."

"I killed any chance of that when I shot Orion Pax," Megatron corrected, letting his arm drop back into the oil with a sullen splash.

"Don't be melodramatic," Starscream scoffed. "Optimus is a leaky fuel pump. He would forgive Unicron Himself if he believed Him truly repentant. And you have an advantage: Orion knew you, somewhat."

"And I knew him," Megatron sighed. "Even if you were to get your way, he would be livid."

Chapter Text

Earth / Jasper, Nevada / Autobot Outpost Omega-One

It had been a hot second since the console screen was last sub-divided to this extent.

Video calls were a convenient means of negotiating with Earth organizations. Now that convenience extended to the Ark and Nemesis as well.

Prowl looked somewhat more worn than last Optimus had seen, but no less determined, sitting at the command console on the Ark's bridge. For all his stoicism, a great relief shone in his optics. Optimus could imagine the burden he and so many others had to shoulder all this time, and hoped he'd be able to make it up to them all.

The link with the Nemesis was almost too dim to make out at first, with only softly glowing light. Megatron rested with his helm leaning back on the edge of a floor-level oil-bath, with what looked like a mostly-emptied coolant pack laying over his optics. Something propped up the datapad he was apparently using to join the video conference.

He looked like he could be in recharge for all the lack of movement. Or like he was taking a lazy day for detailing. The oil shimmered, waves of heat flowing and uncurling like a time-lapsed nebula.

The humans were largely responsible for splitting the screen up so much, so many different authorities wanted front row seats to Whatever Just Happened. They were all either punctual or early.

Optimus appreciated the respect, but a small part of him had hoped for a little more time. When he had awoken early that morning, he'd truly had no idea how today would unfold.

"Thank you, everyone, for joining us," he began. "Many questions have been raised by today's events, and my hope is to answer as many as possible. While some of our human allies are aware of the story of how we arrived on Earth, I would like to take a moment to inform our Coalition, and the world at large.

"I am Optimus Prime, a Leader of the Autobot faction of Cybertron. Eighty-one years ago, a team of Autobots and myself were taken prisoner by our Quintesson enemies, and held at a major fortified hub in the Arcturan System. This hub possessed a spacebridge, which we rigged for detonation and used as our means of escape. Of great concern to us, is that this spacebridge's coordinates were already set for Earth as a destination. My team and I remain concerned that the Earth is an important fixture of their plans in some way. We have had occasional run-ins with Quintesson scouting parties over the course of our stay here. Their exact goal remains obscure, but we cannot afford to drop our guard.

"It is a great relief to finally be reunited with our Cybertronian brethren," Optimus continued. "And I look forward to re-joining efforts to defend and rebuild our world. All the same, we are thankful for the home and friendships we have made here on Earth, and I cannot in good conscience leave Earth defenseless. Moving forward, I intend to make Earth's safety a top priority in our negotiations, starting with offering the shield generator technology we deployed to protect the South American and African coasts during this latest battle."

As openers went, it seemed acceptable. The humans largely had their own procedure for turn-taking in asking questions, but sometimes when they got excitable, it felt more like a crush of reporters clamoring for answers.

"You mentioned your 'Autobot' faction," a dignitary Optimus had not yet made acquaintance with jumped in at one point. "Would you please elaborate?"

"Gladly," Optimus said, inclining his helm in a little nod. "Translating from Neocybex to this world's languages is a unique challenge, but much of the time, our terms can still keep some of their original meanings. The 'auto' prefix was chosen for its double-meaning, evoking both 'automobile', which we found charming due to our transformation abilities, and 'autonomous'.

"The emphasis on autonomy reflects the origins of our faction, which arose in response to the injustices of the old regime that ruled Cybertron, which had condemned many of its people to poverty and enslavement. Our world underwent a costly revolution, fell into civil war, and the Quintessons took advantage of the chaos to try and enslave us for themselves, as they had done before, long ago."

The night the Quintesson Invasion began had started out as one of the darkest Optimus could ever remember. The months preceding felt like it was all he and his Autobots could do to keep up against the Decepticons; like one of Megatron's deathmatches - an inevitable closing in.

The first Quintesson ships hit Iacon; the first and one of the last Autobot bastions. Optimus had just enough time to look the likelihood in the face, of his people falling first in a terrible three-front war.

