Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The parade of the captured and subdued Megatron through the streets of Iacon and the days that followed had been something of a blur. Celebrations rang out planet-wide, lasting well into the deca-cycle, with Optimus and his team hailed as heroes not seen in an age. The repaired AllSpark had been secured once more within Fortress Maximus, locked away under heavy guard, while Megatron himself was transported to Trypticon, the former Decepticon citadel turned holding facility, to await trial.

Even Acting Magnus Sentinel Prime had been forced to give a speech on their accomplishments. It was thinly veiled with contempt and a rather tepid welcome home, but that hadn’t stopped the media from running wild with it. Some outlets even speculated on Optimus as a potential successor to Ultra Magnus, should the old commander finally succumb to his injuries.

Sentinel would not stand for it.

The Council might have the final say in who would become the next Magnus, but Sentinel would be grey and rusting before was it going to be Optimus Prime.

~*~

The summons came too early for comfort. Optimus, a notoriously early riser, hadn’t even fully powered up for the day before the message pinged in. He was to report to Sentinel’s office immediately. No time to gather his thoughts. No chance to prepare. But Sentinel was his superior now, acting commander of the entire Autobot military. Who was he to refuse?

Still, he couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in his tank since the battle. If anyone knew the situation as well as he did, they would understand; he shouldn’t have been able to win that fight. Megatron was a force of nature, tangible fury wrapped in titanium alloy plating. The fact that Optimus stood here now, with his crew alive and victory claimed... it still didn’t sit right. He was grateful, yes. But all the praise? It felt misplaced.

And now, with Sentinel calling him in, Optimus couldn’t help the quiet, nervous ex-vent that hissed from his vents. Things never went well when they spoke. Honestly, things never went well when they were in the same room.

But orders were orders.

Dragging himself out of his quarters and into the polished halls of command, he made his way toward Sentinel’s office, each step echoing louder in his audio receptors than the last. He knew full well Sentinel was going to use his position to punish him, out of spite, if nothing else. The only question was how bad it would be this time?

He stopped before the door, squared his shoulders, and knocked twice. Then, as it slid open, he stepped inside and stood tall, back straight and voice steady. “You summoned me, sir?”

Sentinel made a deliberate show of appearing busy, shuffling datapads around his desk with all the urgency of someone pretending to not eagerly awaiting something they very much were. In truth, he’d gone over this moment countless times in his processor, replaying the imagined conversation again and again until he was sure he’d come out on top. Still, it was hard to hide the smug curl of his derma when Optimus finally arrived.

"Ah, Optimus! Come in," he said, standing with a grin that didn't quite reach his optics. The overly cheerful tone he used to greet the title of sir was pointed, carefully chosen, and just irritating enough to grind at Optimus’s sense of fairness. 

"I'm glad you were able to find time to meet with me, given how busy you've been with giving interviews and celebrating." He gave a brittle, performative laugh. "We have quite a bit to discuss! So, come in and sit down, and we'll get started." He gestured to one of the chairs opposite the desk before circling back around and taking his own seat, servos folded across the desk surface like a judge preparing for a verdict.

"Look, Optimus," Sentinel began, his voice now more solemn as Optimus sat down, "I'm not going to run in neutral and kick up dust with you. You deserve that much. There's been a lot of chatter around here about your position. This whole thing is… well, ‘unprecedented’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. So why don't you tell me your thoughts on the matter? And what you think the next step should be, specifically for you."

Optimus clenched his denta, forcing himself not to flinch at the exaggerated civility. He moved stiffly toward the chair and sat, every motion measured. It took a considerable effort to keep his finials from twitching. Any sign of irritation would only fuel Sentinel’s fire.

Great. He’s worried about me as a threat to his position...

"It's not my place to speculate on the subject of promotions, when, if, or to what rank," Optimus said calmly. "I know the people are wondering about me being promoted to Magnus, but that’s just them projecting their own hopes. I'm doing my job. If the Council decides I'm the right fit to lead after Ultra, then I'll accept that. If not, it doesn't really affect me."

He let the words settle, knowing full well how they might land. And, quietly, he wondered if that burned Sentinel more than anything. The idea that even if Optimus were named Magnus, it wouldn’t matter to him. It wouldn't be a prize, or a triumph. Just an updated protocol. A shift in duty. A title was just that: a title. What mattered was whether or not you acted like a Magnus, regardless of what others called you.

Sentinel nodded slowly, a smile creeping over his derma; one that bared too many denta and none of the warmth. A Sharkticon’s grin. He made a show of shifting in his seat, pretending at discomfort, as if the next part were somehow difficult to say. But he couldn’t quite hide the glint of delight in his optics.

"Well… about that…" he began, dragging the words out, savoring them. "That’s the really funny thing about this whole mess, isn’t it? You aren’t doing your job."

He leaned forward slightly, voice dripping with false concern. "As a matter of fact, what you did is about as far outside your job description as you can get. Your ‘job’ is leading a crew of three washouts from asteroid to asteroid, patching up relic space bridges and staying out of the way. You and I both know you didn’t earn that Prime title. Ultra Magnus gave it to you out of pity. But you-" he paused for emphasis, his tone turning sharp as he pointed at Optimus, "-can’t be a Prime. You’re not even a member of the Elite Guard. Are you?"

A long, steady vent escaped from Optimus. He didn’t rise to the bait. "Sometimes the best thing to do isn’t to act to the letter of the codes, but to the spirit of them," he replied, quietly but firmly. "Regardless of how it happened, and whether it should’ve been me and my crew, we’re here now. Megatron was captured. The Allspark was repaired. Earth and Cybertron are both safe." His gaze was calm, his tone level, but the words carried weight. "Duty goes beyond mere titles, Sentinel. Ultra Magnus understood that. Do you?" 

He closed his optics for a moment. "Clearly, you wish to demote me. Fine. But it won’t change what’s already happened. Hiding me away isn’t going to bring you more glory." There was something in his voice. Something subtle, buried beneath the civility he kept like armor. Pity, maybe.

Sentinel shook his helm slightly, surprise flashing across his faceplate as he stared at Optimus. “Demoted?” He burst out laughing, the sound sharp, genuine, and far too loud for the setting. He even threw his helm back, as though Optimus had just delivered the punchline of the millennium. The laughter went on, and on, teetering into unprofessional territory before finally tapering off.

“AllSpark, Optimus. I’m not talking about demoting you.” He gave a dismissive wave, still chuckling. “No matter our personal history, and no matter how dubious your promotion to Prime may have been before, I can’t exactly say you don’t deserve the rank now. Besides, you’re Cybertron’s darling! Trying to demote you would be political suicide.”

He leaned back in his chair, smirking as though he were doing Optimus a favor. “No, no. Demotion isn’t at all what I had in mind. What I’m offering you, is a chance to go back. To where you were before all this started. I want to repeal your expulsion. You’d attend the Academy again and finish your training properly this time. Graduate, earn your promotion through the appropriate channels, then take your place in the Elite Guard as a real, and very well-decorated, Prime.” He spread his servos slightly, voice softening. “Isn’t that what you always wanted, Optimus? To join the Elite Guard?”

Optimus didn’t answer immediately. He sat there, soaking in Sentinel’s words, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be petty. Then, voice dry and even, he replied, “Your language… you’re speaking like you mean to undermine your superior’s decision to promote me.” He watched Sentinel closely, tone sharpening. “Regardless of how ‘dubious’ it may be, Ultra Magnus did promote me. His word is final. And until he dies or someone else is officially appointed, he’s still your superior.”

He took a slow invent, optics slightly narrowing. “Now, obviously, you wouldn’t be foolish enough to openly challenge the Council. But if they were to hear you, speaking the way you are, implying Ultra Magnus’s decision wasn’t legitimate…” He let the thought hang in the air like a slow-moving stormcloud.  “Well. You’d be in a pretty nasty situation, wouldn’t you?”

Optimus leaned back in turn, optics narrowing. “That being said… if my appointment as Prime is legitimate, why would I need to go back to the Academy?”

Sentinel gritted his denta, forcing his smile to stay firmly in place. "Hmh. Well. I never said your rank was in danger. I wouldn’t dream of trying to revoke it, or go against Ultra Magnus’s decision – even if it is dubious and goes against standard procedure. You’re right. Ultra Magnus’s word is final." He paused, letting the tension build before continuing, his tone growing more insistent.

"But it was also Ultra Magnus who signed your expulsion order. The rules of the Elite Guard predate him, and they still stand. Only graduates of the Academy can enter the Guard. So no matter what rank you hold on the record, you’ve also been marked as an Elite Guard trainee failure by none other than Ultra Magnus himself." He leaned forward slightly, voice heavy with the weight of the next words. "Even the Council can’t change that."

Optimus didn’t respond immediately, and Sentinel let the silence hang, waiting to let the tension build.

"Which is why," Sentinel finally continued with a smug tilt of his helm, "I’m offering you the chance to go back. Earn your position properly, finish your training, and graduate. Then you can join the Guard, no questions asked. Done and dusted."

Optimus pursed his derma, narrowing his optics. “Fine. I’ll bite – for now. Let’s say I agree. I go back to the academy. Sure. What’s the catch?”

Sentinel leaned back in his chair, his tone shifting to something almost too casual. "No catch. Believe it or not, I think this is the best course of action for both you and Cybertron. You make a good Elite Guard. There’s no denying that. Going back to the Academy will just make you a legitimate one."

Sentinel spread his servos wide, presenting the offer like a prize. "So. Take up my offer and rejoin the Academy. You’ll even retain your rank as Prime outside of training.” He shifted, sliding a datapad across the desk toward Optimus. Even from here, Optimus recognized it: an official Autobot Academy offer acceptance letter. Very similar to the one he’d received centuries ago… the one that had once sent a jolt of joy through his system unlike anything else.

Optimus shifted in his seat, shuffling the datapad with a digit and tapping his pede idly before crossing his arms in faint annoyance. But there was a glimmer of something else in his optics as he listened. "Well, forgive me for being skeptical," he muttered, his voice laced with the weight of their past. "After everything that’s happened between us, I’m not exactly brimming with trust." A soft huff escaped him, and his faceplate shifted with a sadness that lingered. An echo of memories that still stung, heavy and unresolved. "But… I do hope this could be the beginning of something different for us," he continued, softer now. "If not as friends again, then at least without the constant tension. Especially if the Council names you Magnus."

He paused, considering the words. Then, with a nod, he offered a reluctant but firm answer. "Alright. I’ll take your offer… sir." Despite the resolve in his voice, though, there was a quiet nagging feeling beneath it all. A sense, somewhere deep down, that he was setting himself up for disappointment. 

But it was his nature, wasn’t it? To be hopeful. To give others the benefit of the doubt. Even when the weight of past betrayals pressed down on him. Fool me twice, he thought grimly. But it was Optimus. Wasn’t it always expected of him to be optimistic?

Sentinel smiled and nodded. "Good. I'll see to it that you're enrolled as soon as possible, so you can begin next semester. With your original scholarship intact, of course. We'll get you set up with an apartment in the meantime.”

He paused, almost theatrically. “Now, just one more thing... your internship.”

He looked up again, face carefully neutral. "As you might remember, to graduate from the Academy, you need to perform an act of service as an intern within the Guard. Usually, it can take several stellar cycles of work to complete to a satisfactory level. I myself shadowed one of the top precincts in Iacon for five stellar cycles as my internship.” His voice dropped slightly, almost conspiratorial. “But I've arranged something special and fitting for you, and you'll be done within a few chords, at most. Are you interested?"

Optimus raised an optic ridge, already suspecting something was off. "Right... special and fitting. Can I know what it is before I agree to it? Because it's hard to gauge interest otherwise." He already didn’t like where this was going. His instincts screamed not to trust Sentinel. Again. Though he couldn’t quite tell which part of him was screaming loudest. It had become harder lately to sort through those inner voices, each one trying to keep him standing while carrying a different piece of what broke on Archa Seven.

"Of course," Sentinel said with a tsk, still smiling. "Weren’t we just talking about this being a turning point? Have a little faith! If not in me personally, then in me as someone well aware of your reputation. And as someone still vying for a permanent position as Magnus."

He leaned back, tapping a button on his desk. A hologram flickered to life above it, displaying the looming fortress of Trypticon. "The people of Cybertron are scared, Optimus. They’re terrified the remaining Decepticons will try to break Megatron out, or that the Slagmaker will break out himself and cause chaos. For better or for worse, you are the only mech to ever bring Megatron to heel. The people would feel safer with you personally assuring that doesn’t happen."

He gestured to the glowing image. "I want you to be Megatron’s personal prison guard. Your only duty will be to stay welded to his side. Escort him to court, to his cell, to examinations. Wherever he needs to go, you go." The hologram snapped off. "Stay with him until his execution is carried out. Once he’s gone for good, I’ll consider your internship complete."

Optimus stared at him, stunned for a moment. Then he shook his helm, disbelief creeping into his voice. "Are you crazy? The only reason I even managed to beat Megatron was because I had the Magnus Hammer, and because Prowl gave his life for mine! If Megatron broke out again, I don’t think I’d exactly have the resources to take him down a second time." He groaned, pressing a servo to his helm.

"That’s not a refusal, mind you! It’s just…" He took a deep, slow vent, in and out, trying to keep the parts of himself aligned. The part still grieving, the part that wanted to scream, the part that was just so, so tired. Fragmentation or not, he couldn’t let anything show. "It took more than just skill to stop him. It was sacrifice, luck, and timing. How can we really be certain that I alone will make the difference now?"

Sentinel laughed. "Optimus, come on! You don’t think you’re alone here, do you? Every optic on Trypticon is on Megatron, and every other optic on Cybertron is on Trypticon. The whole place is on maximum security lockdown. Round-the-clock surveillance in every room he’ll ever have access to. We’ve got the Steelhaven itself on standby to defend against any would-be intruders and any break-outs. The entire Elite Guard is on orders to be on call in case of any emergency."

He shook his helm, still grinning, a slight chuckle escaping. "Every precaution is being taken, every possible scenario calculated and prepared for. You being there is much more for optics than to actually count on you to take care of a potential situation yourself. All you have to do is stand there at attention for the cameras. Nothing’s going to happen! And if it does? The whole of the Elite Guard will be ready."

Optimus paused, the weight of it all pressing down. Then he spoke, his voice flat but resigned. "Fine. I’ll take it. I’ll make sure Megatron behaves… somehow. You have my word." Even as the words left his mouth, he wasn’t sure whether they were a vow or a mistake.

Sentinel nodded and stood, gesturing for Optimus to do the same. "Good. Be at Trypticon at 0600 tomorrow to begin. In the meantime today, we’ve got datapads to sign to get everything finalized." He waved toward the door. "Shall we?"

"Trypticon, 0600. Got it." Optimus sighed as he stood. He wasn’t exactly excited to see Megatron. But how hard could it be? Just a few chords, a quiet cell, and Megatron on the other side of the bars. What could possibly go wrong?

"There’s never enough precaution with Megatron," he muttered under his vents. It didn’t change the fact that if things went wrong, all optics would be on him. He’d be the first line of defense.

"True enough. Never enough. And you know that better than anyone, I’d say. You can probably help by pointing out things the guards might have missed," Sentinel said. But as he stepped from the office, it was clear he wasn’t really listening anymore. Maybe that was for the best. Optimus wasn’t even sure which version of himself had spoken that last line. Just that it had sounded right, steady and present. For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day at the Acting Magnus’s office was spent cycling through datapads and prepping for Optimus’s re-enrollment into the Academy. True to his word, Sentinel had arranged everything so that Optimus could resume the same course load he’d been forced to abandon in the final semester of his attendance. His scholarship had been reinstated, and, most surprisingly, his rank of Prime remained intact, at least on paper, signed off by Sentinel himself. The only caveat was that during training, he would answer to the drill sergeants and major officers, not the other way around. Fair enough, if he was going to be training alongside new recruits.

As for the internship, it really did amount to staying by Megatron’s side through the duration of the trial, and, if it came to it, the sentencing.

For what it was worth, Optimus chose to take his reinstatement as Sentinel’s way of apologizing for everything he'd done to ruin his life. It was the absolute least he could do after making Optimus his fall guy.

The next morning, Optimus woke early, anxiety churning in his tanks like acid. He arrived at Trypticon to find Ironhide waiting for him at the entrance. The newly appointed head of guard and acting warden of Trypticon Citadel, now Trypticon Prison, stood square and solid, arms crossed over his chassis. A familiar smile met Optimus as he approached.

“Good to see you again, Optimus,” Ironhide greeted, his voice gruff but clearly pleased, as he turned and led Optimus through the main gates of the looming, labyrinthine facility.

“Ironhide Prime.” Optimus gave him a small but respectful nod. “Glad to see something cheerful here. The atmosphere is... oppressive.”

“Yeah, well, that’s kinda by design,” Ironhide snorted. “Decepticons aren’t exactly known for interior decorating. Morale’s not a big concern in here.” He gave Optimus a firm clap on the shoulder, the kind that would’ve rattled someone lighter. “But hey, quiet’s quiet. You’re allowed to play music in your audials if it helps. Just keep it low enough to hear trouble if it starts. Sentinel said you’re goin’ back to the Academy. That’s wild. Didn’t even know bots could re-enroll after getting the boot. Guess you’re full of surprises.”

He handed Optimus a badge that looked like a stylized Elite Guard patch. As they passed through a series of checkpoints and narrow mantrap doors, Optimus noted that his credentials were already in the system. Each door opened at his approach, his face and ID displaying on the wall-mounted screens before the locks disengaged with a click. “This shift’s a half cycle,” Ironhide continued as they walked. “Long joors, but it’s mostly just like watchin’ paint dry. You’re on days for now, but if you’re up for it, they might throw a night shift your way once in a while. You know, show ‘em you’re a team player. That kind of thing looks good on your exit review.” He punctuated it with a wink.

Optimus gave a small, reflexive smile. He was almost intimidated by how smoothly everything seemed to be running. There was no chaos, no shouting, no loose ends… Just order. He padded along, taking mental notes, watching the guards, the cameras, the layout of the halls, the prisoners behind the reinforced force fields. “I’m used to being on call at any time,” he said finally, scanning the faces of the inmates they passed. “Comes with the territory of leadership. Even if it’s just for a small team.”

With each level they descended, the prison cells grew more foreboding. The first level held what Optimus assumed were low-security inmates; neutrals, mostly, with a few factions he didn’t recognize mixed in. Some looked dangerous, but none of them seemed to pose much of a threat beyond their appearance. The second level housed smaller warframes. Decepticon grunts, by the look of them. Not much punch, barely a spark of resistance left in their frames.

The third level, however, was a different story, and much more familiar faces. At the far end of the corridor, the towering forms of Lugnut and Blitzwing loomed inside their cells. Blitzwing’s triple faces rotated as Optimus passed. First a red sneer, then a blue glare, then a burst of maniacal laughter. The sound echoed off the metal walls over the rest of the din.

Optimus kept walking. He didn’t flinch, didn’t let it show, not even when his spark pulsed unevenly. He had expected this. Still, by the time they reached the final door, something cold had settled into his chest. It felt like standing at the edge of a pit and staring into the dark.

The door to Level Four was different from the others. Thicker, heavier, with embedded security glyphs and two guards stationed on either side, both armed with lances and blasters. When the door slid open, Optimus was met with a cavernous space, quiet and sterile. In the center sat a single raised platform, with no corners to hide in and no shadows to retreat to. The platform was surrounded by a field generator, with a small drawer set into the floor, likely used for passing energon rations or oil. There were no other openings. No entrance, no exit.

And inside, waiting as if he had known the exact moment they would arrive, sat Megatron.

He didn’t rise. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Even seated, locked down, and battered as he was, his presence devoured the entire room.

His frame was exactly as Optimus remembered from Earth, yet somehow smaller in the stillness. Cracked plating clung stubbornly to powerful limbs, his armor dulled and edges scuffed, streaked with patches of dried energon and the grime of careless containment. Stasis cuffs were still clamped around his wrists, glinted faintly in the low light. The ones Optimus himself had locked in place at the end of that final, brutal confrontation.

The sight of them sent a sharp, almost nauseating twist through Optimus’s tanks. He remembered the moment with haunting clarity. the way Megatron looked up at him from the shattered pavement, field surging in defiant pulses even as his strength failed, inviting, daring Optimus to kill him. And how he had smashed thr hammer into the ground just beside him before binding him. That final silence. That final look.

And now, here they were again.

Megatron sat like a statue carved from rage and history, still as stone behind the energy bars. His optics burned into Optimus as he looked at him, dim and unreadable in the gloom. Like the last embers of a wildfire smoldering beneath ash.

Optimus felt his mouth go dry. He forced himself to meet those optics and to not look away. But his vents had slowed, his field had clamped. And the tightness in his chest flickered between fight and fight, despite having no need to do either.

“Well,” Ironhide said, his voice slicing through the silence with a forced sort of casualness. He stood just behind Optimus, arms crossed and optics fixed pointedly anywhere but at the battered warlord in the cell. “This is where you’ll be spending most of your time.”

Optimus didn’t respond to Ironhide just yet. Not when the weight of what he was looking at had only just settled onto his shoulders and Megatron still hadn’t said a word. He scanned Megatron from helm to pede. The warlord was an absolute wreck. His derma twitched in distaste.

He looked to Ironhide and gestured toward the prisoner. “No one thought to hose him down? He’s still spattered in energon and organic soil. You’d think someone would’ve at least wiped it off.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed visibly at the mention of being ‘hosed down.’ Even behind the forcefield, it was clear he could hear every word, and just as clear that he didn’t appreciate them.

Ironhide chuckled, loud and unbothered. “Heh! If you wanna stick your servo in that cage and wipe him down, be my guest. Just don’t expect to walk out with it.” He slapped Optimus on the shoulder again, oblivious. “Don’t worry about it. Cons are animals anyway. They’re always soaked in energon or oil when they roll in.”

Something about that hit wrong. Not the threat or Megatron’s glare, but Ironhide’s words. Animals. It wasn’t about Megatron’s comfort. It never had been. But still… Optimus’s finials twitched, his optics briefly narrowing.

“…No real questions, though. Sorry,” he muttered, voice subdued.

Ironhide just shrugged. “No biggie! Shift starts at 0600. You’re expected here on the dot. Refuel break’s at 1130. Shift ends at 1800. Keep your weapon active at all times while you're in here. No exceptions. He’s not gagged, but you’re free to ignore anything he says. You’re not obligated to do slag for him unless he’s in medical distress. Anything weird – movement, noise, energon spikes – report it to security. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Got it.” Optimus summoned his axe from subspace into his servo with a quiet hum, the weight familiar and comfortable, especially so close to Megatron

He turned again to face Megatron. But there was no malice in his optics, no gloating. His thoughts were far from contemptuous.

“Is that all, sir?” he asked, though his gaze never left the mech behind the field.

“That’s all for now.” Ironhide gave a loose, lazy salute. “Good luck, Optimus Prime. Or… Cadet, huh?” He chuckled. “If you need anything, comm me. Otherwise, you’re right where you’re meant to be.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving Optimus alone with Megatron. The entire time, Megatron kept his optics locked on Optimus, unwavering. He didn’t so much as twitch until the heavy door sealed shut behind Ironhide. Only then did he pull himself up to rise to his pedes, and his low, sultry voice broke the silence.

“My, my… Optimus Prime..." The name dripped with mockery, a pointed reminder of how Optimus had insisted on it during their last encounter. “I must admit… you are the very last mech I expected to find in this bleak and unyielding abyss of confinement.” His optics flashed faintly. “Or should I say… Cadet? Hmm… it lacks the prestigious ring you once took such pride in, does it not?”

“You don’t get to call me that,” Optimus huffed. “I’m tying up loose ends. Making sure there’s no ambiguity about my status. I haven’t lost my rank.”

Megatron chuckled, utterly unbothered by the indignation. Despite the stasis cuffs still binding his wrists, he stood tall, gaze tracking the young Prime as he began to pace before the cell, studying him. But, for now, he didn’t repeat the title.

Optimus paced, optics flicking over Megatron’s form, over the grime, the dried energon. “…I hope you don’t think I see you as an animal,” he said finally. “Whatever my opinion of you, you’re still a bot. A Cybertronian. You deserve more dignity than this. Repairs, at the very least. And to be clean.”

Megatron scoffed, a harsh sound with no humor behind it. “Do not be naive,” he said flatly. “Of course you do. You may not say it, but you believe it. You are conditioned to. Just as every other Autobot has been. The Autobot propaganda machine never rests, does it.” His optics sharpened. “Besides, what would be the point? Wasting resources on a mech slated for execution in two, maybe three chords?” He shook his helm slightly.

Optimus frowned. “Because there’s a level of basic decency all sentient beings deserve,” he said. “No matter how long they have left or what they've done. There’s a grace owed to you, regardless of what you’ve given others.” He extended the handle of his axe, resting his weight on it, gaze steady. “Even you deserve better than this. Open wounds, spattered energon, organic muck, no real berth… No. It’s not right. You’re not an animal.”

Megatron regarded him in silence for a moment, optics flickering faintly. Then, his derma curled into a sneer. “Spare me your placations and false concern, little Prime,” he said coldly. “They are unnecessary. And quite frankly, wasted on me.” He leaned forward just enough to catch the glow of the forcefield to cast across the edge of his frame, his voice low and sharp. “If you truly meant what you say, then you are only lying to yourself. Because it is you who left me in this state.”

His steel smile held no warmth. “You arrested me and gave no order for your medic to tend to my wounds. You let me drip energon freely through the streets of Iacon. You dragged me before your Council like a trophy. You led that smug little parade through the city, humiliating me and my comrades, reducing us to a spectacle. You handed me over to the Elite Guard, still bleeding. And you never once planned to lay optics on me again. Until, somehow, it served your purpose.”

Megatron shook his helm slowly, a soft tsk accompanying the motion. “As I said. At the core of your sparks, all Autobots think and feel this way. Despite what you may wish to believe, even about yourself.” His voice darkened, edged in old scorn. “It has always been so, long before Autobots and Decepticons. You may think yourself the exception, but your actions, and inactions, speak far louder than your toothless words.”

Optimus listened in silence, something twisting in his expression. His intake tightened, his optics flicked away, and he vented sharply. “I had my dead and injured on my mind,” he said, voice tight. “I wasn’t exactly eager to help the bot who’s been a plague on Cybertron for as long as I can remember.” He paused. His next words came lower, more thoughtful. “Maybe I should’ve been the bigger mech. Maybe I should’ve ordered Ratchet to tend to you, even if he’d have told me to frag off. Maybe…” His gaze slid back to Megatron. “Maybe I even relished the victory a bit. Who wouldn’t?”

Then his tone shifted. Less hesitant, more solid. Less Optimus, more Prime. “But forgive me for assuming someone – anyone – would have the sense to get you treated before permanent containment. That someone in the chain would have the decency to call for a medic.”

His gestures dropped away, voice tightening like a drawn cable. “You’re right. Inaction does speak louder than words. But then again… who among us doesn’t carry some hypocrisy under the right circumstances?”

Megatron’s smirk deepened at that, cold and knowing. “Who, indeed.” He chuckled low and cold, but real. There was something almost appreciative in the sound. “You hardly need to justify yourself to me, little Prime. With the thrill of battle still singing in your audials, I doubt you had much room left for rational thought.” His optics dimmed slightly, remembering. “I recall what that was like… when combat still thrilled me to such an extent. When it made me forget everything else.” 0He leaned forward just enough for the dim light to catch the battered planes of his helm. “And against an opponent like me? I am surprised you remembered to cuff me at all.”

He chuckled again, darker now. “You give your Autobot command far too much credit. This is not my first time in their custody. But yes… this is the most thorough. Autobot compassion is hardly universal.”

Optimus scoffed. “I wouldn’t call it euphoria.” He took a slow step along the edge of the cell. “Seeing you on the ground, shackled? Maybe. But the rest?” He shook his helm slightly. “Just… a dreadful, suffocating slick of thought.” He kept circling, slow and deliberate now. “I did what I had to. No one else stepped up. I’m a Prime, worthy or not. It fell on me.” He stopped just across from Megatron, meeting his gaze evenly. “I like to think I did my best.”

The deposed warlord rumbled his engine in a low growl, his expression slipping back into a neutral mask, save for the sharp gleam in his optics. He shifted his weight, settling onto the narrow slab that served as his berth. His frame sagged for a moment before he straightened again, optics fixing back on the young Prime.

“I admit,” he said, voice quieter but no less cutting, “you have piqued my curiosity.” His gaze narrowed slightly. “What is an accomplished war hero like yourself doing playing prison guard? Even to me? It seems… insultingly beneath your ability level.” A cruel smile began to creep across his face. “Unless, of course, you simply wish to watch me decay, slowly and quietly, until the execution. No one would not blame you for that. Least of all me.”

Optimus lightened slightly at that, a half-shrug following. "I was offered a chance to return to the Academy…" He trailed off, expression flickering for just a moment before smoothing over. "I was expelled the first time. Not entirely my fault, but let’s pretend it was." There was a strange, bitter amusement in his voice now. “Ultra Magnus took pity on me. Gave me a title anyway. Prime in name. Official, sure… but my records were a mess. I’m smoothing them over.” He gestured broadly to the cell around them. “That includes public service. This assignment? It’s accelerated. Likely because they expect to execute you soon.”

He retracted the handle of his axe with a quiet click and resumed pacing, his steps slow and deliberate. "Truthfully, I didn’t want to be near you. My spark burns just seeing you." His voice was steady, but his servo curled tight around his axe handle, betraying tension that didn’t quite match the tone of his words. "You and your followers cost me so many friends..." His tone dropped a notch, honest and almost sheepish. “But this position gave me two things: a way to make sure you’re not a threat… and, I’ll admit, a chance to one-up someone.” He stopped pacing just long enough to glance back at Megatron. “Petty? Maybe. But there it is. Satisfied?”

Megatron watched him, optics tracking the younger mech’s every movement. His smirk returned. “Your answer both satisfies… and stokes the fire,” he said lightly. “So. You never graduated. Your training is incomplete. And yet, you faced me head-on.” His smirk widened, half mocking, half admiring. “Idiotic. Bold. Impressively foolish, even beyond my expectations.” A low chuckle escaped him. “A strong sense of duty, despite how you arrived at it. I expected as much. You were more effective than you had any right to be. Annoyingly so.”

His tone turned almost thoughtful. “If more of your kind had shared your spirit, the war would have ended long before it did.”

Optimus didn’t respond immediately. When he did, it was flat and even. "You make it sound like I should be flattered." But something about the way he said it felt distant, like the words weren’t his first instinct.

Megatron slightly shrugged and chuckled deep in his chest. “And now here you are. On babysitting duty. Returning to the very school that rejected you, just to meet the standards for a rank you were already granted.”

His optics glinted. “Whoever you are trying to ‘one-up’… they must really be under your plating.”

Optimus grimaced. “You have no idea.” He hesitated, then exhaled. “Honestly, I think he gave me this job knowing you'd break out eventually, just to ruin my name. Make me the scapegoat. Though…” He glanced off. “He did get my Academy position reinstated. Maybe it was an apology. Tentatively, I’ll believe it.”

Megatron hummed thoughtfully. “A good bet. My escape under your watch would certainly tarnish you. Luckily for you, you would not be around to suffer the consequences.” He said it casually, still amused.

“I will not pretend to understand Autobot politics,” he added. “But I find it strange that you would work to prove yourself to an institution that already accepted your skill, after it failed to accomplish what you did. That sounds more like an insult than an opportunity.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “But if you are satisfied, then who am I to judge? We clearly value very different things.”

Optimus scoffed at first, but eventually laughed. “You know what? If you do break out, I’ll hold you to that. Make sure I’m dead before you frag up anything else, yeah?” He rolled his optics and resumed pacing. “Oh, believe me, I’ve thought of it that way. But… we play the cards we’re dealt.”

If Megatron noticed the brief flicker in Optimus’s expression, he gave no sign. But the soft laugh that followed was unexpected enough to make him pause for just a moment. “I did not say dead,” he muttered under his vent.

He shifted on the berth, his voice lower now. “That is the difference between us, I suppose. Autobots accept their cards. Decepticons demand a reshuffle… and keep an ace hidden in the seams.”

The warlord gave a low but deep exvent. “Now… I hope you do not find me rude,” he said at last. “But in my current state and situation, I find it necessary to conserve what energy I have left.” He lay back awkwardly, trying to rest on the too-small slab with his arms still awkwardly bound in front of him. One leg bearing an open wound remained on the floor just to keep him from toppling over. The cell’s harsh backlight threw his battered form into stark relief; fractured armor, chipped paint, spiderwebbed cracks radiating from strike points the Magnus Hammer had made.

He hadn’t healed. Not at all. And it had been two deca-cycles. Twenty whole solar cycles.

“Do as you please,” Optimus said quietly, finding a spot on the wall to lean against.

“Oh, never tell me that,” Megatron rumbled without looking up, almost teasing, as he shifted again, predictably failing to get comfortable.

Optimus quietly watching. He wasn’t sure what struck him more: how damaged Megatron remained, or how many different reactions kept bubbling up inside of him. Rage, pity, guilt, detachment. They spun in tight orbits, clashing and pulling until he couldn’t quite track which one was winning. Every klik he sat there, it got harder to keep still. Harder to keep the lines clean.

So he let the silence stretch. Played music softly through his audials; quiet enough to still hear everything.

Not that it helped. Megatron had left him with far too much to think about.

The day passed in silence. And in that quiet, Optimus saw the truth of Megatron’s condition: the berth was too narrow for full recharge. Time and again, Megatron drifted toward unconsciousness only to jolt awake as his weight shifted dangerously. He couldn’t even rest against the wall, as every graze of the forcefield sparked pain. The only alternative was the cold and filthy floor, still flecked with dried energon. And it seemed his pride wouldn't allow him to do that yet.

Optimus snorted softly, at the situation or at himself, maybe. He didn’t even know. Then he went quiet again.

Chapter Text

Over the next few solar cycles, Optimus fell into an uneasy routine.

Each morning, he reported to the deepest level of the prison and settled into his post outside Megatron’s cell. The early joors were always the worst. Too quiet, Megatron silent and still, trying to meditate as best he could. 

Optimus would pace, review sensor feeds, or skim through datapads that never held his attention. Sometimes he would arrive early or stay later, walking the upper levels, studying the layout of the massive fortress. He inspected the halls and noted maintenance issues no one else seemed to notice. At least that gave him something to focus on, something that felt useful. He toured the storage wings, checked for energon distribution logs, and reviewed prisoner behavior reports. Learning the layout and operations of the prison as a whole, in case he was needed somewhere else.

And every time he returned, in the morning and after break, Megatron was still there, hunched in the same rigid, half-reclined posture on the too-small berth. Still lacking energon. Still filthy. Still wounded.

The lack of improvement gnawed at him. Megatron’s wounds weren’t healing, and no one had come to check on them. The energon deliveries that should have rotated through his level were mysteriously absent, day after day. The forcefield walls remained unchanged, crackling violently if Megatron leaned too far in any direction, making even slight shifts on his berth toward rest a danger.

Optimus had started logging these observations in private, unofficial files. He didn’t know what he meant to do with them yet. Part of him insisted it was important. Vital, even. The rest just filed the data and moved on.

But even after only a few solar cycles, something in him was fraying. Splintering under the weight of moral contradiction, the silence, and the tension of constantly watching someone suffer in a way that his protocols told him was unacceptable, no matter who that someone was. He was starting to lose track of when he felt what. Rage, guilt, duty; like someone else inside him had taken turns holding the weight. It didn’t feel like the way he used to think. Used to be. Since when were Autobots okay with letting anyone be recharge-deprived? Locking someone in a cell without a way to properly rest, especially when they were injured, wasn’t just negligent. It was psychological torture.

At 1130 joors on the fourth cycle, the thick door to Level Four slid open and his usual refuel break relief entered. Blue with a red faceplate, Skids Minor carried a spear at his side and grinned broadly at the sight of Optimus.

“Heya, Optimus.” He stepped forward and saluted with more crispness and excitement than the situation, or his current occupying rank as Cadet, called for. “Time for your refuel break. Everything good here?” He glanced toward the deposed tyrant, who hadn’t done more than flick his optics toward the door when it opened, then looked back to Optimus.

Optimus looked over at the young guard and gave a nod, though his expression remained grim. “That’s gotta violate something, no?” he said, motioning to Megatron. “The mech can’t recharge without laying on a filthy floor, and he’s got open wounds. One wrong shift and he could end up with a rust infection. Spilled energon is a biohazard for a reason.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I get it. He’s the bad guy… but when did we stop caring about the basics?”

Skids followed Optimus’s gesture and took another look at Megatron, still slumped awkwardly on the ‘berth.’ Surprise crossed his faceplate. “Uh… I mean, it would. If there was anything in place to protect Decepticon prisoners of war. For Autobots and neutrals, yeah, absolutely. Tons of laws and prisoner rights on the books. But for ‘Cons? There’s nothing. He’s got no one to blame but himself,” he added with a nod to Megatron’s form. “He refused to sign the Prisoner Code agreement at the start of the war.”

Optimus's optics widened at the explanation. One part of him was horrified. Another part, cold and distant, just nodded and filed it away. The split was barely noticeable, but it was there.

“There’s nothing?”

“Yeah, not a thing,” Skids muttered, giving a sheepish chuckle. “Like I said, Megatron refused to sign the accord. And AllSpark knows what he’s done to Autobot prisoners. I’d bet it was a lot worse than that.”

He scratched at the back of his helm, clearly uncomfortable. “Because of that, it falls to the Prime serving as warden to determine how Decepticon prisoners are treated. Usually. But I’ve heard buzz that Sentinel gave specific orders for Megatron himself. Sooo… if you’ve got a problem with how it’s being handled, you’ll probably have to bring it up with him directly. …Sorry.”

Optimus grimaced. “Oh, great. Sentinel. That’s just Prime…”

At that, Megatron let out a short, sharp sound; something between a cold laugh and a scoff. Skids nearly jumped out of his plating.

“Heh… Right! See you in a joor!” Skids said with a high, nervous laugh.

Optimus let out a sigh and nodded to Skids. “Thanks for the info. I'll talk to Ironhide Prime. He deserves at least some decency. Heinous killer or not, our sparks all come from the same place.”

With that, Optimus took his leave to refuel. He was hoping to track down Ironhide before his break was over. Better to get the request in sooner than later.

Luckily, Optimus was used to being efficient. With his energon cube finished, he had plenty of time to visit Ironhide Prime’s warden office, where the door, as usual, was left open. Optimus could hear muttering from within, something about data work. He knocked on the frame out of respect before stepping inside.

"Ironhide Prime, sir, do you have a moment? There's something I’d like to discuss with you about Megatron. Specifically, his containment. I have some concerns regarding his... health and welfare."

Ironhide looked up from his desk and immediately looked relieved to have an excuse to stop working. “Optimus! Always got a moment for you,” he said brightly, sweeping a mess of datapads off to the side into a haphazard pile. “Come in, have a seat. Sentinel Magnus handles all that personally for Megatron, but I can file a report for you.” He glanced toward the pile of pads and grimaced. “Eventually. What’s the issue?”

Optimus sat straighter, already feeling like he was going to come across as idealistic or naïve. Is it really so wrong to expect the bare minimum for all sentient beings?

“So I’ve heard,” he said quietly. Then, clearing his vox, he continued in a more formal tone. “I’d like to preface this by saying that I understand, legally, Megatron and the other Decepticons have no formal protections as prisoners of war. But just for the moment, I’d like to set that aside, and consider this as a matter of Cybertronian dignity, not faction loyalty.”

He took a vent. He almost didn’t register the sound until it echoed back to him, sharper and harsher than he intended. He modulated it down a notch, keeping his face still, controlled.

“Megatron’s conditions are… frankly appalling. De-sentientizing. Forget that his injuries weren’t treated upon intake, or even cleaned, for that matter. His berth is too small, and his cell is in dire need of sanitation. He can’t recharge properly. His only choices are to rest on a filthy, energon-slick floor with open wounds and risk infection, or go without recharge entirely because the only clean spot can’t support his frame.”

He pressed one thumb into the palm of his opposite servo, a grounding technique he didn’t remember learning. A human habit, maybe. Or something one version of him picked up along the way. He didn’t even notice he was doing it anymore until it began to hurt.

“Recharge deprivation alone qualifies as torture. It's a war crime under our own guidelines for protected prisoners. And alongside neglecting his basic medical needs and access to a clean space, it paints a troubling image.”

He stopped, a flicker of static brushing across his vocalizer. There was a sensation, unwelcome and familiar, like someone else inside him had tried to finish the sentence with something crueler. He pushed it down before it could form fully.

“Yes, he’s committed horrific acts. But it sends the wrong message, for us to treat him in ways we’ve already deemed abominable. As Autobots, we pride ourselves on fairness, on giving every bot equal time in court. That should extend to the most basic rights. Like a clean living area. Like the ability to rest.”