Jet engines screamed into the city, and for a blink he thought the night had gotten considerably bleaker. He had just started ordering a city-wide evacuation through groundbridges and sublayers, organizing teams for covering fire, and joining the fray -

When he realized the Decepticons were not taking the opportunity to try and finish them.

They swarmed the Quintesson fleet with bombs and gunships and cannons the likes of which Optimus had not even seen them use before. And after the fleet fell, they helped pull the wounded, Decepticon, Autobot, and civilian alike, from the rubble.

Megatron himself had approached through the settling dust and ashes, bleeding and scuffed and determined as ever. But upon eye-contact, some of that manic light in his optics softened over a laugh he couldn't seem to help.

He'd laughed just like that while training Orion in the arena, while relaxing in Orion's apartment... And that Optimus could see where this was going, could feel the lure of it, hurt like prying open a still-bleeding wound.

"Come now, Optimus. Are you so shocked?" Megatron had asked him, dangerously close to teasing.

"That you of all people are offering a truce?" Yeah, he had not thought shock was unfair of him. "Or that you seem to think we can trust you?"

"It's a foregone conclusion." Megatron had come to a stop right beside him, giving him an imperious, sidelong look as if to suggest otherwise was lunacy. "Can you afford to pass up access to our weapons, tech, intel, and resources?"

He knew damn well they couldn't, and whose fault was that? Optimus bit his glossa to keep from snapping the question. Megatron would only take it for a compliment. "How long do you expect us to believe this will last?" Optimus had asked instead, falling back on pragmatism.

"Only as long as is mutually beneficial, of course," Megatron had said with easy arrogance, like he thought he had all the time in the galaxy.

The memory flashed through his brain module in the span of a blink. Truth be told, Optimus was surprised to see the Coalition still intact. When they'd first arrived to Earth, he had half-feared finding the Autobot Top Brass replaced with political puppets, or outright Decepticons, having taken over or absorbed the faction in his absence.

That fear, to his great relief, was giving his Autobots far too little credit. Whatever had transpired in his absence, they'd held their own against not just the Quintessons, but Megatron, too. He couldn't be more proud of them.

"Who's the guy napping in the bath?" another human dignitary asked.

"That is Lord Megatron, Leader of the Decepticons," Optimus said quickly, unsure of how Megatron would receive such phrasing, and not willing to risk it.

Megatron was already lifting an edge of the deflated coolant pack with the back of a dripping talon, one glowing red optic locked onto the camera.

"Please do not mistake his current presentation as dismissive," Optimus continued gently. "He was an active combatant in this latest battle, and overheated while pulling a maneuver that gave us a decisive win. The oil-bath is medical in nature, to help his plating and underlying components cool evenly, and at a rate that will not compromise tensile strength."

"I can speak for myself, Prime," Megatron said, his vox still rough.

Hushed voices came through several connected human lines. "Does he have fangs?" and "Why would a robot need fangs?" were two of the most prominent reactions.

Megatron regarded them for a moment of neutrality before letting the coolant pack rest over his optics again. "Because I bite," he said simply.

The sooner they got away from that subject, the better.

"Did you say he's Leader of the 'Decepticons'?" General Bryce chimed in before Optimus could pick a safer topic. Because Frag All, he guessed.

"They were originally known as Ascenticons," Optimus explained, feeling like he was now dancing across a mine field. "Named for their rallying cry, which translates to 'Rise up'. They are another prominent revolutionary faction that opposed the Functionist Regime. While both our factions shared the same goal of freedom for all Cybertronians, we disagreed on the methods required to achieve it. The previous, self-proclaimed Prime coined the term 'Decepticons' in an attempt to discredit Megatron and his movement."

"And he kept the term?" General Bryce asked, frowning. "Announcing 'we can't be trusted' right out the gate? That's worse than useless. What kind of con starts out by giving the game away?"

Optimus opened and closed his intake several times, unsure of Megatron's reasons for doing so, or how to present them in such a way as to ease anyone's mind. Or even if he should.

Earth was going to learn sooner or later that the Cybertronian Coalition was an alliance of survival, and just how tight a spot the Autobots were in. He just hadn't banked on them learning sooner.

"Astounding," Megatron marveled, still relaxing. "The first non-Decepticon to appreciate the funniest joke to come out of the whole Uprising, and you're a fleshling from out in the galactic sticks. I thought comedy was dead."

"You kept it as a joke?" Optimus blurted, halfway between stunned and annoyed at himself for being stunned regarding anything Megatron said anymore. The Decepticon faction's dumb fragging name was the only true thing about them. It wasn't even that funny.

"Tell me something, Prime," Megatron challenged quietly, tossing the coolant pack off his face and propping both arms along the rim of the oil-bath. His armor gleamed softly in the low light. "What is the point in negotiating with those who are determined to believe, or to at least present the narrative, that your word is worthless? When has that ever worked?"

"Aside from demonstrating that your word isn't worthless?" Optimus challenged back. But of course, among the things Megatron lacked, it was the capacity to do that.

"Easily said, for the most widely-beloved Prime in living memory," Megatron shrugged. "You've never had to fight anyone who will only believe the worst of you. I've been doing that since the mines."

"So you just gave up on negotiating? Became the monster they claimed you were?" another human dignitary asked. A woman with a vaguely familiar face. Optimus thought he could safely bet she'd already heard the Autobots' account of the war, and just how dangerous Megatron was.

"Nothing so melodramatic," Megatron said. "Only after accepting that I was never going to change their minds did I understand how to use it."

"What possible use is that?" someone else asked.

"Simply taking advantage of confirmation bias," Megatron said. "People the galaxy over cling to it so easily, especially when they are already frightened and looking for reassurance. Let people distract themselves with their own stories, theories, and convictions - or better yet, feed into them - and they're a lot easier to outmaneuver. Show me what someone expects to hear, and I'll show you their leash."

"Apt," General Bryce supposed, giving the camera a look that Optimus couldn't help interpreting, at least a little, as an 'And You Allied With This Fragging Guy?'

Optimus could hardly blame him, if that was even his intent. Maybe he was projecting. But everything about Megatron screamed 'evil' and 'dangerous' in a number of human design conventions, and his latest words only cemented that impression.

Fortunate, he supposed. Anything that helped the humans keep their guard up.

It didn't stop him from gripping the edge of the console tightly enough to make the metal creak. He wasn't sure what Megatron had planned for Earth yet, if anything, but he'd have to stay alert. He could not regret contacting the Aphelion Phantom and assisting in the battle, or reuniting with the rest of his faction, but Decepticon involvement complicated everything.

And he knew what it was like to be leashed by what he wanted to hear.

It might have been a balm, if he had not cared so much, to know that he had been duped; that manipulation was just how Megatron operated.

But Optimus didn't think it would ever stop hurting, all the little reminders that the Megatron he'd thought he'd known had never truly existed.

And even knowing he'd never existed never helped. The grief persisted, sharp and aching in the Spark he'd nearly lost to the monster behind the mask.

Maybe he would be easier to let go of if that mask didn't slip back on so easily.

A handful of hours later, another meeting took place.

Autobot Outpost Omega-One had never been expected to fit all of High Command in it, and was therefore never quite this crowded before. But it was the most secure location for such a meeting. Prowl regularly had the Ark swept for any unauthorized recording devices, and kept stringent control over access to the authorized ones...

But there was only so much one could do against the likes of Soundwave.

Crowded as it was, the ex missile silo was already shielded, and still an unknown to the Decepticons, for now.

Meeting there also meant eliminating any security risks that would come with transporting relics.

Or that would've come from the shock and excitement when Optimus brought out the Starsaber.

"Have you had that the whole time?" Prowl asked, staring.

Optimus shook his head, holding the Starsaber across both hands as if for ceremony. "We found it twelve years ago, here on this planet."

"How is that possible?" Ultra Magnus stepped forward, one hand half-raised as if checking the impulse to touch it, to make sure it was real.

"Because the Quintessons found and copied the Iacon Database; the catalog of relics the Senate ordered hidden, to keep them out of Decepticon hands," Optimus said. "The Quintessons also managed to locate the planet the Database references, but very little if anything beyond that, as far as we can tell.

"Thanks to Jazz, we also gained a copy before we escaped through the spacebridge." Optimus rested the Starsaber on a pallet and folded his arms as he measured his next words. "Deciphering the coordinates has been slow and complex work, and we have not yet decoded even half of them. But it is entirely possible that the Allspark is among them. If so, it is imperative that we find it before both the Quintessons and the Decepticons."

"Right," Jazz tried, but could not quite laugh. "Quints getting their tendrils on it is bad enough, but Allspark plus Sparkeater maths out to Everyone's Fragged Forever."