Optimus crossed his arms, posture slumping slightly, the weight of it all pulling at his frame. “And, I suppose... if morality isn’t compelling enough, it’s cheaper to let him recharge and let his own nanites handle the worst of the damage than to require a full repair job.”

Ironhide listened without interruption, then sighed, spreading his servos flat over his cluttered desk. “Look, Optimus... I agree with you. I don’t like it much either. Even for Megatron. But Sentinel Magnus laid down very specific rules. Megatron’s not allowed to leave the cell except for scheduled court appearances or medical emergencies. No one’s allowed inside while he’s still in there. No medical care unless he’s at immediate risk of offlining. Energon strictly rationed to keep him running on less than optimal levels.”

He leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his olfactory in a slow, tired motion. “And to be honest, I don’t think Sentinel wants him healthy before court. Said something about presenting him as weak. Less threatening. Less like someone who might escape again. He claimed it was about ‘soothing frayed public nerves.’”

Ironhide shook his head and let out another sigh, slower this time. “Alright. I’ll look into it. See if there’s a loophole we can work with. I’ll file the request, but it might be faster if you look through things yourself. Sentinel fragged up, sending you in there. Probably figured you’d stay quiet, considering your personal and recent history with Megatron. But… well, you’re you. He should’ve known better.”

A wry smile tugged at one corner of Ironhide’s mouth before he turned and rummaged through a nearby file drawer. He produced a datapad and slid it across the desk. “Here. Direct orders from Sentinel himself. Everything related to Megatron’s containment. Might be somethin’ useful buried in there. You know both Sentinel and Megatron better than most of us. If anyone can find a crack in the wording, it’s you.”

Optimus accepted the pad in silence, optics dimming. He skimmed the file, then again. His frustration pressed inward, silent and thick. Limited energon should’ve been enough. Stasis cuffs would’ve handled the rest. The rest of this…

...it’s what he deserved.

He blinked, shaking the thought loose before it could settle. It wasn’t his. Was it?

"Part of me can’t help but think this is just another way Sentinel’s trying to sully my name," he muttered, jaw tightening. "But I can’t be the only one who sees how this looks, right? Putting Megatron on display like this? It doesn’t say strength. It says we don’t care about anyone who doesn’t fit the status quo. Bots followed Megatron for a reason. Some still do. And if the war taught us anything, it’s that bots turn to extremism when they feel like no one’s listening.” That line had come out of him too fast. Too practiced. He wasn’t sure if he’d said it before or just heard it in his own head so many times, it had taken root.

Ironhide leaned back in his chair with a quiet groan. “Maybe. But if you say anything? He’ll just spin it like you’re a sympathizer. You know how he is. He can’t even imagine someone disagreeing with him without makin’ it personal. Mark my words… if he gets the job as Magnus permanently, he’s gonna start crackin’ down on anyone he thinks has even thought about a ‘Con as more than a monster.”

Optimus exhaled slowly. “Of course.” His voice was resigned, but still clear. “Guess I’ll just have to document everything on my end and cover my aft.” He held up the datapad. “Can I keep this?”

Ironhide waved him off. “Yeah, take it. You should have it anyway, as his primary guard. I’ll requisition another from HQ.”

Optimus nodded once, the motion stiff. He tucked the datapad into subspace. He didn’t want to risk slamming it down like a gavel. His frame was wound too tight.

“What’s the size limit on the delivery hatch into Megatron’s cell? I didn’t get a good look earlier.”

Ironhide’s optics narrowed slightly, but he didn’t press. “The tray’s about three meters wide. Maybe a little more. Enough to slide through an oil barrel or a full energon cube. But not enough for him to stick a limb through, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Wasn’t,” Optimus said simply, already thinking. There was a beat, a blank space in his thoughts. Then the calculation kicked in. This wasn’t an emotional response. It was strategic. He wondered sometimes who was doing the thinking when it came that easily.

"I was wondering if there might be a way to get him a tarp or something to lay on, just temporarily. But if the tray’s that size, I’m not sure I could fold one small enough for him to actually spread it out through the slot...”

"Yer free to try. There’s some thermo fire-smothering blankets in the supply closet," Ironhide offered. "Thin as tin foil, but they’re decent heat conductors and cleaner than the floor. Not exactly comfort, but better than bare steel. Who knows if he’ll take it, but there’s no rule against givin’ him one. It’s not categorized as an 'item of comfort’." He smirked.

“I see. Thank you, Ironhide Prime, sir. I appreciate the tip, and the copy of orders.”

With a small wave of his servo, Optimus headed out, making a quick stop at the supply closet to grab one of the blankets before returning to Megatron’s cell. Several guards waved or smiled as he passed, even if he didn’t know their names. Everyone knew who he was now. Most had likely seen him at the parade a few days ago, riding with Megatron in tow. News outlets still ran stories about his appointment at Trypticon. As Sentinel had predicted, or perhaps orchestrated, Optimus’s posting here was touted as a personal choice. A brave young Prime keeping watch over the warlord he’d managed to subdue. No one seemed to care much about the truth when the lie made better headlines.

His badge let him back into Level Four. The guards didn’t react as the door sealed shut behind him. Skids stood at attention with his back to the cell. Inside, Megatron sat upright on the berth, optics dim, as he almost always was.

"Have a good break?" Skids asked, saluting with a friendly smile as he lifted his spear from the ground.

Optimus returned the smile, friendly but not quite pleasant, as though some part of him was still stuck somewhere else. He withdrew his axe to prepare for his duty. "Yes. Productive, I think. At ease. You’re dismissed, Minor."

Once Skids left, Optimus approached the cell. "I brought you something," he said. "It’s not comfortable, but if you want it, it’ll give you a clean surface to recharge on." He held up the blanket, letting Megatron see it and make his choice.

Megatron didn’t move at first. His optics flickered faintly to life, narrowing with immediate suspicion. He studied both the blanket and the bot who held it, expression calculating rather than hostile. After a long moment, his helm turned away and his expression hardened.

"How noble. A blanket? What could be next, warm energon and a bedtime story? Spare me your sanctimonious pity, little Prime. I would rather freeze than accept charity from the likes of you." His bound servos clenched as his defenses went up, jaw tight. He couldn’t afford to give in. Not here, not now, and not to him.

Optimus just rolled his optics, visibly annoyed, but the tension in his stance didn’t match the flippant tone. 

"It’s not charity. It’s what’s owed to you as a sentient being. Though, legally, since you didn’t sign the Prisoner Code agreement, we don’t even have to give you that." He walked to the delivery tray. "Tell you what. I’ll leave it here. If you don’t take it by the end of my shift, I’ll take it back. Won’t offer again."

Megatron scoffed. "Prisoner Code agreement..." he muttered. "You equate legality with morality. Do you really think because something is written down, it will be honored? If the Autobots were so morally superior, they would have written their own prisoner rights decrees, without expecting anything in return. The Decepticons did." He shook his helm. "Not that it matters. The Autobots will always do what they want anyway. Especially with prisoners like me. Like you said yourself... no one but you seems to care."

Optimus slid the blanket into the tray and locked it shut, returning to his post by the wall. "Sue me for believing all sentient beings deserve to not suffer war crimes," he muttered. The word 'sentient' came with a faint bitter emphasis, like it carried more weight than it should. "Clearly, not everyone agrees, but I’d like to hope my offers of decency don’t fall into ungrateful servos."

Megatron glanced at the tray a moment but didn’t move, optics sliding back up to Optimus and narrowing coldly at his words.

"Ah yes, there it is... ungrateful servos," he drawled, sneering. "You mistake restraint for compassion and expect gratitude for it. You understand so little about power, little Prime. If you think I will thank you for the privilege of resting on the freezing, filthy floor of a cell too small for my frame, wounded and untreated for more than two deca-cycles, then I am afraid you will remain disappointed. I owe you nothing. Not even acknowledgement. And certainly not my gratitude."

Optimus leaned back, his posture relaxed but his optics tense. "And I think you think too deeply about my intentions." He twirled his axe. "I brought a blanket because it was right. That’s it. Do I care if you use it? No. I said I’d take it back. Frag, Sentinel could see this, call me a sympathizer and ruin my standing." He shrugged. "I don’t do it for glory. Spiting Sentinel? Maybe. But I don’t hold basic decency over someone’s helm. What kind of mech do you take me for?"

He groaned and his tone dipped an octave lower, more exhausted than indignant. He waved a servo dismissively, but the motion came late, as though prompted by a thought from somewhere else. "Don’t answer that." He sighed tiredly. "My snark’s not about you owing me anything. I’m just annoyed by your attitude. And everything’s so... off. I know the Autobots aren’t morally superior… certainly not lately. We’re falling. Time away made me forget how far."

Optimus raised his servo to his neck and softly rubbed. "Feels like half my helm’s still in that pit," he mumbled. "Hard to know which voice to listen to anymore."

Megatron’s sneer faded to guarded suspicion. This... wasn’t banter. This was a mech hitting his limit. He arched a brow at the withdrawn question, but decided not to comment on it.

The silence stretched. Then came the soft click of the access hatch unlocking. Megatron knelt, and pulled open the tray.

"You should be more cautious, little Prime," he murmured, carefully unfolding the blanket as best he could with bound servos. "Those who guard the status quo rarely treat dissenters kindly. You are inviting trouble for yourself too easily."

"Caution..." Optimus echoed quietly. "If I’d lived a cautious life..." He trailed off, then shook his helm. "No. Had I avoided trouble, I’d be a cog in someone else’s machine. Now I’m in a place where I can do something. And I’ve got bots who trust me... who’ll listen."

His voice dropped. "But maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need to be cautious. Wisdom’s what I need now, more than ever. Hard to find when everyone else my rank is older, more experienced... but sometimes it comes from unexpected places. If you just slow down and listen."

Megatron laughed, the sound unexpectedly amused. "I admit, you continue to surprise me," he said, voice quieter than expected. "You, who were always such an obedient, steadfast Autobot, taking every unjust punishment and unfortunate circumstance without question or complaint, now grumble about corruption and politics." His smirk lingered as he delicately spread the thin blanket over the energon-spattered floor.

"Has my perfectly legal mistreatment at the servos of your superiors so spurred your attention that you're willing to entertain thoughts your kind would call treasonous?" His optics glinted faintly. "You really must be more careful with voicing your thoughts. Your sense of justice and honor will not be appreciated by many. Even the attention you command from the masses now will not protect you for long."

With a rough, pained grunt, Megatron eased himself down onto the floor. The blanket wasn't much, but it was something. For the first time in two deca-cycles, the massive warframe could lie flat without twisting to avoid uneven ground or supports. He let out a low, hissed vent of relief, the sound one of pain easing, if only slightly.

Optimus vented slowly, tension leaving him piece by piece. He resumed pacing, slower this time, though he could no longer feel the rhythm of his steps. It was as though he were watching himself move, one servo forward, then the next, the motion mechanical and automatic. “What’s the story, from your side?” he asked. “Where did it start for you? If you’re willing to share.”

A low sound escaped Megatron’s throat. It might have been a laugh, though it lacked its usual sharp edge.

"That is an extremely loaded, and far more complicated, question than you likely imagine, little Prime. You have been fed so much propaganda, I doubt anything I say would be taken seriously. Or understood. Even by someone already questioning his government on... lesser matters."

He sighed, resting his bound servos across his midriff. His optics flickered, dimming with exhaustion. Even Megatron could only endure so much recharge deprivation. Optimus could almost feel it, that heavy, clawing need pulling at Megatron’s frame. The kind of exhaustion that sank into the spark.

“For now, I will say this...” Megatron’s voice had slightly softened. “Whatever you were taught about me at that bright and shining Academy of yours… the truth is far worse.”

The silence stretched uncomfortably.

“But I will start there. With what you have been taught. If you are willing to share, of course... tomorrow.” A slight smirk ghosted across his face before his optics went dark, finally succumbing to recharge.

Optimus remained still for a long moment, watching the Decepticon settle. “I’m not so sure I’d go as far as treason…” he murmured to no one in particular. Though it didn’t feel like no one. Some part of him seemed to be listening. Waiting. 

The thought lingered. He fell silent again, letting the quiet reclaim the room as he returned to pacing. He listened, not just to the silence, but to Megatron’s venting, finally slow and even.

“Tomorrow,” Optimus agreed quietly.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, checking to make sure Megatron looked… okay. That the blanket was big enough. That his frame could fully sink and rest. Satisfied, he resumed his quiet post by the wall. And inevitably, the thoughts returned.

What does it matter?

Isn’t the law supposed to be what matters?

Supposed to.

But it isn’t. Not here. Not now.

Morals matter too. Laws should align with good morals, but that isn’t always the case.

Then stop acting like they do. You know better than that.

If you set the precedent that, in spite of no laws protecting Decepticons, they are to be treated with no care or dignity, and especially if that’s done so publicly, you risk angering a large portion of the population that sympathizes with Decepticon rhetoric.

...And what if they’re right?

They’re the bad guys.

Are they?

Of course they are. Did you forget what they’ve taken from you? What they’ve done?

Decepticons and their sympathizers, as much as I don’t like them, represent a push against the status quo...

Careful. That’s not your thought. Is it?

It’s a slippery slope. One day, even thinking these things could be enough to get you punished.

Can they really do that?

They’ll find a way. Still… haven’t you done enough? Can’t you just put your helm down, focus on your own life for once? Why do you always have to play the hero? That’s not in your programming, remember?

It’s not about being a hero. It never was.

It’s about doing what’s right.

Optimus huffed quietly, shoulders rising and falling with his vents. He wasn’t sure he’d won that argument with himself. And worse than losing, he wasn’t sure who he’d been arguing with.

He stared at the chronometer in his hub, waiting for his shift to end.

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Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, Megatron recharged through the rest of Optimus’s shift and was still under when the next guard arrived. She was a slightly older femme who had introduced herself as Firestar Major after his first shift, and gave him a curt nod as she took over the post.

As Optimus left the complex and began logging his report, a familiar heaviness settled into his frame, creeping deep into his struts. It was the kind of weariness that clung. Not from walking or standing, but from arguing. Arguing with someone else and with himself. For nearly twelve joors straight.

Mentally exhausting. That’s what it was.

He passed the other Decepticon cells on his way out. They looked much the same as before, except now several energon cubes were half-empty or drained entirely. Refueling time had clearly come and gone.

Except, of course, for Megatron. Still no energon for him. Restricted fueling, because of course it was.

Outside the compound as his shift ended for the cycle, Optimus paused. He had a choice now: go back to his apartment and finally rest, or try to find Sentinel and talk to him directly about what he’d seen, and the orders he couldn’t stop thinking about, burning cold in his subspace.

He felt the exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. The kind of exhaustion that came from friction, external and internal, like gears slipping inside his own helm. But he transformed anyway. Wheels hit the road. Motion helped. It always had.

He filed away the sight of the drained energon. One last mental image locked away, logged, and tagged for the day. Another entry in the slowly growing list of things that didn’t sit right. Every piece of data counted, every discrepancy, every time he felt like someone else was watching from behind his optics.

Still aching, still heavy, he steered himself toward Fortress Maximus. He wanted to talk to Sentinel. Carefully. Pick his processor. Get a feel for just what the Magnus was planning. Hopefully this won’t backfire.

~*~

The drive to Fortress Maximus was grueling. He was so tired it was a miracle he hadn’t taken a wrong turn and ended up in Kaon. But despite the late joor, it wasn’t surprising to find Sentinel still in his office. A stack of datapads, neatly arranged (unlike Ironhide’s organized chaos) sat on the desk, glowing faintly.

The secretary announced Optimus's arrival. Sentinel gave permission for him to enter, barely glancing up from his console.

“Optimus. Wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” he said distractedly, optics flicking over a datapad. Then he paused, noting the slouch in Optimus’s frame. “What’s the matter? Guard duty too strenuous for you?” he added with a sharp laugh, clearly amused at Optimus’s expense. He set aside the pad and gestured casually toward the same chair Optimus had used during his appointment here prior.

Optimus stepped inside, slow but steady. “Sentinel Magnus, sir,” he said, using the formal address. He sank into the chair and gave a small shake of his helm. “No, nothing like that. I just have some concerns. I want to assure you that I’m not here to question your authority, and certainly not to undermine it. But there are decisions being made regarding Megatron’s imprisonment… and potential plans I overheard… that concern me.” He placed a servo over his spark in a sincere gesture. “In spite of everything, I still care about you, Sentinel. And I want to make sure you’re not doing something that could damage your reputation, or the Autobots as a whole.”

Sentinel gave him a sideways glance, suspicion flickering briefly in his optics. Optimus rarely addressed him with such immediate deference. While it stroked his ego, it also put him a little on edge. The sincerity was disarming enough to make him listen. “…Alright. You have my curiosity. What, exactly, do you think might damage my reputation in regard to Megatron?”

Optimus vented slowly to center himself. “He’s been locked up for over two deca-cycles, and when I saw him today, he still had untreated wounds. The cell is filthy. His berth, if it can even be called that, is so small, he can’t lie on it properly. So he’s either recharging on the floor in grime and dried energon, or not recharging at all. If it were anyone else, we’d call that cruelty. De-sentientizing behavior. And it’s being done under our banner.” 

He pulled a datapad from subspace, the orders he’d been given, and set it on the desk, tapping his digit on the screen. “I know these came from you. And I heard you’re planning to present Megatron as weak in court. On the surface, that makes sense. But if he walks into that courtroom looking like he’s been denied recharge for the better part of a chord and can barely stand? I don’t think it’ll have the effect you want.”

He scrolled through the long list of orders. “You’re not showing him as defeated. You’re showing the Autobots are fine treating Cybertronians like they’re less than sentient if they don’t comply. That’s not a show of strength. That’s a recipe for revolt.” His digits brushed the edge of his helm, half-anxious, half-automatic. He didn’t even register the gesture. “There are still bots out there who sympathize with Decepticons. Bots who lost everything but never picked up a blaster.”

Sentinel frowned, but stayed quiet. The formal approach was working. Optimus had bought himself a longer leash. “First of all,” Sentinel said at last, “this has nothing to do with whether Megatron followed our ‘every command.’ He’s not some angsty protestor scrawling slag on the Council’s front steps. He’s Megatron. The Slagmaker. A warlord who’s murdered millions, enslaved thousands, including Autobots. He pushed tyranny, not change.” He gestured vaguely. “Back during the war, everyone lost someone. Every annex colony. Every city. Mechs younger than us forget that. You won’t. You can’t.” His voice softened. “I know what he took from you. Prowl died a hero. And I do respect that.”

It didn’t last long.

“If people want to start weeping for a mass murderer, they can join him in the execution chamber. The moment we start servo-wringing over Megatron’s comfort is the moment we spit on every soldier who died trying to stop him. He doesn’t even deserve a cell! He deserves to be in a pit in the ground, left to rust!”

He leaned back, rolling his neck with a creak of gears and muscle cabling. “But,” he admitted begrudgingly, “I see your point about the optics. I hadn’t really considered what shape he’d be in for the trial, other than weakened. Still contaminated by that organic slag pit you tolerated for far too long. He’s tracking dirt all over my planet.” He grimaced, the anger starting to ebb. “The berth… yeah, it’s too small. But we don’t have one that size lying around, and I’m not wasting funds building one for a mech who’s going to be executed in a few chords. Same with medical. The goal is to show he’s weak. Controlled. Not that we’re wasting Shanix on his cosmetics and comfort.”

Optimus bit his glossa as he listened. Sentinel wasn’t thinking about ethics, just public relations. But still… it was progress. “Earth is a good planet,” Optimus said softly. “Its inhabitants are more like us than you’d think. Sure, they’re organic, but the parallels like body plan, intelligence, society… maybe there’s convergent evolution at play. Or some link we haven’t uncovered.” He looked giddy, almost awed. “The atoms that make us up… they linger in their soil.”

Sentinel made a face and waved him off like the very idea of being buried in dirt might give him nightmares.

Optimus chuckled to himself, catching the shift in his own tone. He’d been speaking like two mechs at once; calm and sentimental, then sharp and clinical. “Sorry. I digress.” He leaned forward slightly, optics clear again. “I agree. Megatron should look weak. Scarred and broken, and definitely not pampered. But there’s a fine line between that and broadcasting a threat. I’m glad you’re willing to hear me out on that… friend.”

Sentinel sighed and rubbed his olfactory ridge.

“…Alright. I’ll authorize a medical check-up to patch active injuries. I’ll order it for tomorrow, along with a wash. I’ll also issue a decontamination for the cell. I’ll see what can be done about the berth.” He eyed Optimus. “Hm. The trial’s going to take longer than I’d like. Too much red tape. Too many sympathizers. But once it starts, his crimes will be on full display. It’s going to be important.”

He leaned forward. “And yes… we’ve had our differences. But I like to think we’ve moved past some of them. With your return to the Academy, your post, our talk on Earth…” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “I can’t promise we’ll agree on everything. But I do recognize good advice.”

Optimus nodded slowly. “I brought all this up to Ironhide Prime, too. But I wanted to come to you directly. I worry about you sometimes. It’s hard not to.”

He yawned, surprised by it, and quickly covered his intake with a servo. “Excuse me. Sorry. I should recharge. Thank you for hearing me out, sir.”

Sentinel stood and waved him toward the door. “Go rest. I’ll update Ironhide Prime in the morning. You’ll have clearance to oversee Megatron’s treatment directly. Report back if anything goes wrong. Good night, Optimus.”

Optimus nodded, already mentally transcribing the conversation word for word. His processor was good at that; cataloging, sorting, and storing. Sometimes too good. He’d upload it to a data disc later. And he definitely noted the little my planet slip.

“You get some rest too. Goodnight, Sentinel.”

He offered a tired smile as he picked up the datapad of Sentinel’s orders and slipped out, tucking the full transcript away for later. That went better than expected.

Optimus eventually returned to his hab and collapsed into the berth, recharging the moment his frame hit the surface. Just one solar cycle at a time. Things’ll get easier.

…I hope.

Chapter Text

Morning came, inevitably. And Trypticon was just as lively at 0600 as it had been the day before. Optimus made a conscious effort to observe the other prisoners. As usual, the Decepticons greeted Optimus with scornful looks and hisses. But this time, Blitzwing remained on Icy. He watched Optimus closely and curiously, rather than snarling. A certain improvement, to be sure. Though most remained hostile, he nodded politely to Blitzwing in passing, cautious but courteous. They were serving their time. There was no reason to be cruel, even if resentment still simmered beneath the surface.

When the door to Level Four opened, he found Firestar Major already waiting, flanked by two other guards armed with blaster rifles. She saluted wearily and left without a word, her exhaustion written into every step. The guards gave Optimus a nod but kept their optics locked on Megatron, who stood motionless at the center of his cell. The warlord’s posture was perfectly rigid, his expression unreadable. The stasis cuffs had already been repositioned behind his back in preparation for transfer. He stared directly at Optimus and did not look away.

“Morning, Optimus Prime,” said the guard on the left. “Bluestreak Minor. This is Trailbreaker Minor. You ready to take this mess down to the wash racks? Ironhide Prime wants him finished up before the rest of the inmates cycle through. Nice private wash. Ain’t you lucky?” he added, sneering at Megatron. Megatron didn’t respond., his gaze never shifting from Optimus.

Optimus gave the guards a salute of greeting, axe in servo, and managed a relaxed smile. “Yes, sirs. I’m ready.” He studied Megatron carefully. Was he less tired today? Had his internal systems managed to do any repairs? Megatron was on restricted energon, but how restricted? When was the last time he’d refueled, especially with how much he’d already lost?

“Good.” Trailbreaker tapped his commbead in his audial. “Command, ready.” A short pause, then a nod. “Alright. Forcefield coming down. Weapons ready. Three, two, one…” He slammed his servo onto the console’s largest red button. Alarms blared, red lights flaring as the energy bars dropped. The forcefield fell a moment later.

For the first time since the parade, nothing separated Optimus and Megatron but a few meters and a pair of stasis cuffs. The blanket was gone. Most likely confiscated after yesterday’s shift. Megatron’s plating remained cracked in several places, streaked with dried energon. His vents ran hot despite his stillness. He stood tall, but Optimus could tell he wasn’t in fighting shape. Not by Autobot standards, at least. Still, even injured, he was dangerous. But with the cuffs in place, the odds of an incident were low.

“Weapons poised,” Bluestreak muttered into his comm, though the line sounded meant more for the room than for Command. “Alright. Move it.”

Megatron finally broke his gaze, turning away as he stepped down from the platform. The movement made him tense, and Optimus caught a faint tremor in his injured right stabilizer. It was struggling to bear his weight. Still, he refused to limp, walking with grim, unshakable dignity toward the exit.

Optimus followed, optics sweeping him again. The absence of the blanket tugged at something in his spark. He tightened his grip on his axe. His finials twitched as he caught another tensing in Megatron’s frame, subtle but telling of exactly how much pain he was in.

Not long now. Just a little longer. You can tough it out, Megatron.

The moment they stepped into the corridor, the cellblock erupted. Decepticons roared behind their forcefields, howling, chanting, throwing themselves at the barriers in a frenzy of praise, threats, and snarled promises of retribution. The guards snapped to alert, weapons high, but all optics stayed locked on Megatron.

The warlord ignored them. Optimus did the same, falling into step just behind. I wonder what he’s thinking. Probably not very nice things. Yet despite the chaos, Optimus felt oddly calm. The guards were tense, their blasters up and actively pointed. But Megatron didn’t feel threatening to Optimus now.

They made their way through the upper levels to a separate wing off Level Two. A service elevator carried them down into the lower floors -- vast, reinforced chambers built to accommodate warframes.

At last, they reached the open wash racks, titan-sized, industrial showers that were sparse, but suitable for the task of washing dozens of inmates at once. The ceiling was dense with nozzles, each one capable of unleashing a torrent of water or solvent, singly or in clusters.

“You can wait here and stand guard, Optimus. We’ll get him set up,” Trailbreaker said with a small smile.

They led Megatron inside, leaving Optimus just beyond the doorway. Moments later, fluid thundered against the metal floor, and Optimus thought he heard a sharp, startled gasp. “Comfortable, Megs?” Trailbreaker sneered, his voice echoing. A heavy crash followed, the sound of crunching metal striking metal. “We’ll come get you when you’re nice and clean. Just shout when you’re finished. No rush. Take your time.”

Optimus stood completely still. His audials were primed. He had heard that gasp and the crash… that wasn’t just carelessness. His spark stuttered roughly.

The guards emerged soon after, looking far too satisfied with themselves. “He’s fine,” Bluestreak said, brushing past the unmoving Prime. “Let him finish up.” They crossed to the far wall, leaving Optimus alone by the door.

Still, Optimus waited, keeping his expression neutral until the guards were out of sight. The moment they moved away, he slipped into the wash rack. He didn’t want to believe it, but if they’d laid a digit on Megatron… That’s unacceptable. For any prisoner.

As Optimus approached the corner, the harsh clatter of the mantrap door behind him was followed by a chilling silence, spare for the spray of water. The wash rack lay ahead, the hum of the metal fixtures and bright lighting all but deafening. He stepped into the frigid air, punctuated by the heavy, shuddering vents of the warlord.

Megatron knelt in the center of the shower stall, his massive form seemingly crumpled by the weight of exhaustion. The water, a torrent of icy coldness, pummeled him with brutal force. His servos were clenched, pressed tight against his plating, his optics narrowed with sheer determination as he struggled to rise. The effort was futile, and with a hiss of pain, Megatron fell back to the cold floor, a harsh grind of metal against metal echoing in the room. A jagged open wound on his leg where his limp had been was leaking energon in thick, sluggish streams.

Optimus stood frozen for a moment, stunned by the sheer brutality before him. His optics swept the scene, mechanical and merciless. The harsh stream of water did nothing to soothe the suffering of the mech before him, only intensified it, sheeting down over twisted plating and a wound that was far more than physical. Megatron’s frame shuddered under the strain, bent and broken yet unyielding. Optimus took in every detail, committing it to memory: the way droplets scattered from the angular ridges of Megatron’s helm, how a few struck his own legs as he stepped into the wash area, the way energon pooled at their feet, mixing with grime. Despite everything, the wreckage of his frame and the silent weight of his agony, the gleam of defiance never left Megatron’s optics.

Megatron’s gritted snarl broke the silence, an insult spat between chattering denta, his voice cold and low. “Come to take your shots too, little Prime?” He sneered, his optics burning with challenge. “Go ahead then... You will never have a better chance than this.”

Optimus blinked, momentarily frozen as the venomous words stung him, but the sight of Megatron, his once imposing form reduced to this pathetic figure, sank deeper into him than any verbal assault. The cold water, the way it seemed to freeze the very spark of the mech who had caused so much destruction, twisted something inside him. Not enough for anyone but you to care. His mind raced, cataloging the implications of Megatron’s words. Even wounded and broken, the warlord’s pride held steady. The bitterness in his voice was palpable, but so was the deep, gnawing vulnerability that pulsed just beneath it.

Shaking his helm in disapproval, Optimus took a step forward, his own resolve hardening as the young Prime made his decision. Without a word, he moved past Megatron and approached the water controls, turning the knobs with deliberate precision. Slowly, the water pressure eased, the harsh sting of it dropping into a softer cascade, a welcome relief. Then, with a careful twist, the temperature climbed, until it was warm, almost gentle. The change was subtle but immediate. The warmth seeped into Optimus’s own frame, and for a brief, disorienting moment, it was as if the warmth was not just the water, but the weight of Megatron’s suffering, heavy in his own joints. He could feel it, the strain, the weariness in his servos, his own pulse quickening in response.

“What are you doing?!” Megatron recoiled slightly, visibly tensing as the water began to shift. His body remained rigid, his gaze never leaving Optimus as the mech’s question came again, this time more demanding, more wary. “What are you doing?” His voice, sharp with disbelief and wariness, trembled with an edge of uncertainty, though he tried to cover it. The Decepticon warlord was on edge, every muscle cord held tense, ready to lash out. His posture, still on his knees, made him seem both pitiful and proud. He was down, but not out, not yet. The disdain in his voice was still there, but there was something else too; vulnerability.

Optimus, steady and unyielding, refused to give in to the rising tension. He could see the challenge in Megatron's optics, the way the warlord fought to maintain control, but there was also a weary surrender in his stance, an exhaustion too heavy to bear any longer.

"I’m not going to hurt you," Optimus responded quietly, his voice soft but resolute. The words felt like a promise as he reached down to set his axe on the ground near Megatron’s pedes. The words carried more weight than Megatron had expected. Optimus approached cautiously, but without hesitation, reaching out with a steady servo toward the tense warlord.

“As if you could hurt me!” Megatron sneered, even as he recoiled sharply away from the reaching servo. His optics flashed with a brief flare of indignation, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. "Do not touch me!" he snarled, his tone thick with both fury and uncertainty as he tried to recoil. "I do not require your assistance, Autobot!" The way he spat the last word made it clear just how much he despised it.

Optimus only paused for a spark beat, then continued to move his servo toward him. “Lean against me. Let me guide you back so you can rest your leg.” The weight of his resistance didn’t faze him. He simply moved in closer, continuing to reach out and finally touched Megatron on the shoulder, though his actions were never forceful.

As his servo made contact with Megatron’s shoulder, the sensation felt wrong, like something was pulling at his spark. He could feel the trembling shudders of Megatron’s frame beneath his digits, and it struck deep within him. A deep empathy that bordered on pain, almost like it was his own injury.

Megatron stiffened, cables coiled tight with tension, but despite his venomous words, he was beginning to sink, slowly, into the touch. He leaned into Optimus’s offered support, not enough to fully collapse, but enough to give way to the inevitable. His massive frame, wounded and weary, gave in to the wear of the moment. With a strained, painful sigh, Megatron’s form lowered, the weight of his brokenness undeniable. He eased himself to the ground, his injured leg stretched out, no longer able to bear the strain. His venting came in sharp, ragged gasps, but the exvent carried some semblance of relief.

“There... good,” Optimus murmured quietly, more to himself than to Megatron. He remained by his side, patient, waiting as the warlord took his time to gather himself. The injury was brutal. Twisted metal, torn cables, energon sluggishly leaking from a jagged split in his calf. Optimus grimaced at the sight, but there was little time to dwell. For now, cleaning him was the priority. He turned without a word, crossing the wash rack to retrieve a sponge and a bottle of cleaning solvent. As he returned, Megatron’s optics narrowed, caution simmering behind his exhaustion.

"You do not have to-" Megatron began, voice rough, almost hesitant, but the words were cut short as Optimus ignored them completely. Optimus knelt beside him, silent and resolute as he already began to prepare the sponge. His servo settled gently on Megatron’s shoulder, a deliberate echo of before. The contact was steady and grounding for the both of them. Optimus took care with the first stroke, the sponge firm but never harsh as it moved across damaged plating. The filth of imprisonment, of battle, of bloodshed, of indignity, began to lift away in slow, murky streams that swirled down the drain.

The silence between them deepened. Not cold, but contemplative. The water pattered softly now, warm and constant, a quiet backdrop to the rhythmic motion of Optimus’s cleaning. He worked without comment or complaint, each stroke deliberate, reverent in a way. Not subservient, but steady, a kind of silent respect for what pain must feel like in a body not his own. The wash became a kind of communion. And as his digits brushed over dented seams, cracked plating, burned lines in the metal, he felt it. A flicker of something more than sympathy.

He did not just see Megatron’s pain. He felt it. Echoes in his own limbs, a strange resonance in his chest. Like his spark was mirroring it, registering the fatigue, the weight and the ache. His servo paused for half a nanoklik on the warlord’s back, unsure if the sensation was imagined or real.

The silence broke, but softly. "You are a fool, little Prime," Megatron murmured. His voice had dropped low, no longer venomous, but hoarse with exhaustion. "Too soft-sparked and hard-helmed for your own benefit. You are going to get yourself offlined one day. Your mercy will not spare you."

The words stung, but Optimus remained composed. He squeezed out the sponge, moved to the other side. "That may be so," he replied, tone as calm and warm as the water still cascading down Megatron’s armor as he shifted around to kneel down at Megatron’s front again. "But if my mercy makes this world even a little easier for someone to bear, even someone like you, then why would I not shoulder the burden?" His optics lifted, meeting Megatron’s as he finished with the warlord’s pedes, gently scrubbing until the water ran clear. “My friends can betray me. The world can paint me as they wish. It won’t stop me from doing what I believe is right. From helping another, even if that someone is my worst enemy.” He set the sponge aside and moved to shut off the water. As the last drops faded into silence, he knelt again, offering his servos to help the larger mech rise.

Megatron’s optics dropped to the offered servos, hesitation flickering like static across his faceplates. Not gratitude, but something else much more painful. A tremor of memory, or mistrust, or a sense of recognition he didn’t want. Optimus couldn’t tell, and wasn’t about to ask. He sighed. And for the first time, there was no bite in it. He allowed Optimus to help him up. Not willingly. Not gladly. But he allowed it. The younger mech adjusted quickly, bracing himself under the weight of the warlord’s towering frame. Even with support, Megatron trembled slightly as his injured leg touched the floor.

“The other guards will report you,” he muttered, voice low. The warning still held that familiar edge, but dulled and quiet. "If they see you like this…”

Optimus ignored the comment. He retrieved his axe from the floor and pressed the handle to the floor, creating a third point of contact to steady them both. Then, wordlessly, he slid his other arm around Megatron’s waist, anchoring him. “Is this good?” he asked softly, optics scanning the warlord’s expression.

Megatron glanced down at him. His expression was unreadable, distant. “Good is not how I would describe it,” he replied, his voice measured, low with reluctant honesty. “But it seems… sufficient to the current situation.”

A long pause passed. His gaze lingered on Optimus’s servo where it curled beneath his arm. Then he let out another vent, quieter this time. “Let us move on,” he murmured, “and get this ordeal over with.”

They moved slowly, awkward and uneven, but together. Each step forward was a compromise. Megatron, proud and unbending, forced to lean. Optimus, smaller and quiet, holding up more than weight. He held up something harder to define: the shame Megatron refused to speak aloud, and the hope neither of them dared name. But for now, all that mattered was the path to the medbay, and the unlikely way they held each other upright.

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Chapter Text

Megatron couldn’t put any weight on his leg. Pain aside, the limb threatened to collapse entirely when he tried, forcing him to lean on Optimus far more than his pride would have liked. Optimus adjusted, shifting to take more of the warlord’s weight and using his axe handle as something like a crutch, moving just ahead to angle their frames through the doorway. It helped ensure that any onlookers wouldn't see Megatron exiting first.

Not that it helped much. The moment they stepped into view, the other two guards raised their weapons in alarm. Trailbreaker’s voice rang out almost immediately. “Optimus! What are you doing?! Get away from him! You’re not supposed to be that close! No direct contact!” That was, of course, one of Sentinel’s many micromanaged orders.

Optimus didn’t stop. He kept moving, Megatron’s heavy frame dragging against him, the sharp grinding reverberating up through where their frames pressed together by necessity. Optimus swore he felt the hot flare of pain from the warlord’s injured leg. His own hydraulics stuttered slightly, and he bit the inside of his derma, hard. Megatron made no comment. He didn’t seem to notice the way Optimus flinched with him as their weight shifted. All of his attention was focused on the guards.

Optimus answered the guards with a sharp glare and a long-suffering groan. “He can’t put any pressure on his leg,” he snapped. “And we all know we don’t have a gurney big enough to carry him to the medbay. Not without dragging out something loud and dramatic, something bound to make others ask why the big scary warlord suddenly has an impact injury.”

He turned, optics sharp, and gave the guards a sweet, saccharine smile. “Now, Sentinel wants his big show. His dramatic moment where he gets to parade the fallen Decepticon leader in front of the public, right? That doesn’t happen if Megatron can’t walk. So he needs to get to medbay. Right now.” Optimus let that hang in the air for a nanoklik, then dropped his tone into a deadpan growl. “So either help me, or shut up. Because I am not leaving him here.”

The guards blinked, stunned into silence. Trailbreaker exchanged a glance with his partner. Beside Optimus, there was the faintest vibration of a low, restrained sound coming from Megatron. A stifled chuckle, betrayed only by the flicker of a smirk that touched the edge of his intake.

Wordlessly, the guards stepped aside, still keeping their rifles trained on Megatron, but offering no further resistance. Optimus nodded in passing, then pressed forward without delay, practically hauling the warlord with him. By the time they reached the medical bay, Optimus’s back strut was screaming. The ache was familiar, harkening back to his time repairing space bridges, crushing massive rocks and carrying them around. It felt heavy and disjointed, the strain of Megatron’s bulk against him a deeper ache than he expected, and it pulsed in time with Megatron’s limp.

Thankfully, it was a shorter trip than the one from Megatron’s cell to the washracks. Down a few corridors, the pace was slow, but eventually, they reached the medbay. The doors slid open automatically at their approach. A redish-orange Minicon with a singular wheel instead of stabilizer struts looked up from his desk, optics going wide as he took in the sight of Megatron, slumped against Optimus like some wounded beast.

“Oh... wow. What happened here?” he asked, optics locked on the mangled limb. Behind them, the medbay doors shut, and the guards took position outside once more. Nervous glances were exchanged, but they said nothing. Orders were orders.

“Well,” Optimus said through clenched denta, “Trailbreaker, Bluestreak, and I took him to the washracks. Trail and Blue went in with him. I waited outside. I heard a crash. When they came back out, I went in. And somehow... between three bots going in, two going out, and me entering, Megatron sustained that injury.” He looked the medic in the optics. Not even hesitating to drop names. “I’m not in a position to speculate. But I’m sure you can come to a logical conclusion.”

“I see…” the medic murmured, wheeling around the desk and following them to the berth. His frown deepened, though there was no surprise in his voice, just resignation. This, Optimus suspected, was not a new pattern.

Megatron shifted his weight again as they approached the berth, and something snagged in Optimus’s body. Not physical pain, this time, but a hollow pang of something else. Fatigue and frustration pulled at his processor, causing his helm to pound. He did his best to ignore it; he had other things to worry about. 

Optimus guided Megatron down onto the exam berth, groaning with relief as the warlord’s weight finally left him. “Ohhh, I’m gonna feel that after I recharge…” He retracted the haft of his axe, taking a moment to stretch as he flopped down into a nearby seat.

The berth was large, thankfully. Trypticon had once been a Decepticon stronghold, and several of its remaining built-in amenities were sized accordingly. Megatron sank down with a sharp exvent, a low hiss escaping his vents. His leg still leaked energon, though less than before. Whether that meant his systems had managed some internal repairs or if he simply didn’t have enough energon left to bleed, Optimus wasn’t sure. And he didn’t want to guess. “I weigh more than five times what you do,” Megatron rumbled, shifting to try and get comfortable despite his arms still being bound behind him. “Frankly, I am surprised you did not tear something on the way.”

“I am a strong mech,” Optimus muttered, in a more playful tone that didn’t quite reach his optics. “Give Ironhide a run for his money, really. If I was just a bit bigger, I bet I could lift you.”