"In person?"

The next day, Megatron squinted from his end of another, much smaller video call, as if the whole idea was a joke that had not landed particularly well. Optimus could sympathize. "Prime, are you certain this invitation extends to Decepticons? The humans watched us blow up a Quintesson fleet - "

"That was you, just own it," Optimus said, standing at the comm station in the Omega-One Outpost with his arms folded.

"And they've decided they're comfortable enough with the idea of us, that they want to meet us face-to-faceplate?" Megatron outlined skeptically.

"After all the trouble you went to, to be off-putting?" Jazz asked as he passed by behind Optimus. "Mech, I'm surprised, too."

Optimus shared a glance with Agent Fowler, who stood on the mezzanine and put up his hands in a very 'frag this' manner. In fairness, he was just the messenger. But as the Decepticons had not given humanity any way to access them except through the Autobots, Optimus' arm had been twisted into sharing that loathsome duty.

"I guess that's about right?" Optimus continued, turning back to the screen. "What, are you still cooling down?"

"No, why? Are they going to want to shake my hand?" Megatron asked, and if Optimus did not know him so well, he would have missed the little flicker of worry in those red optics. But he wasn't sure whether Megatron was more worried about burning them, or worried for their sanity. Or if it was possible disgust at the thought of touching an organic.

"It's not like they can make you do anything," Optimus tried to wave it off. "Look. Humans are curious by nature, and hospitality is a big deal across their cultures. And if you're fretting so much over the idea that you've scared them - "

Megatron scoffed.

" - then here is a chance to try and smooth things over," Optimus finished. "Besides, when I promised drinks for everybody, I didn't realize the Aphelion crew invited both the Coalition's flagships. And as food and drink are important components of human parties, too, they're bringing a lot of ethanol. Crazy as it sounds, they drink variants of it for fun."

"I know, I've been reading Wikipedia," Megatron muttered. "Fine, Prime. We'll be there."

"May I reiterate, you don't have to," Optimus insisted.

"Nonsense," Megatron smiled like he could smell dread half a planet away. "You've had the locals to yourself for eighty-one years, after all, and I'm curious, too."

Mass-displacement was often a handy feature for in-person diplomacy with other species, at least until they got used to Cybertronians - hopefully gently - at larger sizes.

Optimus likened it to how humans often crouched down to signal to cats, dogs, and other smaller animals that they had friendly intentions. And given some of their cultures' traditional connotations of different sized mythical creatures in humanity's older art forms, Optimus did not want to risk sending the wrong message, even subconsciously, by showing up in his towering default size like some kind of ogre.

Nine feet tall was about as small as he could make himself. Unfortunately, even that seemed intimidating to humans meeting him for the first time, so Optimus took extra care in his movements, mannerisms, and tone. Even just the thought of scaring them felt awful.

A sentiment the Decepticons were unlikely to share, and more likely to mock. And if they showed up at their default sizes, Optimus and the Autobots present would have to answer in kind, to better defend the humans in case things grew heated.

How they were going to get through this without an international incident, Optimus did not know. When he'd first heard the invitation, and that the Decepticons were invited, too, he'd gone through a list of reality checks to be sure he wasn't having some fragged up nightmare.

The humans had chosen an air base, next to an open field ringed by woods. Various tents were set up, and while there wasn't quite a sea of humans, there were more than Optimus felt entirely confident he could defend if his guard dropped for even a moment.

He had his team. And a fair number of Ark personnel had accepted the invitation, too. They were aware of the potential danger, he reminded himself, and were just as ready to act. They'd get through this together.

The approaching roar of jet engines inspired the gathering to head to the hanger entrance, and Optimus, Jazz, Elita-One, and Bumblebee followed along calmly.

Three F-22s, all with the Decepticon insignia emblazoned on their wings. The Command Trine had already chosen Earth based alt modes. Optimus scanned the skies for any sign of Megatron's or Soundwave's Cybertronian jet modes, or whatever new alts they might have already chosen.

The Command Trine did not take the runway, or at least not as any true F-22 would. Synchronized, they all angled sharply, killing their airspeeds in showy drifts, flipped out of alt-mode, re-folded, and landed in kneeling crouches that shook the tarmac, much to the excited chatter and cheers of the onlooking humans.

Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker all towered as they stood, but as they approached the hanger, their forms all collapsed inward, folding and re-folding until they stood no higher than Optimus himself.