Megatron smirked. “Of course you are. You had to be stronger than the average Autobot to bring me down.” Strangely, there was no bitterness in his tone this time. But Optimus still flinched faintly at those words. Bring me down. The echo of the words, despite their lack of scorn, vibrating oddly inside him. Not guilt or pride, just… something Optimus could not quite place.

“Megatron.” The medic spoke with sharp authority and none of the fear one might expect from someone dwarfed by both Prime and warlord alike. “I am Fixit, the chief medical officer of Trypticon. I have extensive training with warframe anatomy. But I still need you to be honest with me about any pain, so I can assess and treat accordingly.”

Megatron’s grimace deepened, but he gave a short nod of agreement. The tension in his frame bled outward like heat, and Optimus, too, found himself tensing up.

“That tone tells me this isn’t exactly a rare occurrence,” Optimus muttered under his vent.

Fixit’s response was blunt. “It’s not. Though this level of severity is... unusual.” He shifted slightly, beginning his examination with a clinical optic. Despite Megatron’s frame still being cuffed, Fixit showed no hesitation. “This is going to take a while,” he added.

Optimus sighed, rubbing at the back of his helm. “Noted.”

Fixit then turned to him, tone firm. “I need you to remove his stasis cuffs. I can’t reach his upper frame like this, and he can’t lie down properly while restrained. There are berth restraints you can use instead.”

Megatron glanced over the medic, then to Optimus, one optic brow arched slightly. He shifted, presenting his bound servos wedged into the small of his back to Optimus. “Medic’s orders,” he said, voice lifting just enough to be insufferably smug.

Optimus gave him a look, the kind of look a mech gives when he’s deeply reconsidering his life choices, before he moved toward the cuffs and deactivated the lock. His expression hardened again as he struggled momentarily to pull them off. “By the AllSpark, these are tight…” When they finally gave, they did so with a sharp snap. Optimus nearly dropped them, startled by how forcefully they’d been locked in place. Optimus twisted his own wrists with phantom pain, looking at the harsh marks left on Megatron’s wrists. He stepped back, frowning. “Your servos alright? Looks like they really wrenched them when they moved your arms behind you.”

Megatron exhaled sharply as the cuffs were removed. A surge of energy pulsed through him as the stasis effects lifted, and he brought his servos forward with a quiet grunt. The marks on his wrists were deep, the paint scraped and worn, and he rubbed at the battered plating. This was the perfect opportunity to strike. With the stasis cuffs gone, only one guard and a medic nearby… even on low energy, he could do considerable damage if he wished to.

Instead, he slowly eased back down onto the berth with a low huff. Uncomfortable as medical berths were, it was the first berth of any kind he’d been able to fully lay down on in two deca-cycles. Turning his wrists over, he flexed each digit slowly in turn. "They appear to be, yes," he answered in a low tone, settling his arms down at his sides, submitting to being cuffed to the berth.

Optimus’s concern was plain, though he seemed somewhat reassured that Megatron's servos hadn’t appeared to have suffered permanent damage. When he moved to re-secure Megatron, he did so with care, making sure the restraints weren’t tight enough to aggravate the injuries. Fixit seemed content to leave them as little more than a formality. A deterrent, not a true restraint. Optimus stepped back when he was finished, rubbing his own itching wrists.

Megatron glanced sidelong at him as the restraints were left looser than expected. His expression flickered with both curiosity and incredulity, but it vanished just as quickly. He turned his optics toward the ceiling in silence.

“It’s comforting to know I’m not the only one concerned about how Megatron has been treated,” Optimus said to the medic as he took his seat once more, setting the stasis cuffs in his subspace. He kept his gaze steady, watching Fixit examine Megatron’s injury and ready to assist if needed. 

Fixit left the bedside and returned moments later with a tray of tools, clearly prepared to begin. But he paused, looking up with an apologetic frown. “Ah… I do apologize, but I can’t-”

“-Cannot offer anesthetic or pain-relieving measures,” Megatron finished for him, voice flat and disinterested. “Yes, doctor. I am aware. 'Items of comfort.’ I neither require nor desire them. I have endured far worse repairs with far cruder methods than you are likely to employ. Keep your tools steady, and I will endure.”

Optimus’s expression twisted, disgust flickering across his faceplate. “I wasn’t aware sparing patients from torture was now considered insubordination,” he muttered. “Classifying anesthetic as a comfort item… What in the frag is Sentinel thinking…?”

Noted and archived. By the AllSpark...

Fixit cast him a regretful look. These were Sentinel’s orders, and however much he disliked them, his role was to provide care, not comfort. To disobey would risk more than just his position. “Try to distract him, if you can,” Fixit said quietly. “Sometimes focus helps. Eases the pain.” Then he dipped his helm and started on the repairs. The first touch of the welding tool sent a harsh shudder through the warframe. Megatron clamped down on the berth’s side handles, struts locking as his ventilations hitched.

Optimus cleared his vox, shook his helm. “Forgive me, Doctor. I should not let my emotions get the better of me. My frustration is not with you.” He turned to the warlord, who was already grimacing. “Megatron… I can’t help but notice the way you speak. It’s distinctive. Scholarly, even. There’s a… philosophical tone to it. What influenced that?”

Megatron grit his denta sharply as he looked to Optimus, straining through the pain radiating up through his leg plating. Still, he exvented, and through the effort, a faint smirk appeared. “Astute, little Prime. I am nearly twenty million stellar cycles old. Does it truly surprise you that I am rather well-read and philosophical?” His tone, though dry, carried a note of pride. “My personal libraries once rivaled one of Iacon’s archives. Or they did, the last time I saw them. That was some time ago now. Who knows what state they are in now.” He shook his helm, as if to cast the thought aside. “I have always believed a leader must be more than strong in frame. Strength must be tempered with knowledge, and wielded with wisdom. One must know what kind of strength is required, and when.”

“It certainly made you a formidable foe,” Optimus said. “Even now, I can admit that. Leading an army the size of yours takes more than brute power. It takes intelligence, strategy, and skill. I imagine I could learn a thing or two from you. If your enemy has methods that work, only a fool refuses to learn from them. Power isn’t inherently good or bad. That depends on who holds it, and who writes the story.”

Megatron laughed. Despite the pain, perhaps because of the distraction, he laughed. Not a bitter scoff or mocking bark, but a warm, genuine laugh. The first Optimus had ever heard from him in that tone. “You are quite philosophical yourself, it seems. And correct. History is written by the victor. Autobot scholars had much to say about how terrible my power is. For most of the war, it seemed we would win. All it took was one error. One overlooked fact. One moment of divided attention… And nearly fifteen million cycles of work unraveled. Poetic, in its own way.”

Optimus flushed at the unexpected praise, more embarrassed than pleased. Still, he chuckled softly. “One mistake, huh? Poetic indeed. Struck down from greatness… well, in your view, at least.” He blinked slowly, as though realizing that last part only as he said it. But he shook it off, continuing the conversation.

“Do you have a favorite author? Or a work that’s influenced you the most?”

Megatron considered, even as a harsh flinch passed through him. Optimus flexed his pede in reflex as the smell of melting welding solder met his olfactory. “It depends on the topic. But in philosophy, I have always drawn inspiration from Rediux the Ascendant and his treatise, The Helix of Supremacy. Have you read it? I would be surprised if any of his work survived modern Cybertron. His ideas… did not align well with Autobot doctrine.”

Optimus tilted his helm, finials perking up slightly. “Rediu the Ascendant… Helix of Supremacy. No, never heard of it. Anything with the word ‘supremacy’ in the title tends to raise some warning flags, doesn’t it?”

“Rediux,” Megatron corrected, with a patient, almost amused tone. “And no, I do not believe you have. But superiority, perceived or real, exists everywhere. Especially among Autobots. Your hierarchy is built on it. Look at your Council. Look at how your government treats alien life. You will find proof enough.”

Optimus leaned forward, fidgeting absently with the handle of his axe. “You know, it gets me thinking. On Earth, humans have a core belief that no group of their kind was inherently superior to another. The idea that traits – physical, social, or otherwise – justified dominance was largely condemned. Sometimes I wonder how such a relatively primitive species came to understand that, and in what seems like such a short amount of time.”

Megatron snorted, a smirk curling across his faceplate. “You encountered a very limited sample of humans, little Prime. And judging by your answer, you spent no time at all truly studying their global society. They are worse than Autobots or Decepticons in several ways. Countries bomb others for resources, for alliances, to make statements, to push agendas. Many preach genetic superiority based on something as foolish and uncontrollable as skin color or eye shape. Others scream about moral superiority because of which invisible god they worship, and they will kill for that god, without hesitation.” He growled, a pained expression briefly crossing his face as the sparks from the welding solder showered down to the floor. “The ones you met aligned with your ideals, so you judged them good. Just as the Decepticons you met opposed your morals, so you judged them bad.”

Optimus listened. The words came sharp and stuck somewhere behind his optics, like they'd snagged on memory. He ignored it to instead focus on Megatron, and a slow smirk tugged at his mouth as Megatron ranted. “And here I thought you did not care enough about Earth to bother learning its history.” Was he a little smug about it? Maybe.

Megatron gave a derisive sound, but didn’t sneer. In fact, he looked amused. “As I said before, I consider myself well-read. I study every culture I encounter. Just because I believe humans are inferior as a species does not mean I deny their outliers, or their occasional brilliance. I abducted Professor Sumdac for a reason, after all, despite how much I wanted to end him for what he did to me.” A dark shadow passed over his face, but was quickly pushed aside.

“I spent plenty of time with their history books and their people,” Optimus continued. “Of course I know they’re not perfect. But, much like us, it’s mostly those with too much power who cause the trouble. The individual human – the average man, as they say it – often shares a similar core: mutual respect, equality, autonomy, cooperation, compassion...” His smile warmed at the thought. “The level of care and heroism I found in average humans. It’s rare among Cybertronians. Especially the higher up the social ladder you climb. We could learn from them. They’ve certainly given me a lot to reflect on.”

“You admire them deeply,” Megatron said, as neutrally as he could. “So then why return here to Cybertron? With Sentinel as acting Magnus, I am certain he would gladly allow you to stay off-world. He despises you. I suspect he’d do anything to keep you away. Including banishing you permanently.”

Optimus grew thoughtful. “I think the answer is twofold,” he said carefully. “First, Cybertron is my home. Most of my memories, my relationships, my duties, are all here. My loyalty is here. To Cybertron. To the Autobot cause.” A pause followed, though he shook out of it as Megatron gave a shudder of pain. “And second... Earth isn’t meant for me. It’s the humans’ planet. I care for them deeply. And I don’t want to bring them more trouble than I already have just by being there. Staying would be selfish, no matter how much I love their world. Maybe one day, if things change. If I retire, if my work on Cybertron ends. Maybe I’ll go back. Live somewhere quiet, far from their cities, so they can live in peace.”

Megatron let out a low hum, voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Lofty dreams. But you must know the truth, little Prime. By the time you are ready to retire, if you live that long, humans as you know them will no longer exist. They are short-lived. They evolved from crawling beasts to what they are now in under three million stellar cycles. Our war has been over longer than that.” He eased his helm back against the berth with a low exhale as Fixit stopped the welding for a klik, giving a welcome reprieve. “Still. You may get your wish. It all depends on what Sentinel does with the planet, if he becomes Magnus in full.”

Optimus nodded. “I know. But their fate isn’t mine to decide. I’d rather risk never seeing Earth again than endanger it for my own comfort.”  His voice lowered slightly. “After all... if their future turns bleak, there’s not much I can do to stop it, is there?”

They’re not yours to save.  The thought scraped like static through his helm. He let out a quiet, displeased hum. “And let’s just hope that the way you’ve been treated under Sentinel’s orders is an outlier.”

Megatron let out a low huff. “It is hardly just Sentinel. He was molded by the system that enabled and encouraged him. Rewarded him with position and privilege for being what and who he already was. If reports from my units during and after the war are any indication of what Autobots are truly capable of, then you are much more an outlier than he is in that regard,” said Megatron flatly.

Silence followed as Optimus seemed to run out of things to say. How could he counter such a thing that he already really knew to be true?

“...How’s his leg looking, Doctor?” Optimus asked quickly.

Fixit looked up from his work, sparks fading as he pulled up his welding goggles. “Progressing fine, Optimus Prime,” the medic replied briskly. “There’s still plenty to do after the leg, too, but I should be finished before your shift ends. You can see him back to his cell then.” He glanced at Megatron. “If you need a break, just say so!”

“I want it done quickly. I do not require ‘breaks.’” Megatron gave a low sound again, frowning without looking down at the medic.

As Fixit resumed his work, the acrid scent of burning metal drifted through the air. Optimus flinched slightly. A phantom pulse of pain traced down his calf as he forced himself to look away from the injury slowly closing. Megatron grit his denta tight as the pain began anew.

Chapter Text

Megatron let out a shaky exvent as Fixit replaced his soldering line. "Well. If nothing else, if Sentinel does decide to take the planet, hopefully you will be in position to defend it," he said idly.

The comment caught Optimus off guard. "Why would Sentinel take Earth? He hates the place. There’s nothing there useful to Cybertronians that isn’t easier, and cheaper, to get somewhere else. Somewhere closer."

Megatron chuckled throatily, casting a near-pitying look his way. "And a planet full to bursting with oil is somehow not considered useful? Not to mention the minerals and metals that could help forge new protoforms and support Cybertronian technology. Quite apart from that, there are still AllSpark shard fragments missing from the whole, are there not?"

Optimus let out a nervous laugh. His mind flickered. Perhaps the gush to Sentinel about Earth before will come back to haunt me... The very atoms that make us linger in their soil... If the Autobots did strip mine the planet, they'd have a heavy bounty of raw materials on their servos. And with the Space Bridge line active again, including a direct link between Cybertron and Earth… all that would keep Sentinel from taking the planet is the preservation of humankind... But how much of a deterrent is that, really, when most Autobots I’ve met are disgusted by organic life?

Your spark races easier for those little humans than your own kind! Shame on you!

"Metals and minerals aren’t that rare. There are plenty of closer, bigger, uninhabited planets to mine," Optimus countered. "Oil is rarer, sure, but there are trade agreements in place. We already receive generous amounts. A-And..." He let out another anxious sound. "I-I mean... surely Sentinel wouldn’t see it as worth the effort... If we hurt the humans, I could easily see them willing to destroy themselves just to wipe us out... They already have the means to destroy their own planet. Surely that volatility would be... enough..."

You’re hopeless. Trying to scrape together whatever excuse your processor can find. Pathetic. But no doubt entertaining...

Megatron cocked an optic ridge as he watched Optimus stammer, perhaps the first time since they’d ever spoken. He seemed unsure, borderline frightened. But truthfully, Megatron was glad of it. Stumbling meant he was finally starting to question things he should’ve questioned a long time ago. Better late than never.

"Oh, yes, I am quite sure history would not repeat itself in that way, as it has every other way imaginable. Your Sentinel Magnus is surely not capable of such barbarity against a planet such as Earth, and a race such as humans," he said loftily, his sarcasm bleeding through.

Shut up, shut up, shut up–!

Optimus squeezed his optics shut, letting out a huff as he tried to calm himself down. But before he could counter, Megatron suddenly hissed and tensed with a sharp shout of pain, yanking his leg back from a particularly terrible jolt. The medic stumbled in surprise. Megatron shuddered, then forced himself to lie back down, frame trembling. "Apologies, Doctor," Megatron growled through gritted denta. "Please proceed." Fixit hesitated, then returned to work.

"AllSpark..." Optimus muttered, sympathy soft in his voice.

Still grimacing, Megatron turned back to Optimus. "Well. You still have not answered my query from yesterday, before I went to rest. I am curious about what the Autobot Academy teaches in regard to me, and the Decepticon movement."

"Right... well..." Optimus began, easing back down, staring at his axe and servos. "It’s admittedly fairly black and white. Decepticons arose as a far more volatile, far more extremist sub-faction of the old Destron movement. Led by Megazarak, their influence grew and numbers swelled, but it wasn’t until you came into power that things truly accelerated."

He glanced up at Megatron, faceplate, meeting his optics. "You’re painted as a deluded, power-hungry dictator who wished for nothing more than full control of Cybertron and the AllSpark, at any cost. The greatest turning point before the war was your speeches and manifesto following the Decepticon Registration Act. That’s when your numbers really grew." He looked back to his axe, thinking over his words carefully. "Then came war. You captured and destroyed countless planets. Slaughtered civilians indiscriminately. Bombed entire sectors just to force our servos. Gleeful destruction. Promises of tyranny. Yes... that’s how you were described."

He looked to Megatron again. "Is that satisfactory?"

Megatron tilted his head back and forth, his expression a simple but thoughtful frown. "Not really. It hardly seems satisfying to my legacy, or to your education. Disappointing, but not unexpected." Megatron looked up at him again "So the question becomes, how much of it do you believe? If your answer is 'all of it,' then your decision to show me compassion becomes even more illogical. I am curious to hear your thoughts on me, and what I have done."

"Considering my encounters with you," Optimus said slowly, "I’m more than convinced of the main takeaway. That you are a ruthless tyrant who cares only for power and relishes in destruction. If that’s true, how hard is it to assume the rest is at least mostly true, if oversimplified?" He shrugged. "My behavior toward you is unrelated. It's just my morals. I believe all sentient beings deserve a certain level of respect, care, and kindness, regardless of who they are or what they’ve done. That’s all."

Uh huh. Sure. Keep telling yourself that.

"Regardless… If you find the description of yourself inaccurate, why not give me your side of the story?"

Megatron gave a low rumble of his engines. "My first encounter with you involved me trying to obtain something I had been seeking for more than four million stellar cycles. You were deliberately in my way, after one of my own planted an incendiary device on me strong enough to damage both our ships. Yours, as it turns out, was the actual Omega Supreme unit that ended the war itself. That is no small thing." He narrowed his optics slightly. "And after that? I spent over fifty cycles as a science experiment for an organic who disassembled my body, kept my head as a trophy, and used my servo as a chair. I was not in a particularly forgiving mood."

He vented sharply. "‘Inaccurate’ does not begin to describe the travesty of detail in your version. For starters, you know the Decepticons stemmed from the Destrons, but do you know where the Autobots came from? Why they rose to power?"

Optimus’s expression softened. Some part of him was clearly troubled, maybe even guilty.

Prowl is dead because of him.

His face hardened again, brow ridges tight, but he answered anyway, unable to deny his curiosity. "They were the Protecobots, right? Or came from them, during the age of expansion. It’s hard to know what happened before that because of the Great Purge. Another reason the Destrons, and Decepticons, aren’t exactly trusted. They rise to power and start purging history... It’s awful." Optimus’s distaste was clear. "Information is precious. It shouldn’t be destroyed, even if it runs contrary to the status quo. If for nothing else than record keeping."

Megatron looked at him with faint surprise, then let out a bitter laugh. "Of course," he rumbled. "Of course that is what they told you... Even they knew it was heinous, so they blurred the truth for their own people. Another smear against the Decepticons and their ancestors."

He turned to Optimus again, his expression strangely pitying. "The Destrons did not instigate the Great Purge, little Prime. It was Nova Magnus himself. An order to remove and destroy all 'undesirable' elements and information from society. The very history that created the Destrons in the first place. It was one of the main causes of the Third Cybertronian War. Destron outrage over the erasure of Cybertron’s history, simply because it was ugly and inconvenient."

Optimus stared at him, disbelief coloring his face. He paused for a long moment before responding. "You know, I’ve tried to give you the benefit of the doubt on a lot of things. But that is perhaps the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard." He huffed indignantly. "What do you mean Nova Magnus perpetrated it? That’s absurd! That would imply corruption’s been at the root of the Autobots from the very start! Sure, there have been... ups and downs, but the Decepticons are the beacon of corruption here. We seek peace and prosperity. You only seek destruction and power. We’re willing to sacrifice gains to preserve justice, not so much for the Decepticons." Optimus’s jaw twitched as his fragmentation flitted in his mind.

And yet...

Don’t imply I’m doubting anything! Shut up!

Then why justify yourself... to yourself?

Megatron waited through the shouting without flinching, expression unreadable, almost bored. "Is it so preposterous?" he asked, almost lazily. "The only surviving information from that era sings of the glory of the Protectobots, the savagery of the Destrons, the devastation of the first Cybertronian wars. It praises Functionism, societal roles, Cybertron’s 'Manifest Destiny' to colonize the stars. It praises the Protectobots’s coup against Zeemon Magnus, and their rise to power." He tilted his head slightly. "You are smarter than most of your kind and age, little Prime. So take a moment and think. Why would a Destron-led purge erasing nine billion stellar cycles of Cybertronian history, leave behind material that perfectly justifies the Autobots’ rise and every action that followed?" He gave a slow shake of his helm.

"What sounds more ridiculous? That Nova Magnus led the purge and the Autobots twisted the narrative to use it against the Decepticons, or that the Destrons somehow erased everything but the parts that made the Autobots look like Cybertron’s righteous saviors?"

Megatron’s words were like a virus, worming into Optimus’s network.It ran contrary to everything he believed. The internal voices were now raging.

No... no no no that can't be right! It can't, it just can't!

You need to calm down. Don’t panic in front of Megatron.

But what if what he's saying is true? What is the 'essence of the Autobot Code' I keep coming back to!? Huh!? What the frag have I dedicated my entire life to!?

Calm yourself. You're going to overwork your systems.

Optimus sat there in external silence, optics flicking in rapid thought. His expression was distant, lost in a haze, before he grimaced and gave a slow shake of his helm. "...No. No... no..."

I suppose it's my job, then.

And then, Optimus blinked. The shift in him was palpable. Even his EM field dimmed, its emotional weight muted. His expression dropped, icy and sharp. He sat up straighter, optics locked on Megatron in a narrow, venomous glare. "I am not humoring this line of thinking with you." It was chilling, eerily reminiscent of a certain Decepticon warlord, only without the dramatic flair.

Despite the abrupt coldness, Megatron only gave a low, throaty chuckle and turned his gaze lazily back to the ceiling. Optimus may have shut him down, but the damage had been done. The seed was planted. Sooner or later, Optimus would have to confront the truths clawing at his spark.

"Very well," Megatron sighed, almost bored. "Then, unless you protest, we can move on to other points in your teachings. Regardless of who perpetrated the Purge, the Autobots rose to prominence after the end of the Third War, despite the Destrons’ victory. And with them came the Age of Expansion. The Decepticon faction was born from this age, though we would not rise to prominence until much later.

"We began as soldiers under the Destron banner, systematically claiming planets as we expanded outward, sending their resources back to Cybertron to fuel its ever-growing society. When we encountered the Quintessons and the Age of Expansion ended, we became Cybertron’s first and only line of defense. We pushed them back and returned home. And what a cold welcome we received. For all our sacrifice and bloodshed, we were scorned, branded as uncivilized brutes. We had been away from Cybertron for too long."

Optimus hummed softly, almost absently, as he twirled his axe in one servo. His expression remained distant and cold, yet attentive.  "Sent off into battle, and not even a lick of praise? Were you given orders to defend Cybertron, or did you all act first, report later, under the assumption the Autobots would appreciate your proactive response to the threat?" His optics remained trained on Fixit's servos, watching every movement with clinical precision, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

"From what I was told," Megatron replied, "the former. We followed Cybertron’s orders for expansion. That continued when the war broke out. No reason to believe otherwise, though we may have engaged preemptively to protect ourselves." He turned his head slightly, catching Optimus’s intense stare at the medic. Fixit, for his part, appeared unfazed, focused and diligent as he worked on the damaged leg, nearly finished with the internal repairs. "Why would it matter? Even if the Destrons reacted to protect their home against the Quintessons, they should not have been scorned for it."

"It doesn't, really," Optimus replied flatly. "It's my job to keep you talking right now, isn’t it? Distract you."

Yikes... the tone’s shifted hard. You are doing a terrible job…

"I agree that scorn shouldn’t have been the reaction," Optimus admitted after a pause. "Assuming you’re being honest, at least." He let the silence settle before continuing, this time more thoughtful. "You never answered the question I asked yesterday, either. You're telling me the history of the Decepticons... but what about you? The history of Megatron?" He leaned in now, locking optics with Megatron, predatory in his scrutiny. "Who were you before the Decepticons? Why overthrow Megazarak? What was the catalyst? The push? The breaking point?"

If Megatron noticed the heavy shift in Optimus, he didn’t comment on it. Perhaps the pain distracted him. But more likely, he simply chose not to acknowledge it. "I did not answer," Megatron said, voice low, "because I wanted to know how well you knew our history. Alas, your education is sorely lacking. But there is little I can do about that, especially when you refuse to discuss it." He hissed slightly, closing his optics tight as Fixit began welding the wound closed at last.

"Who was I? I was no one. One of thousands of Decepticons so unimportant I was not even given a name. What are soldiers to do when there is no war to fight? Physical labor, of course. What else are our muscle cables good for? Mining. Construction. Waste management. That was our purpose, according to our Autobot 'superiors'. I was a miner. One of hundreds brought online near the same time. We worked until our servos bled and our struts cracked. My designation was D-16."

Optimus sat back, absorbing it. "...I suppose, in a way, that answers all my questions," he murmured. "But if you’re willing to indulge it, I’m curious about your turning point. I find it fascinating. What makes bots like you the way you are. Seeing the puzzle pieces fit together."

Megatron snorted. "I suppose if you need more than the fact I was tired of watching my people die in servitude, sacrificing everything without recognition, I can give you one." He looked up again, optics steely. "I did not trust anyone else to do what needed to be done. Megazarak was a revolutionary. A visionary. But greedy. Easily swayed. Too flexible in his convictions. He betrayed us by allowing the passing of the Decepticon Registration Act, while calling it a boon. But I was not fooled, and neither were most others. I deposed him because I love my people. I kept him alive out of respect for what he began. The name I took honors both him and our heritage.

"Megazarak, the great Destron.

“Megatron."

Optimus finally looked back at him, holding Megatron’s gaze. He said nothing, only offered a quiet hum in response. This side of Optimus was clearly more open to these ideas. Critical. Cynical. But not dismissive.

"Almost finished with his leg, Doctor?" he asked, finally turning his attention to Fixit. "I hope it won’t be much longer. Sentinel doesn't want him fully repaired. Just stable enough to walk for court."

Fixit pulled back the welder, pushing his goggles up with a rough scoff. "Like I said, he’s not leaving until I finish repairing his major wounds. And there’s more than just a leg to worry about. I will say when he’s well enough to walk for court.” He gestured with the welder toward Megatron’s scarred and damaged chassis. "Internal damage in several systems. His nanite repair protocols are basically stalled. He’s got dozens of microfractures that could get infected. He’s not walking out of here until I’m sure he’s out of the danger zone." He pointed the welder toward Optimus now. "Call in a guard shift if you need to refuel, but he isn’t going anywhere. He’ll still be here."  With an indignant huff, Fixit dropped the goggles again and got back to work. 

Megatron flinched, but chuckled. "Despite everything, I am finding this medic more endearing by the moment," he muttered with a grin, casting a sly glance back at Optimus.

Optimus chuckled in surprise. "A vent of fresh air, truly. Scrap, that reminds me. I meant to ask when you last refueled..." He looked Megatron over again. "...But I suppose I already know the answer."

Megatron shrugged slightly, but didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. They both knew the truth. He was weakened by design.

Optimus stood, stretching. "I’ll call in for a refuel. Just a short one." As he pinged for relief, he hovered near the doorway, unwilling to leave until another bot arrived. He’d already broken one rule today. He wasn’t eager to catch heat for anything else. The ping came back almost immediately, and within moments, Skids entered, visibly nervous as he took in the room.

"Hey, Optimus," he said, glancing between the medic and the battered Decepticon. Megatron kept his optics dim, face twisted in a scowl of pain, playing the part of the silent patient. "You’re calling in late today. Everything alright?"

Optimus offered a thin smile. "Yeah. Everything's fine. Relatively. Megatron got hurt and I got distracted trying to distract him. No anesthetics and all..."

Skids shifted awkwardly as he watched Optimus leave. Once the door closed behind him, he turned back to Megatron, who remained still, silent, and unreadable, focusing on nothing but his own ragged venting.

Chapter Text

Two new guards flanked the doorway when Optimus stepped out of the medical bay. They stood at rigid attention, optics forward. Their gaze flicked to him only briefly before they saluted. No words. No resistance. Just quiet acknowledgment as he passed.

Fuel first. He still hadn’t had a midday refuel, and his tanks were beginning to complain about it, even if he really didn’t feel like stomaching the energon. The guardroom was nearly empty, quiet save for the low murmur of a conversation in the corner and the gentle hum of the energon dispensers. Optimus grabbed a cube of energon from the dispenser and eyed it without much enthusiasm. He was halfway through contemplating whether lukewarm fuel counted as a morale issue when his commbead pinged and crackled to life in his audial.

.::Optimus::. Ironhide’s voice. Gruff and short. .::Need you in my office before you go back to your post::.

Ah. There it was.

Optimus sighed aloud, derma pulling into a thin line. So now came the dressing down. Hard to tell over comms, but Ironhide hadn’t sounded angry. More frustrated and irritated, maybe even a little flustered. Maybe that was a good thing. He took one last glance at the unappetizing cube, then tucked it into subspace. Excuse acquired. ‘Sorry, sir, I just forgot. Honest mistake.’ Yeah. That sounded sincere enough.

Squaring his shoulders, he made his way to the office and took a long, grounding vent outside the door before knocking and stepping inside. "You needed me, sir?" he said, voice calm, expression neutral, posture straight as a pike.

Ironhide looked up from a pile of datapads with a heavy scowl etched deep into his features. He looked like someone who’d had too many reports land in his lap and not enough ventilation breaks in between. "Yep, I did," he grunted, gesturing sharply across his cluttered desk. "Come in, shut the door, sit down." Optimus obeyed without comment. Shutting the door, he sat across from the younger mech. Ironhide leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his olfactory like it personally offended him.

"Alright, what the slag is actually goin’ on?" Ironhide asked, pinning him with a pointed stare. "I got a comm from the medic about Megatron bein’ taken in by you after he was injured in the shower. Said somethin’ about suspectin’ foul play. That he might’ve been attacked. So you broke protocol to drag him to the medbay yourself. You wanna enlighten me on what the frag happened?"

Optimus rested back in the seat, folding his arms loosely across his chassis. "Well. I never said anything about foul play," he replied, tone casual. "I just gave the medic my side." He let the memory filter in with a shrug, like this was any ordinary hiccup in procedure. "Trailblazer and Bluestreak made me wait outside the washracks while they escorted Megatron in. Thought it was a little weird, but they’re my superiors. So I waited. Then I heard a thud from inside. The two of them came out snickering, and, call me suspicious, I thought that might be worth checking on. So I poked in and found Megatron collapsed under the rinse set as cold as it could go. Looked like a severe impact wound to the leg. Couldn’t even lift himself." Another small shrug. Practiced innocence. "It’s not my place to speculate. I said what I saw. Let the superiors draw their conclusions."

You weasel, a dry part of his processor added.

"Anyway, I knew we didn’t exactly have a good transport method for a mech of that size in that condition. And he was leaking. A lot. Medic says he’s running dangerously low on energon. I figured it’d be worse to wait around for someone else to decide how to move him. I asked Trailblazer and Bluestreak to help if they were that concerned about safety, but they just stood back. Can’t say I blame them. Helping someone out of protocol? Big no-no, right?" Definitely sarcasm. Just a dash. The line delivered with a flat look and a tired optic ridge lift. He rolled one shoulder before continuing.

"Sorry if I’m a bit frazzled. Had a late refuel. The medic had me talk to Megatron to keep him distracted. Guess he’s not allowed anything for the pain." He tilted his helm slightly. "That answer your questions, sir?"

Ironhide listened in silence, optics narrowed, one servo rubbing circles into his brow. When he finally spoke, his voice was more irritated than angry, but it didn’t seem to be aimed at Optimus. "No. You didn’t say anything about foul play. The medic did. That’s his job, and he sent the report straight to me." Ironhide dropped his servo with a thud on the desk and sighed again, heavier this time.

"You’re not in trouble. Not from me. You saw the situation and made a judgment call. Fair enough. But next time – especially if you think you’re on your own, and especially if it involves Megatron – you call me for backup. Clear?" Optimus nodded silently. "When it comes to Megatron, every unit is on standby.. And you," Ironhide pointed at him, not harshly, but firmly, "you joke. But I am not fragging around here. That mech has killed thousands. He’s smarter than he looks, meaner than he acts, and even now, injured and tied down, he’s more dangerous than all the other ‘Cons here put together.” He exhaled through his vents, shaking his head. "I don’t want to find you in a pile of slag because you thought you were doing the right thing. We’ll stasis him and haul him with a crane if we have to. That’s what protocol is for. "

He tapped a datapad on his desk with a dull clack. "I’ve got to report the incident to Sentinel Magnus. That’s not optional. I’ve got standing orders that anything involving Megatron goes across his desk. I’ll file it as handled. I won’t recommend any further action. But keep your audials perked in case Sentinel wants to make noise about it." He gestured toward the door with a tired wave. "Dismissed. Get back to your post. And for the AllSpark's sake, try to be more careful."

Optimus made a small hum of acknowledgment, nodding along as though everything had landed fine. But when Ironhide leaned back, clearly expecting the conversation to end, Optimus didn’t move.

"...You know," he murmured, optics lowering a little, voice quieter now, "it’s strange." Optimus looked at Ironhide seriously. His finials twitched. “Can I speak with you… off the record? Optimus to Ironhide, not Prime to Prime. It’s alright if you don’t have time right now, but you’re a mech with a lot of experience. I figure you might be able to provide some insight.”

Ironhide blinked, caught off guard, then sat up a little straighter. Optimus was older than him, technically, though they were sparked in the same generation, around the same time as Bulkhead and Bumblebee. Sentinel had been his drill sergeant back in the academy. Ironhide hadn’t known Optimus well before Earth, but Bumblebee had been eager to introduce him once they got back to Cybertron. Having Optimus ask him for advice was a surprising, if welcome, boost to his confidence. “Yeah, of course. Off the record,” Ironhide said. “What’s on your mind?”

Optimus hesitated, then spoke low. “Megatron’s a smart mech. Very smart. It’s part of why I didn’t really hesitate to help him. Even if he had killed me, what then? He was still bound, weak and injured. There would’ve been no point. But everyone keeps acting like he could’ve just transmuted into some fully healed, unstoppable force and escaped.” He shook his helm slowly. “But that’s not the weird part. No… the weird part is that, in spite of everything, Megatron seems to be trying to befriend me. He acts genuinely concerned. He’s reminded me to be careful. And I can’t figure out why.”

He looked down, servos curling against his helm in exasperation. “Sure, maybe he’s manipulating me. That’d be the obvious answer. But I don’t think that’s it. He’s smart enough to know I’m a terrible target for that. I’m under Sentinel’s scrutiny. Every move I make is being watched. If he really wanted to manipulate someone, he’d pick someone no one pays attention to. Someone he could actually use.” Optimus sighed heavily. “So the only thing I can come up with is that it’s genuine worry. Which… confuses me. And terrifies me. I guess I can think of one thing he might be worried about. But I don’t know if I believe it myself.”

Ironhide drummed his digits on the desk thoughtfully. “Well, just throwin’ oil on the floor here, but, could be he does think you’re easier to manipulate. Don’t forget your history with him. You’ve been open about your concern for his treatment, and he might see that as something to twist in his favor. Especially with how much time you’re spending around him.” He gave a low grunt. “But what’s he supposedly worried about you for?”

Optimus hesitated again, finials drooping. “I think Megatron believes Sentinel is trying to get rid of me. And I mean that in a political cover-up sort of way.” He stared at the floor. “When the medic, Fixit, was treating him, and I was trying to keep him distracted from the pain, he brought up the Great Purge. He said it was convenient, how most of the surviving data somehow ended up favoring the Protectobots. How the Destrons were the ones who perpetrated it, but the narrative made the Protectobots look like the heroes.

“Personally? I think that’s nonsense. But he tried really hard to steer the conversation toward government corruption. Cover-ups. Until I shut him down and changed the subject. But with everything else lately… with how his mind works… I don’t know. I am starting to feel nervous. Sentinel and I… well, we’ve got a nasty history. But I don’t think he’d go that far. Right? After everything I’ve done for him? Surely not.” His voice softened, almost breaking. “…Right?”

For once, Optimus didn’t look afraid of the warlord he’d brought back in chains. He looked afraid of someone he once trusted. “I guess that’s another reason I don’t think Megatron’s trying to manipulate me. Because all of this? It’s making me less likely to help him. It’s making me want to back off, ignore the way he’s being treated. If this were some ploy, why would he make me afraid to act? That’s not how manipulation works.”

Ironhide cocked a brow, skeptical and a little concerned. “How’d he even know you and Sentinel had history? You ever tell him outright?”

Optimus blinked. “Maybe? I think I mentioned it in passing… I can’t remember. It’s hard to think straight lately. I was so… frazzled. Our processor’s…”

Our. The mask was slipping.

Ironhide, if he noticed, didn’t point it out. He just gave a tired sigh. “Well. Maybe he does think Sentinel wants to do you in. Or maybe he wants you to believe that. Stirring up tension between bots? That’s a classic Decepticon move. One of their best tactics.” He grimaced.

“As for the Purge… yeah, that part tracks. Destrons did start it. But Autobots came into control of a lot of the old data afterward. Whatever was left. Wouldn’t surprise me if they locked up or quietly erased anything that made them look bad. The stuff we hear? That’s the stuff the Destrons let survive about the Protectobots. Probably for their own reasons.”

He shrugged, then gave Optimus a long, considering look. “Could be Megatron’s testing your mettle. You said you wanted his conditions to improve just because it’s right. Well, now you’re scared. You wanna back down. And if you do, maybe that’s his answer. Maybe he’s trying to prove a point. That your compassion’s conditional. That there’s a line where even you stop caring.” His mouth twisted in a grim frown. “Not that it’d be wrong if you did. AllSpark knows, he don’t deserve the kindness you’re giving him. No one would blame you if you just let it drop and looked the other way. In fact, that’d probably be a whole lot easier for you.” He leaned back in his seat. “But that’s your call. I’m not gonna tell you what to do.”

Optimus exhaled slowly, shoulders hunched.

“Besides,” Ironhide continued, “even if he is worried, it doesn’t matter. In his optics, it’s just another leader trying to redirect attention. Trying to make himself look good.”

Optimus rubbed the back of his servo. “I don't want to turn my back on helping him... but I'm worried. What if he's right? I want to believe Sentinel wouldn’t do something like that, but… He’s done plenty before." He gave his helm a quick shake, then thumped it lightly with his knuckle.

"I guess, if I up and vanish one day, humor the idea, will ya? Or make sure someone does? I know it sounds ridiculous, and it probably is nothing, but it'd make me feel better knowing someone was at least keeping half an optic on Sentinel. Just in case."

Ironhide huffed, expression tightening. "He's not right," he growled. "Don't let yourself get wound up by that slagheap, Optimus. Don’t let him under your plating. That kind of thing probably gets him off." He sighed, voice softening just slightly. "Alright, alright. Absolutely nothing is going to happen. But if it does – and it won’t – I’ll look into it. I promise. Just keep your cool, okay?"

He leaned forward, gaze firm. "Megatron is a manipulative bastard who lives to sew doubt and distrust. And right now, you are one of the bots he hates the most. If he’s picking up on this... hesitation in you, that makes you the perfect target. Don’t give him the satisfaction. You’re better than that." Ironhide let the words hang for a moment. "Come on. Deep vent. This’ll all be over soon. Megatron’ll be offline and melted down, and we can finally start healing this planet."

Optimus tilted his helm back, optics shuttering as he let out a long, slow vent. His frame slowly loosening, tension ebbing off his shoulders. "I wish I could say I thought my problems would end with Megatron’s death," he said quietly. "But I’ve already bothered you enough." He straightened again, resetting his expression to something closer to neutral. "I trust you, Ironhide. I mean that. Thanks."

A servo came up to rub at the back of his neck. "Sorry if I spooked you. My processor’s been in a bit of a fritz lately. I just... needed something to pull us back together."

Us.

There it was again. A slip.

"But I’ll be alright. I'm heading back now, sir."

And with that, he turned to go. The conversation had helped organize the static in his mind, at least a little, but he still left with more he wanted to say. He couldn't afford to. Even admitting the thought that Sentinel might want him gone was skating on treason. And if he so much as whispered the idea that the Autobot government was built on systemic corruption? Well... he couldn’t be sure Ironhide wouldn’t have him hauled off himself.

Walk the line, keep your balance, he told himself. You’ll be fine. Ironhide’s right. Megatron’s just playing with your head.

"Hey, it's alright," Ironhide said behind him, offering a somewhat weary smile. "Why don’t you come out to the oil house with us on the next off day this deca-cycle? There’s always a little group, dancing, mingling, just blowing off steam. Could do you some good. Get your processor off all this for a while. Prison, Sentinel, Megatron... leave it behind for a night. Don't worry about spookin’ me. It'll take more than that." He gave a parting nod of dismissal.

Optimus left the office quietly, the silence of the corridors offering a brief reprieve. 

Chapter Text

The way back down was thankfully quiet and uninterrupted. The further he descended, the more his thoughts drifted toward Megatron’s condition. He couldn’t stop picturing the open wounds, the tension in the warlord’s frame, and the raw edge in his voice. And despite everything, the sympathy kept bubbling up, knotting in his tanks. Two new guards stood outside the medical bay, still posted and still stiff. No sign of Bluestreak or Trailbreaker.

When he stepped inside, Skids jumped like he’d been caught sneaking candy from a restricted energon dispenser. He spun around fast, helm twitching. “Oh! Good, you’re back!” Skids offered, voice tight with nerves. “I, uh, gotta get to my next coverage! See ya!” And with that, he bolted out the door, disappearing before Optimus could even respond.

Megatron let out a low, irritable rumble. “I despise cowardice,” he muttered, voice low with disgust. He spared a glance toward Optimus, but his focus wavered. His optics were hazy, his plating streaked with coolant, and he was clearly overheating, badly. The smell of scorched metal and burning energon filled the air, unmistakable and unpleasant. Sparks snapped up from the weld on his leg, where Fixit was still hard at work. It didn’t look pretty. Rushed and raw, but at least now it looked functional. Maybe even weight-bearing.

Optimus still had the energon cube in his subspace. He hadn’t taken much, barely enough to take the edge off. Megatron would need it more. A lot more. He’d have to make sure the mech didn’t overdo it, but he deserved a proper refuel. As Skids fled, Optimus gave only a vague wave of his servo, then made his way toward the berth.

“AllSpark… you aren’t looking’ too good,” he murmured. He turned his attention to Fixit, stepping in close and lowering his voice to a whisper. “Hey, can we give him a few kliks?” he asked the medic, subtle and quiet. “Mech looks like he’s gonna purge empty tanks all over your table.”

The medic looked up from the weld and glanced from Optimus to Megatron’s prone frame, clearly calculating the risk. But Fixit, cautious as he was, nodded. “Ah… alright,” he said nervously. “Be careful, okay?” He set his tools down and straightened, turning toward Megatron. “I’ll be back. Don’t move your leg, those welds haven’t set, and you’ll warp them if you twitch too much.” Then, a glance back at Optimus, and Fixit slipped quietly out of the medbay.

Megatron hissed out a burst of steam from his vents, his intakes struggling to regulate. He slowly cracked open his optic shutters, light flickering behind the red glow. “I had hoped to finish this in one fell swoop,” he rasped. “But it seems I am more damaged than I anticipated. It has been a long time since I was subjected to physical torture… Nothing like a crash refresher course.”

Optimus sheathed his axe, stepping up beside him. “It's cruel, what they're putting you through. But…” He pulled the ration cube from subspace, nearly full, and held it in his servo. A silent offering. “You’ll manage. I’m sure.”

He brought a digit to his derma. “No words. Don’t speak. Just take it. Deep vents. Try to relax.” Optimus gently slipped a servo beneath Megatron’s helm, lifting it slightly so he could bring the cube close.

Megatron made a startled sound, more from instinct than fear. His helm twitched, as though he wanted to pull back, but Optimus steadied him. Just held him there. The smell of energon hit Megatron hard. Even standard Autobot-grade rations were enough to make his tanks twist painfully. His frame shook with the effort not to lunge for it.

He tried to resist. This wasn’t just about survival. This was a hard, clear line. Taking sustenance from an enemy... from an Autobot, from his prison guard. Unthinkable. But his tanks were empty, and his frame was collapsing under strain. He hadn’t recharged, hadn’t healed, hadn’t refueled in more than two deca-cycles. And his body no longer cared about his pride.

His intake trembled slightly as it opened, and when the energon touched his glossa, finally, he shuddered. The first real swallow of fuel in deca-cycles slid down his intake and into his tanks, burning and welcome and deeply humiliating all at once.

As he drank, Optimus let out a long, quiet vent he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “We have to take it slowly, okay?” Optimus whispered, barely above a vent. “So don’t panic when I pull the cube away. I’m not taking it from you. Just trying to make sure your systems don’t purge or short from the sudden influx.”

The words were meant for Megatron alone, gentle and measured. This was dangerous… so dangerous. But no one else was going to help him. No one else would even try.

Not for this mech. This… victim.

Optimus hesitated, a shadow flitting through his processor. If he’d known what Megatron would endure, what he’d suffer through in that cell… would it have been kinder to end him back then? Would it have been mercy? He pushed the thought away.

Slowly, he pulled the cube back, steadying Megatron still with one servo beneath his helm, guiding him down to rest. He didn’t just withdraw. He soothed him, his thumb traced a soft line across warm plating, a gesture more instinct than thought.

He placed the energon cube on a tray beside the berth, letting Megatron’s systems stabilize. Then, grabbing a disposable cloth from the nearby bin, he stepped in to wipe the coolant from the warframe’s faceplate.

The low growl that rumbled from Megatron’s chest when the energon was pulled away spoke volumes. His frame trembled, but not from rage. Just the exertion of staying functional. His optics fluttered shut again, vents evening out as the fuel finally reached starved systems. The tension in his plating softened, and he exhaled warm air across Optimus’s servo, letting his helm relax into the touch.

Then came the cloth. He flinched at first, optics snapping back online to blink up at the Prime. The confusion on his face deepened, genuine and raw.

“Ironhide called me into his office while I was out,” Optimus murmured absently, more to fill the silence than anything. “Had to finish my refuel there. Hmm… Sentinel’s gonna chew me a new one for that, for sure.”

Megatron was silent. Staring up at Optimus with an unreadable look across his face. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. He rumbled low, trying to summon clarity, to ground himself. “You take too many chances, little Prime,” he murmured, voice quiet but steady. “You were given another chance to do well in your station. You will end up throwing it away for nothing gained if you do not take care.”

Optimus continued his work in silence, even as Megatron growled his warning. Every movement was precise and purposeful, careful as if tending a newly formed pprotoform  And maybe, that was what this was. Not in condescension, not in pity. But in the tenderness of someone trying to care for someone else who’d never truly been cared for.

Optimus pressed his derma together, his expression distant. His thoughts had been circling the same question since yesterday. It gnawed at him. He lifted the cloth away and met Megatron’s optics squarely. “Why do you care,” he asked, voice low, “of all mechs, whether or not I sabotage myself?” He discarded the cloth in the hazard bin and picked up the energon cube once more.

Megatron grimaced, venting slowly. He broke optic contact, turning his gaze to the ceiling as if it might hold the answer. “I am not sure,” he admitted quietly. “Perhaps it is because no one has ever paid me a kindness such as this before. Not before my rise, nor after. I do not understand it. I do not understand you, or your actions. It is an entirely foreign concept to me. What you are doing, what your goals are.”

He turned his gaze back to Optimus. His frown was slight, but sincere. “But you were an honorable foe, little Prime. Possibly the most honorable Autobot I have ever faced. Even in victory, you show mercy. A kind of honor that my kind has never known, never received from yours. And you deserve more than you have been awarded by your government for your accomplishments.”

Optimus just stared. The cube hung suspended in his grip, forgotten for a moment. His optics searched Megatron’s face for any sign of deception.

Nothing.

His spark fluttered.

Ohhh! I know what that means~!

He flushed immediately, finials drooping. A flustered smile tugged at his lips, unbidden. “Ha… Well,” he said, scratching the back of his helm, “I wouldn’t be so deserving of good things if I sacrificed my morals just to save my own frame, now would I?” He leaned in, raising the cube once more. “I just think… if it were any other mech, even another Decepticon, what they’re doing to you would be considered cruel and unusual. And that’s not something I can stand by and let happen. At the end of the day, we are all Cybertronian. We all come from the AllSpark. The same energon flows through our lines. Why should anyone be treated as if they’re not one of us?”

"That entirely depends upon who you ask," Megatron said evenly. "And in my opinion, you absolutely would, yes."

Optimus didn’t answer, but gently pressed the cube to Megatron’s derma again, less now, just the final sips, and brushed his servo along the warlord’s helm, soothing and steady. Megatron opened his intake again, drinking the energon slowly and carefully to avoid an influx surge or system purge. His optics flickered in quiet relief as he listened to Optimus speak, letting the energon roll across his glossa.

“It’s only natural to hate and fear the worst parts of ourselves,” Optimus murmured. “But if we ever want to grow, really grow, we have to learn how to face those parts. Heal them, not destroy them. Because if every society tried to eliminate its flaws instead of mending them… well, it’d just end up destroying itself in the end. Guaranteed.” He gave a faint, wry smile. “There’s no such thing as a perfect society.”

A low huff left Megatron’s vents when the cube was gently pulled back once more. He licked his derma and exhaled a shuddering vent, optics sliding open to look back up at him. "Your philosophical waxing is very un-Autobot in nature," he said frankly. "I do not say this to contradict you. But I have fought the Autobots nearly my entire life. And I can say with certainty; their mentality is not your own." His tone did not rise, but there was weight, weariness, and bitterness behind it.

"Decepticons are regularly interrogated, tortured, silently executed, or sent to your High Command for scientific dissection. It is how most of your war technology was acquired. Including your new flight capabilities." His optics darkened. "I had no love for Starscream. But even he did not deserve to be picked apart, his tech stolen from his body, then duplicated." He let the words hang in the air like ash. "Autobots have always destroyed what they consider flawed. There is a reason the average Cybertronian is so deeply xenophobic." He paused before meeting Optimus’s gaze again. "As I said before, little Prime. You claim to be only a small piece. Insignificant. But you are exceptional. In more ways than one."

Optimus didn’t answer right away. His digits continued to trace gently along Megatron’s helm, slow and thoughtful. And when Megatron finished, he quietly lifted the last of the energon to his derma. "Maybe so..." he murmured, noncommittal. Then, softer, almost shy, a confession meant only for Megatron’s audials. "You’ve made me think far too much about my place in the universe. It’s been less than a deca-cycle, and already, I feel like I’m losing my mind." He looked away briefly, as if ashamed. "I know you’re not trying to manipulate me. That would be a stupid choice, and you're not prone to those. So I’ll be frank."

His optics dimmed, spark tight in his chest. "I’m terrified. And a little disgusted with myself. Because if I believe you, then that would make me a Decepticon sympathizer. And I don't agree with the Decepticons. Not your methods or the brutality. And not the belief that strength is what defines a bot’s worth." He shook his head, venting heavily. "I don’t believe in weakness, either. Just diversity. No bot is truly weak, only placed into a situation they’re not suited for. And if what you're saying is true, then nothing I built my identity on is real. Except the things I’ve made real, through my own actions."

Another vent, low and weighted. "Doom is going to find me sooner than I’d like, I think. And I wonder… when it comes for me, what would you do?"

He looked at Megatron again, searching his expression. "Would you think of me? Would there be, somewhere within you, a shard of compassion beneath your cruelty?

"Would my enemy weep for me?"

The words hung in the air like smoke. Optimus blinked a few times, lifting a servo to his helm as though he could physically shake himself free from the fog in his mind. "...Sorry," he murmured. "Got a bit sidetracked." He pulled the empty cube away and tucked it into his subspace compartment. "Hopefully the medic comes back soon. Then we can get you back to your cell before tomorrow. Hopefully they’ve cleaned it, like I asked."

Megatron hadn’t spoken, nor had he looked away, shifted, or stiffened. He had not even flinched. He just watched in silence, until at last, when the quiet had stretched too long, his voice emerged, rough and low. "You speak of compassion as though it were a virtue. A strength."

He looked away briefly, as though ashamed to entertain the thought. But the moment passed, and slowly, his gaze returned to Optimus. "You asked what I would do, should doom take you. I do not know. That is the truth." A soft shift of his frame, discomfort tugging at his joints and seams from the lingering pain.

"I have seen countless Autobots fall. I have struck down hundreds. Issued orders that killed thousands. I did not mourn them. I pitied them. I loathed their blindness." His optics narrowed slightly. "But you... you are something else." Another pause, this one tense and weighted.

"You offer kindness to a prisoner who would have gladly crushed you mere cycles ago. You break protocol for someone your Council would let rust in chains. You look at me, and you see a Cybertronian. Not a Decepticon. Not a monster."

His voice dropped further, touched with something unfamiliar. Rough. Honest. “No one has ever done that.”

He looked down at his own frame and his bound servos. Scars, scorched plating, servos that once held strength meant only for war. His digits flexed slowly, uncertainly. “I do not know what this is... this feeling. Not weakness. Not exactly. But it feels like standing at the edge of a battlefield, and choosing not to step forward. Not out of fear. Out of something worse. I have not felt this uncertain before."

His optics narrowed slightly, not in threat or challenge, but in an attempt to mask the fragility beneath the surface. “If you went offline, little Prime… I think I would regret it. I think I would carry it.” He leaned back, resting his helm against the berth beneath him, staring at the ceiling like he might find answers there. “And I would hate that. I already do.”

Another pause, heavier this time. Then a quieter addendum, almost muttered. “Perhaps that makes me weak.” He did not look at Optimus. “But if it does, then I suppose you are not the only one who is doomed.”

Optimus listened. He took Megatron's words and cradled them in his spark, making room for them to sit and be acknowledged and protected. This was a side of the warlord no one else had ever been allowed to see. A breakthrough. Fragile and important. It needed to be treated with care. So he listened. And he smiled, kind and gentle.

"There is no weakness in caring for a bot you have found a connection with, no matter how fragile it may be." Optimus placed a servo on Megatron's chest, careful not to aggravate his injuries. His optics traced the large groove cutting straight through the Decepticon symbol in the center of his chest.

"And sometimes, the hardest thing to do... the thing that only the strongest can manage... is to choose peace. To be strong enough to be gentle."

And he looked Megatron in the optics again. "If you take away nothing else... then carry in your spark a reminder to be more gentle, in whatever life follows this one."

Oh, he looked so sad saying that. Why? Why did his spark ache just thinking about Megatron's execution? He should be celebrating. And yet seeing Megatron begin to get it...

"... It's funny. I can't help but think, somehow, you'll avoid death again," he whispered. "And I'd be lying if I said that thought wasn't almost a relief."

Megatron's optics locked onto Optimus's, and for the first time in stellar cycles, he did not know what to say. The warmth of Optimus's servo against his chest felt... alien. Not unwelcome or painful, but foreign, like it came from a world he'd always believed he was not allowed to touch. He looked down at the servo, at the digits resting just beside the torn symbol that marked who he was. Who he'd become.

There was a long, quiet pause between them. Then, quietly. So quiet it barely sounded like the warlord at all. "...You are the first to ever say that to me." His voice was hoarse, almost uncertain. "No weakness in gentleness." He repeated it, like he had to hear it in his own voice to believe it might be true. "I built an empire on the opposite belief. I taught others that mercy was a leash. That anything but absolute strength was a crack in the armor."

He looked away, gaze falling to the ceiling. "And now you, of all bots, ask me to carry peace with me." His optics dimmed, expression unreadable for a moment. Not cruel, not cold. Just... tired. "I do not know if I can. I do not know if I am capable of gentleness in the life I have left."

He turned his helm slightly, catching Optimus's optics again, this time with something vulnerable just beneath the surface. Guarded, but there. "But if you were to fall before me... if they were to take you from this world... I would feel it like a wound. A deep, permanent one." A low vent escaped him, heavy and burdened. "...So maybe I will try. Not because I believe in your dream. But because you believed in me. Even when you should not have." His optics drifted back to the ceiling, a strange calm settling into his voice. "And for what it is worth, I dare to dream that death will not find me this time, either." A slow, almost wry smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. "I have come to believe it has a deep and abiding hatred for me." Then, after a pause, he added quietly, "However... I find it strangely comforting to know that if it does come, someone will mourn me."

Optimus felt a sudden wave of emotion hit him. Fluid welled in his optics, and he took a harsh, shaky vent. "The best thing we can all do is try." His derma quivered for a moment. He brought his helm down and rested it gently upon Megatron's shoulder.

And he wept. Silently. For his enemy. In hope and despair in equal measure. Wanting to see him grow and change, yet knowing he would be the only one who would ever see this. "For what it's worth... I forgive you."

Megatron froze the moment he felt Optimus's helm rest on his shoulder. He did not move. He did not vent. He did not dare to. As though even the smallest twitch might shatter the fragile truth of what was happening. He felt the warmth of tears soaking into the torn plating there.

Optimus Prime... was weeping for him.

Not for his death. Not for victory. For him.

And then –

I forgive you.

It struck him harder than any blade. No pain. Just weight, immense and crushing. He could not speak right away. He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, as something behind his optics stung, sharply but briefly, before it was locked back behind eons of iron will. But it had been there, for a moment. A tiny fracture.

After a long pause, Optimus straightened. He wiped his tears away, stepped back, and sat down again. Drawing his axe. Waiting in silence for the medic to return.

Megatron remained still. And then, finally, still not looking at his once-adversary, he spoke. His voice was like gravel soaked in starlight. Low, raw, and shining.

“You are the strangest creature I have ever known.” Then, softer. “And if there is a future where I survive… where I live… it will be because of this.”

He glanced toward Optimus at last. Not smiling. But something in his expression had gentled. A quiet awe, buried beneath war-torn features. “You are a fool, little Prime,” he said, with none of his usual venom. “But you are also… a marvel.” And then he closed his optics, letting the moment hold just a little longer. 

Optimus looked back at Megatron as he had spoken, and cracked a small smile. Soft. Reserved just for him. How could he hold a grudge against that mech, when he had just begun to grow? A seed, deprived of water, meeting a downpour for the very first time. A shell cracking. New life blooming. Fragile. Slowly. But steadily.

How could Optimus Prime want Megatron to die, after what he had just borne witness to? How could he hate a mech who was so clearly just... lacking? A mech who, had he only been shown fair treatment, could have become so much more than a feared slaughterer? To kill him now would be a waste of one of the greatest minds he had ever known. Perhaps one of the greatest Cybertron had ever seen. A mind that could lead them into a new, better era of interconnectivity. If the Autobots would grant him amnesty. Which they most certainly would not. And that... that thought alone darkened his expression.

The door opened. The medic stepped back inside, hesitating just beside the berth as he looked between them. “Is everything alright?” he asked tentatively.

Megatron did not reply. Optimus nodded. "Yes. Everything's alright. The rest did him good, I think. He looks a lot better." He smiled at the medic, hiding all those other feelings with practiced ease.

Fixit gave a careful nod and moved back around the berth. The welder flared to life again, and Megatron groaned out in pain as the agony resumed.

Megatron remained silent for the rest of their stay in the medbay, apart from his hisses and growls of pain. Thankfully, the medic was nearly finished, and a few tentative steps proved the strength of the repairs. Megatron was exhausted. But he could walk on his own again at last.

Back up through the halls to the elevator, back through the levels and howling shouts of the inmates, back to Level Four. When they arrived, they were met with something of a surprise. A second berth had been installed in the cell right beside the first while it had been scrubbed out, effectively doubling the size of the recharging area. It was slightly clunky and made the cell even smaller, but it was a massive improvement over how they had left it.

Into the cell, the forcefield and bars rose again, and Megatron immediately sat back down on his new widened berth. He looked up at Optimus, his expression so tired he could barely move. "I need to recharge," he murmured quietly, trailing away.

Optimus felt drained, too, honestly. After so many laborious things he had done in his life, somehow, being Megatron's keeper in a prison was the most exhausting. He gave Megatron a smile once they were alone. "Go ahead. I'll be here for a little while longer.”

He hummed, shifting idly on his pedes. "... You have so much potential, Megatron... and I think this universe has plans for you. I think if you wanted it, nothing could stop you from making Cybertron a better place than it is, for everyone, not just the Decepticons. With all you have seen and known? Truly, I could see you leading a unified and healed Cybertron." 

So many big dreams... you know they won't happen, right? 

You're just an ordinary mech, and Megatron will die soon.

Dreams are worth having, even if they're impossible.

Megatron didn’t answer at first, sitting on his newly widened berth, his frame still and unreadable. Then, slowly, he met Optimus's gaze again, his own expression unreadable, but his optics softened, just barely. "…You really are a fool, Optimus Prime," he said again, for the first time ever stating his name in a tone that was not mocking or cruel as he looked to the far wall. "But if I did ever build that world…" His optics flicked back again, locking with Optimus’s. "...I think I would want you in it."

And with nothing more, he turned and laid back on the berth, almost instantly falling into deep recharge at long last.

Art by co-author prynxe_of_darkness

Chapter Text

Sentinel's digits rapped against the reinforced desk in his office, slow and deliberate. One-two-three, one-two-three, like a war drum. He had been reviewing the footage again. The unauthorized energon cube. The extended medical stay. The conversation. No audio, but body language? Too clear. Too relaxed. Too familiar.

His derma curled into a sneer. Optimus Prime, his mistake of a cadet, once again entangling himself in something he could not possibly understand. And with Megatron of all mechs? Unacceptable.

“Of course it'd be him,” he muttered.

He did not hear the door slide open, but the voice that followed was unmistakable. "You're wearin' down that desk again, boss."

Sentinel did not look up. "Jazz. Good. You'll relay a message."

Jazz stepped in fully, arms crossed, tone casual, but watchful. "What's goin' on?"

"Cadet Optimus is to report to Fortress Maximus for immediate conduct review." Sentinel's voice was clipped and cold. "He's stepped outside protocol. I want to hear exactly what he thinks he's doing, getting cozy with Megatron."

Jazz raised a brow behind his visor. "You sure about that? Optimus has always been thorough. Maybe there's context-"

"I’m not interested in context!" Sentinel snapped, standing to his full height behind his desk. "I gave him this post to watch a monster. Not befriend one."

Jazz frowned, arms dropping to his sides. "He's a good mech. Always tries to do the right thing. You think maybe this is just that again?"

Sentinel turned, slow and precise, until he was looking Jazz dead in the visor. Even cool-headed Jazz slightly quelled at the intensity of his glare. "I think this is the second time he's let his feelings get in the way of orders. And I won't let him drag this entire command into sympathy for a war criminal." He jabbed a digit toward the terminal. "Get him here. Now."

Jazz was quiet for a beat. Then, with a short nod, he turned to leave. "I’ll tell him."

Sentinel didn’t sit. He just stood there, optics locked on the frozen frame of Optimus and Megatron in the level four room, paused in perfect symmetry. His voice came soft and bitter. "You never could follow the rules, could you, Optimus..."

~*~

Optimus stood his post diligently, optics not closed but dimmed, as he idled and waited to be released for the day. Watching Megatron recharge was somewhat gratifying after the hell he had been through, but also not exactly stimulating.

What was that one human story again? With the boy and the wax wings?

Icarus! Yes... Icarus. That's exactly what we've become, haven't we?

We're not falling, yet.

The commbead in Optimus's audial crackled to life, followed by the familiar, laid-back cadence of Jazz's voice. But even through the static, something in his tone sounded just a little too even. 

.:: Yo, OP. Jazz here. Just got outta Sentinel's office. He's callin' you in for a conduct review. Says he wants you at Fort Max ASAP. Didn’t say much, but I figure you already know what it’s about.::.

Optimus stiffened visibly, but Jazz’s tone softened. Not by much, but just enough. Spoke just a moment too soon.

.:: Whatever this is, just… be careful, alright? He's not exactly in a listenin' mood. ::.

Then, like he was trying to pull the tension off the line with one last thread of normalcy, he added,  .:: Don’t keep the boss waitin'. He’s twitchier than a turbofox in a junkyard. ::.

.:: Jazz, ::. Optimus commed back quickly, trying hard not to let fear slip into his voice. But of course... how much could he really hide from Jazz, of all bots? .:: Would you have the time to accompany me there? ::.

Please say yes. I know I have your trust.

.:: I'm still at Fort Max,::. Jazz replied. .:: I'll go up with you to Sentinel's office when you get here. I'll meet you right at the front doors. Keep cool, OP. ::. The comm clicked off, and the silence that followed was somehow louder than Jazz's voice had been.

Optimus looked to Megatron, quickly stepping close to the mech’s cell. He had to let him know, had to at least try. He didn’t want the mech to be caught off guard by his absence.

Megatron had not moved a twitch since going to recharge. He likely still needed several more joors to be well enough to be considered rested. But the rest he had achieved, along with the energon he had taken in, had clearly had a positive effect.

"Megatron…” Optimus said in a harsh whisper. “Megs, hey, wake up!"

Megatron huffed out his vents as Optimus called his name, and his optics switched on dimly. He raised his helm first and then his upper body to look down at him. "What is it?" he rumbled, not bothering to voice any displeasure at being awoken, or the infantile nickname. Optimus would not have woken him in such a tone unless it was urgent. A show of trust, no matter how small.

Optimus let out a huff of relief when Megatron awoke, steadying himself. "I'm being called into Fortress Maximus for a conduct review. I felt like I should let you know, just in case..."

In case this is the last time we see each other again.

"I just didn't want you to panic… on the chance that I don't show up tomorrow." Or ever again.

He looked Megatron solidly in the optics, trying to give him a smile. "Try not to worry about me too much though," Optimus told him. "I know you'll do great in court. Even if I'm not there. I believe in you." His spark thudded frantically in his chest. He was going to get arrested. He was going to get slagged. Somewhere deep inside, another voice stirred. A flicker of self, fractured and small, whispering what he dared not say aloud:

This is your fault. You flew too close. You always do.

Megatron stirred slowly as Optimus spoke, his optics dim as they adjusted to the low light of the cell. He sat up fully with a quiet grunt, wincing as pain lanced through his fresh repairs. He blinked at Optimus, and though his frame was still heavy with exhaustion, his gaze quickly turned sharp.

“Fortress Maximus. Sentinel.” He absorbed the names, the weight in them, the subtle fracture in Optimus’s voice. Nothing more needed to be said. For a moment, Megatron said nothing. He simply looked at the mech before him; Young, trembling, far too kind for the world that made him.

Then he scoffed, low and dry. “You are truly terrible at pretending to be calm.” The bite in his voice was softened, almost fond, though in that unreadable way of his. With effort, he pushed off the berth, rising to his full height, towering over Optimus as his optics studied him, committing him to memory like this might be the last time.

“Sentinel is many things,” he said coolly, slipping into reason like armor. “But clever is not one of them. He blusters. He postures. He hides behind protocol like a coward hides behind a wall. But walls crack under pressure.” Megatron leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Speak your truth. Calmly. Without apology.” A shift of light drew across his optics. “He fears uncertainty. And nothing shakes a tyrant more than a mech who does not flinch when challenged.”

He straightened again, his gaze narrowing. “If he locks you away, that would be a mistake.” His voice dropped lower. “A mistake I would have to correct.”

But the promise faded quickly into silence, replaced by something quieter and softer. A flicker of hesitation, almost gentle. He looked away. Just for a moment. “I would rather it not come to that.” And finally, as a full whisper, “Do not let them shame you for having a spark.” He sat back again, gaze shuttered. Guarded. “Go.”

Optimus let out a sound that might have been a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “I’m afraid,” he murmured. “I regret nothing… but I’m still afraid.” He straightened his shoulders. He tried to stand tall, even as tremors moved through his frame. He looked at Megatron like he was trying to fix the image of him into his processor. Trying to keep it. And despite everything, he calmed. Anchored by Megatron’s certainty.

He realized, with a spark of alarm, that he trusted him. And in the same moment, realized he wasn’t as horrified by that as he should’ve been. Instead, he only nodded, and gave Megatron a faint, sincere smile. “…If this is to be our last meeting… then please know, I’ve genuinely enjoyed your company.”

And then he turned to leave. Quiet pedes, a replacement called, the hum of the door to Level Four closing behind him. Optimus left Trypticon, transformed, and drove toward his fate.

~*~

The looming silhouette of Fortress Maximus cut against the skyline like a blade, cold, unyielding, and fortified in every way. The gates parted at his approach. So too did the doors of the compound, sliding open like a maw ready to swallow him whole.

Jazz stood just inside, visor glinting in the sterile hallway light. He leaned against the service desk, casual in stance but far too still to be relaxed. “You took the fast route,” he said quietly, the usual humor gone from his voice. “Good. He’s been pacing holes in the floor since I gave the word.” Without another word, Jazz pushed off the desk and turned down the corridor. His steps were steady, unhurried and deliberate.

Optimus returned Jazz’s greeting with a quiet nod, his expression sharp and battle-ready. Not for a fight of metal, but of processor and spark. “You trust me.” he said, not a question, but a statement. I trust that you’ll trust me.

Fortress Maximus was quiet at this late joor. Just the faint hum of energy lines and the buzz of the lights overhead. As they neared the Magnus chamber, Jazz slowed. He cast Optimus a glance, taking in the tension beneath the calm, then gave two sharp knocks on the door. The chamber opened with a hiss, admitting them. Optimus followed Jazz into Sentinel’s office with calm purpose, his shoulders squared, servos loose at his sides, silent and controlled, letting Sentinel speak first.

Sentinel stood at the far end of the room, behind his desk, staring out at the glittering lights of Iacon. Servos clasped behind his back, his entire posture rigid and still. There was silence, tight and brittle like a drawn wire. He didn’t speak until the doors had shut behind them.

“So,” he said, voice ringing too loud in the enclosed space, deliberate in its cold formality. “The prodigal Prime actually dares to show his faceplate when called.” He turned then, optics locking onto Optimus with surgical precision, ignoring Jazz entirely. His face was etched with fury he didn’t try to disguise.

“Tell me, exactly, how something like this happens?” He rounded the desk and slammed a datapad down with enough force to rattle the surface. Its screen lit up with surveillance timestamps, sensor logs, heat signature; all flagged under one name: Optimus Prime. “Because from what I’ve been reviewing, it seems your job description has rapidly evolved without authorization.”

His voice tightened with every syllable, field lashing outward with simmering rage. “You were assigned to monitor him. Secure him. Keep him alive. Not bond with him! Not cry for him!” He stepped closer, helm tilting slightly, his derma curled into a furious sneer. “So unless you have a very compelling explanation for this embarrassment, I suggest you start talking. Now.”

You're more calm than I figured you'd be.

Optimus didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, neutral and unreadable, until prompted to say his peace. “First,” he began calmly, “I’d like to address the implication that my actions are the ones we should be embarrassed about. Though perhaps that’s just projection. After all, it’s because of you that I’ve stepped so far above my station.”

He took a step closer. “Sentinel, I’ve told you before: my decisions are guided less by code and more by the spirit of what Autobots are meant to represent. To treat all sentient life with dignity, fairness, and compassion, but with strength where it’s needed. I’m not afraid to reprimand those I believe deserve it.” His tone remained measured and steady, even as Sentinel continued to sneer at him in silence.

“And it is you, Sentinel, who are in dire need of reprimanding. Because if there is anything that runs counter to the Autobot cause, it’s what you’ve allowed to happen at Trypticon.” A long vent, slow and quiet. Keep it steady. “Tell me. What word would you use for the following treatment of a Cybertronian in custody: Keeping their quarters unsanitary despite knowing they are physically incapable of cleaning them. Refusing them a proper berth to recharge. Denying medical attention for open wounds, until, conveniently, someone else complains about it. Rationing their energon so tightly that a minor injury could prove fatal, where any well-fueled mech wouldn’t even stumble. Forbidding painkillers and anesthetics, labeling them ‘comfort items,’ and forcing an already-starving prisoner to endure joors of agony while a medic welds their wounds shut.”

He lifted his chin slightly. His optics narrowed. “Because to me, Sentinel, that sounds an awful lot like torture. And last I checked, ordering, or even allowing, the torture of a prisoner is a crime serious enough to earn yourself a cell. You didn't just allow it. You sanctioned it. Including the order to not touch him under any circumstance. Meaning, had I obeyed protocol, we’d have been waiting for a crane, and Megatron would’ve offlined before it arrived.”

He vented again. Calm and controlled, still standing tall. “So yes. I helped him. Because he could not help himself. I listened to him, something no one else had done since his arrest. I carried him because no one else would. And you know what I saw?” His voice softened. Not weaker, but more passionate. “I saw a mech realizing, in real time, what he might have become if someone had shown him that same compassion before he fell. I wept. Because it wasn’t fair. That someone with such brilliance could be pushed into darkness by a world so unforgiving. That even if he tried to do better now, no one would listen. No one but me.”

He took one small step back and shook his helm slowly, optics never leaving Sentinel’s. “All that pain, all that torment, inflicted out of spite… and yet the bare minimum was all he needed to survive. If you find no sorrow in that… then your spark is as cold as the ground we stand on.” His voice firmed again.  “I have every reason to hate Megatron. So do many others. But after what I witnessed with my own optics, what I’ve come to hate is how eager some of my peers are to participate in cruelty. To normalize it.”

He folded his arms loosely across his chest. “Trailblazer and Bluestreak, laughing as they injured him outside the washracks. Leaving him collapsed under freezing water. Too weak to stand, too broken to wash himself, so used to their own malice, they forgot that not every Autobot shares it.” He tilted his helm, rueful.

“Call me a traitor, if that’s the word you want. But if this is what Autobots stand for now… then I want no part of it. I still believe in a united Cybertron. One where differences are celebrated, not crushed. I’m not naïve. I know true peace is impossible. There will always be conflict and division. But is it such a crime to try not to add to the pain in this world? To want to make things a little better? To live by the change I want to see?” His gaze hardened. “I will not sacrifice my moral code just to protect my own frame. And you would know, Sentinel… how many have sacrificed theirs to protect yours?”

One last, deep vent. “If the cost of offering another Cybertronian basic care and dignity is imprisonment, mockery, or even execution, then so be it. I’ll welcome it. Because that alone will prove just how far we’ve strayed from the vision of hope and honor we once held. Megatron once believed in that same vision. I pity who he used to be, who he could have been. Because if someone – anyone – cared enough to reach out when it mattered, he could have become one of the greatest Cybertronians our kind had ever known.”

Finally, Optimus gave a slow nod. Calm again, as still as he had entered the room. “Is that satisfactory?”

Sentinel was quiet for a long moment after Optimus finished. Not because he was convinced. Far from it. He was stunned by the audacity of it.  The silence was a pressure, crackling like static in the air.

“…You done?”

His words came low and even, but they carried the unmistakable edge of venom. Each syllable precise, controlled and dangerous. He stepped forward slowly this time, the quiet stretching between them like smog choking a ventilation shaft. “You dare walk into my office and lecture me? Like I’m some wide-opticed recruit just off the line?” He gestured sharply to the datapad on his desk, optics narrowing to slits. “Like you didn’t just spend the last few cycles trampling every boundary protocol we have for war criminals?”

He gave a bitter scoff. "You speak of compassion while defending a mech who nearly brought this entire sector of space to its knees. Who led a war that slaughtered hundreds of thousands of Autobot soldiers, millions of innocents. Who personally ordered the bombardment of Protihex! Who turned the very idea of unity into a punchline!"

He turned and paced, short sharp steps that echoed with each impact. “And now I learn from surveillance logs, that not only did you disobey my direct orders, but you’ve taken it upon yourself to play… rehabilitation counselor to the single most dangerous Cybertronian alive?”

He spun back, his voice rising. “And your justification? Feelings? ” He slammed his servo down on the desk with a metallic crack. “This isn’t a debate, Optimus! This is an investigation. And if you think a few poetic words about moral code and mercy are going to wipe your record clean, you’re even more naïve than I gave you credit for.”

His vents hissed, his frame trembling slightly before he steadied himself, straightening his posture. His optics bored into Optimus like drillpoints. “I should have you stripped of rank.”

But before he could say more, Jazz stepped forward, arms still crossed, but his voice steady. "Maybe," Jazz said carefully, "you should investigate. But if this is gonna be about 'feelings,' then you'd best make sure yours ain't clouding things too." Sentinel’s optics narrowed sharply at that. Jazz didn’t flinch. "Because the way I see it? What Optimus said… it checks out. I've been in that pit. I've seen the way they treat him down there. And even if I don't agree with every choice Optimus made, I get why he made 'em."  He shifted his weight slightly, gaze steady between them. “Might be worth asking how things got so bad that doing the bare minimum looks like some kind of rebellion.”

Optimus nodded in agreement. “That question… it’s been with me since I saw Megatron’s cell. Since I realized how normal his treatment seemed. And the deeper I dig, the more I realize this isn’t an exception. This is the system. You’re just saying the quiet parts out loud.”

Sentinel held his gaze a moment longer, then turned back to Optimus. His optics flared brighter. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear.” He leaned forward slightly, voice low and icy. “You’re off the assignment. Effective immediately.” He set his servo down on the datapad again, pressing hard. “I’ll assign someone with a clearer sense of duty. Someone who isn’t compromised by… sentiment. You? You’re a liability.”

There was another heavy silence. Sentinel's expression hardened even further, and his voice came cold, but calmer. 

"You're dismissed for now. Both of you." Then, turning slightly, his voice dropped as he addressed Optimus alone. “Do not leave Iacon. I’ll be presenting this to the High Council.” He turned his back to him, signaling the conversation was over. But his final words were like his lance, drawn quietly from its sheath. “If I find any trace of a breach in Autobot security? I’ll have your rank. And I will not stop there.”

Optimus didn’t flinch. “What is there to investigate,” he said calmly, “if you already believe you have everything you need?” He took a step forward, his tone still even, still composed. “I admitted what I did. Unless you plan to interrogate Megatron personally, I doubt you’ll hear anything new. Except perhaps a few cruder turns of phrase.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t react to Sentinel’s fury. He merely watched, impassive, as the storm raged. Then, when Sentinel turned his gaze back on him, Optimus stood tall. He nodded, slow and silent, in agreement with the terms. But his smile was soft. Almost pitying. “You have nothing to fear from me, Sentinel.” He gave a small bow, then turned and walked out, brushing Jazz lightly on the arm as he passed. A silent invitation to follow.

Sentinel’s glare lingered long after they left. He stood frozen, helm tilted slightly back, optics unfocused. “…Interrogate Megatron,” he muttered, the thought curling in his mind like smoke. His servos flexed around the edge of the desk. “Not a bad idea.”

He glanced to the monitor on his desk, flicking through prison feeds until one locked onto Megatron’s cell. The warlord was recharging. Sentinel narrowed his optics. He’s hiding something. They both are. And one way or another… I’ll find out what it is.

Chapter Text

Jazz caught up with Optimus just outside Sentine’s office, his steps light despite the weight of the moment. “Frag, man,” he murmured, casting him a look that hovered somewhere between impressed and concerned. “You really threw down in there.”

Jazz folded his arms and glanced over his shoulder back toward the office door, before lowering his voice. “Look, I’m not sayin’ I agree with everything you did. But I saw Megatron in that cell, too, before you were assigned. If even half of what you said is true, you’re not wrong to be mad.” He frowned. “You’re brave, OP. And that scares the slag outta me sometimes. ‘Cause bots like you? You shine so bright, you get noticed by the kinds that wanna snuff that light out.” He gave a short, rueful vent of a laugh. “But you got fire. Real fire. And for what it’s worth? You’re right, I do trust you. So, you ever need backup, you just say the word. I'll be there.”

Optimus smiled, genuinely grateful for the support. “I mean what I said about Megatron. What I saw... what I heard... you can’t fake that kind of emotion. He’s suffered so much, and for what?” He sighed and shook his helm. "But I’m glad you’re with me. You should swing by my hab tonight. It’s been a while since we’ve hung out. Plus…” He grinned, playful, like he was planning something lighthearted, maybe a movie or an old Academy vid. But his EM field told a different story. Serious, focused, and urgent, but quiet. “I’ve got something I think you’ll really like,” he added, making it clear this wasn't a casual invite. This was important. And secret. “I’ll see you later, alright? Don’t worry about me. I knew the risks. I’ll be okay.”

He parted ways with Jazz and headed straight to the small but clean apartment Sentinel, ironically, had set him up with less than a deca-cycle earlier, when he had agreed to rejoin the academy. So far, that hadn’t even been discussed yet, and he had no plans to bring it up, either. Settling into his habsuite to rest, Optimus waited for Jazz to arrive.

He took an old data chip from his small box of belongings and wiped it clean of data, momentarily bemoaning all of the human movies he had told Sari he would watch one day, and began uploading a full copy of his logs from Trypticon; all of his conversations, recordings, notes, everything he had seen so far inside the prison. 

It was a massive security breach. And the worst part was, he couldn’t delete the originals in his own processor. Too much would be missing. Too much he needed to remember. If he wiped it, he’d lose the memories he needed to help Megatron. To save him.  But at the very least, he could make sure the unedited data ended up in trusted servos. A failsafe. A real bombshell, if things went truly wrong.

Just a bit of chaos... just how I like it.

Jazz showed up to Optimus’s habsuite a little later than expected, but not empty-servoed. Optimus opened the door to him with a bit more eagerness than he had initially anticipated having. Yes, this was meant to be a serious meeting... but he missed hanging out with his friends, too. 