And as Starscream's planes and angles settled into place at his smallest size, Optimus noticed the figure casually leaping down from his perch on one of Starscream's pauldrons.

Megatron looked as imperious as ever, even at only four feet tall.

On closer inspection, he looked a good deal smugger than ever, tilting his chin at Optimus as if he beat him in some kind of competition.

But trust Megatron to make a competition out of everything. As long as he was happy, Optimus supposed. Perhaps he'd be less inclined to mischief.

This was a good thing, Optimus reminded himself. The Decepticons were playing ball. So far, at least. But he could feel the icy shadow of some other ped, and would have to watch closely for any signs of it dropping.

Later on into the evening, First Aid dropped his bucket of ethanol. He didn't even seem to notice as it splashed into the grass at his peds.

Optimus followed First Aid's line of sight, and saw Skyquake and Dreadwing, sitting and drinking over by the treeline. Both were at their default sizes, and towered over any humans who approached, but they didn't harm or threaten anyone, and there was nothing else Optimus could see that could have provoked First Aid's reaction.

Of all the Decepticons present, those twins struck Optimus as least likely to start scrap. Loyal as they were to Megatron, they had a reputation for not quite buying the party line where deception was concerned. Their word meant something to them, and they did not give it lightly.

[Everything alright?] Optimus sent First Aid, carefully picking his way toward him through the humans milling about.

[Optimus - ] First Aid seemed to snap out of it, and made his way over, too. [Skyquake is dead. Megatron ate his Spark during a battle about two years ago, I have the vid log to prove it! That's Skyquake's frame, but I don't know who the frag that is.]

Optimus fought the urge to look in the twins' direction again. But he risked a quick glance at Megatron.

The Decepticon Leader remained at about four feet tall, but still insisted on drinking out of a bucket big enough for any other, roughly nine foot tall mass-converted bot. Some of the humans ignorant or drunk enough to approach him found it terribly funny for reasons Megatron visibly struggled to grasp. After all, mass-displacement grew exponentially more difficult the further a bot pushed themself from their default size. Managing to shrink down as much as he had commanded immense skill and willpower. Optimus had gone through the afternoon trying not to view it as a threat display. But to the humans, Megatron's personality combined with his current size meant something completely different.

Optimus had been debating off and on the entire afternoon whether or not to send Megatron a set of internet search results for 'Napoleon Complex'. Satisfying as Megatron's face would likely be to see what manner of impression he'd sewn among the locals, Optimus wasn't so quick to trade the humans' amusement in favor of their panic if Megatron reacted badly.

Starscream must have done his research. He had cackled himself sick, staggering off to purge at one point.

[Show me the vid log?] Optimus requested.

First Aid obliged, and Optimus played it on his HUD.

He couldn't help glancing at Skyquake. That was his frame, or at least a damned good copy of it. But as his Spark had been eaten, what could possibly be in that chamber?

Optimus made his way over to them. "Dreadwing, Skyquake," he greeted. "Having a good time?"

Dreadwing lifted his industrial drum of jet fuel in a casual little toast. "It's alright."

Skyquake's red optics flicked toward First Aid, who had stayed back among the bulk of the crowd, watching. "Need something, Prime?"

"I'm just relieved," Optimus said. "In catching up with the events during my absence, I was told that you had perished in battle two years ago. Strange mistake."

"Just Autobots being jumpy again, what else is new?" Skyquake grimaced and took a swig from his drum. "I was shot down, but I didn't die."

"Megatron didn't try to...?" Optimus checked, as gently as he could.

"If he had, I would have felt my twin's Spark go out," Dreadwing cut in. "Whatever you've heard was greatly exaggerated."

Bullshitting him or not, there was no way in hell Optimus would show them the vid log. Even just talking about what was no doubt a traumatic event for them was maybe already pushing it too far.

Optimus was briefly torn between the impulses to glance back at First Aid, ask him over comms what he wanted him to say, and giving him an apologetic shrug for bungling this. He'd kind of been counting on Dreadwing's loyalty to his twin eclipsing his loyalty to his Lord. But either Optimus had miscalculated, something was wrong with that vid log, or something really weird had happened.

He checked his impulses, nodding sagely instead. "I see. Well, I'm relieved to hear it. Enjoy your evening, and please feel free to contact me if you need anything."