“Yo,” Jazz greeted casually as the door slid open, one arm full of a small crate. “Hope you didn’t think I was showin’ up empty-servoed. Figured you could use a taste of home.”

"Ha! I wasn't banking on it, but I'm glad you did,” Optimus replied brightly, following Jazz inside.

The Cyber-ninja strolled in like he’d done it a hundred times, setting the crate on the small island in the kitchen with a grin. Inside were a few packs of crispy Rust Sticks, a jar of Ener-Puffs, a vacuum-sealed canister of fermented Hexaspice Dip, and, miraculously, a bottle of cooling-grade Enerdrift fizz. All favorites from Optimus’s Academy days, nostalgic and rare.

Optimus perused the contents of the crate excitedly. "Oh wow! Where'd you find this?" He pulled out the bottle of Enerdrift fizz, admiring it for a moment. 

“Managed to swipe a few things from the Quartermaster’s private stash,” Jazz said, winking. “Guy’s got a soft spot for me. Think he used to DJ back in the day.” He dropped into a chair with practiced ease, one pede crossing over the other, his EM field relaxed, at least on the surface. But his optics? They were scanning behind his visor, sharp and alert. He’d felt that signal earlier. The playful wink, the light tone... wrapped around something weighty. He cracked open a pack of Rust Sticks and took a bite of one. “Yeesh... these things are still awful,” he muttered with a crooked grin. “But, y’know, the nostalgic kind of awful.”

"You really went above and beyond for what's supposed to be just a short meeting..." Optimus hummed, going to grab some glasses from his small kitchenette. However, midway through, he was interrupted by another chime at the door. Optimus turned and slightly stiffened, not expecting anyone else.

Jazz, though, stood with smooth nonchalance. “Ah. That’ll be them,” he said, already moving. “Hope you don’t mind. Figured you could use a little distraction. Don’t worry. I’ll stay after they leave.”

“Them? Jazz, who–”

“Oi!” the familiar high voice of Bumblebee called from outside. “Open up, Boss Bot! This Scrap Heap Showdown deck isn't gonna deal itself!"

“Yeah, come on, kid,” came the gruff, grumpy voice of Ratchet. “Energon's gettin’ cold out here.” 

“Aw–! Jazz! You–!”

Optimus laughed, genuine and bright. He honestly was really happy about the change. It was a much-needed distraction. “You better stick around,” he said, voice softening. “This was supposed to be important. I’ve got something to give you. Something you need to hold onto, tight. No matter what.” He shook his helm, dismissing the thought for now as he set the glasses down on the counter. “But... later. I did miss these guys.”

As Optimus stepped past him to head to the door, Jazz reached out and gently clasped his shoulder. “This is important,” Jazz said, quietly but firmly, his smile warm. “Your friends… your family, right? That’s what matters most. You need ‘em right now. So let ‘em help you.” He gave Optimus’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and let him go.

Smiling, Optimus made his way to the door and opened it, his whole frame brightening even further as he caught sight of the familiar faces. There stood Bumblebee and Ratchet, the former grinning like a turbofox with a full fuel tank and a deck of well-worn cards in servo. Scrap Heap Showdown. The same one they’d played almost every deca-cycle aboard the Orion and in the warehouse that had been their home on Earth. Sari had once explained it matched up with human “weeks.” Every few chords, someone would swear they hated the game and storm off, only to be back the next deca-cycle, because really, there wasn’t anything else to do but spend time with each other.

Oh, how Optimus missed those days… He missed them now with a sudden, aching weight.

Ratchet stood next to Bumblebee, a faint smile tucked beneath his usual scowl. He held a bag of takeout energon from a little café just down the road from the Academy. Optimus recognized the scent of his favorite additives immediately. He’d never taken Ratchet there himself, but he had mentioned them in passing, and the old medic had remembered. After all this time...

“Bee! Ratchet! It’s so good to see you two!”

“It’s great to see you too, Boss Bot!” Bumblebee chirped, grabbing Optimus in a tight but brief hug. “I’m not kidding this time! You owe me a rematch, Prime. No more ‘tactical withdrawals’ or excuses!” He grinned before darting over to high-five Jaz in greeting.

“Don’t worry,” Ratchet added as he followed Bee inside, thumb jutting over his shoulder. “The others’ll be here in a klik. Bulkhead had to take a lift up by himself because he maxed out the weight limit, and Sari didn't want him to feel bad coming up alone." He gripped Optimus by the arm as he passed him and moved out of the doorway.

“Good,” Optimus muttered. “It wouldn’t be the same without the two of them.”

It’s not the same without Prowl, either... but...

Sure enough, as Ratchet set the take-out energon down beside Jazz’s crate of snacks, Bulkhead appeared in the doorway, Sari hovering just over his shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late!” Bulkhead flustered as he crouched and shuffled his way into the apartment, carrying a much larger crate under his arm. A storage container for oil canisters. "This building was definitely not built with bots my size in mind..." Nevertheless, he grabbed Optimus in a tight but brief one armed hug as the door closed behind him.

“You’re totally fine!” Optimus reassured Bulkhead, laughing as the bigger mech engulfed him in another hug. “It’s good to see you.”

"Hiya, Optimus!" Sari flitted over to Optimus when Bulkhead put him down and hugged his chestplate with her tiny form. 

“Sari! I missed you, kiddo.” Optimus gently hugged her back, finials twitching in delighted relief.

"We missed you loads, too!” Sari gushed. “So much crazy stuff has been happening, huh?? What's been-"

“Eyah, nya!” Ratchet cut in with a gruff bark and a pointed glare. “We ain’t here to talk about current event scrap. We’re here to reminisce, play that stupid game, and talk slag about Sentinel-Helm-Up-His-Exhaust-Pipe-Acting-Magnus.”

Laughter bubbled up around the room, warm and familiar. They moved easily into old rhythms, setting up the card table, cracking open energon and oil, chattering over one another with the same easy camaraderie they’d always shared.

“I hope Cybertron’s treating you well,” Optimus said to Sari with a smile. “You’re not missing Earth too much, are you?”

“It’s not so much missing Earth as it is getting really tired of the whole, ‘Oh gross, what is that? Organic? Ew!’ I keep hearing,” Sari huffed, heading toward the table to inspect the offering. “What, no Burger Bot?” she asked, looking up at Ratchet.

“Burger Bot’s a little outside the delivery zone, kid,” Ratchet snorted. “You can take energon, same as us.”

“Yeah, but organic food tastes better,” she grumbled, though she still reached for the jar of Ener-Puffs.

“I think you’ll survive.” Ratchet rolled his optics, grabbing his energon and making his way over to sit at the table with the others.

Optimus straightened, pausing for a moment to take it all in. His friends gathered in his little apartment, laughter bouncing off the walls, energon flowing freely, comfort in every corner.

“Right… the cups.” He moved back to the counter and brought out seven cups, one for each of them.

Six bots.

One extra.

He filled the last cup with energon and set it gently on the counter beside the others. “…There. Now we’re all together,” he said softly. There was a small moment of silence, as six cups raised to the seventh, and the talking began once again.

Jazz’s voice pulled him gently from the moment. He leaned toward Optimus again, giving his shoulder another friendly squeeze. “Thought you could use a little reminder of the real important bits, OP. Now come on. Show me how this Scrap Heap Showdown works. Bee’s been yappin’ my audials off about it.”

“I really appreciate it, Jazz,” Optimus said with quiet sincerity, meeting his friend’s optics. “Yes… let’s play. I think you’ll love it.”

Bulkhead sat on the floor to avoid crushing any of Optimus’s chairs. The rest filled the four seats, with Jazz taking the one that might’ve belonged to Prowl. Optimus, with Bumblebee frequently interrupting for commentary, explained the rules of the game they all knew by spark. It was crowded, sure... but it was full of love and lively energy. Yes... this is home, alright. He’d felt a bit out of place since returning to Cybertron, like the whole world had shifted without him. But now, at this moment, he felt that sense of home again. His spark was with this beautiful lot. Wherever they were, wherever they went, as long as they're together, that was home.

They played long into the night, and even into the next morning, teasing, laughing, eating, and talking an enormous amount of slag about Sentinel. Even Jazz threw in the occasional jab at his superior’s expense. Eventually, Sari began to nod off despite her efforts, and Ratchet announced it was time to head out. They’d spent nearly eight wonderful joors together. More time together would come, but for now, the night was over.

With hugs, laughter, and promises to meet again next deca-cycle, this time at Bulkhead and Bee’s place, Optimus’s crew, his family, filtered out one by one, until only he and Jazz remained. Optimus had indulged in the company of his beloved friends, his family, pulled together from so many different corners of life. They could have missed each other entirely. But fate had other plans.

He bid each of them goodbye with love. A gentle pet for Sari’s head, a hug for each bot (even Ratchet, who grumbled but did not pull away), and wishes for safe travels home.

When Optimus turned back from seeing them off, Jazz was on the couch, watching him with a thoughtful expression. Optimus, and a heavy weight on his spark. “Hope you feel a little better, OP,” Jazz said gently. “I know you wanted to talk about something serious. And I’m here for it. But after everything today? You needed them.”

“I did,” Optimus admitted quietly. “I needed that far more than I realized.” His optics lingered momentarily on the full cup of energon left in memory of Prowl before he crossed the room and sat beside Jazz.

“I’ve been doing a lot in Trypticon. Speaking out, acting on the injustice I see. Not everyone’s going to agree with my choices. Even I have been questioning if it’s worth it. Especially when it comes to Megatron.” He laughed, but the sound was humorless and dry. “It’s a slippery slope. If the Autobots are willing to treat their ‘lesser’ prisoners like this, what else is being hidden? If I can see such abominable practices so easily, then what about those above me? What horrors have we missed?”

He reached into his subspace and pulled out the old datachip. “Jazz… this is critical. This chip holds everything I saw in Trypticon. Recordings, notes, images, transcripts, everything I saw. Sentinel’s going to want to probe my processor, and if I want to keep my stance… if I want to protect the bots in there, Megatron included… I can’t delete the files. But I know he’s going to try and use it against me, call me a traitor, or frame me for something.” He held the chip out. “I am not a traitor. I’m trying to save Cybertron. And that starts with Trypticon. Please… trust me.”

Jazz took the chip without hesitation, slipping it into his subspace. “I do trust you, OP,” he said softly, but with quiet conviction. “You’ve always had people’s best interests at spark. That’s never changed, no matter what’s on this chip. I’ll take care of it. I’ll look into what I can. Speaking of recharge, though,” he added, more casual now, “you should get to yours. You look like you’re about to recharge right here.” He gave Optimus’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Get some rest. You need it. Opening arguments start the day after tomorrow. I know you can’t go, but it’ll be televised. If you want company, don’t be afraid to call any of us. We’ll be here.”

Optimus nodded, a faint but sincere smile forming. “Yes... I was already exhausted before the meeting with Sentinel. Then the party…” he trailed off with a small laugh. “I’m beat.” He rose and walked Jazz to the door. “I think I’ll be alright. I want to be alone with my thoughts during the circus the trial is sure to be. Take care of yourself, Jazz. I’m counting on you.”

And with that, he closed the door behind him, letting out a long, weary sigh in the now almost too-quiet habsuite. He walked over to the untouched energon cup he’d set aside for Prowl. He poured it out, but left the cup. Somehow, it didn’t feel right to clean it. Not yet.

Tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Optimus woke suddenly, sitting up sharply with his vents on full blast and body already registering as overheated. But it wasn’t the heat he registered first. It was the pain. Not a pulled actuator or a strained joint or even something like a spasming strut, like he had expected after carrying Megatron from the shower. This was deeper, as if his entire frame had been hit with a stun baton and forced into stasis, only to be shaken loose and dropped into his berth like dead weight a nanokilk later

His optics flickered offline and then back on again. Despite the pain that seemed to be ebbing away already but still clearly felt, the only warning in his hub was his overheating. He shook his helm as a low, quiet hum filled his audials, like the distant lights were suddenly too bright and too close, but it sounded so far away. Static came in a harsh, crackling buzz, and it was suddenly punctuated by…

…A voice. Distant and muffled, but razor-sharp, like someone was shouting through an amplifier through a vault door. The tone sounded weirdly familiar. But before he could pinpoint why, it was gone. Everything fell silent again.

He sat up slowly, one servo pressed tight against his chassis, his vents stuttering as he tried to cool himself off His back strut ached. His arms, primed and curled in toward himself as if he had tried to defend himself from something, tingled like he'd been grabbed and held down too tightly. And his side, just under the lowest plating of his midsection, pulsed in sharp, regular waves. He pulled his armor plating slightly aside to inspect the protoform beneath, and found nothing. No bruising or scorch marks or loose wires to speak of. Still, no warnings or indication of damage from his hub. But the sensation had been very real.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there on the edge of his berth, optics wide and venting hard. Trying to convince himself that he hadn’t just felt a jolt of electricity surge through his internals. That he hadn’t seen, in a flicker behind his shuttered optics, the blinding light of an empty, sterile room. Heard the buzzing of those too bright lights and something else, much more dangerous. Nothing in it but echoes and –

Don’t play games with me.

He flinched, almost violently, at that sudden voice that rang through his helm as if it had been screamed into his audials. He pushed himself to his pedes as though he could run from the voice from inside his own head. From that deep part of his processor that had been fraying at the edges for stellar cycles now. Since Archa Seven. Since her …

No. No. This wasn’t one of the fragments. This felt different. Both more and less real.

He moved to the wash rack and turned on the faucet, running cold solvent over his servos, staring into the mirror like his reflection might betray him. His EM field twitched at random intervals, jumping like static down his back. His spark pulsed too quickly. His vents wouldn’t settle down, even as, once more, his hub told him there was nothing wrong. This wasn't his pain.

His digits curled tightly over the edge of the sink as he struggled to understand what that even meant. Was it some kind of psychosomatic sympathy response? A hallucination brought on by the stress of the trial? Guilt? Some part of him, ashamed and overwhelmed by his connection to Megatron, manifesting his punishment before it even arrived?

Optimus went back to his berth and sat back down, his servos trembling slightly. Every time he shuttered his optics again, the flashes returned. That room. The force of impact. Electrical crackling, followed by flares of pain that rippled like boiling water across his plating. Dull groaning. The smell of burning insulation. A low, gravelly, guttural voice, weak but firm. Holding back.

He felt like he was breaking in half. He couldn't tell if he wanted to purge or scream, and felt like doing both equally. Instead, he reached shakily for his commbead.

.:: Ratchet. ::. His voice wavered slightly over the line. .:: It’s Optimus. I… I need to ask your medical opinion on something. Private, if that’s alright. ::.  He hesitated. .:: I think I'm experiencing a stress response. Possibly a feedback loop. I don’t know. It’s just… things hurt. Things that shouldn’t. I feel like I’m being injured, but there's no damage. Nothing in my hub, nothing visible. I don't know how to explain it. ::.

He broke off, looking down at his shaking servos. .:: Sorry. I know it sounds ridiculous. ::. He ended the comm and exvented shakily, head bowed. He didn’t know what was wrong. But something was happening.

The reply came too fast for Ratchet not to have noticed something was off the nanoklik he heard Optimus’s voice. .:: I’m coming over. Sit down and stay down. ::. No hesitation and no argument.

Optimus didn’t move. He just sat, trying to regulate his vents and convince his own processor that the phantoms coursing through his frame weren’t real. That the echo of a scream behind his denta wasn’t his. That the steady, stinging pulse along his side and the heavy ache in his wrist joints were just figments, just glitches in his firmware, not really happening at all…

Another surge. An electric snap that flared through his neurorelays like a brand across raw protoform. He gasped sharply, curling forward with a low groan, even as he pressed his servos against his helm. His field rippled like it had been lashed with a whip.

He didn’t know how long it was before the door chimed. It felt like joors, but he was sure it had only been kliks. When he opened it, Ratchet stood there with his medic's kit in one servo, optics sharp and his expression a deep and concentrating frown. The moment he stepped inside and the door hissing shut behind him, the old medic's gaze swept over him with the practiced precision of someone who’d seen far too many bots pretending not to be hurting.

“You look like you got hit by a power surge and forgot to reboot,” Ratchet said, trying for his usual dry humor, but the concern behind it bled through. “Sit.”

Ratchet pulled out a scanner as Optimus seated himself on the couch, waving it over his helm, shoulders and chest. His optic ridges furrowed the longer he scanned. “Your neuro activity levels are spiking across multiple pain receptors, but there’s no physical cause. No bruising, no fractures, no inflamed weld lines. It's like you're registering the pain without the injury. The only physical thing I can see is your heat levels. They’re sky high.”

Ratchet looked up at him then, sharp and searching. “You haven’t been exposed to any experimental tech, have you? No big power surges, no proto-forms, no odd spark surges recently? Anything happen in Trypticon I should know about?”

Optimus shook his helm. “No, not recently. Closest thing to a relic I’ve been near recently was the AllSpark. And Sari, which I suppose she counts as that now.”

Ratchet gave a careful nod, and his optics didn’t move from Optimus’s face. “Right,” he muttered. “Well, whatever this is, you’re overtaxed. And something’s triggering your sensors like you’re in a field of active trauma. You need to rest and recharge, frame and processor. No media, no stress. If it gets worse, you let me know. No fragging heroics. Got it?”

Optimus huffed slightly. “The trial starts tomorrow. I can’t not watch it. Not after what happened in Trypticon.” He shook his helm. “But… I get it. I’ll stay here and relax. Try to recharge.” But he didn’t move. His frame stayed slumped slightly, optics unfocused. He pressed his servo to his helm again and took a shaky vent.

“Well, at least take some pain suppressants. Now that we’re actually on Cybertron, we’ve got access to those. “Ratchet watched him another klik, and then sighed. “This isn't a breakdown, Optimus. Not exactly. I think your spark’s trying to tell you something it doesn’t have words for yet. And you…” He softened just a bit. “You’ve always been the type to carry pain like it’s your job. Maybe this time it’s someone else’s.” He squeezed his shoulder gently. “Are you recharging okay?”

Optimus gave a weak chuckle that held no humor or bite. “Not lately.”

Ratchet grunted. “Yeah. Thought not.” He moved to pack up the scanner again. “Get what rest you can. Whatever’s happening, we’ll figure it out. Just don’t keep me in the dark. Comm me back if you get any warnings in your hub, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

He stood and paused by the door, looking over Optimus’s prone form. “…And Prime?” Optimus looked up. Ratchet's voice dropped just slightly. “If something is going on with your spark or your frame… or your processor… you don’t have to be ashamed of it. You don’t have to hide it. Not from me.”

Optimus sat there for a long time after Ratchet left, the silence of his habsuite thick around him. He looked down at his servos, flexing them slowly, trying to ease out the ache and tingle and soreness that he still didn’t recognize as his own. His optics dimmed, then slowly offlined, just for a moment...

Another flash met him at once. The same bright room, the same glinting steel. The low hum of surveillance equipment and bright lights. An electric prod cracking the silence. The faint scent of scorched plating back in his olfactory.

His optics flared back online with a sharp intake, his vents stuttered again as he tried to calm himself.

What is happening to me?

He pushed to his feet and began to pace, arms wrapped around his midsection, grip tight on his own elbows. This wasn’t a hallucination. These weren't just spikes of sympathetic pain. His systems were too well trained, too attuned. They weren’t glitching. And Ratchet’s diagnostics confirmed it. His systems were reacting to pain. It was real, even if the source wasn’t physical.

He moved to his window and stared out at Iacon’s skyline. Pale golds and silvers, endless towers and searchlights. Normally so clean and sterile, and so bitingly cold. His digits twitched as he pulled his arms even tighter to his chassis.

It’s Megatron.

The thought came unbidden and heavy, yet it was so obvious. He couldn’t explain it, even to himself. Deep in his core, in the place that pulsed whenever he had looked at Megatron too long, he knew this was tied to him. Not metaphorically and not just emotionally. It was him, and it was real.

But how? There was no tech connecting them. No bond protocols, no experimental link systems, not even a bond of true friendship like he shared with Ratchet or any of his teammates. They were enemies, even now. Or at least they were supposed to be enemies. There had been pain and trust and talk and war and more pain, but nothing that should’ve allowed this.

He stared at his reflection in the window. Did he take something? The thought struck like a pulse mine. Or… did I give him a part of me without realizing it? Did I open something between us?

His memory flickered back to the shower where he had touched Megatron with purpose and gentleness for the first time The way his spark had flickered and pulled, the way he felt Megatron’s pain, felt him dying under his servos even as he washed the wounds he himself had inflicted.

His tanks churned. Did I let him in? He flinched from the thought, recoiling like it burned.

No. Megatron had been… gentle. Strange, yes, brutal, of course – he was still Megatron. But there was nothing manipulative in that moment between them. Only pain and vulnerability. And even now, what would be the gain in causing him this?

Unless it’s something bigger than either of us.

He unfolded his arms and ran a servo over his helm, trying to hold himself together. The venting was shallow again. Sparks flickered across his neural relay like someone else’s processor was filtering into his.

Megatron was being tortured. Somewhere, right now. And somehow, Optimus could feel it.

His frame shook. The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was how quickly he was adjusting to it. Like a second skin. Like he was expecting it, used to it. Had felt it many times before. He leaned against the window frame, cooling fans kicking in again. I need to know what’s happening in that prison.

Optimus lingered at the window for a long time. But, eventually, he moved, sluggishly, to his desk terminal. He sat down, hesitated, then keyed into his private line a comm code he knew wouldn’t work on a commbead like his. But still, he knew the encryption key by heart. 

.:: Jazz. ::. His voice was quiet, even over the encrypted channel. .:: I know you’ve done a lot for me already. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t –::. He stopped himself. No. Don’t show too much. Keep it even. Safe. He exvented slowly.

.:: Would you be able to check in on Megatron? Not in person, not directly. I just... I’ve had a bad feeling all day. A really bad one. You don’t need to do anything yourself. Just… get me some information. Surveillance feeds, sensor logs, anything you can so I can assess his situation. ::. 

He paused, longer than he meant to, as he considered what else to say and hopefully not come off as raving.

.:: Something feels off, Jazz. I can’t shake it. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s like… something’s bleeding through to me. Pain and fear and… I don’t know. Just… check on him for me. Please. ::.

His digit hovered over the transmit key for a long time, optics dimmed as static from some unseen echo hissed faintly in the back of his mind. Don’t flinch. He hit send. Then sat back, servo rising to rub this nasal ridge, where the ache of too much thinking had settled.

The silence afterward was thicker than before. Still and heavy and despite his overheating, strangely cold. He knew Jazz wouldn’t risk a reply. Not when Optimus was being so closely monitored.  Whatever was happening to Megatron, he knew it wasn’t over.

Chapter Text

When Optimus awoke from recharge, it was only a very short time before the trial was set to begin. He didn't get nearly enough recharge, but it didn't matter. He needed to see it.

The screen flickered to life with the insignia of the High Court, cold and gleaming, in the upper corner. The image stabilized on the imposing chamber where the trial was being held; a sharp-angled fusion of function and spectacle, lined with gleaming steel and spotlights that left no shadow to hide in. The camera focused on the raised dais, where a single figure stood center stage, armor polished to gleam like authority itself.

The ticker at the bottom of the screen spelled out his name. Sentinel Prime, Acting Magnus of Cybertron.

Optimus could already tell this was going to take a while.

Sentinel stood with servos behind his back, chest puffed out in that unmistakable stance of self-importance, a subtle sneer of triumph curling his derma. The trial hadn’t even begun, and already it felt more like a parade.

"Loyal citizens of Cybertron," Sentinel began, his voice booming through the courtroom and the broadcast feed with the help of far too many amplifiers. "Today, we begin a historic moment in the name of justice. For millions of stellar cycles, our world has lived under the threat of violence, fear, and dissent, all orchestrated by the very mech who stands before this court."

The camera shifted slightly, revealing the prisoner’s platform. Megatron stood tall, bound, but undeniably composed. Regal even in stasis cuffs. He held himself with a quiet defiance, unfazed by the fanfare unfolding around him. However, Optimus noticed very clear marks on his chassis and faceplate that had definitely not been there the day before. Scratches, scuffs, dents, and hastily cleaned smears that had been an energon spill from what looked like a broken derma.

"But let me be clear!" Sentinel continued, pacing like a stage actor rehearsing a monologue he’d performed a thousand times in his head. "This is not merely a trial of a war criminal. No. This is a reckoning! A declaration that we, that Cybertron, will not falter! That we will not bow to tyranny, nor to chaos, nor to the seductive lies of so-called revolution!"

There was a carefully orchestrated smattering of applause in the chamber. Whether it was real or pre-programmed into the seats didn’t seem to matter.

Sentinel continued on with a long-winded speech. It was honestly rather impressive how he had managed to memorize what seemed like the same level of content as an entire trilogy novel and regurgitate it with the same bluster and pomp as he had started all the way to the end. Through it all, Megatron remained standing tall, straight, and still, staring at Sentinel with more patience than even Optimus could bear.

The longer Sentinel spoke, the more a distaste grew in the back of Optimus's intake. It seemed to him that at a point, he was speaking less about Megatron, and more about himself.

"Let this trial serve as a warning,” he finally concluded, “to any who would take up arms against the sanctity of our institutions. Against order. Against the very ideals the Autobots stand for. For I, Sentinel Magnus, protector of our great civilization, will ensure justice is done!"

Optimus scoffed to himself. Justice, huh? Or are you just masking protecting your own reign as justice? To what end, Sentinel? It's looking to me like you love tyrants, when the tyrant you see is the one staring back in the mirror. 'My planet.' 'Protector of our great civilization.' Give me a break.

The camera cut to Megatron again, who blinked once, slowly. The speech had lasted nearly two joors. He had not moved a twitch.

Sentinel turned, gesturing broadly toward Megatron with the flair of a stage performer, his derma curled into a sneer. "And now, we will hear from the accused himself, who, by the grace of Cybertronian law, is permitted to speak in his defense. Though what justification there could possibly be for the atrocities he has committed, I cannot fathom."

He said it like punctuation, turning with a huff and taking his seat.

The camera returned to Megatron. No one spoke. Then, slowly, the former warlord stepped closer to his podium, his bound servos unmoving, his optics burning. Not with rage, but with purpose. Far more dangerous. The audience of the courtroom leaned forward slightly all at once.

Here it was. His turn.

When Megatron was finally able to speak, Optimus couldn't help but shift to the edge of his seat. He waited, body full of tension, taking in the sight.

He looks so... powerful.

There's energon smeared on his derma. He looks as if he's been beaten beyond how we left him. It only further serves him. Stupid of Sentinel to show him like that. With injuries so fresh and not enough care put into hiding them. Good.

The screen held Megatron in full frame: stasis cuffed, back straight, shoulders squared. No display of fear, nor pretense of regret. Not even defiance in the traditional sense. Just the presence he always exuded, commanding and dangerous. The kind only Megatron could give, and Sentinel could only dream of.

"My designation is Megatron."

He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The chamber was so silent, you could hear a pin drop.

"And though many of you may only know me as the face of a war that nearly tore this planet apart… I was not always your enemy."

The courtroom remained still. He let the silence hang, unbothered.

"I was forged in the mines of Kaon. Deep beneath the surface of this world. Out of sight, and more conveniently, out of mind. My first memories were of darkness. Of heat. Of energon drawn not from pipelines, but from the toil and suffering of those like me. We were told our pain had purpose. That our silence was duty. That we were fulfilling the function assigned to us by those born above us."

Optimus listened in pure silence, as did everyone else. He listened to Megatron recount his beginning. His statements of purpose made it very clear exactly what he thought, and who he saw as right to blame.

Who else but those who hold up the very systems that forged him, brutally, into who he was.

Can you even be certain that's true?

I know what I saw. And I believe him because of it. He has the benefit of my doubt.

Megatron stepped slightly forward. The guards flinched and gripped their weapons tighter. He didn’t even glance at them.

"I do not recount this for your pity. I expect none. I want none. I tell you this, because there are those on this very Council who would see our story erased. Rewritten and forgotten."

The camera did not pan to Sentinel. It didn’t need to.

"I rose not because I craved power. I rose because someone had to. When the gears of your great Autobot machine grind a portion of your population to dust… when laws like the Decepticon Registration Act are passed to classify, restrict, and eliminate those who speak out… what choice remains?"

His optics flashed. "I organized. I resisted. I defied. And yes… I fought."

A murmur rippled through the gallery, quickly silenced by a glare from Sentinel on the bench. Megatron continued, unfazed.

"Your courts will tell you I am a tyrant. A warmonger. Perhaps there is truth in that. But answer me this. When was I given another option?"

He turned slightly, gesturing subtly with bound servos. "I sought dialogue. I sent emissaries. I begged for audience with your High Council before the first shot was ever fired. But I was ignored, laughed at, and finally, silenced." He paused again, letting his voice cool. "It was not until I armed myself that I was heard.

"Yes, I waged war. Yes, I struck against your cities, your ships, your soldiers. I did these things not out of malice, but out of conviction. Conviction that this world could be more than a machine run by the privileged few."

He drew himself taller now. Not boastful, but unyielding. "You call me villain. A rebel. But tell me. Who built the world I was forced to rebel against? Was it I who turned miners into statistics? Was it I who installed surveillance in every sector? Was it I who made it legal to brand a Cybertronian with a designation that marked them as dangerous before they ever acted?"

The gallery was still. Even the newsfeed didn't dare cut away. "I do not deny what I have done. I accept responsibility. But I will not apologize for seeing my kind as more than tools. I will not apologize for refusing to be complicit in a system that profits from silence and obedience."

A slow vent as his optics narrowed slightly. "And I will not ever apologize for choosing to speak."

There. The slightest twitch of Sentinel’s jaw, visible only to those paying attention.

Optimus felt his spark jump and sputter.

Yes... Had I been in his place... I'd be the one on trial. No question. Just circumstance.

"My enemies will say I have no right to speak of justice. That I forfeited that right long ago. Perhaps they are correct. But if that is true, why, then, do they fear my voice still?"

Another pause, this one deliberate and measured. He did not look toward Sentinel directly, but at the Autobot symbol on the wall just past him.

"If my voice is so dangerous, what does that say about the truths I speak?"

He shifted again, just enough to feel the energy shift. Just enough to force the Acting Magnus to feel the weight of the words.

"If peace was ever truly the goal, then peace would have come long before the first Decepticon insignia was etched. But it was not. Control was the goal. Compliance. Anything else was treated as rebellion."

His tone dropped now; lower, more intimate. The audience leaned closer without meaning to. "There is a sickness in this world. One that paints blind obedience as honor, and voicing truths as treason. One that has turned leaders into tyrants and sentences into policy."

A flicker of heat crossed his optics. Anger, burning hot but controlled and directed.

"I do not speak today to beg. I do not seek forgiveness. I am not here to pretend that all I have done was right."

He looked directly ahead now at Sentinel, his posture like one of his famous blades.

"I am here to tell you: I am not your problem. I am your product. I am the spark that survived being buried alive, and climbed back to the surface with fire in my servos."

A sharp invent filled the room as he finished, voice like a verdict of his own.

"If you choose to deactivate me, then do so. But do it knowing that you are not curing anything. You are silencing a symptom. And your disease will remain."

He stepped back slightly. Not a stumble, but a precision move.

"And if you cannot see that yet... you will."

The silence in the courtroom wasn’t the usual judicial stillness. It was charged. Electric. The kind of quiet that comes only when every mind is forced to reckon with a truth it didn’t want to hear. Megatron stood like a statue carved from fury and survival.

Sentinel Prime did not rise immediately. He sat, posture rigid, servos clenched on the bench.

“I remind the gallery,” he began, voice level but sharp, “that no expressions of support or dissent will be tolerated in this chamber."

He did not look at Megatron.

Sentinel's optics didn’t so much as flick toward Megatron as he continued, trying to retake the space.

“Thank you, defendant, for that dramatic reimagining of Cybertronian history. I would remind the court that opening statements are not a performance.” He forced a scoff through his vents. “But it seems some are still clinging to the spotlight.”

That drew a few chuckles, but it was impossible to tell if it was loyalist laughter, or snickering at the hypocrisy, considering the show Sentinel had put on. 

On the news ticker at the bottom of the feed, Optimus could already see updates beginning to scroll.

Megatron’s words ignite public discourse. Has the trial already shifted public opinion?

Former Decepticon leader: ‘I am not your problem. I am your product.’ Full speech analysis coming next.

“I have nothing to prove to the likes of you,” Sentinel said, not to Megatron, but to the audience, the gallery, the camera. “Let history remember that. Let it remember who brought order when others brought only chaos.” Megatron didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The quiet confidence in his optics said enough.

Sentinel's field bristled, just for a moment, but then it was gone, like he had slammed a mental shutter closed. He sat again. “Trial adjourned for the cycle. Prosecution will begin presenting its case tomorrow.” 

The gavel fell with a loud clang. But the real noise came later, off-screen, when Cybertron’s many comm lines erupted with discussion, outrage, sympathy, and something no one expected.

Doubt.

Optimus’s spark felt like it was burning in his chest. Sentinel's final part of the opening statements was infuriating, to say the least. Hypocrite. He could barely stand to look at him as the broadcast closed.

He felt fire all throughout himself. He needed to make a statement. And so, into the open public comm lines, he added his own peace. 

.:: I am saddened I could not attend Megatron's first day of trial. Many were expecting my presence. Unfortunately, I had been removed. Regardless, I have observed, and will continue to observe. Allow me to add my own two Shanix. My own opinions, separate from my peers and the Autobots as a whole.

In the time I have spent in Megatron's presence, I have come to realize, like many of you have today, that any one of us could have ended up taking his place, had our circumstances been different. Though I have lost loved ones directly to Megatron, I cannot stand here and claim to hold a grudge against him.

I believe Megatron’s words. And though I condemn many of his actions, I understand why he acted. I pity the fact that he had no real choice in the matter. That his attempts to fight peacefully for a place in this world were met with ridicule and silencing. I, too, once believed that he needed to be silenced. To be locked away. Even deactivated. That, I believe no longer.

As a bot who prides himself on rising up when no one else will, I now proclaim my full support of Megatron throughout this trial. I hope that, if not amnesty, then the world may at least begin to see him as more than a tyrant. I hope his words spark others to question what we have all been conditioned to accept as truth. Systems should not go unchallenged. If they are truly just, they will withstand scrutiny. Not silence it.

To those who feel unheard: raise your voices. Gather in peace, in unity, and make yourselves known. United we stand. It is time we start to close the divide between us, and ask ourselves where that divide came from in the first place.

Do not fear being called a 'sympathizer.' To have compassion for another is not betrayal. It is a gift.

…Oh, and someone should tell Sentinel to clean Megatron up better next time. It’s not a good look for a prisoner to appear in court with fresh energon still on his faceplate, in full view of the entire planet. ::.

He sent it. And the responses came. Threats, support, confusion, hope, debate. All of it.

Let it come.

Chapter Text

Optimus stayed relatively quiet that joor. He only responded to a few messages that came through when he felt it would be productive, and short, pointed affirmations of his stance. He stood by what he had said; he stood with Megatron.

He urged others to think, to question, and to openly protest, but peacefully. He made it clear there was much he couldn't say, at least not yet. But the truth, he promised, always came out in time. You only had to look, and learn to be patient.

He was digging his own grave, and he knew it.

But then, one message came in with the flood that stood out from the rest. Not for what it said, but for what it didn’t. No subject, no clearance stamp, no traceable metadata. Just a string of symbols that read like garbled noise to anyone else. But Optimus knew the pattern by hear.

Jazz’s cipher. The same encryption the Cyber-ninja had used for long distance, secretive transmissions during Optimus’s several chords on Earth. Old, obscure, and Jazz knew Optimus would trust it. 

Optimus keyed in the decryption manually, his digits slower than they should’ve been. His spark thrummed louder with each digit entered.

There was no warning before it began. No header or preamble, no title or even a room stamp in the corner. Just a video feed, raw and unfiltered. The screen flickered to life with a low static crackle, stabilizing on a cold, grey room. Four seamless walls with a single one-way mirror window. A single reinforced door, shut tight. Harsh overhead lights cast surgical brightness over cracked flooring. No shadows or warmth would be found here.

A drain gleamed in the floor’s center, silver against stained grey plating, its edges tinged faintly blue with spilled energon that no scrubbing had completely erased.

Megatron was bound to a chair, too small for his frame, but bolted heavy to the floor. His arms were drawn back behind the rest, restrained by stasis cuffs that glowed soft blue so tightly, his shoulder joints strained. His pedes were clamped to the floor, spread just far enough on the outside of the chair legs to make movement impossible.

His plating was scored and scuffed, even worse than it had been the day before. Deep grooves were carved into his chassis from repeated impacts, and a fresh gash near his collar wept a slow line of energon down his chassis. One optic flickered just slightly, the other locked straight ahead, dulled but alert.

Even so injured as he was, he was upright. Not slumped or bent or broken, still carrying the same dignity as he always did. Facing the challenge that was now before him, no matter how painful it would prove to be.

Optimus’s vents caught in his intake. He didn’t need to guess what this was. This was what he had felt happening the day before. That phantom ache and pain his body had been responding to, that Ratchet could find no reason for. The disorientation, the burning in his circuits, the electric bite that kept crawling across his dermal plating. This room, this moment… He had lived it, without seeing it.

And now... it was here, laid bare on his screen in flickering dull colors.

He didn’t flinch or look away. He didn’t dare to. Megatron had lived it, much more so than he had. He owed Megatron that much. If Jazz had sent this to him, it meant he’d saved it. Which meant he was keeping his own logs too. Good. Even if they inevitably wiped Optimus’s processor to keep their secrets, hopefully Jazz would have plenty of his own.

Megatron looked… tired, but calm. Too calm for his situation, in Optimus’s opinion. His optics, steady as iron, tracked the other figure in the room with surgical precision.

Sentinel paced the length of the room. Even through the video feed, Optimus could tell that his field was a storm, thick with rage, paranoia, and ego, flashing wild and toxic. His plating twitched like a live wire. He circled Megatron like a predator pacing outside a cage, even though it was he who held the keys.

"What did you say to him."

It was not a question. It was much more of a demanding growl. Megatron didn’t respond.

Sentinel slammed both fists into the arms of the chair, rattling the restraints as he leaned forward, and forced Megatron to reel back. “WHAT did you say to Optimus that made him disobey me? That made him, of all bots, defend you?! ”

Optimus startled slightly at the force of the blow. His vents caught and stuttered. He could feel it again, through the bond. Not as pain this time, per say, but as pressure and static. Like something inside him had just been jarred out of alignment.

Megatron tilted his helm slightly and slowly. His voice was soft, worn around the edges but unmistakably clear. He didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to. Despite the softness, it was sharp, and clear as crystal. 

“Ah. The fear sets in.” A faint smile curled his derma, clearly mocking. “I said only the truth. And he, tragically for you, chose to listen.”

Sentinel’s expression curdled. “Don’t play games with me. You’re not clever. You’re a war criminal in a cage. You’ve spent your life deceiving, manipulating bots until they break.”

Megatron’s optics gleamed. “I speak plainly, Sentinel. That is what makes it so effective. Truth is an old weapon. You simply forgot how sharp it is.”

Sentinel moved faster than Optimus’s optics could easily track. He grabbed Megatron by the collar, right over the open gash. His balled fist slammed into the Decepticon warlord’s faceplate with a sickening crunch. The impact snapped Megatron’s helm to the side, energon spattering across the floor. The camera glitched, the frame stuttering with the flash of Sentinel’s field flare.

Optimus flinched hard, his vents sucking in sharply with a gasp. He could feel the echo… his own face aching with phantom pain. His palm slowly pressed against his cheek plate, then fell back to clenching his lap.

Megatron rumbled in his throat and turned back slowly to look at Sentinel. Blood spilled down his chin from his now busted derma, and likely cracked denta, if Optimus’s reverberating pain was any indication. Still smiling that small, mocking smile.

“There it is.” A faint chuckle. “A trial of Autobot justice… conducted with fists.”

Sentinel stood back up with a disgusted sneer.. He began to pace again, venting hard as he clenched his own denta. “You’re planning something. You always are. What is it?”

He wheeled back on Megatron. “You think I’m going to let you sit here and spin lies to the public? Win their pity? You’re going to rot, and every bot will see you for what you are.”

Megatron’s digits twitched in the restraints behind his back. One was bent at an unnatural angle, appearing to be dislocated.

He leaned in slightly, his vox growling. "Yes, Sentinel... They will see me for exactly what I am. And you for exactly what you are. That is your true concern.”

Sentinel leaned in close again. “Are you hiding something? A plan? A transmission? Another uprising tucked away in your fuel tank? What did you give Optimus?”

“Perspective,” Megatron whispered through gritted, bleeding denta.

That single word chilled Optimus down to his spark. He exhaled a shaky vent.

“That is all it took. One conversation. And your obedient little hero began to think.”

Another blow came, a crack of metal knuckles against metal plating.

Then Sentinel grabbed a tool from the tray beside him: an electrical prod. He activated it with a sharp hiss, and jammed it into Megatron’s side. The voltage hit like a storm. Megatron snarled, practically convulsing in his agony as electricity coursed through his circuits, his back arched violently against the chair and digits splaying wide, energon hissing through vents as pain tore through his frame.

Optimus doubled over in his seat. It burned. His whole side lit up like it had been pierced. He gasped for venting to cool overheat he didn’t really have, optics wide and staring.

“What do you want from him?!” Sentinel bellowed over the buzz. “Was he part of this?! Was he working with you the whole time?!”

The prod finally cut out. Megatron sagged, his head drooping forward and entire body twitching as tendrils of electricity slipped up his frame between his plates. Smoke curled from beneath his armor, and his optics flickered.

Then, slowly, he raised his head, meeting Sentinel’s own burning optics.

“No,” Megatron gasped through a rasping vent. “That is what makes it so beautiful.”

A laugh. Faint, but razor-sharp.

“You did this to him, Sentinel. You. Your cruelty. Your cowardice. I merely opened the door.”

Optimus had to pause the video. He leaned back in his chair, covering his faceplate with both servos, vents shuddering. His whole frame trembled hard enough to rattle. Not from fear. But from intense, unbridled fury.

With a slow, hissed exvent, he unpaused, focusing again on the video.

Sentinel slammed his fists into the chair arms again, then marched around the back and kicked it, with all the strength he had, an angry shout bursting from him. The bolts in the floor splintered like wood might, and the whole thing toppled forward. Megatron crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, crushed beneath the weight of the chair and his injuries. His optics flickered and dimmed with pain, but didn’t offline. He didn’t groan or hiss out.

He laughed. Quiet, chilling, and icy cold.

“You can kill me here, Sentinel... but it will not stop the cracks. They were forming long before I ever spoke.”

Sentinel hovered over Megatron’s prone form, fists clenched and face twisted with rage and disgust. 

“You’re nothing but a relic, Megatron,” he hissed through clenched denta. “A monster too stubborn to die.”

Megatron, voice low, almost intimate, whispered back. 

“And you are a frightened protoform... wearing a dead mech's crown.”

Sentinel stared down at him, trembling with rage. Then he turned abruptly. Fumbling at the wall panel with too much force, the door hissed open. He didn't look back, though he spoke to the camera, his voice clipped.

“End the recording. Wipe this from the logs.”

From his place on the floor, Megatron turned his helm just slightly, looking up directly into the camera. Optimus could feel the quiet gaze upon him. And knew it was for him.

Optimus felt that gaze like it pierced his armor.

The screen cut to black.

Optimus sat, motionless, staring at his own reflection in the dark monitor. His vents echoed off the walls, slow and quiet as he desperately tried to calm down. He swallowed hard.

This is what you’ve done, Sentinel. I'm so sorry, Megatron. You're suffering more because of me.

A fresh, burning hatred for Sentinel surged through Optimus as he bore witness to the mech he once called a friend brutalizing the one who had opened his optics to the truth of what was happening right in front of him; to something greater than orders and blind loyalty.

Megatron... a friend... yes. I never would've believed it, but I want to be his friend. I want to know him. To learn the depths of his spark.

The thought should have terrified him, should have triggered that old Autobot conditioning. But his mind, usually a chorus of argument and second-guessing, was quiet at once and unusually calm. Megatron’s endurance, his unwavering strength in the face of such cruelty, only deepened the aching twist in Optimus’s spark.

Yes... the truth.

AllSpark help him, if what Megatron said wasn’t the truth, then everything Optimus had built his life upon, was a carefully structured lie. But it felt right. It aligned with what he knew, and what he had seen. Sentinel’s fury, the abuse of power, the thin-skinned outrage at being challenged; all of it solidified what Megatron had told him, and what he had felt to be true.

Optimus locked optics with himself in the reflection of himself on the screen, and his spark stirred with renewed conviction.

He knew. Oh, he knew. They would come for him. It was no longer a matter of if, only when. Sooner rather than later, he was quite sure. Before I say anything else they cannot control.

So he would not flee nor hide himself away. He would wait. But before the silence swallowed him, he posted one more message to the live comm link.

.:: They will all call me a traitor. I merely did what I thought was right. My spark is not for any regime.

My spark is for Cybertron. ::.

He closed his optics, leaning back into the quiet. The hush in the room. The hush in his processor. No one came right away. But Cybertron buzzed.

Voices of confusion, dissent, and rage echoed across the comm lines and broadcasts. The public channels, news outlets, and commentary grids were consumed with the courtroom footage. It played on repeat, endlessly dissected, discussed, and debated. It rang in his audials, even with the hub shut down.

His friends reached out, each of them in turn.

Bulkhead messaged first. His words were warm, sympathetic, steady and unshaken. .:: I dunno what’s really goin’ on, but I just wanted to say… I got your back, okay? You’re doin’ what you think’s right. That’s what makes you... you. ::.

Bumblebee chimed in not long after, his message messier, uncertain, but unwavering in support. .:: I don’t get it all, but I’ve got your back, boss. ::.

Sari followed with her typical fire, judgmental but sincere. .:: Why are you defending him? But... is it true? What he said? Was it really that bad? ::. The questions came rapid and raw, but beneath it all, she was reaching out to understand. To learn.

Jazz sent only a coded image: a thumbs-up. A quiet message, small but powerful. He understood.

Ratchet was last. His message was only four words. .:: We’re with you, kid. ::.

Each offered to come be with him that night. Somehow, they knew. They could feel the pressure, the tension tightening around him like a vice. He declined. They didn’t press. 

The night stretched long.

The public commlines crackled with life in his hub. Despite powering down his terminal, despite cutting his hub, the voices still whispered. Optimus Prime lay in the quiet, unable to recharge, too alert, too burdened and too aware.

And he waited. For the dawn, for the knock, for whatever came next.

For everything to fall.

Chapter Text

Pain lived in his core. Not just the lingering ache of exposed circuitry or scorched plating from the torture session slash interrogation two days before, but something deeper, and somehow smaller. Like a steady drip of acid behind his spark casing, each vent a reminder that he had endured – had survived – but not unscathed.

The transport pod rattled beneath the deposed warlord in an unsteady slowness. Every jolt pressed the restraints tighter and more uncomfortable against his arms and chassis. His helm was bowed, too heavy to lift in his continued exhaustion. The stasis cuffs clamping his servos in front of him, as per usual, locked his transformation protocols and kept his power levels throttled. He could barely twitch his broken digit, much less fight the clamps against his body. His entire frame sagged, weight pulled down by so much more than damage.

But his optics were open and unblinking, always watching.

Across the darkened interior of the reinforced pod, the flickering light of a monitor displayed the live feed being broadcast across Cybertron. A reminder, apparently, of the hopelessness of his situation. Multiple camera angles cycled like a predator’s blink, showing exactly how surrounded he was. Drones tracked the high-security convoy as it crawled through Iacon’s central district, guarded by tanks, interceptors, and a pair of air support formations. Eight Elite Guard soldiers surrounded just the pod transport in a tight diamond formation.

And in the center: him.

Bound, burned, still leaking energon. Dragged through the streets like a broken trophy. Again. Sentinel Prime had ordered the broadcast personally. Let them see their great terror fall, he had said. Let them watch justice be done.

Megatron’s gaze drifted to a different feed, this one one from his own restrained HUD, flickering faintly through the interference. This one, not even the restraints could keep from him. It pulsed erratically, a ghost signal trying to break through. He had seen it several times before. And now, more than ever, he was sure he knew what it was.

Little Prime… 

The sensation was subtle, like pressure in the mind. An emotional echo and distant fear that didn’t belong to him, like a faint, sharp pain that was not his own. Their bond, whatever it was and whatever it’s cause, whispered through the dissonance. He tried to focus on it. Wondering vaguely if Optimus was watching this charade of justice. He let his optics flicker closed as he tried to focus on that pressure. To concentrate, and draw it closer.

And then, the sky exploded.

~*~

Optimus had the broadcast on already. The holoscreen flickered in the dim light of the habsuite, casting a pale glow across the walls. The morning broadcast promised a 'historic moment,' as the war criminal Megatron was transported from Trypticon to the High Court for the first day of proceedings.

Was the escort caravan really necessary? Perhaps. But a theater performance regardless.

The newsfeed droned on. Camera footage showed the heavy transport convoy winding slowly through the streets of Iacon. The pod that held Megatron was at its center, flanked by armored carriers, hovering drone escorts, and at least two Sky Patrol units circling overhead. Likely the Jet twins.

“... a signal of Cybertron’s strength, unity, and return to order,” the newsbot chirped with mechanical enthusiasm.

The scene cut to a wide shot. Megatron’s transport, the pod more like an upright coffin made of reinforced plasmaglass. The Elite Guards that surrounded him bristling with weapons.

But something was wrong. A glint in the sky, a tremor through the camera. Then static, just for a nanoklik.

“...units reporting signs of movement – hold on!”

~*~

The entire pod lurched sideways as something slammed into the street outside. A thundering BOOM cracked the air, followed by the unmistakable wheee-CRACK of a sonic charge detonation. Megatron’s head slammed into the back of the pod with a grunt, optics reeling.

The broadcast feed cut to emergency signals, and then died out completely. Internal lighting in the pod shifted to flashing red. Another impact rocked the pod, and screams echoed from the smoke that now surrounded him.

“Elite squad two is down!” someone bellowed into their commbead from close by. “They’re coming from… they’re flying straight through the shield!” A scream and crunch of metal followed.

A chorus of metallic shrieks and rapid-fire gun reports echoed through the air as the pod’s locks disengaged with a shrill hiss. The sealed front cracked, then tore open entirely as a massive servo ripped it free.

"About time," Megatron growled through clenched denta, his voice barely more than a grate of broken glass. Smoke and light poured into the pod’s broken window, as the door was pulled forcibly off its hinge, the sound of twisting metal echoing over the din of battle everywhere around them. 

Strika filled the doorway, a silhouette of rage and purpose. Her plating was scorched, dented in one shoulder, but her optics burned with triumph. “We had to wait until they wanted the whole world watching.” Her voice was low and thick like used oil over gravel.

Cyclonus hovered behind her, silent and deadly, twin ion sabers crackling in his servos and already slick with spilled energon. His winged frame vibrated faintly with a contained fury.

A plasma blast lit the air behind them as two more shapes dropped in: a snarling Cannonball lobbing explosives over his shoulder, and a slinking figure Megatron recognized after a long moment hurried after him. Flamewar.

His limbs tingled with returning energy as Strika shattered the stasis cuffs in one precise strike. The restraints sparked, failed, and fell away. Power flooded back into his systems like a gasp after drowning. He staggered forward ungracefully out of the pod, but Strika caught him under one arm.

“Easy,” she murmured as she easily pulled him back to his pedes. “You’ve look more offline than online.”

“I am still Megatron,” he growled, wrenching his arm free.

He transformed, slowly and painfully, but viable. His flight-capable alt-mode cracked together with grinding force, frame reconfiguring around stiff joints and flickering power lines. He hovered low, stabilizers sputtering before balancing out.

The world around them was fire and ruin. At least four Elite Guards lay crumpled in the street below. The road was torn apart from explosives dropped from above, chunks of ferrocrete smoldering in every direction. A sniper drone flew overhead, then detonated mid-air as Flamewar launched a plasma dart through its optic, sending it careening into the ground. 

Above, more Decepticons poured from cloaked drop ships. Some Megatron recognized: Blackout descended like a wrecking ball, smashing through an Autobot gunship mid-transformation. Oil Slick slithered in with corrosive vapors trailing behind. Generals and soldiers from distant fronts had answered Strika’s call. Dreadwing, Obsidian, Ransack, and a massive gray brute Megatron did not recognize but clearly bore his insignia.

It was a precision assault, wrapped in chaos. Exactly the kind of rescue Strika would have orchestrated. The kind he knew Sentinel would not have allowed his ego to plan for.

He hated it.

“This is excessive,” Megatron rumbled, veering toward Strika as they raced upward through the smoke toward the escape route. “We will lose too much.”

“We lost too much waiting already,” she replied shortly. “We couldn’t risk holding back. Extreme force was necessary.”

“This is not the old war,” he growled again, voice hoarse.

Cyclonus cut down another defender without pause, covering their rear. “And what war is it, now?” he asked, almost philosophical.

Megatron didn’t answer.

The evac shuttle loomed ahead, its signature cloaked just like the Decepticon’s through the technology developed by Isaac Sumdac. Human technology that Sentinel had ignored entirely. The interior was mostly empty, the small transport intended for his escape. The most important of any of them. Megatron landed hard in the shuttle bay, his alt-mode faltering back into his robot form with a crunch. He dropped to one knee as his internals and vox both groaned. Strika followed him inside and sealed the hatch as Cyclonus slipped in behind her. The other Decepticons took their cue and rushed up after the drop ship to their own escape vehicles.

Outside, a final burst of cannonfire shook the convoy’s remains. One of the Jet twins spiraled out of control as the last Decepticon to take off, Blackout, finally vanished into the clouds of acrid smoke left behind.

Cyclonus slipped his sabers into their scabbards. “We’re clear. Airspace is compromised, but the route is pre-cleared through the lower hemisphere.”

Strika stood above her commander. She didn’t try to help him up again. “You’re alive, Megatron. That’s what matters most, to all of us.”

He looked up at her, firelight flickering in his optics.

“No. What matters,” he rasped, “is what they saw."

Cyclonus moved to the helm. “Course set.”

As the shuttle pulled away from the city and accelerated into the upper atmosphere, Megatron eased to the floor fully and sat back against the hull wall. His servo clenched tightly over his spark chamber, and he was silent for a long moment.

Then it came again. The spark-echo. A flicker of pain. A wash of overwhelming relief.

~*~

Optimus hadn’t moved in over a joor.

The screen in his habsuite glowed softly in the dim light, the only illumination in the room. It cast pale reflections across the walls, pooling in the hollows of his optics. He sat hunched forward on the berth, elbows on his knees and his servos pressed tight over his intake, watching the emergency broadcast signal that threw sharp color and sharper noise into the room in silence. 

The camera had veered suddenly upward, catching a flash of movement overhead. Something dark streaked through the clouds, impossibly fast. The audio had cut out in a jarring shriek of static. A second camera had picked up where the first had failed, just in time to catch a shockwave ripple down from the sky, shattering windows and throwing the front line of the convoy into disarray.

Then came the first explosion. Then the second. And then the screaming.

The camera drone had lost altitude then, crashing into the street as blurry figures tore through the frame. Flashes of color and movement, shapes too fast and chaotic to recognize. Then one froze just long enough for the feed to stabilize.

Strika.

And behind her…

Optimus’s optics had widened. He had felt it before the screen confirmed it. A jolt had pulsed down his spinal strut, raw and hot. A shudder had passed through his frame like it belonged to someone else. Not pain, not this time. Relief.

No. Not just relief. Reconnection.

The world around him had fallen away. The feed had continued, erratic and choppy, showing only fragments of blackened Elite Guard armor, smoke curling skyward, a jet-form tearing through the upper atmosphere with a screaming wake of afterburn. And there, for just for a moment…

Megatron.

Rising from the broken pod like he was rising from the dead. Again. Armor scorched, expression unreadable, and very much alive.

Optimus hadn’t realized he’d leaned closer to the screen until his servo had brushed the edge. “He’s alive!” he whispered, his voice barely there. It had felt like speaking would break something delicate.

The broadcast had cut then to the emergency signals, and Optimus had not moved.

The pain behind his optics remained. But the hollow space in his spark, the part that had been silent, had suddenly filled. Not with words, not even with emotions. Just presence.

Megatron was alive, and perhaps even more important, Megatron was free.

Death evades him again...

~*~

Holograms flickered erratically across the table, displaying broken comm feeds, casualty reports, and a rapidly updating damage assessment. Elite Guard tacticians shouted over each other, voices thick with panic, some too stunned to speak. The lights dimmed as another feedback surge overwhelmed the primary comm tower.

Sentinel Prime stood in the center of it all, helm bowed, fists clenched behind his back. He hadn't been injured, of course. He had not been there. But his ego surely had.

The doors hissed open behind him. "Status report!" he barked, not turning.

An officer stumbled forward. "Sir, we've confirmed at least eight casualties, possibly more. Unknown number of Decepticon combatants, but initial scans identified Strika, Cyclonus, and–"

"Save me the list," Sentinel snarled, turning finally to the officer. His optics burned with fury. "Where is Megatron?"

A sharp invent. The officer didn’t answer.

"Say it."

“Gone, sir. The evac shuttle slipped into the lower atmosphere. No trace on long-range scanners.”

Sentinel’s face contorted. His voice dropped to a vicious, grinding whisper. “You let him get away-!”

“No, Sentinel. You let him get away,” said Perceptor in his icy cold monotone, stepping into the room with a disgusted sneer. “You wanted the convoy public. You refused to delay despite security concerns. Now the entire planet just watched the Decepticons storm through Iacon and reclaim their warlord.”

Gasps followed. The room, bustling only nanokliks before, was now deathly silent.

Sentinel turned sharply, armor and field flaring as his frame rose to full height. “Watch how you speak to me, councilor. I am Acting Magnus of Cybertron in an active war situation. You will address me–”

“Then act like it.”

For a moment, no one dared to even vent. Then, with a slow, purposeful invent, cold calculation replaced the fire in Sentinel’s optics.

“No. No. This isn’t failure,” he said slowly. “This is treason.”

He turned back to the main table, slamming his servo into the interface. “I want all the footage isolated. Strip it down, watch for signal loops, data stutters… anything that could’ve been inserted from the inside.”

“You think the footage was tampered with?”

“I think Optimus Prime knew this was going to happen,” he replied sharply.

The room erupted with confusion and shock. “Sir,” one of his officers sputtered, “with all due respect, there’s no evidence–”

“He defied orders and broke protocol at Trypticon. He had solo access to Megatron. He made damning statements, both on military record and openly public, defending him. This escape was surgical, timed to humiliate the Autobot government in front of the entire planet.”

He turned to Perceptor again, voice icy. “Are you going to tell me that’s nothing but coincidence?”

The councilor faltered, and did not reply. Sentinel struck while the doubt hung heavy.

“Optimus Prime is compromised. Possibly indoctrinated. Or worse, aligned. This is a coordinated Decepticon strike, and he is the inside agent.”

“You want him arrested?” someone asked quietly.

“I want him to rust!” Sentinel’s voice rose. “For conspiracy! For treason! And if we act fast enough, for the death of those guards!”

The officers fell silent. The implications were clear. 

He looked directly to the bot to his left. Strongarm Major straightened her spinal strut to attention at once.

“Bring me Optimus Prime.”

~*~

Jazz moved like a shadow through the administrative wing away from the war council room, pedes swift and systems masked. He ignored the occasional startled stares from low-rank guards and desk bots who didn’t dare stop the acting Magnus’s lieutenant. He was moving fast, but not careless.

The broadcast had only just ended when the encrypted channel lit up with the truth.

Sentinel was moving fast, and the order had been given.

Bring me Optimus Prime.

Jazz’s spark clenched as he rushed out of Fortress Maximus, and hurried as quickly as he could. Hoping desperately he would not be too late.

~*~

He slipped through the last security door and into the dimly lit habsuite, sealing it behind him. Optimus was still sitting by the offline screen, back to the door. His posture was eerily still, as if he’d been frozen in time.

Jazz didn’t waste a nanoklik with pleasantries. “They’re coming.”

Optimus nodded. “I know.”

“Then we need to move. Right now. I’ve got a way out, through the sublevel maintenance tunnels under the street. It’s not clean, but it’ll buy us time.”

Optimus turned slowly. There was no panic nor fear in his optics. “I’m not running, Jazz.”

Jazz’s mouth fell slightly open. “Optimus–”

“They’d only hunt me harder. You know how this works.”

“That’s the point!” Jazz stepped forward, voice low and urgent. “You show up and they’ve already decided the outcome. Sentinel’s feeding them a story, and it doesn’t have a happy ending for you.”

“He wants to make an example of me,” Optimus said quietly. “And if I run, I prove him right.”

Jazz shook his helm. “You think they’ll listen?” His voice was growing desperate. “You think they’ll care what you have to say?”

“No,” Optimus said. “But you will. And others will too. Maybe not now. Maybe not soon. But someone will remember that I didn’t run.”

Jazz stared at him, jaw tightening. “You don’t deserve this.”

“I know.”

“Then why–”

“Because Megatron got away.”

Jazz flinched at the name.

Optimus stepped forward, laying a servo on his friend’s shoulder. “Because I felt him live, Jazz. Felt him change. If I want others to believe that, then I have to prove that I believe it, too.”

Jazz’s field buzzed with a dozen arguments, none of them good enough. Finally, he said, “At least let me stay.”

Optimus gave a faint smile that held warmth, but sadness with it. “They’ll drag you down with me.”

“I’ll walk there myself.”

They stood like that in silence for a moment. Optimus composed, Jazz quietly breaking inside.

Then, the sound of heavy steps. A line of them coming down the hall. Jazz didn’t move. Optimus looked to the door.

“Let them in.”

The knock wasn’t a knock. It was a command. Three sharp bangs. The sound of a squad trained to enter, not ask.

Optimus stepped away from Jazz, who hadn’t spoken again. He didn’t need to. Their parting had already happened, somewhere between the words let them in and the quiet grief behind Jazz’s visor.

The door hissed open. Strongarm Major stepped through first, blue and gold armor gleaming under the corridor lights. Her face was unreadable, expression set in the careful, clipped neutrality of a soldier obeying orders she would never question. Behind her, six heavily armed Elite Guard filed in, each one already in formation.

“Optimus Prime,” Strongarm said. “You are being detained under emergency wartime override for high treason, conspiracy to incite rebellion, and complicity in the deaths of Elite Guard personnel.”

Optimus offered no resistance. "I understand," Optimus said, calmly and clearly. "You have my full cooperation."

Strongarm continued, voice cool. “You will not be processed through standard channels. By order of Acting Magnus Sentinel Prime, you are to be transferred immediately to Trypticon Detention Complex for high-threat containment and interrogation.”

Jazz stepped forward, field flaring. “You can’t do that–”

Strongarm looked at him, cutting him off with just a glance. “We’re operating under clause 7-A of the Crisis Mobilization Act. All due process is suspended under the risk of internal insurgency.”

“He’s not a Decepticon,” Jazz growled.

Strongarm looked back to Optimus. “I hope not. Time will tell.”

Without another word, the soldiers advanced. They didn’t bind him, not yet. But they formed a wall around him, herding him out like a threat already proven. Jazz moved as if to follow, but one of the guards blocked him with a stiff arm. 

All Optimus could hope now is that his efforts meant something. That he had inspired someone, greater than him, to do something good. That Megatron would reflect, and choose good. Nothing was ever planned, merely hoped for. Dreamed of. 

We dream of the same dream.

Was it all worth it?

I don't know. I hope so.

Don't doubt yourself now.

If not me, then who?

Someone who believes in you.

Does he?

You already know.

He stands tall, proud, as they march him out of his home. He carries himself like Megatron. Full of conviction, and a calm assuredness in his pedes.

Even if he didn’t feel so sure all the time, he has hope. Megatron likely did the same all the time. Masking assuredness, even when he is not. Optimus has seen through his many masks plenty already.

Optimus didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The cold bite of the cuffs inevitably fastened to him dug deep into his wrists, a harsher restraint than the soldiers flanking him. 

Optimus Prime stepped out into the gray light of the street, metal joints grinding as he was shoved forward. Surveillance drones swarmed the sky above, their lenses glinting like vultures over a fresh kill. Ahead of him and his guard escorts, a crowd churned at the edge of the street, clogging the sidewalk. Protesters, reporters, and curious citizens alike, all drawn by the military transport vehicle parked just outside, and the promise of gossip related to the young Prime.

Their voices rose in waves like static: accusations, cheers, and desperate pleas all mingled together into a growing cacophony. Banners slashed the air, declaring slogans such as "Freedom Is Not Treason" and "No More Tyrants." A few of the braver protesters had taken to scrawling crude Decepticon insignias over old Autobot flags.

Optimus didn’t look over the crowd. He couldn’t bare it. To look was to let the weight crush him.

The Elite Guards barked and shoved protestors who didn’t move quickly enough, clearing a brutal path to the carrier waiting on its repulsorlifts. Its unmarked armor was unnecessary. Everyone knew where he was going.

Someone lunged toward him from the crowd behind him, shouting his name, before a stun staff cracked down and hurled them back into the crowd.

Optimus did not flinch and did not resist. He had made his choice and he would not bow now.

Into the prepared transport he was shoved, rather roughly, and sped away from his home. Straight back to Trypticon, just as promised. Sentinel wasn’t pulling any punches this time.

The weight of it pressed down, the wrongness of it felt in every bolt, every panel. The normal rhythms of justice discarded. He catalogued it. He counted the deviations like beads on a line, committing them to memory even as his unbidden worry twisted tighter inside of him.

The carrier jolted to a halt, slamming Optimus against the restraints. A moment later, the hatch split open with a hydraulic hiss, and the familiar stench of old oil and rusted metal washed over him. Trypticon loomed outside, the fortress of corroded plating and blooded history with its jagged towers clawing at the sky the same as it was when he had last left it. It was strange to see it like this again, and remembered, vaguely, what he had heard someone call it once. A scrapyard built for the living. That saying made much more sense to him now.

The same guards who had removed him from his home hauled him out without ceremony. No words or acknowledgment, just rough servos and hard shoves, forcing him forward through gates that yawned open like a maw that threatened to swallow him whole.

Inside, the light was harsh and sickly, buzzing low from stripped-down fixtures. The air tasted of rust and solvent, the stink of a place where hope went to die. Pedesteps echoed around him, the footfalls of those who watched, unseen. The walls of Trypticon were the same as he remembered. Cold, damp with residual chemical mist, and humming with distant mechanical groans that made the metal feel almost alive.

The deeper they moved through the halls, the more the light dimmed. Purposefully done so, Optimus knew. It was meant to disorient those marched through the empty corridors. To remind prisoners where they were, and what they had already lost.

Optimus maintained his stoic silence the entire way. Meditative, focused, his mind clearer now than it had any right to be. Like the world had narrowed to a single point of impact, waiting to shatter. He marched through the halls of Trypticon diligently, noting the gross negligence of basic procedures. No documentation, no acknowledgment of transfer, no recordkeeping, and knowing exactly what all of it meant. It didn’t really matter. Not anymore.

Eventually, deep within the former citadel, he was shoved roughly into an unlabeled room. The walls were metallic gray and unadorned, spare a single one-way mirror near the door. The lights overhead were too bright, and a single table sat bolted to the floor, with two stark, uncomfortable chairs, one clearly intended for him. A familiar drain gaped under the table, ringed by dark stains that no amount of scrubbing had ever quite removed.

His tanks churned, jaw tensed and frame locked, wondering who's energon that was. He forced himself forward anyway.

The guards scanned his person, emptied his subspaces forcefully, and disabled his onboard upgrades. No one spoke a single word, the only sounds the shuffling of pedes and the scraping of plating. Stepping from the room when they were finished, the door sealed shut behind them with the finality of a tomb.

The only movement left in the room was the tiny, blinking camera mounted high in the corner. Watching. Recording. Waiting along with him. 

He didn’t struggle as they jostled him into place. When he was alone, he took his seat and waited.

Time lost meaning. There was no chrono on the wall nor in his disabled hub, but he counted the kliks between distant door buzzes, subtle floor vibrations, and far away echoes. Mentally charting the flow of time like a drowning mech charting currents he could no longer swim.

Eight joors, maybe more. No fuel was offered. No communication answered. The waiting itself became the weapon used against him, and he hated to admit it was becoming more effective by the klik.

He stayed as relaxed in the chair as he could hardly moving but never fully still and always thinking, cataloging sounds, counting shifts, and clinging to that razor's edge of awareness. As long as he could know, he could still be Optimus Prime.

Three times, spread apart, he made quiet calls for acknowledgment. Three times, only silence answered.

Then, at last, the sound of pedesteps approaching the door roused him. Sharp, familiar, a gait weighed down by authority and self-importance. A small pause and a buzz, much louder than the echos he had heard before and tied to measure. The door hissed open.

Sentinel.

Optimus straightened automatically out of habit, conditioning forcing him to attention despite the rising pulse pounding in his helm.

He strutted into the room like a conquering hero, sharp blue optics cutting like lances and gleaming with a vicious triumph he barely bothered to disguise.

Optimus forced his vents to stay steady as Sentinel all but sauntered forward into the room, forcing his field to remain blank. But the moment he saw Sentinel framed appear in that doorway, with that that smug expression across his face, he felt it. The sharp crack inside his mind. Hairline fractures, spidering outward.

Because all he could see – all he could feel – was Megatron, bloodied and broken, pinned to that same chair that carried his own weight now. And some part of him, deep, wild, and fierce, screamed for vengeance.

Sentinel paused just long enough to savor the moment, then drifted forward in a too familiar manner and tapped the table casually with one digit.

"Long cycle, huh?" he said, voice all smooth mockery. "Hope the accommodations are to your liking. Dont worry. Won't be for long. Had to clear out a room early, just for you."

He leaned in, his smile twisting into a sharp grin, something almost feral. "You know, I should be furious with you," he said, almost laughing. "You practically handed Megatron his escape. And then, you act surprised when the 'greatest bot you’ve ever known' vanishes the first chance he gets. Leaving you and all his other cronies behind."

He leaned up and gestured wide with his arms at the metal walls around them, his voice slightly rising. "Decepticons don’t change, Optimus. You didn’t teach him anything. All you did was prove everything I said about you was right."

Sentinel sat down in the other chair at last, servos clasped lightly in front of him on the tabletop and visor glinting cruelly under the lights. "I suppose that's something for you to be proud of. For the first time in more than two million solar cycles, Decepticons have spilled Autobot energon on Cybertron. Do you want to know how many died trying to keep the Slagmaker from escaping?"

He tilted his helm, optics narrowing but smile widening even further.

"But don't worry. I'll get to the bottom of this. I want to know everything. What he told you. What you told him. And, more importantly..."

Sentinel leaned forward again, voice lowering into something venomous.

"How deep this little traitor's club of yours really goes."

Optimus stayed quiet, listening and processing Sentinel's words, and taking a long pause before he responded.

"I'm not surprised at any of this," Optimus replied, his tone flat and cool. "Not really. I warned you that no precaution is enough for Megatron. To parade him so publicly through the streets like a trophy? Anyone could've predicted it. Especially with the civil unrest."

His tone was calm and relaxed, but as biting in nature as the words themselves. 

"I am sorry for the loss of life, but it's not my fault. I'm not the one that chose a publicized procession, rather than a private, unmarked, untelevized transport."

He huffed slightly, crossing his unbound arms over his chassis as he glowered at Sentinel.

"I already said what he told me. I'm sure you heard the very things he said already, straight from his derma, considering how his was busted in court yesterday.”

Sentinel’s smile didn’t so much fade as it peeled back, revealing the brittle and poisonous sneer underneath the casual veneer. 

“Oh,” he said, voice dipped in mock awe as he leaned back. “Well. Would you like a commendation for your insight, Optimus? Or maybe a promotion? Because the way you’re talking, you’d think you were still in command of something.”

Sentinel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the interrogation table with all the tension of a predator waiting for the right twitch in its prey. “But you're not, are you? You’re just another washed-up, rusty bolt in the machine now. Sitting in my room, in my prison, under my authority.”

Optimus kept a stiff demeanor as Sentinel addressed him, giving a mental optic roll at his protoform-level insults towards him. He didn't reply.

Sentinel let the silence hang for a beat, letting his emotions coil. Just long enough for the venom to soak. “You want to throw blame around for that little Decepticon fireworks display? Sure, let’s talk about blame.” 

He slammed a palm down on the table, sudden and sharp, a crack in the calmness as it echoed harshly off the walls.

Optimus found himself flinching at the sound, panic rushing through his racing spark and flaring in his field that he desperately tried to quell. But it was a crack. Optimus didn't have the same resolve or confidence as Megatron. He was already scared going in, and now he knows he's in a place where anything could happen to him and nobody would know...

Trapped. Alone. Helpless.

“Let’s talk about how the only Autobot on this whole planet who’s spent any real time alone with Megatron, just so happens to be the same one who’s been pushing his little redemption arc fragging bedtime story into every available audial over the comm line. Let’s talk about how convenient it is that after one conversation with you, Megatron suddenly starts being a martyr.”

He stood now, pacing a slow circle around Optimus like he might tear into him from any angle. “What was it, huh? Did he cry in your lap? Tell you he just wants to hug it out with Ultra Magnus’ stasised frame? Or are you just that easy to manipulate?”

Sentinel stopped behind him, voice low and venomous. He leaned in, growling mere inches from his audial.

“Because here’s what I think, Optimus Prime. I think you let it happen. I think you told him things. Gave him something. I don’t know what yet, but I will. You wanna play the humble bot, act like you’re just concerned for the safety of the planet?” He scoffed in disgust and pulled back, continuing his slow pacing “You’re not fooling anyone.”

"Have you ever considered the idea that I maybe got through to him?" Optimus retorted, a bit more forceful and shaky than he would have liked. "You saw the footage. The body language. Nobody had ever sat down and tried to understand him. I did. I showed him the kindness I believe is owed to all sentient beings, and it was so foreign to him that it shook him."

Sentinel rounded the table again, now standing directly in front of Optimus, servos on either side of the tabletop.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” He gestured to the room, to Optimus, to the walls around them. “This is you laying the groundwork. Turning bots against me. Against the Elite Guard, against the Council. Making them question everything we built. And you think if you just act calm and clever, you’ll be the noble one when it all collapses.”

He leaned in close, exceedingly close this time, his visor inches from Optimus's optics. “But let me make one thing perfectly clear. You are not the hero here. It's not in your programming, remember? You’re just another fool who let himself get wrapped around Megatron’s claws.” 

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. 

“And if I find even one scrap of evidence that you handed him anything that cost those mechs their lives today, I will make sure you disappear so fast, they won’t even get time to engrave your name on a memorial slab.”

Optimus vented harshly, unable to contain the shudder that rocked through his frame.

"All I said, all I gave, all I did, was be kind to him. Ask him about his past. Pick his processor as to why. And I listened. I gave him my thoughts, where I agreed and where I didn't. I treated him like an individual. Like a Cybertronian. I cared for him when everyone else ignored him slowly rotting, dying before you all. And – frag it all – I saw him realize how different he would've been had he felt cared for all those ages ago! I saw him yearn to something better! To be able to carry within him the same gentleness that I offered him!"

It all spilled out of him in a rush. He couldn't stop it. His processor felt full of static, and his optics were going blurry.

"I saw fear. I saw regret. I saw desire and passion for a better future. How could I not cry forgive him? How could I not yearn with him for a world that was kinder? Where he never had to know that kind of suffering, and thus never would've risen to create suffering. I don't think the war was the right decision, but I don't know what would've been the right decision! Everything I've seen has lead me to believe that without direct action, he would've still remained suffering. As would've all those that chose to join him initially. 

“He tried to do things the nice way. The Autobot way. Nothing happened! Nothing changed! I can't blame him for becoming a monster. This world made him one. We made him one. And you're fragged if you think I'm not going to sympathize with that. With being screwed over by the institutions that rule you, and bots that only care about themselves!"

He glared at Sentinel, lens fluid finally running down his face plate as his optics burned with fury... 

There was a long, heavy silence. Sentinel didn’t speak. He just looked at him. Optimus, slumped over, with lens fluid streaking down his face. And Sentinel stood back up, his servos clasped behind his back, expression unreadable behind his shining blue visor.

“…You pathetic little slagheap.” 

The words weren’t barked or growled in temper or rage. They were whispered, hissed out in disgust, contemptuous and icy cold, clipped and razor sharp. 

“Listen to yourself. Crying over Megatron. Mourning the murderer like he was some lost, misunderstood protoform. Frag, do you even hear how utterly absurd you sound?”

He took a slow step closer the table, his optics cutting like daggers, intake curled into a sneer. "You talk about 'seeing fear’ and ‘regret’ like those are some kind of virtues. Like that makes up for the cities turned to ash, the planets reduced to rubble! Like that undoes the millions of lives he damned to rust! You think your compassion gives you the moral high ground?! You think he looked at you and saw something worth changing for?!”

Sentinel scoffed sharply, a low, bitter sound that echoed off the walls. “He saw a door. And you left it wide fragging open!”

He leaned in again, close enough that Optimus could see the fine scratched layered into his polished armor. His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. “You weren’t special to him. You were useful. Another link in the chain. And a soft one at that. The bleeding spark with a name and a face the people still trusted. And he took advantage. Because that is what monsters do.”

He stepped back again, servos coming forward to gesturing broadly now as his voice rose again. “You gave him everything he needed. Time. Access. Information. And all he had to do was look pitiful and let you pet his helm like some tragic, abused stray. I do not care what he told you, what expression you think you saw flicker across his face! Megatron played you like a song, and you danced.”

Sentinel's words burned, like the searing heat of molten metal doused over Optimus’s frame. Doubt crept in, and Optimus could feel those tears flood forth in greater volume, internal fans kicking higher.

"He's not– H-He didn't–" Optimus sputtered, trying to protest, yet didn't know what to say. He barely knew what to think.

He shut his optics against the ugly picture painted before him. That his compassion had been manipulated, and Optimus did nothing but betray his friends. His people. All because he believed in treating another bot kindly. Because he believed that Megatron could be better. 

"I-I didn't give him anything!" Optimus whimpered. "I treated him well, but I didn't... H-His escape wasn't..."

Sentinel turned away for a moment, pacing again jaw clenched, then whirled back. “And now we are cleaning up the mess you made. Eight dead. Prisoner missing. Decepticons emboldened. And you, sitting here crying like it is my fault. Like the problem was the system. The system that kept this planet together, while your precious warmonger razed half of it to the ground!”

He strode forward again, looming now, casting his shadow over the smaller Prime. “You want to talk about suffering?! Try living with the choices real leaders make every day. Hard choices. Ugly ones. Not weeping over the philosophical awakening of a slagging genocidal tyrant!”

He paused just long enough for the words to sink in, before leaning closer forward, palms on the table again. His voice was quieter, but infinitely more venomous.

“Let me make something very clear. Megatron is not a martyr. He is not a product of trauma. He is not your redemption arc. He is the result of what happens when we let sentimentality outweigh strategy. And if you cannot see that, then you do not deserve the sigil you wear.”

He gestured sharply toward the Autobot symbol on Optimus’s arm. “That crest means something. It used to, anyway.”

Then, slowly, he stood up straight again and turned, walking to the door. He stopped only once, his servo hovering over the control panel without looking back. 

“You want to sympathize with him? Fine. You can rot in the same pit he crawled out of. I hope he was worth it.”

And with a soft hiss, the door sealed behind him, leaving only silence and the weight of his words behind. 

Optimus was still venting hard, feeling like he couldn't get enough circulation in spite of his fans going hard and his frantic venting. He shook his helm, the whole world starting to feel so very fuzzy as he sobbed, staring down at his servos pressed palm down against the table.

Eight dead, and it's your fault.

His spark shuddered. 

Optimus felt as if he was gazing at himself from across the table where Sentinel had stood, and he hated the sight. His body felt sticky and melted in an awful way, and the world was so, so incredibly loud. 

His helm came down and pressed into the table between his servos as his distress grew worse by the nanoklik. He needed to get away, to calm down, but he couldn't. He could feel an ugly sickness bubbling forth from the awful depths of his processor. Stinking and rusted and wretched, and like spiders bursting from the egg sac, he broke open.

"FRAG YOU! I HATE YOU! I FRAGGING HATE YOU!"

Optimus could only watch himself scream, completely out of his own control.

"IT SHOULD'VE BEEN YOU! IT ALWAYS SHOULD'VE BEEN YOU! IT'S YOUR FAULT! ALL OF IT! I NEVER SHOULD'VE SAVED YOUR AFT!"

Internally, other voices scrambled.

Hey, come on, please-- that's enough!

You're only going to make things worse!

"IT SHOULD BE ME IN THE MAGNUS CHAIR! IT SHOULD BE ME LOOKING DOWN ON YOU! MOCKING YOU, YOU SORRY, PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A MECH! YOU OWE YOUR WHOLE LIFE TO ME! AND ONE DAY, EVERYONE IS GOING TO SEE YOU FOR THE NOTHING THAT YOU ARE!"

ENOUGH! Please!

And Optimus, his enery and fire bleeding from him like oil from a cut line, devolving into quiet sobs again, shaking him helm against the table.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it…" he mumbled pathetically. He was... unstable. 

But Sentinel already knew that, didn't he? 

~*~

From behind the one-way glass, Sentinel watched in cold silence. He didn't so much as twitch at the sight of Optimus, his former friend, his former rival, collapsing into broken, helpless sobs.