"So apparently you ate Skyquake."

Megatron did not spit out his drink, but he froze up as if only just stopping himself. After a deliberate swallow and a contemplative blink, he turned and stared past Optimus like a cranial injury victim just lucid enough to question the accuracy of his senses. With him sitting, still small, and Optimus standing at over twice Megatron's current size, the whole encounter felt oddly like confronting a puzzled minicon.

"I could be persuaded," Megatron decided, casting a speculative glance Skyquake's way. "But our hypothetical interfacing is hardly any of your business, unless you're proposing a threesome?"

He looked and sounded hopeful enough that Optimus couldn't say for certain whether Megatron was genuinely interested or just falling back on his usual misdirection tactics. Most likely the latter. One had to keep a firm hand on the wheel of a conversation with him, or he'd spin it off into the weeds. Especially if it was a subject that annoyed him.

"Not that kind of 'ate'," Optimus clarified with forced patience, sitting in the grass next to him.

Megatron blinked flatly up at him, and gestured toward Skyquake with the hand holding his drink. "Do you need an optical recalibration, Prime? Or are you too hammered to compute the very simple math of: 'if I had eaten his Spark' equals 'he would not be here now'?"

Says the number one mech with all manner of wild-ass illogical layers to everything he did, Optimus debated countering. He also debated asking how many fits he managed to give Shockwave on a daily basis. But either would be taking the bait to derail into verbal slap-fighting, and Optimus refused to give Megatron the satisfaction.

"That's not a denial," Optimus said, choosing to just cut through the bullshit.

"Oh, congratulations on passing the Barr Exam!" Megatron rolled his optics as he flopped onto his back in the grass. "Fine. I officially deny it." Still lying on his back, he forewent any dignified means of drinking, and poured a stream of ethanol directly into his open mouth.

Despite the lazy ease he moved with, he poured it neatly, not so much as a drop escaping. Optimus stifled the urge to smack the bottom of the bucket serving as Megatron's cup. "Exhibit A, video evidence," he said instead, sending a copy of First Aid's log over their private channel, wiped of identifying markers.

Megatron stopped pouring and gulped as he sharply sat up, scowling as he played the recording in his HUD. Before its allotted time had even fully passed, he turned to Optimus with a smug look, like he had just reassured himself into thinking Optimus couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Optimus glared. "Is that even his Spark in that chamber?" he asked, thumbing in Skyquake's direction.

"Whose else would it be?" Megatron gave him that familiar Yes, Now You See My Master Plan smirk, all but daring him to voice some horrific revelation aloud.

It was all too easy to speculate. Perhaps Megatron could alter Sparks as well as siphon them. Perhaps this was the means by which he could turn others into Sparkeaters. Perhaps he really was in league with Unicron, and had made a whole thing of replacing the Sparks he ate with something only the Unmaker could design.

Optimus shook his head, shoving lurid speculations back into the Imaginary sector. "I've too little information to base any assumptions of that on," he acknowledged.

"I recorded that," Megatron pointed up at him with a grin. "That's my new favorite clip. I'm going to replay it as I fall asleep."

"But whatever you've done," Optimus promised, "I'm going to find out."

"And I'm going to find out why you refused to contact us all these years," Megatron agreed with a venomous smile. "I'll race you," he offered.

"You seem far more upset about that than I expected," Optimus noted, recalling seawater and steam.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Megatron demanded, smile vanishing and armor bristling as if the thought truly insulted him.

It caught Optimus off guard, and left him wondering if this was just another deceptive attempt on Megatron's part to play 4D chess with whatever he expected Optimus to expect of him. "You missed our arguments that badly?" he asked instead.

The light in Megatron's optics dimmed a little at that, the outrage in his expression fading to a bitter acceptance. "You have no idea," he said, more realization than affirmation. He lifted the bucket and drank the last of his ethanol in several swallows.

Optimus stared at him, wondering what the frag he was expected to do with that.

"I'm going to win that race easily," Megatron said, tone a little too flat for his usual bragging. "You'll never figure out my own scheme."

"You admit that your Spark-eating is part of a larger scheme?" Optimus checked. Or was that just what Megatron wanted him to think?

Megatron chuckled, soft and dark and all too familiar. "It always was, Optimus, from the very beginning. But even that won't help you. After all..." He stood, idly brushing grass from his leg plating. "How far can you trust anything I say?"