The words spat from Optimus's mouth only moments earlier still hung in the stale air like smoke. Accusations. Rage. Truths Sentinel refused to acknowledge.

A junior guard shifted uneasily beside him, glancing at the battered figure hunched over the table. "Sir... should we call a medic?" he asked, voice low, uncertain.

“No," Sentinel replied flatly. "Let him sit in it. Let him understand what failure feels like.”

Sentinel didn't take his optics off the scene. His servos folded calmly behind his back, expression hard as forged steel. The guard hesitated but said nothing more.

In the room beyond the glass, Optimus continued to shake, small broken sounds leaking from his frame, utterly alone.

Sentinel Magnus simply turned away.

Chapter Text

A long time passed once more. Not quite as long as the first time alone in the room. But Optimus’s emotions drained him fully. He still hadn't refueled since the morning before, and his hub blinked with warning of lower than optimal fuel levels. 

Lower than optimal. If Megatron's treatment had been any indication, this was as high as his fuel level would ever be again.

Eventually, inevitably, the door panel of the interrogation room finally shifted, and two armed guards entered. These guards were new; he didn't recognize them from his shifts inside the prison. They were stony-faced and serious, their blaster rifles held with digits on the triggers, though thankfully not pointing at him yet. 

Strongarm Major entered after them, her face somehow even more hard than the guards. 

"Get up," she demanded sharply, barely giving him any time to stand before stepping around the table, and hauling him up by his arm in none too gentle a fashion. Her grip on him remained iron. "Move."

Strongarm and the guards marched him down the long, twisting hallways of Trypticon back up to the main floors, the ones he had transversed many times before. They lead him down the main prison line, passed Level One, where the neutrals glanced at him, pointed and whispered between their cells to each other. 

Through Level Two, where the less dangerous Decepticons grinned and giggled and leered at him, almost as though they were hungry. 

Through Level Three, which quickly became the loudest he'd ever heard it. Large, dangerous warframes suddenly howled and whooped and cheered, rattling their cells and slamming their fists on the walls. 

Among the cacophony, he could hear his own name ringing out. They were cheering for him. At the end of the row, Lutnut and Blitzwing in side by side cells watched him, Lugnut roaring with the rest of the Decepticons and Blitzwing watching him closely. Icy's face was stoic, but very closely paying attention. He spun around to Hothead, who began to roar with Lugnut and the others, slamming against his cell wall. And as Optimus was brought again to that familiar door to the abyss, he could hear the cackling of Random over the other din.

Optimus barely registered his name being called, slightly stirred back to his senses by it, only to be confronted by the massive door he had come to know well.

The Level Four door opened, and he was ushered inside the semi-dark room. The cell was empty, of course, as was the room. As the door closed and locked behind them, he was taken up onto the platform, where Strongarm pulled off his cuffs. The double berth was still there, taking up most of the room in the cell, but there was nothing else on the platform except for the door that served as a two way delivery system in the floor. 

The guards kept their blasters raised as Strongarm stepped back off the platform, and hit the red button on the console, raising both the forcefield and the energy bars around what was now his cage. 

Strongarm didn't say a word. She just looked at him with visible disgust, crossing her arms as the two guards moved back to the door. With one last sneer, she too turned away, and went right to the door. It closed heavily behind them, leaving Optimus alone in the semi-dark silence. 

This is where I belong, isn't it?

Shut up.

Optimus brought his servos to his chest once they were released from the cuffs, rubbing at his wrists a bit as he turns to look at the door.

Eight guards--

I said. Shut. Up.

He let the darkness and the silence fall over him. His finials slowly drooped, the heavy weight of knowing that he would probably never see the light of day again sinking heavily on his shoulders. He was a traitor, after all. An execution perhaps wouldn't fly by the public, considering the reactions he had seen regarding his arrest, but they could keep him in here till he eventually offlined. Either naturally, or by some 'unfortunate accident'.

He had said he'd shoulder the burden of offlining, hadn’t he? So why was it now so frightening?

He took in the cell around him. The double berth left him hardly any room to even pace... but at least he had the tiniest bit of comfort.

He paced the small strip he had for a while, in utter silence, before he decided to check the delivery tray. It was the only other thing he had to interact with, after all. If nothing else, he could fall into a repetitive motion of toying with the door to it. Keep himself occupied, even if it's something so small.

The door was still of course far too small for him to fit through. He might get his arm into the door, unlike Megatron, but it wouldn't be long enough to grab the edge. However, as he opened it, he was surprised to find it wasn't quiet empty. Inside was a small ration energon cube, and a small data display barely the size of his digit.

Optimus blinked a few times before reaching inside. He took the cube first, setting it aside. He couldn't open his subspace, the ability to disabled alongside the rest of his upgrades, but he still intended on saving the cube for when he really, really needed it.

He took the datapad next, tiny, reading those few words with a solemn expression. He wouldn't be able to type anything on it, but it was big enough that he could read the four words typed on it. 

I'm sorry, Optimus. - Ironhide

"... Don't be sorry... it's not your fault..." he whispered to himself.

He set that aside, too. A reminder. He let so many bots down, didn't he?

He stopped halfway into closing the drawer, as the slightest glint catching his optic, and upon realizing what he it saw, he nearly sobbed. 

Reaching in, he pulled at the tiny silver piece, and the smother blanket he had given Megatron furled out from where it had been carefully folded and stuffed between the drawer and the wall of the exchange tunnel. Hidden for safe keeping so it couldn't be confiscated. Protected. Cherished. 

"It mattered that much to him, huh...?"

No, it didn't. He's just smart enough to not allow his boons to get taken away.

And Optimus's finials drooped again, his happiness at the sight dulling. 

Right... I was played a fool, wasn't I?

Optimus folded it back up, returning it to its place inside the drawer. If he needed it, he'd grab it, but he wanted to get an idea of the new patrols first, so he could avoid losing it.

With a heavy vent, he got up to his pedes, taking the small note from Ironhide and the energon cube and crawling into the double berth. He set them beside himself, his two treasures in this new home of his.

Optimus was so, so tired... and what better was there to do than to sleep? The berth was cold when he laid down, the steel pressing against his frame through the protection of his plating that suddenly felt more thin than ever before. He didn't even have the energy to shiver. Just the slow, weary pulse of his spark against his chassis, like a dying echo in an abandoned hall.

The energon cube caught a bit of light from the security strip along the ceiling, and he watched it with half-lidded optics. It glowed faintly, pulsing like a tiny, distant star. A lifeline. A kindness. A memory of a better time that already felt like another bot’s life, a better bot, and not his own.

He reached out once, brushing his digits against the data chip Ironhide had sent, almost afraid it would vanish if he touched it too hard.

It’s not your fault.

Optimus turned the words over in his mind again and again like a mantra. Like a prayer.

But the guilt still clung to him, thick and cloying as rust.

You let them down.

You broke them.

You broke yourself.

His optics shuttered briefly, and a low, shaky vent escaped him.

Outside his cell, he could hear the faint sounds of Trypticon's belly groaning, the creaks and clatters of ancient machinery settling into its endless, restless vigil. Somewhere distant, another abandoned prisoner howled, a sound torn from the depths of hopelessness. No one answered.

And so the night fell inside him, too.

Time passed strangely, drifting in and out of focus. Kliks? Joors? He couldn’t tell. Just the scrape of a guard's footsteps in the hall beyond, just the hum of the forcefield overhead, just the soft pulse of his own weak spark.

When recharge finally came for him, it was not gentle. It seized him like a net thrown over a drowning mech, dragging him down without mercy into heavy, dreamless dark. There was no peace in it. Only the cold.

~*~

He didn’t know what woke him. The quiet, the hunger gnawing faintly at his tanks, the heavy, aching void where hope used to be. Maybe all three. Maybe nothing at all.

Optimus stirred sluggishly, dragging himself upright with a slow, mechanical vent. His limbs felt heavier than the berth. His body protested even the smallest motion.

Fine. Let it. You deserve to rust into the floor.

For a long time, he simply sat there, optics dim, staring at the far wall without seeing it. What now? He couldn't even muster the energy to pace again. There was nothing to do. No one coming. Nothing left.

Almost on reflex, his gaze dropped to the small delivery drawer set into the floor. The one where Ironhide's message had been tucked away. Where he'd found the cube. And... the other thing.

It still sat there, folded neatly inside, half-hidden in the shadows, waiting. Like it was expecting him to come back.

Optimus hesitated, servos curling into loose, uncertain fists against his thighs. His chassis rose and fell with one slow, broken cycle of air.

Leave it. You don’t need it.

You don't deserve it.

You were played.

You think he cared? You think it mattered?

The words slithered through his mind like electrified wire. He squeezed his optics shut, trying to will the thoughts away, but they gnawed at him all the same.

His optics flickered open again, locking onto the drawer like it might vanish if he looked away.

Move. Don't move. Move.

Slowly, stiffly, he reached out.

His digits hovered over the drawer for a long, trembling moment, before finally, he pulled it open again. The blanket was still there, a dull silver glint in the dim light.

Another hesitation. Another shuddering vent.

Then, with careful digits, he pulled it free, lifting it into his lap. It felt heavier than he remembered. Or maybe he was just... smaller now. Diminished.

He unfolded it slowly, smoothing the fabric out with a tenderness that startled him. As though handling something alive. Something that could break. It smelled faintly of spilled energon. Of oil and metal and organic soil, and a softness he didn’t know how to name.

Optimus stared at it. Megatron had kept this. He hadn’t thrown it away. Hadn’t scorned it, hadn’t mocked it. He had folded it. Hidden it. Protected it. That could mean something.

...Or maybe it meant nothing at all. Maybe it had just been pragmatism. Something to keep him clean, no different from hoarding rations or a hidden shiv.

His grip on the silver tightened involuntarily.

"Does it even matter?" he whispered harshly into the emptiness.

The silence gave him no answer. Only the cold hum of the forcefield above him.

But his arms moved anyway, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, pulling it close to his plating like that drowning mech clinging to driftwood.

He hated how good it felt. Hated how desperately he needed it.

But he tucked himself into the berth with it anyway, curling around the small scrap of fabric as though it could shield him from everything he had lost. The energon cube and the tiny datapad lay nearby, silent witnesses to what little remained of his world.

Optimus shuttered his optics, holding the blanket tighter. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was weak. Maybe it meant nothing. But for now… for this brief moment… he let himself believe.

And in the crushing dark, with the chill of Trypticon seeping into his very frame, Optimus Prime finally, fitfully, fell into a fractured, uneasy recharge. Still broken. Still afraid.

But no longer completely alone.

~*~

A deep tremor of unease yanked Megatron out of a half-repaired daze.

He surged upright in the shallow repair tank, coolant splashing off his frame as monitors blared soft warnings he ignored. His field bristled with instinct, vents dragging harsh, angry cycles into his battered systems.

The medbay was dark except for the low, sterile glow of diagnostic lights and the occasional flicker of monitoring holo-screens.

The Darksyde's medbay… his medbay… where Knock Out had fought to stabilize him only joors ago.

Safe. He was safe. Relativel, anyway.

But Megatron’s servos dug hard into the edge of the tank, leaving small dents in the plating, optics narrowing into furious slits. There it was again. That sensation. Bleeding into him without permission. A choking, clinging sadness, fragile and broken and wrong.

He snarled low, shaking his helm sharply as though he could throw the feeling off. "No," he growled to himself, voice like a blade scraping concrete. "No. You are stronger than this."

Another pulse. Worse this time. Something falling apart.

Frag it.

Megatron slammed a servo against the side of the tank, the impact ringing through the empty medbay. This was not him. He was not weak! He did not feel this way! He had ripped himself free from the edge of death itself. He would not be dragged down by phantoms!

But the more he fought it, the tighter it coiled around his spark, heavy and cold. A name hovered on the edge of his thoughts, unbidden, unwanted, and unmistakably correct.

Optimus Prime.

Megatron's vents shuddered once, harsh and uneven. It was him. He knew it. As surely as he knew the feel of his own energon surging through his lines. Somewhere in that wretched pit, Optimus Prime was breaking. And Megatron, for all his strength and all his fury, could do nothing.

Not yet.

Denta bared in a grimace of raw fury and determination, Megatron yanked the repair leads free from his frame with savage jerks, heedless of the sparks that burst from the ports. Knock Out would pitch a fit later. He didn't care. He shoved himself out of the tank, his stabilizers still shaky, the pain of half-healed injuries screaming up his limbs. Good. Let it hurt.

He stalked to the far wall, planting his servos against the cool metal as though he could anchor himself physically against the storm rising in his spark. The world could burn. Cybertron could fall. But he would not let Sentinel take him, too. Not while Megatron still functioned. Not while he still had a spark pulsing in his chassis.

The medbay door hissed open, harsh and mechanical, and Knock Out practically skidded inside, optics blazing with fury.

"What in the Pit are you doing?!" the medic barked, striding toward him, scanning panels already flashing crimson warnings at his sides. "You're bleeding out of half your seama! You are not cleared to leave the repair suite–"

"Silence," Megatron hissed, turning on him with a snarl sharp enough to make Knock Out flinch back a step despite himself. "I need a tactical comm. Now."

Knock Out’s mouth opened and closed helplessly for a moment, optics wide and staring. "You… you’re not even sealed yet! You tear those ports any worse and you'll lose function in your stabilizer for good! You need another six solar cycles minimum before you even think about planning anything, much less–”

Megatron's optics blazed with a furious red light, cutting through the medic’s protests like one of his famous rotor blades. "Now," he growled, low and cold and leaving no room for argument.

Knock Out grimaced, muttering something distinctly unflattering under his vents about warlords and suicidal maniacs, but turned sharply toward a supply locker, yanking open the door with unnecessary force. A few tense moments later, he shoved the demanded tactical comm unit into Megatron’s waiting servos.

"There," Knock Out snapped back. "Congratulations. You're officially the most stubborn idiot on this ship. Now sit the frag down before you offline on my floor and make me have to explain it to Strika."

Megatron barely heard him. He did, however, meaning to or not, obey. He dropped heavily into the nearest chair, bracing the comm on his thigh, tapping the battered screen to life with quick, sharp movements. A rough schematic of Trypticon’s internal layout flickered up. It was old, outdated, incomplete, but it was something. Enough to start. Enough to plan. Enough to fight.

His vents rattled unevenly in his chassis, but he gritted his denta against the pain and forced his mind into focus. Optimus was slipping away. But Megatron was coming. And he would tear Trypticon apart bolt by bolt if he had to.

Knock Out hovered a moment longer, optics darting between Megatron’s trembling but unyielding frame and the battered schematic lighting up under his claws. With a sharp but quiet curse, Knock Out turned on his heel, striding fast for the medbay doors. He needed to find Strika. Now.

Because whatever madness had gripped their warlord, it wasn't going to burn itself out anytime soon.

Chapter Text

The room was dark, save for the flicker of code across a private terminal tucked deep in the underlevels of Iacon’s communication grid. An obsolete corner that most, conveniently for the Cyber-Ninja at the screen, thought long decommissioned.

Jazz hunched over the screen, one audial turned toward the stairwell out of habit, even if he knew no one could track him here. Not yet. Things were getting hotter and heavier than even he could handle soon.

Lines of encrypted footage scrolled past, and Jazz made a low sound of displeasure. Another dead lead. Another locked file. He leaned back with a vented sigh, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge as he rolled his shoulders, preparing to begin again, yet again. He turned back to the screen, the source code flickered again over the screen in harsh greens.

Then a folder caught his optics, tucked into a hidden link. Clearly intended to be hidden away where no one would find it unless they knew where to look. No label, no metadata, no source indicator. Just a number string and a timecode. The timestamp was from just after Optimus's interrogation.

He hesitated only a moment before overriding the security lock. Whatever was here, someone wanted to keep, but didn't want anyone to find. That made it potentially important to what he was looking for. The screen came alive with grainy security footage; camera feed from one of the interrogation rooms inside Trypticon, the audio barely more than static hiss.

But what he saw rooted him in place.

Optimus sat in that hard metal chair, servos cuffed behind him, head bowed and nearly touching the table in front of him, his vents cycling far too fast. His optics glowed faintly beneath his lowered helm. A faint sound escaped him, something between a sob and a strangled whimper. Jazz leaned forward to try and hear the murmured words.

Then it happened. A crack split open. Not in the footage, but in Optimus. The mech began to convulse, words spilling out. Pleas, denials, guilt, mingling together in a terrible display of emotion.

"I-I didn't give him anything... I treated him well, but I didn't... H-His escape wasn't..."

Jazz's grip tightened on the edge of the console. His spark pained, seeing Optimus in such obvious pain, alone in the interrogation room. Then, suddenly, came the screaming.

"FRAG YOU! I HATE YOU! I FRAGGING HATE YOU!"

Optimus’s whole frame bucked against his restraints, his voice warped by rage and grief. Jazz visibly jolted back in shock. It didn't sound anything at all like the Optimus he knew.

"IT SHOULD'VE BEEN YOU! IT ALWAYS SHOULD'VE BEEN YOU! IT'S YOUR FAULT! ALL OF IT! I NEVER SHOULD'VE SAVED YOUR AFT!"

Behind it all, a fractured cadence to his voice, interruptions, like a system malfunction. No... like two voices fighting for control. Split threads in a personality matrix.

Jazz’s spark pulsed harder, almost as if what he saw frightened him. Maybe it did. Then came the worst part.

"IT SHOULD BE ME IN THE MAGNUS CHAIR! YOU OWE YOUR WHOLE LIFE TO ME! ONE DAY EVERYONE IS GOING TO SEE YOU FOR THE NOTHING YOU ARE!"

The words were venom, and they weren’t Optimus at all. Not the one Jazz knew.

Then came harsh sobs, and Optimus slumped figure, broken and alone in the corner of the locked room.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it..."

The file ended there, flickering to black. Jazz slowly leaned back.

"AllSpark, OP..."

He rubbed a servo across his intake. This wasn’t just stress. This was damage. Deep-rooted damage. Mental, emotional, traumatic and real, maybe even systemic. And Sentinel had known. He had to have known.

Which meant he had let it happen. Wanted it to happen. Recorded it and then buried it. For his own twisted purposes.

Jazz pulled a secure data stick from a private subspace compartment in his thigh plating, slid it into the console, and copied the footage.

Then he stood, silent. The shadows in the room seemed heavier somehow. Slipping out of the building through the window he had entered through, he made his way into inner Iacon. To where he knew Ratchet and the others were doing their best to lie low, and wait for news. 

~*~

Ratchet paced back and forth, back and forth.

He didn’t like any of this. Megatron was trouble, sure, but there was no way Optimus had done something worth being arrested over. Right?

Optimus had always kept everyone’s best interests in mind... so why? 

On the news broadcast of his arrest, he had looked almost like he was expecting it. So calm, it was almost unsettling.

Is that why he didn’t want us around during Megatron’s trial? Did he know he was about to be arrested? Was even the party about that? Jazz must’ve known something.

Thankfully, Jazz was on his way. But it couldn’t be fast enough. Ratchet had a lot to say, and even more to ask.

Lights off and silent as a four-wheeler could be, Jazz slipped easily through the darkened streets, heading for the slightly open bay door Ratchet had left for him. He circled the block three times, doubled back twice, ensuring that none of those new, pesky patrol drones had picked up his trail. Only after he was absolutely sure he was clean did he slip through the workshop door, and waited until it slid shut and locked behind him before transforming.

Ratchet let out a relieved hum at the sight of him, nodding in greeting.

"Were you standin’ around pacing a spot into the floor all day just waitin’ for me to show?" Jazz asked as he transformed and stood upright, frowning slightly, but then waved it off, stepping forward. "Never mind... You okay, Ratch? The others here?"

It was dangerous for them to be gathered like this. They all knew Sentinel was watching. They couldn’t even risk connecting over commbeads anymore. The chance of being overheard by the wrong mech was too high.
Did they have anything to hide? It felt like they did, even if none of them were sure exactly what.

Ratchet grunted.  "Everyone’s here for now, but not for long. We just wanted to hear what you had to say first. After that, we’ll scatter. We need to come up with some dead drops, honestly. A way to stay in contact without getting caught."

He led Jazz deeper into the workshop.

"What’s happening, Jazz? I can’t wrap my processor around it..."

Jazz followed silently for a klik longer than he should have. His visor was dimmed, expression unreadable, and for a moment Ratchet wasn’t even sure if he’d heard him.

Finally, Jazz spoke, his voice low, and not the usual casual tone he usually used. This tone was dangerous, rumbled, and conspiratorial. It was almost eerie coming from him.

"You were right to keep everyone here," he said. "After this? None of us’ll ever look at the Council, or Sentinel, the same way again."

From a concealed compartment, he pulled two datachips: one recorded from Optimus’s interrogation, and the other, the one Optimus had given him. He held them gingerly between two digits, like they might burn him, one slightly closer to Ratchet than the other.

"I got everything Optimus had," Jazz said. "Logs. Interrogation feeds. Staff records from Trypticon. Stuff he wasn’t supposed to get his servos on. Stuff he shouldn’t’ve had to die tryin' to prove."

He paused, and twisted his wrist, so now the other chip was closer to Ratchet.

"And Optimus’s own interrogation. And what happened after."

Without ceremony, he handed the chips to Ratchet.

By now, the others had trickled in from the shadows of the workshop: Bulkhead, shifting nervously from pede to pede; Bumblebee, practically vibrating out of his armor; and Sari, perched on Bumblebee’s shoulder, her face still blotchy from crying.

Jazz turned his attention to all of them, folding his arms, and nodded, but said nothing.

Ratchet’s face hardened the longer he listened. He turned the chips over in his servos like they might tell him something by touch alone. "Why would..." he started to ask, but the thought died on his vocalizer.  The answer was obvious. The old medic’s expression darkened even further.

Jazz continued, his tone hard and grave. "I ain't gonna lie to any of you. After this? There’s no goin’ back. Not to Iacon. Not to the old rules. You watch this, you’ll know. And once you know, you can’t just keep your head down and pretend anymore."

He vented slowly, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment, giving them a chance to brace themselves.

"I’ll understand if anyone wants out. But if you’re still in after this... we don’t scatter. We organize." He looked around at them, one by one as he spoke. "‘Cause if Sentinel’s willing to bury Optimus this deep... there’s no tellin' how far he’ll go to shut us up next."

None of them moved an inch. None of them took their optics off him.

"Dead drops sound good. Coded relays too. But we're gonna need more than that, old mech. A lot more. Once you see this..." Jazz nodded to the console behind Ratchet. "You'll know what I mean. Play it."

"...Is this really something we should show everyone?" Ratchet asked, obviously meaning Sari, though honestly, he was just as concerned for everyone else. Bulkhead, Bumblebee, even Jazz looked so shaken from having seen it once, he hesitated playing it again.

"Obviously, everyone’s gotta know. But... do you think everyone can handle seeing it?"

He didn't want to distress them more than they already were. They needed to stay calm. Too much anxiety could make everything worse.

Even so, he prepped the video to play, waiting for Jazz’s opinion on what was about to be shown.

Jazz crossed his arms over his chassis, optics narrowing slightly in thought. "I dunno if I'm the right bot to answer that," he admitted, his voice lower and more measured than his usual laid-back tone. "But I do know this: the truth don’t care if you’re ready for it. It’s still the truth."

He tilted his helm slightly, following Ratchet’s gaze to Sari with a brief, unsure flick of his optics behind his visor. "Humans’re... uh, softer than bots, right? Emotionally? But she’s already seen him at his worst, old mech. From what I hear, she saw him actually go offline once. Like, full grey out. And she stayed anyway."

He turned back to Ratchet. "We been dancin’ around this long enough. Maybe it hurts. Maybe it’s too much. But we gotta know what happened. All of us. We owe him that."

Bulkhead let out a long, heavy sigh. "I... I don’t wanna see it," he admitted quietly. "I don't. But I need to. I need to know what they did to him, even if it’s bad." He looked up at Ratchet, optics resolute now. "We’re not gonna fall apart. Not anymore."

Bumblebee, unusually quiet, had his arms folded tightly over his chassis, optics sharp and burning with anger. "He didn’t get a choice," he muttered. "They made him go through it alone." He glanced up, jaw clenching. "I’m not turnin' away. Not now. I owe Boss Bot that much."

Then, finally, Sari.

 She flew down from Bumblebee’s shoulder and landed lightly on the console, stepping up toward Ratchet where he was holding the chip."I already saw them lie about him," she said softly. "Already heard Sentinel say things I know weren’t true. If there’s something worse... I’d rather know." She met Ratchet’s gaze squarely, eyes shining with tears but her face steady and stern. "I can't help if I'm kept in the dark. And I’ve proved myself, haven’t I?"

Her voice didn’t tremble. "If he was strong enough to live it... then I can be strong enough to watch."

Jazz gave a quiet hum, stepping back to let the old medic make the final call.

"...Guess that's your answer, huh?"

Ratchet frowned deeper. Jazz was right. But at this point, Ratchet was already thinking about damage control. Sari, of course, concerned him the most. But she'd been through a lot. Seen a lot. Done a lot.

He gave her a small, proud smile.

"You're one tough kid, I'll give you that."

With a slow ex-vent, Ratchet loaded the chip into the console, stepping back to stand with the others and observe the feed.

Just what in the name of the AllSpark happened to you, Optimus...?

Jazz shifted back as well, turning his helm slightly away. He had already forced himself to watch all of it once. He didn’t want to see it again. Just hearing it was enough to make him want to purge.

The footage began.

Optimus’s private observations came first. Seeing Megatron in that deplorable state, starved, tormented, injured beyond recognition. The showers; blood and savagery and raw, frayed emotions. Sentinel’s punishment after the celebration. Megatron’s interrogation, the torture, and the words he had spoken to the acting Magnus. And finally... Optimus’s own interrogation.

The screaming. The breakdown into tears. The sobbed apologies.

Bulkhead had his curled servos pressed against his intake, his jaw trembling, optics shimmering wet. Bumblebee stood stock-still, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his whole frame shaking with rage. Sari hugged her knees against her chest where she sat on Bulkhead’s shoulder, tears streaming freely down her face.

The entire room flinched when Optimus screamed about how it should be him in the Magnus chair; that Sentinel was nothing. But they shuddered worse at the terrible sobs that followed.

Ratchet had seen many things in his long, long life. Not much shook him anymore. But seeing Optimus break like that? Seeing a clear, deliberate error forced into his personality matrix, something done to him?

It made Ratchet’s spark twist painfully in his chest.

He spoke low, to Jazz, voice heavy.

"That wasn’t just a stress reaction," he said grimly. "That was a psychotic break. I know what one looks like. Sentinel pushed him there. Deliberately."

Jazz’s jaw tightened visibly. "You sure?"

Ratchet nodded once, firm. "You don't end up fractured like that without a serious, targeted trigger. That wasn't a coincidence. That was cruelty. Planned and executed."

Jazz ex-vented sharply but said nothing more.

The footage ended, and the console went dark.

"Since then," Jazz muttered as the screen flickered off, "it's been complete radio silence. No word in command about what's happening to him. Where he is or what condition he's in. No medical reports, no custody records. It's like they're trying to make him just... disappear."

"Hard to do when his arrest was so public..." Ratchet muttered. "But not impossible, unfortunately. We need to act quickly."

He thought for a moment, then turned to Jazz.

"In the records, Optimus asked Ironhide to look into Sentinel if he ever disappeared. We should find him. See if he has anything to say. Certainly, he'd have been removed from Trypticon by now, but there might still be a chance he heard or saw something."

He looked back to the console, taking the datachip out carefully.

"As for this... we need to make as many copies as possible. Spread them out. We can't afford for this information to be lost. Cybertron needs to see it, and until we can broadcast it safely, we need to make sure it's not going to disappear."

Ratchet’s expression darkened.

"Clearly, Sentinel realizes we’re the ones Optimus would have turned to. You don’t just start feeling like you need to look over your shoulder all the time for no reason. They're going to want to know what we know, and they’ll act, sooner rather than later. The faster they move, the faster they can bury Optimus for good."

"Already on it," Jazz said. "I sent Ironhide an encrypted ping as soon as Optimus was arrested. He couldn’t say much back, only that he’s being watched real close. He’s in danger, too. Acting warden, remember? Sentinel’s gonna drag up ancient history against him, like how Ironhide’s the only mech in his whole class who didn't end up either expelled or charged as a Decepticon sympathizer."

Jazz shook his helm ruefully.

"I’m leaking it to every major news outlet on Cybertron, and the surrounding colonies," he said firmly, staring Ratchet down. "It’s already set for automatic release at 2359 joors tomorrow. This can’t wait to be done 'safely,' old mech. Sentinel’s already twisting the story. We’ve gotta get it out now. And so should all of us. It'll be a lot harder to make Optimus disappear once the truth is out."

Ratchet shook his helm grimly. This whole thing was a mess, and it reminded him far too much of the early days of the war.

"And where would we even go?" he muttered. "Back to Earth? Cybertron isn’t safe, and neither are any allied planets or territories. Taking a space bridge would be too risky, with all the surveillance. We’d need a ship that could take us far, on its own, and getting one won’t be easy. Those who could hide us would just as easily turn us in for a hefty reward."

He scowled. He didn’t even want to consider shacking up with Decepticons either. He’d seen too much. He stepped closer to Jazz, whispering harshly.

"I understand we need to act if we want to support our friend. But don’t forget, there’s a protoform among us who hasn’t had the cycles of experience to comprehend what sacrificing herself would even mean. You really think Sentinel will hesitate to execute a 'human' child?"

Jazz stiffened, folding his arms tighter across his chassis, optics narrowing behind his visor.

"Yeah, Ratchet. I do think he would execute her. Without hesitation. That’s why we can’t afford to wait." His voice was low but fierce. "Sentinel's already movin’, already buildin’ his narrative. You think he’s gonna stop? You think he’s gonna have a crisis of conscience? Nah. He’ll paint Optimus as a traitor, paint all of us as traitors, and he’ll use her, too."

Jazz flicked a hard look toward Sari. "He doesn’t see a protoform. He sees a problem he can wipe away and spin however he likes." He shook his helm. "Every klik we wait, Sentinel’s got more time to bury us. We get the truth out first, we’ve got a chance. Maybe we can’t save ourselves in the end, but we can give ‘em something they can’t unsee."

Bumblebee hesitated, but stepped forward. "What about what Boss Bot said?" he asked in a rush.

Jazz looked down at him, quizzical. "What about it?"

"All that stuff... about how it should be him," Bumblebee urged. "That sounded... way too specific to be about nothing. So what does it mean? Why would he say that? Do you think Boss Bot has dirt or something on Sentinel? From a long time ago?"

Ratchet relaxed slightly as Bee spoke, grateful for the question to distract him, even if the answer wasn’t easy. He rubbed at the side of his helm.

"It sounds like it," Ratchet admitted. "Something deep-seeded, for sure. Though..." He frowned thoughtfully. "In my professional opinion, could very easily be related to the break, too. I wouldn't take every angry word as pure truth. Not that he’d mean it. But breaks like that can scramble all your data input and output. Things like that can happen under extreme stress. Especially if there are lingering emotions, old wounds. But... they're not always an honest reflection of a bot’s truest thoughts."

Bumblebee scuffed his pede, glancing uncertainly between them. Still, he pushed forward stubbornly.

"Jazz’s right," he said. "Sentinel’s not gonna stop until he’s dragged us all down so bad nobody will believe a word we say. If we don’t move first, we’re just lettin' him pick us off, one by one."

Bulkhead looked down at Sari perched on his shoulder, his voice low and rumbling.

"We ain't got the luxury to be careful if careful means waitin’ ‘til it’s too late."

Sari stood up on Bulkhead’s shoulder, fists clenched at her sides.

"I’m not scared of Sentinel," she said fiercely. "But I am scared of not doing anything. I don’t want to just sit and wait for him to hurt Optimus. Or any of you."

Ratchet groaned, dragging a servo down his face. "This is all so screwy," he muttered. "I still don’t know what we’re supposed to do. Can’t run. Can’t hide. Not realistically anyway..." A bitter thought crossed his mind. "I fear our best bet might be being too public to disappear easily. Getting as many optics on us as possible."

But then he shook his helm, voice darkening.

"But even that didn’t really save Optimus, did it?"

He looked at the others, each of them in turn, and felt a wave of helpless dread. So little could be done. So little to protect them all. For one terrible moment, Ratchet resented Optimus. Why couldn’t he have just kept his helm down? Why did it have to be Megatron?

But the guilt hit immediately. Because it’s Optimus. And whether he was manipulated or made his own choice, Sentinel’s actions were still abhorrent.

Ratchet ex-vented shakily, and finally spoke aloud.

"I’m worried," he admitted quietly. "Worried that I’m gonna stand here and watch the brightest sparks I’ve ever known get snuffed out, right in front of me, and not be able to do a fragging thing about it." He looked away. "I’ll do my best. But I’m no leader. I’m no Optimus Prime.”

Jazz’s expression softened slightly. "I know, Ratchet," he said, voice low. "We’re all afraid. This is bigger than Megatron. Closer than the Decepticons. And one of our best pieces is already off the board."

Bumblebee shifted uncomfortably again. Normally he’d be the first to bluster that he wasn’t afraid. But this time, he didn’t. Instead, he swallowed, looked at his pedes, and then lifted his chin.

"Jazz is right," he said, voice trembling but bold. "We’re all scared. But I remember what Boss Bot told me back on Earth... when that creepy spider showed up."

He gave a shaky smile.

"Bravery isn’t about not feeling fear. It’s about doing what needs to be done, even when… especially when… you’re afraid."

He punched his open servo with a fist, finding strength in it. "And he told me once that sometimes doing the right thing means breaking a few rules. As long as you’re doing it for the right reasons."

He took a sharp vent. "Boss Bot trusted us to have his back. Just like we trusted him to have ours. We can do this. He trained us for it."

Jazz smiled behind his visor. A real smile, small but proud. Optimus had been right about Bee after all. Heart couldn't be trained.

"You might wanna think about calling some old friends," Jazz said, looking back at Ratchet pointedly. "Very old – and very big – friends."

He stepped back toward the bay door. 

"I’m not delaying the release. Get your statements for the commline ready. Talk to Sentinel if you think it'll do any good. If you wanna run through the maintenance tunnels, I can guide you down. But I’m stayin’ here for as long as I can. Inside info’s gonna be vital. That’s my gig."

"We’ll be ready," Sari insisted, rapidly wiping tears off her face and giving him a tremulous smile. "We won’t let Optimus down."

Ratchet couldn’t help but smile at her courage, nodding with a soft sigh.

"Right. I'll see what I can do. Let's just hope it won’t be necessary." He looked up at Jazz. "I doubt talking to Sentinel’ll change anything... but do keep an audial open. See what you can catch. Anything about Megatron, too, If we can get wind of what the Decepticons are planning, maybe we can find a way to work around it."

He turned toward Sari, offering her a rare, genuine smile.

"You're a brave one, you know that? Bravest of all of us. I'm sure Optimus would be very proud of you. Just make sure you take care of yourself too, alright?"

Straightening again, Ratchet looked around at the others.

"That goes for all of you. If you’re putting yourselves in danger, make sure it's for a good reason. We can’t afford injuries. If things get messy, they’ll get messy fast."

"I’ll have both audials open," Jazz promised. "Even if you can’t comm me directly, I’ll find a way to reach you when needed."

He tapped the console lightly as he stepped away from it.

"I’ll comm you tomorrow, just before the release, to see if you’ve got anythin’. Then I’m goin’ dark. Safer that way."

Jazz turned toward Sari again, offering a gentle smile.

"Listen to Ratchet, kiddo. He knows what he’s talkin’ about, even if he doesn’t think he does sometimes.”

He gently patted her on the head, gripped Bulkhead’s and Bumblebee’s shoulders briefly. And then, mimicking the Earth custom Optimus was so fond of, he clasped Ratchet’s servo firmly.

Ratchet gave Jazz a once-over, nodding sharply, and squeezed his servo back.

"Good luck, old mech," he muttered.

"You take care of yourself," Ratchet replied. "I'll take care of this lot."

Then, Jazz stepped back, cracked the bay door open, and vanished into the darkness beyond.

They watched him go. Sari wiped her face again and took a deep, steadying breath. Then she looked up at Ratchet.

"...What now?" she asked.

"Now?" Bumblebee interjected grimly. "Now, we make some calls. And we look up those very old, very big friends." He looked at Ratchet with fierce determination. "And convince them to help us."

Ratchet nodded wearily.

"Yes. It shouldn’t be too hard to find Arcee. Knowing her, she’s probably already pacing herself into the floor, wondering what to do about everything that’s been broadcast."

He wouldn’t be surprised if she was already trying to contact him.

"For now," he said heavily, "everyone should try to get some rest. It’s late. Take care of yourselves. Be ready to move at a moment’s notice. But stay calm. Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.”

By the AllSpark, it was all such a mess.

And all they could do now was wait. And hope.

Chapter Text

The war council chamber just off the bridge aboard the Decepticon warship Darksyde seethed with quiet energy, strategies and battle groups being discussed under Strika's iron command. This battle hardened but sturdy warship was the largest in Megatron’s fleet since the destruction of his armada by Omega Supreme, and the crashing of the Nemesis thanks to Starscream’s meddling. And, for now, it served as their base of operations and station point for Lord Megatron’s recovery.

Projected hologram maps flickered in the dim room along with the glow of datapads, lines of tactical data cascading across the surface of the elliptical table’s smooth plasmaglass surface with the console screen beneath it. Strika’s tone was clipped and precise, giving no room for interpretation. Everyone sitting across the dark, smooth table gave her their attention, silence and respect palpable. 

"Fuel convoys through sectors 6 and 7 remain unprotected," she said, continuing with a report she had been reading from. "I want Vortex and his aerial units sweeping that corridor between the sectors hourly, until the breach is resolved. No stragglers. No excuses."

Beside her, Oil Slick nodded once, tapping in confirmations on the main console screen. Cyclonus silently tapped at his datapad, taking minutes to confirm assignments and commands afterward to members not present. 

There was a rhythm to the room now. The seat at the head of the table – the command seat – remained vacant for now. Megatron had not yet returned to service, but the Decepticon machine hadn't stalled. Not that anyone could blame him, with the injuries he had suffered at the servos of the Autobots. Strika had filled the vacuum with brutal efficiency, her orders swift and unchallenged. Until now.

The heavy doors rumbled open unexpectedly as Strika prepared to speak again. Every helm turned sharply at the interruption, and every vox and vent fell silent, as Megatron strode slowly into the room.

Armor still badly scorched. Cabling and wires exposed at the transformation seams of his plating. Still standing impossibly tall and foreboding. As if he had been welded together by sheer force of will.

Close behind him, a smaller figure, red and well polished, hurried, scanner still clutched awkwardly in one servo.

"You are not cleared!" Knock Out barked, as if he wasn’t talking to Megatron himself, nearly tripping over his own pedes to catch up with the warlord. "You have not been cleared for active duty, field command, or standing upright for extended periods, Lord Megatron!"

Megatron did not even glance back at him, his helm tilting up just slightly, as if daring anyone in the room to agree with the medic. No one made a single sound.

"I have cleared myself," he growled, voice low and dangerous. The conversation was over.

Knock Out threw his servos up in frustrated surrender. After all, he knew with all optics on him, he would never convince Megatron to go back to the medical bay now. However, he refused to leave the war room, and Megatron’s glare won him one right back, staying close behind the warlord near the far wall. His optics darted over Megatron’s exposed damage as they advanced up the center aisle, taking notes of strains and stretches he would have to check later.

Strika, cut off mid-sentence at the sight of Megatron stepping in, fell silent with the rest of the assembled troops, her optics narrowing. The other officers, focused on her just moments before, fell still at the sight of their master.

Megatron wasted no time. He stopped at the head of the war table, standing in front of his command chair, but did not sit down. He instead stood iron-still, his red optics slowly sliding across the table. Somehow, as half destroyed as he was, just like in the prison, his very presence commanded attention and obedience.

"Decepticons," he said, voice rough but resonant. "Our war is not finished."

The quiet seemed thickened. No one dared to interrupt, even to vent.

"Sentinel Prime has exposed himself, and is no longer hiding behind false peace. His cruelty is bare, and his ambitions clear."

He slammed his fist down onto the table’s command panel dramatically, sending the holographic tactical map of Iacon flaring to life.

"We will return to Cybertron. We will rend open his fortress walls. We will free our own. Blitzwing, Lugnut, Shockwave, Swindle, and every single solitary forgotten spark left to rot there.”

At Lugnut’s name, Strika’s jaw slightly tightened, her optics flashing with fierce, barely contained emotion. Oil Slick’s optics narrowed, and a few others, those who had fought beside their captured comrades, shared quiet, bitter nods.

"But we will not march to our deaths," Megatron growled. "Sentinel is arrogant and witless. But those he surroundsh himself with are not. We will strike across Iacon. Swift and surgical, but brutal and relentless. Death by a thousand cuts. Bleed his forces thin. Tear his attention apart, until Trypticon is fully exposed."

He jabbed a claw at the fortress on the map, optics flaring. "And when his last gate falls open, we will take back what is ours."

The silence broke into motion. Not chaos, nor true rebellion, but a cascade of unsure voices, urgent and searching.

"What squads will lead the outer skirmishes?" "What of ground support? Has Brawl returned?" "Why now? We’ve waited… rotted, for stellar cycles. Why not sooner?"

Megatron's optics flicked from voice to voice, and managed to contain his sneer. Calculating. He took a deep vent.

"Because now," he said, voice like jagged iron shrapnel, "Ultra Magnus is not in the picture at all. Sentinel is inexperienced and overconfident. Now, he believes his control is unshakable. And now, we have the means to shatter that illusion he has painted for himself.”

That answer held just enough truth to silence the room.

"I want recon deployed within the hour. Barricade will lead a small ground division of outriders to scout as many possible diversion locations as possible for when the time comes. Our strike teams will not be airborne. We strike from within. Through tunnels and shadows. The old ways. If you can remember how.”

He let the weight of that challenge hang for a moment. The room had shifted, from tense questioning to disciplined movement. Orders were being issued, terminals synced, and units assembled, even before Megatron dismissed them to get to work.

"Prepare yourselves," Megatron finished, cutting like a blade through the tense silence. "Victory will not wait."

The council began to dissolve into quick-moving squads. Strika gave orders, sharp and precise, organizing the strike teams even now as word was sent to Barricade to prepare his scout teams. Knock Out hovered awkwardly at Megatron’s side until the room began to empty, then leaned in urgently.

"You really should–" he began, voice low, insistent.

Megatron turned his helm just slightly, fixing Knock Out with a look that could have stripped plating.

Knock Out visibly hesitated, then huffed and threw up his servos in exasperation once again. "Fine! Talk yourself into another breakdown," he grumbled. "I'll wait outside. But do not blame me when you collapse into a heap!"

He turned sharply and stormed toward the exit, muttering under his breath about reckless warlords with death wishes. He hesitated just long enough to shoot a glare back at Megatron. “At least sit down!” he huffed, before exiting the room, leaving Megatron alone, spare for Strika.

As the doors hissed closed behind him, Strika crossed her arms, optics sharp and appraising.

"You keep strange company these days," she said dryly. "Even aliens."

Megatron's optics narrowed faintly. But his voice was calm, almost philosophical.

"Velocitron was seeded by Cybertronian colonists," he said evenly. "Knock Out may call another planet his homeworld, but his spark was forged from our line." 

He turned fully to face her, his frame battered but unbowed. And he did, in fact, lower himself into the command chair with visible effort.

"He is Cybertronian, Strika. As are we all. Even those the Council chose to forget."

Strika regarded him for a long, unreadable moment. "You are changing," she said finally, voice low, but not quite a growl.

Megatron gave the faintest shadow of a smile. A crack in the iron mask reserved only for his one real friend. 

"No," he said. "I am remembering."

A heavy pause lingered here as Strika studied him.

"You name Lugnut," Strika said, voice roughening. "You name all our prisoners. But you are fighting for another, too."

Megatron did not flinch. He didn’t move at all. Merely blinked slowly at her, not so different than he had at Sentinel during the opening arguments of his trial.

"Optimus Prime," he said, voice low, "is a wedge in their shield. He is the fracture that will bring their lies to ruin."

He took a slow but deep vent as he straightened his spinal strut, every movement deliberate, heavy with intent. 

"I once sought only to destroy what they built on our backs. Now..." His optics burned brighter. "Now I seek to reclaim it. Rebuild it. Not only for the Decepticons… but for every Cybertronian pressed beneath the Council's pede. Even those who cannot see it yet. Those who bear the brand of Autobot without knowing it makes them slaves."

Strika’s mouth twisted, pain and grim understanding battling across her face.

"And what if you are wrong?" she pressed, voice sharpening. "What if they do not see it? What if they betray you, as they have before?"

Megatron’s optics gleamed at her, cold and inexorable.

"They are not so different from what we once were," he said, voice low and burning. "Crushed beneath Autobot Command's gauntlet. Lied to and weaponized for the benefit of the gilded few."

He lowered his helm slightly, but kept his optics pinned to her, gaze heavy with meaning. "You were one of them once, Strika. You and I both. Sparked into a system that chained us at creation, taught us to kneel, to obey, to die for a cause we never chose, and never saw the truth of until someone rose up to defy it.”

Strika's fists clenched at her sides, old memories flickering behind her optics. Memories she rarely allowed to surface.

"I rose," Megatron said, "because I knew we could be more. Because I believed you could be more."

His voice dropped lower, fiercer. "And now I believe they can be, too."

Strika said nothing. But the iron edge of her stance softened, if only slightly. A heavy pause stretched between them. 

"And if they refuse you?" she asked quietly.

Megatron’s gaze burned into hers.

"It is not me who must convince them," he said.

Strika's optics narrowed sharply.

"The Autobot hero," she said, half disbelief, half contempt.

"The Autobot hero," Megatron repeated, confirming, voice low but unwavering. "The one who bled for them. The one who broke himself trying to uphold their so-called justice."

He leaned in slightly, voice deepening.

"They will not listen to a warlord. But they may still listen to a Prime."

~*~

Outside the war room, Knock Out leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed over his chassis, tapping his pede in an impatient, metallic rhythm.

"Fragging stubborn glitch..." he muttered under his breath. "Marches into the war council room half-exploded and expects me to nod along like some fragging nursemaid..."

He paused, optics narrowing toward the sealed doors, the burn of concern creeping back through his sarcasm.

When they finally hissed open, Knock Out straightened instantly.

Megatron emerged under his own power, as always. But just barely. His stride was firm, but there was a subtle falter to it now, a tremor in the hydraulics that hadn't been there before. Knock Out said nothing at first. He stepped in beside him, smooth as shadow.

"Took you long enough," he drawled, voice dry. "Thought maybe Strika had welded you to the war table just to prove a point."

Megatron said nothing. A faint twitch in his intake might've been amusement – or pain. Hard to say.

After a few quiet paces, Knock Out exhaled sharply and moved instead to walk beside him rather than behind. "You’re lucky you’re as terrifying as you are stupid. Another mech would've flatlined halfway through that speech."

Still no response.

Knock Out shifted closer, just slightly. Just enough that when Megatron’s stride faltered again, he didn’t need to lurch to catch him. Just a subtle lean, a controlled step, to keep the warlord from tumbling

"You're going back to medbay," Knock Out said.

"Not yet," Megatron rasped.

"Yes, yet," Knock Out snapped, sharp and controlled. "You are leaking. You’ve literally left a trail behind you. That’s not dramatic exaggeration.” He gestured behind them pointedly.

Megatron gave a low growl. "The council is done. There is no need–"

"There is every need," Knock Out interrupted, voice tightening. "They followed your voice in there. They're going to follow your war plan. But if you collapse in front of them, they will lose faith… or worse, start trying to shelter you. You want to command this army? You have to look like the warlord, not the casualty."

That silenced Megatron more effectively than a barked order. A moment passed. Then, finally, he sighed, and nodded.

Knock Out smirked, smug but relieved. "Good. Now do us both a favor and pretend you made that decision yourself."

Another low rumble. Not quite a threat… It was almost approving.

As they turned down the hall toward the lift, Knock Out’s voice dropped again. "And, Lord Megatron? Next time you want my attention, pick something less suicidal."

A long pause. Then, low and under his vents, "Next time, I will try flowers."

Knock Out blinked, shocked, but it passed quickly, and he grinned.

~*~

Back in the war room, Strika stood alone beside the now dimmed tactical map. The hum of the machinery had quieted, but the air still carried the weight of Megatron’s presence, like ozone after a storm.

She did not speak as another came to join her. Her back still to the seat as he sat in it. Only after a long silence did she glance sideways at Oil Slick, who remained near the edge of the table, watching her with that unreadable, chemical-sharp gaze of his.

"He should not be on his pedes," she said, voice low, “let alone issuing war orders and preparing for an invasion.”

Oil Slick inclined his helm. "And yet, none dared challenge him."

Strika's optics dimmed, jaw tightening. "He burns brighter than ever. But that fire... it is not the same."

She looked back to the door Megatron had just exited through.

"He is no longer just our liberator. He wants to be something more. Something... unifying."

A long pause.

"The others will follow. Even if they do not understand. They will follow because it is him."

Her servo clenched, gauntlet creaking. "So we make sure he does not fall. Not this time."

She turned back to the map, optics sharpening. "Prep the strike teams. Begin encryption scrambles and blackout drills. I want simulations running by the next joor."

Oil Slick gave a short nod and moved to obey.

All around the ship, as orders came in, bots began to move in tandem. Not with uncertainty, but with motion, determined and focused. Because whether they understood him or not, Megatron had given them something to strive for again. Something to aim for.

And Strika would see it held.

Chapter Text

The buffer whirred steadily in Arcee’s servo as she worked her way along a scorched seam in Omega Supreme’s outer hull. Though she was just a speck of pink against a sea of orange, her motions were confident and practiced, like this wasn’t the hundredth meter of plating she’d polished that day.

“You’re healing better than Ratchet expected,” she said, tone bright as she ran a servo along the freshly cleaned panel. “Stubborn old mech will be almost disappointed.”

From somewhere deep within the metal, Omega’s voice came low and slow, rumbling like waving sheet metal.

"Hull integrity at seventy-three percent. Energy flow uneven. Systems compromised.”

“But holding.” She gave the panel an approving nod. “And you’ve got me now. I might not be Ratchet, but I’m a fast study.”

A pause followed. Arcee had come to expect plenty of those. Omega’s thoughts moved with the same weight and slowness as his limbs.

“You are less familiar.”

“I was supposed to deliver your activation codes, but I didn’t make it. Got a one-way trip to stasis instead, courtesy of Lockdown.” She leaned into her next motion, scrubbing a deep carbon scar. “Ratchet carried the codes. He did a good job too, far as I can tell.”

“Ratchet trusted. You are newer.”

She chuckled. “Guess I’m still re-earning my stripes.”

Another long pause. Then a more difficult comment. “Optimus Prime changed. Supports Megatron.”

The buffer hesitated in her grip. “Yeah,” she murmured, resuming her work. “He does.”

“Megatron enemy. Bringer of war. Reason for suffering.”

She nodded slowly, more to herself than him. “I know. That’s the part that’s hardest to swallow.”

“Conflicting data. Decepticons destructive. Cruel. Deceitful. Enemies of all Autobots.”

Arcee’s voice dropped lower, more serious. “Yes. That’s what they are. I don't know why Optimus is supporting Megatron. But Ratchet has told me before he trusts Optimus, implicitly. Even if he doesn't always understand. That his spark is in the right place even when he's wrong."

Omega took a long time to answer.

“Ratchet does not trust easily.”

“No,” she agreed. “He doesn’t.”

Her shoulders tensed as she moved to a new section of scorched plating. The buffing tool hummed against the steel. “If Optimus were really compromised, Ratchet would be down in Trypticon himself, making sure he never got out.”

Omega’s next words were quiet enough she nearly missed them. “Then why would Optimus Prime support Megatron?”

She looked up at the sky for a moment, optics narrowed against the starry sky. “I just don’t know,” she repeated honestly. “But I trust Ratchet. And so through him, I also trust Optimus. And neither of them do things without a reason.”

Another long silence passed. The kind that felt like it spanned lifetimes.

Finally, Omega spoke again. “I do not want another war.”

“Me either,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Then came the chirp of her comm. She glanced down, already recognizing the code. “Speak of the glitch.” She shut off the buffer and tapped the line open with a forced steadiness. 

.:: Arcee here. ::.

The line crackled, encrypted, off-grid, and stretched between too many layers of security. Then came the voice. Tired, clipped, barely audible beneath all the static, and unmistakable.

.:: It’s me. ::.

She exhaled hard through her vents. .:: You’ve got some nerve calling like this, Ratchet. ::.

.:: I wouldn’t if it wasn’t urgent. ::.

There was a pause.

.:: Thanks. For staying with Omega Supreme. I know he’s not easy company these days. ::.

Arcee’s jaw tightened. .:: You didn’t call to chat about Omega. What’s going on? ::.

The silence on the other end was brief, but heavy. Then came the blunt truth.

.:: Optimus is being held in Trypticon. Right where Megatron was, right down to the cell. Sentinel had him arrested after Megatron escaped, made a show of it. You probably saw the broadcast of his arrest. ::.

.:: …I saw. ::.

.:: What you didn’t see was the interrogation. Or what they did to him before the arrest. ::.

She stilled. .:: What do you mean? ::.

.:: I mean he broke. Fragmented. I’ve suspected for a long time he had some sort of trauma split. Never told me what caused it. But this… this was worse. Sentinel pushed him past his limit and tore through every defense he had. An insider got me the footage. I saw it. ::.

Her servo clenched unconsciously around the buffer still in her grasp

Ratchet continued. .:: And despite all of that, he still went public. Still spoke up for Megatron. Knowing full well it would paint a target on his back. Knowing exactly what the Council would do. ::.

Arcee didn’t respond.

.:: Tomorrow, our source is going to leak the files. All of it. Megatron’s torture, Optimus’s breakdown, the full record. We’re expecting hell to fall. And when it does, we’ll need a place to disappear. ::.

.:: You want us to hide you. ::. Arcee leaned against Omega’s plating, throat tightening. 

.::I want to keep them safe. Bumblebee. Bulkhead. Sari especially. Sentinel’s going to come for all of us when the truth’s out, and we’ve got nowhere left to run. ::.

Still, Arcee didn’t answer.

.:: I know it’s a lot. And I know Omega’s still recovering. I won’t ask him to fight. But if you’ve got the space… if you can move… then I need to know. Because I don’t have anywhere else to go. ::.

Her optics dimmed slightly as she looked up toward the stars. 

.:: You really think this will change anything? That anyone will care Megatron was tortured? That Optimus cracked under pressure? ::.

.:: I don’t know. But he was already cracked. Sentinel just pushed until he shattered. Even cracked, he still chose mercy. Still chose for himself, not what they told him to be. ::.

She glanced toward Omega's center console, knowing he could hear the comm relay through his systems. From deep within the hull, his voice came again, low and slow.

“Optimus Prime is still my captain. Still worthy.”

Arcee looked down, silent for a long moment. Then she lifted her servos back to her commbead. 

.:: I will send you our coordinates. We’ll make space. ::. She flicked her commbead off.

The night around them was quiet again, save for the faint groan of cooling metal and the low hum of Omega’s core beneath her pedes.

They’d just made themselves accomplices to treason.

She turned, slow and deliberate, to face the towering wall of orange and steel behind her. “You heard everything?”

“Yes.”

“Still think Optimus could be compromised?”

A pause. Not the kind of pause that meant processing. The kind that meant choice.

“No.” Omega’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. “He is suffering. But he chooses. Even when broken.”

She let out a breath. “Then we’d better be ready to carry him.”

With a practiced leap, Arcee vaulted onto one of the embedded maintenance lifts and ascended into Omega’s dorsal access channel. Inside, the air was stale and dim, lit only by low red maintenance lights. She keyed in her override and started the auxiliary systems one by one: life support cycling, stealth fields warming, inner hull segments beginning reconfiguration.

“We’re going to have guests,” she called up toward the core. “Bots on the run. A techno organic, too.”

“Cargo capacity available. Heat signatures will be masked.”

She smiled faintly. “Still got it.”

But then Omega’s voice returned, quieter. “Sentinel Prime dangerous. Lacks wisdom. Lacks mercy.”

Arcee’s optics flicked up toward the sound. “You never liked him.”

“He does not lead. He controls.”

A low pulse passed through the ship, signalling systems fully active now. The deck beneath her vibrated faintly as the old titan stirred to full awareness.

“I will carry them," Omega said simply. “I will carry all of them.”

She nodded, jaw set. “Then we’d better make space. Sentinel won’t take long to realize what’s happening.”

~*~

Ratchet stood hunched beside the dimmed console of their temporary safehouse. It was an abandoned service depot on the city outskirts, wedged behind a broken energon line and some long-forgotten warehouse data tower. His servos were tight on the edge of the control panel, his frame bowed forward like the weight of the last few joors might finally drag him down.

As the comm with Arcee cut out, he slumped backward against the wall, one servo scrubbing over his tired faceplates. “AllSpark help us,” he muttered. “She said yes.”

Behind him, a faint clang echoed as someone moved through the upper level scaffolding, probably Bumblebee trying to stay quiet and failing. Ratchet didn’t have the energy to bark at him.

Heavy, ungrateful pedesteps approached.

“You okay?” Bulkhead asked gently.

Ratchet grunted without looking up. “Define ‘okay.’”

Bulkhead hesitated, then sat down beside him on the ground with a metal creak. “She’ll take us, huh? Arcee?”

Ratchet nodded. “And Omega’s coming online, too.”

Bulkhead let out a low whistle. “Guess we’re really doing this.”

“We’re not doing anything yet,” Ratchet snapped, more tired than angry. “We’re just hiding. We’ve got one solar cycle before Jazz drops the data, and once that happens…” He shook his head. “Sentinel’s going to burn half of Iacon to find us.”

Bulkhead looked up at the ceiling. “She’ll be okay. Right? Sari’s tough.”

“She’s still just a kid,” Ratchet said. “She shouldn’t have to be more than that.”

He stared at the blank comm screen, still showing the last coordinates Arcee sent. A flickering hollow triangle marked the distance they would have to travel to get to Omega. If anything went wrong, if they were tracked, if Sentinel traced the signal…

He snapped the panel shut irritably.

“Would you please tell Bee to stop pacing?! He’s going to wear through the floor!”

Bulkhead hesitated, then nodded and stood. “We’ll hold the line, Ratchet. We always do.”

Ratchet didn’t answer. He just leaned forward again, optics narrowed on the dark screen. One more cycle. One more chance for the world to see what was really done. And then, whatever happened next, they’d either rise together, or fall for good.

~*~

The lights in Optimus Prime’s apartment were too bright for this kind of work. Did the mech always like lights so bright?

Jazz adjusted the dimmer subtly with a flick of his servo, letting a warm haze settle over the wide-paneled walls. It wasn’t just about ambience. Shadows were his friend right now. Shadows didn’t ask questions. Shadows didn’t report to Sentinel Prime.

A patrolbot from the local police precinct stomped past the threshold behind him, thudding bulk first, sensors running lazy scans of the already-sanitized room. The official line was that this was a routine sweep, part of the “evidence retrieval” following Optimus’s arrest. Nothing suspicious. Nothing urgent. Just some officers doing their job.

Jazz kept his back turned to them, hunched slightly over the desk console, expression impassive as he keyed through secured partitions like he was following orders instead of morals this time.

“Find anything?” someone called from the hallway, one of the beat cops, maybe, or one of the new enforcers from the academy. Too green to know who he was. Too loyal to question why Sentinel Magnus's lieutenant himself was digging through a traitor’s datapad.

Jazz didn’t look up. “Nothing you’d find useful,” he replied coolly, voice even. “No signs of encrypted comms. No stored Decepticon channels. Just the usual commline chatter.”

Another voice, this time from the back room: “You think he was already working with them before the trial?”

Jazz’s digits danced quickly across the screen. He pulled up an old diagnostic routine, public access, nothing suspicious, and routed the piggyback breach script beneath it. 

“I still got doubts he was working anything, Jazz answered. “Look at this place. He doesn't even have traces of tech more advanced than a datapad. Not clean enough to be a scrub job, either. Hardly points to a Decepticon inside intelligence operative.”

The data packet he'd rigged, the curated, horrifying record of Sentinel’s cruelty, Megatron’s torture, Optimus’s interrogation, the breaking of a mind live on feed, was already embedded.

A Decepticon signature was overlaying now, drawn from a fragment of Shockwave’s old access cipher. It was corrupted just enough to look like a brute-force breach through Optimus’s terminal. Any forensic sweep would find it. And Sentinel would find it too neat, too obvious, just enough to scream something was off putting.

That was the point.

Let Sentinel blame Optimus for it when it was obviously a set up. So obvious he'd be forced to accept it was unbelievable when the Council queried. Let it be just believable enough to catch attention, and just unbelievable enough to shift the narrative.

A ping lit the console. Jazz tapped it silently. Leak timer initiated. Countdown: 20.6 joors. Set to broadcast to all major public commlinks, all media outlets, all public and private transmission lines he could find, multiple redundancies, untraceable exit pings... Chaos.

He sat back, shut the console, and pulled the encryption chip. It was done. Tomorrow, the truth would fall like thunder.

The patrolbots were still sweeping the far rooms. Jazz swallowed hard and took a slow, steadying vent.

This is what you're worth, OP, he thought.

“Finished here,” he called out, turning from the desk. “Nothing to flag. We’re clear.”

He didn’t look back as he strode past the guards and out of the room.

Chapter Text

The command center at Metroplex was usually slow at this time in the cycle, though it was always the kind of quiet that screamed beneath the surface. Hollow, stretched, and brittle, made worse by the somehow continual presence of the Acting Magnus, who managed to be present twenty joors out of the day, hovering like a waiting Seeker to strike at anything below that dared step out of place.

Sentinel stood in the upper ring overlooking the data floor, arms folded behind his back, watching logistical reports flicker in soft green light across the terminal before him. Patrol redeployments. Energy grid failures. Refugee dispersal. Political damage control disguised as order. Absolutely none of it meant anything important. He scrolled one file forward. Another. Then another. And then–

“Sir,” a comms officer’s voice cracked across the floor, breaking the low lull into surprised silence, his tone tense and unsure. “Civilian media feeds just lit up. Multiple channels.”

Sentinel’s optics narrowed. “Specifics?”

“Multiple encrypted sources. Internal. I…” The young mech blinked at his console read.

Before another question could be asked, the main wall of console screens, down for the day, activated, one by one, from left to right, lighting up like a row of firebombs. Static surged across them as they flickered to life, then fell away, leaving the consoles on but undamaged.

And then, one by one, the feeds began to flicker to life.

One feed showed the interrogation room at the bottom of Trypticon. Megatron was bound by wrist behind a too-small chair and his ankles shackled to the ground just far enough to keep him from moving. An energy prod pressed up sharply against his side. His frame spasmed as electricity crackled through the layers of plating, energon spitting against the floor. He didn’t scream, of course, but the heavy, animalistic snarl was enough. The damage showed, and the agony was visible in every locked joint and twitching servo. The interrogator’s voice, offscreen, cold, clinical, and unmistakably Sentinel’s, asked an endless stream of questions.

Another feed showed the same interrogation room, or one identical to it, but with a very different setting and occupant. Optimus Prime sat at the table alone, staring at  the gray interrogation table. His head was bowed and his vox crackled with the build up charge caused by trying to keep in his trauma. Sentinel’s voice pressed into him as he loomed from above - accusing, belittling, tearing him down as low as he could manage. Optimus resisted. Then pleaded. Then shattered. Fragmentation took hold in slow collapse, a mixture of screaming, static-ridden dialogue, and sorrow. His body heaved with silent sobs and his servos shook violently against the table.

The third feed showed the stark and sterile Trypticon medical bay, with Megatron, Optimus Prime, and Fixit. Megatron, cuffed to the medical berth, energon dripping sluggishly from the massive wound on his leg Fixit was welding back together. Still battered and covered in old battle wounds. Optimus grimacing angrily, gripping his axe as he watched with clear pain and contempt. “I wasn’t aware sparing patients from torture was now considered insubordination. Classifying anesthetic as a comfort item… What in the frag is Sentinel thinking…”

Finally, the fourth feed. The least visually variant. Perhaps the most damning. A silent feed. Megatron, sitting on his far too small berth. Then trying to lie down, but clearly unable to properly. His cell spattered with dirt and oil and spilled energon, filthy by any standards, as filthy as his body still was. Then… nothing. No movement as the footage sped up, as indicated by the time stamp in the corner. Joors ticked like nanokliks. Even whole solar cycles. No refueling. No interaction or inspection. Occasional rising and pacing, trying to stretch his injuries, only to sit back down and fail to recharge again. Deprivation and negligence, documented by its own absence of action. Literally left to rot.

Across the room, no one moved. Even the consoles stopped beeping, as if they, too, needed to witness what was happening.

“Get them off the air! Now!” Sentinel shouted, his voice sharp enough to shatter glass. The room descended into chaos, as everyone in the room scrambled to control the situation.

A joor later, the door slid open. Jazz stepped in like a shadow slipping between cracks in the wall. Calm, precise, no drama in his step this time. Just the sharp sense of someone who had already seen everything, and was the only one not surprised.

“Sir,” he said quietly, “we got a situation.”

Sentinel turned to hIm. “You think?!” he barked in a brittle voice, barely heard over the cacophony of the command room. Two of the four feeds were still online.

Jazz didn’t flinch. “I’ve got your origin tag,” he said, voice even. “Broadcast piggybacked through the civilian relay array. Delay-coded and spread across four echo feeds. Started from inside Optimus’s terminal at the Iacon habsuite. Triggered on a network-wide sync pulse, probably routed through the satellite comm uplink.”

Sentinel turned on him sharply. “You were in his apartment?!”

Jazz nodded once. “Standard post-dismissal sweep. You tagged him as high-risk. That means a full audit of all outgoing and incoming communications. I was halfway through the follow-up sweep when Strongarm showed up and yanked him straight to Trypticon. Never got the full scan finished until last evening.”

“And you’re telling me this entire leak started from his terminal?!” Sentinel spat. “That this… this catastrophe, was launched from inside my command structure?!”

Jazz took a slow breath, as if weighing how much truth to offer in a room full of lies.

“The data tag came from his terminal,” he said. “That doesn’t mean the intent did.”

He stepped closer to Sentinel, lowering his voice confidentially.

“Look, I know how this looks. Optimus’s system, timed release, clips from directly inside Trypticon that drop right after Megatron’s escape. Easy to paint it as a conspiracy.”

Sentinel said nothing, but his jaw clenched tight. He looked ready to explode.

“But I’ve reviewed the encoding protocols. This wasn’t a slapdash leak by a disgruntled underling. It was structured, layered, and spliced from multiple feeds and rebroadcast through obfuscated echo loops. That’s black-level net warfare stuff. Decepticon high intelligence grade."

He leaned closer, practically whispering now.

“And more than that… I don’t buy for a second that Optimus or anyone on that crew could’ve pulled this off. Optimus is a good mech, that I believe, sure. But this level of tech savvy? I’ve seen their records. Space bridge repair rejects. Washed-out cadets. They couldn’t sync a thermal buffer without someone holding their connector wires for them. Even Optimus. But someone wants you looking at them. Wants you chasing ghosts inside, while they tear you apart from the outside.”

Sentinel’s optics narrowed into slits. “You’re telling me this was sabotage?”

“I’m telling you this was a frame job.”

The feeds kept rolling behind them, Optimus trembling in silence, Megatron flinching as energon spilled and sparks flew from his wounded leg.

“Whoever did this,” Jazz continued, “knew exactly which threads to pull. They didn’t leak the files to expose us. They leaked them to cripple us. They knew what the public would see. Torture, despair. a Prime they trust who stood against it, and an Acting Magnus who silenced him. They didn’t just make Megatron a victim. They made Optimus a symbol.”

A screen near the back wall switched feeds to show surveillance drones now broadcasting the first wave of public reaction. A slow surge from outer Iacon. Then two feeds. Then dozens. Banners bearing Optimus’s face. Graffiti projections scrawled with protest with spray paint. HE DEFENDED HIS ENEMY. WHO WILL DEFEND HIM?

Sentinel stared, cold and silent, his servos curling slowly into fists.

“Lock all communication feeds,” he ordered. “Firewall every channel, outbound and inbound. Isolate nodes. Anyone caught copying the footage, detain them. Anyone redistributing it, neutralize them . If anyone in this room leaks a byte, I will personally dismantle your vocalizer.”

No one responded, except Jazz. He tilted his head slightly and murmured, not unkindly, “That’s going to look real bad, boss.”

Sentinel’s glare turned on him, molten and vicious. “I don’t care how it looks. I care about order. And you,” he leaned in, optics flaring, “will find out who did this, and you will end it.”

Jazz inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked out, the chaos still spinning behind him, already preparing for the next move in a game he wasn’t sure could be won.

As he left, a messenger rapidly approached, handing a datapad silently to Sentinel. He snatched it wordlessly from the smaller mech, his face somehow turning even more sour. "Frag," he hissed between gritted denta, turning sharply on his heel and storming toward the door.

"Mirage Major!" he shouted over the cacophony. "Assume command of the room until I return. I have a Council Meeting to attend."

~*~

The chamber of the High Council in the Metroplex fortress was quieter than it had been in solar cycles. Much more quiet than the unrest happening outside. The circular room, built in the age of the first Autobots and refurbished a hundred times since, gleamed with polished restraint. Every curve of steel, every gilded crest, every seat positioned for authority and judgment. No music played nor banners hung. Even the central data stream, normally pulsing with citywide news, remained still, a single flickering glyph echoing across it. 

Security Compromised. Internal Origin Suspected.

At the central podium, Alpha Trion adjusted his crimson mantle with slow, deliberate care. The lines etched into his plating were older than most of the Council combined, and grew deeper still today. His voice, when it finally came, was measured, low, and grave.

“Let it be known that this emergency session of the High Council is now called to order under Crisis Protocol Sixteen,” he intoned. “We are gathered in response to an unprecedented breach of protected military and judicial data, and the subsequent dissemination of classified material to civilian networks across Cybertron.”

He paused, not for drama, but because the next words tasted like rust in his intake, and it showed, however slight.

“The footage released includes scenes of physical coercion, medical malpractice, unlawful detention… and the visible psychological collapse of an active Prime.”

His optics passed over each Councilor. There were eight bots sitting in their seats, the first time they had all been filled since even before the fall of Ultra Magnus, who's seat remained the only one empty. Sentinel stood in the center below, where every one of them could see.

“We begin with Council statements. Councilor Perceptor?”

The mech behind the nameplate labeling him as Head of Ministry of Science, did not hesitate. He rose with the practiced poise of a mech who rarely wasted breath.

“I have reviewed the footage in full,” he droned in his synthetic monotone, servos clasped tightly behind his back. “I verified its authenticity across three layers of forensic encoding. This was no amateur leak. This was deliberate, constructed, and, as far as I can determine, entirely unaltered.”

He turned toward the center, optics piercing Sentinel from behind his spectacles.

“What we are dealing with is not only a loss of data integrity. It is a matter of governance integrity. We saw a prisoner in our custody subjected to unsanctioned torture. We saw a decorated Prime interrogated without legal counsel, driven to a psychological break. And we saw all of it concealed until it was thrown into the public optic by force.”

His voice stayed even, but the corners of his mouth were tense. “I wish to propose a motion for immediate suspension of Sentinel Prime’s acting Magnus authority, until a full independent investigation is completed.”

Sentinel didn’t rise as the chamber stirred quietly around him. His optics were locked onto Perceptor like crosshairs.

Cliffjumper was the next to speak, his plaque simply labeled Head of Cybertron Intelligence. His tone was sharper than Perceptor's drone, and his expression drawn tight across his jaw like a clenched servo.

“Look, I don’t know if we’re jumping the blaster a bit, but what I do know is this: the Council was not briefed on what was happening in Trypticon.” He tapped the datapad in front of him with two fingers, each click punctuating frustration. “We’ve been scrambling to contain rumors, shut down subnets, run patrols on scared civvies, because we didn’t know. You don’t let something this big out without contingency, unless you’re either overconfident, or you didn’t expect anyone, public or private, to find out.” He shifted his gaze to Sentinel, unapologetic. “And neither one makes you look good right now.”

From across the room, Delta’s voice cut in, low and firm, every syllable worn like an old blade still sharp. His plaque labeled him as Outer Sectors Representative.

“With respect,” he said, “we cannot afford a power vacuum. I do not defend what was done. But I will say this: the outer colonies are already unstable. Word of Megatron’s escape has hit the border sectors like a solar flare. If we remove the command structure now, while the high guard is exposed and the Guard’s leadership fractured, we may invite civil war, among the Autobot faction itself.”

His optics swept the room. “Do not confuse accountability with suicide.”

At that, Botanica’s digit twitched near her pad, but she said nothing. She simply leaned back, unreadable as ever. Her plaque read Head of Natural Preservation.

On the opposite end, Glyph looked as though she had been trying not to speak at all. She tapped her own plaque out of habit, barely making a sound. Minister of Historical Integrity. When Alpha Trion gave her a slight nod, she rose. Her voice was quiet and soft, but piercing in its clarity.

“I have one concern,” she said. “History.”

That drew a few puzzled looks, but she pressed forward.

“We are recording everything. Every reaction. Every hesitation. Every refusal to act. If we allow this to pass… if we silence one of our own, allow the torture of another, and say nothing, we set precedent. Not just for now. But for every generation to come.”

She turned to Alpha Trion, not Sentinel. “And future historians will say that we saw, and chose silence.” She sat down again, servos trembling just slightly.

A long pause followed. Sentinel hadn’t moved. Not yet. But the heat rolling off him was palpable. Alpha Trion’s optics swept the other Council members. None of them moved or spoke. He turned at last toward the center dias.

“Acting Magnus. Your floor.”

Sentinel rose slowly and deliberately. The room did not tilt in his favor this time. But it watched. He stood at the heart of the Council chamber, spinal strut straight, servos curled into fists at his sides. But it was not the rigid posture of a soldier under scrutiny. It was something far cold and coiled. He looked not like a Prime at trial, but a warhead waiting for ignition.

“I do not dispute the footage,” he said, voice low and clear. “I do not dispute what it shows. But I will tell you what it means.”

He turned in a slow circle, optics passing firmly over each faceplate in the ring of judges. Not appealing, but challenging. Daring.

“It means we are already at war. You sit here with your codes and your procedures, as though we still have time for votes and subcommittees. As though the Decepticons haven’t already breached our walls. As though Optimus Prime wasn’t compromised."

Perceptor opened his mouth, but Sentinel shot him a glare so hot, it made him hesitate, and fall still.

“You want to talk about precedent? Fine. Let’s talk about the precedent that made me Acting Magnus. Ultra Magnus lies in stasis, comatose. The Decepticon he nearly died fighting is contained, but his master who ordered it is loose. The Prime I assigned to guard said master violated protocol, and is now under investigation for collaboration.”

His voice rose, not shouting, but sharper, each word sharpened to a knife's edge.

“You say I acted without approval. You’re right. I did. Because no one else would. You watched as Optimus went rogue. You hesitated when I brought forward concerns. And now, when the cost of your inaction is laid bare, suddenly you want to be the voice of restraint?”

He looked to Perceptor first. "You want ethics? Try order. Because without it, your ethics are ash.”

To Cliffjumper. “You want accountability? Good. Start with the Intelligence Division. They should have seen this coming.”

To Delta. “You want to preserve the colonies? Then let me lead. You cut the head off the Guard now, and you’ll have riots in before the next solar cycle dawns.”

And finally, to Alpha Trion. “You want stability. Legacy. The dream of a better Cybertron. Then understand the bitter truth. No one remembers the ones who drafted the laws when the walls came down. They remember the ones who kept the lights on.”

Silence stretched like a tripwire. Sentinel took one last step toward the center of the chamber. It suddenly didn't look at all like he was the one on reprimand.

“I will not step down. I will not abdicate my authority because a few spineless cowards on the commline cried foul over things they cannot understand. I have override clearance. I have battlefield authorization. I have been trained in war against the Decepticons by Ultra Magnus himself. And I have no intention of letting this planet burn because you’re afraid to get your servos dirty.”

His gaze cut to Xaaron, who had yet to speak.

“Say your piece.”

Xaaron leaned back, his digits steepled, his expression unreadable. Minister of Interfactional Affairs.

“I propose we table the vote,” he said smoothly. “For now. Let further data be gathered. Let internal inquiry proceed. Acting Magnus will retain authority until the situation stabilizes.”

A ripple of quiet relief moved through the room. Not born of agreement, but of delay. The burden of choice lifted, if only for a moment. Alpha Trion gave a slow nod. “Motion accepted. The Council will reconvene in three solar cycles.”

Sentinel’s helm dipped slightly. Then he turned and strode toward the chamber exit. Just before the doors slid open, he paused. Not looking back and not addressing anyone in particular. But his voice rang through the chamber like a blade drawn slow from its sheath.

“You’ve seen what they’re willing to do. Ask yourself what I’m willing to do to stop it.”

And then he was gone. 

The doors to the Council chamber sealed behind him with a hiss, but the burn in Sentinel’s spark didn’t dim with the silence. If anything, it blazed hotter.

The corridor ahead was empty. Good. He didn’t want to be seen like this. Not burning with betrayal in every circuit. Not when they had dared to entertain the idea that he would fall.

~*~

He stormed into the command room of the Elite Guard a joor later, still burning red hot with obvious rage. The paint on his knuckles had worn down to nothing, and he was ignoring the energon steadily dripping down his digits. The guards on duty scrambled to their feet to salute. Mirage Major stepped forward to intercept, helm bowed, unsure.

“Sir, the leak sources are still being traced. We’ve got fragment trails across the lower blocks, but none definitive.”

Sentinel didn’t stop walking. “Don’t waste time chasing ghosts. Lock down the upper data stacks. Triple-layer all outbound comms.”

He reached his console, energon soaked digits slamming against the panel with the fury of a piledriver.

“Open asset files for surveillance clearance,” he ordered the computer system. “Category: Internal Suspects.”

Mirage stiffened. “Internal, sir?”

“Anyone with any contact to Optimus Prime prior to his arrest. Friends. Colleagues. Enemies. Anyone. I want their comm records, movement logs, energon supply routes… everything. I want to know what additives they like in their energon. No warrants, no flags. Silent tracking.”

Mirage hesitated. “That’s… that’s outside protocol.”

Sentinel’s optics flared at her, and his voice was a dangerous hiss through gritted denta.

“I am your protocol.”

He looked back as the short list assembled. His voice softened then, and that was worse.

“Do you know how you stop a leak, Major?” Mirage said nothing. Sentinel looked at him again, optics cold as space. “You don’t patch it. You follow it. Back to the source. And then you make sure it never leaks again.”

He jabbed a digit at the screen. “Start with Jazz.”

Mirage blinked. “Sir?”

“If he’s clean, we’ll know soon enough. If not…” Sentinel’s optics narrowed. “Then I want him alive. I want him public. And I want every mech on this planet to watch him fall.”

Mirage's hesitation faltered into a slow, obedient nod. “Yes, Sentinel Magnus.”

Sentinel turned back to the console, jaw tight. Somewhere in the subnets, the protests were growing. He could feel the pulse of them like a drumbeat.

Let them chant. Let them whimper. Let them burn. He would be the one who held the line.

Chapter Text

The sky was already turning violet when the transport dropped them off at the edge of the city, the horizon scattered with the skeletons of abandoned warehouse buildings and decommissioned relay towers. They came in pairs. Ratchet and Sari first, the latter wrapped tight in a thermal cloak despite the Cybertronian climate at Ratchet’s insistence. Bumblebee and Bulkhead followed close behind.

The entrance to Omega Supreme’s storage facility loomed like a fallen tower, buried into the rock. A circular hatch hissed open ahead of them, warm light spilling onto the landing platform.

And standing in it, one servo on her hip and the other on the hilt of a blaster she didn’t draw, was Arcee. 

Her optics locked onto Ratchet first. She didn’t speak. Just crossed the distance and wrapped her arms around him in a hard, brief embrace.

“You look terrible,” she said.

Ratchet grunted. “Better than the alternative.”

Omega’s voice echoed through the entryway as the group stepped fully aboard.

“Ratchet. Bumblebee. Bulkhead. Sari Sumdac. You are welcome. Systems have been prepared. Quarters remain assigned.”

Ratchet smiled faintly, pressing his servo to the wall. “Still sounds like you.”

A warm pulse vibrated beneath his servo, faint but real. Recognition, loyalty, the kind of connection only a war-forged titan could express without words.

“Your return is good.”

The corridors were quiet as they walked, slightly dusty with the same dim lights as before, but stable. Each step deeper into the ship felt like peeling back a layer of time. The air even smelled the same, faint ozone and machine oil. Ratchet felt a pang, remembering cycles when this was their whole world, when Optimus was still just a young leader with too much heart and too much weight behind his badge for his age. 

Bumblebee ducked into his old quarters first and gave a low whistle. “Hey… everything’s still here. Even my old racing posters.”

Bulkhead rumbled behind him. “And your old coolant cans, probably.”

“Hey! Shut it! I know where you keep your oil drums!”

Sari followed Ratchet more cautiously, clutching the edges of her cloak tighter. Her eyes were wide as she glanced at the seamless walls, the soft glow of status monitors humming back to life around her.

“This place feels really… tingly…” she mumbled quietly.

“No surprising. Omega Supreme is alive,” Ratchet said. “Just more tired than he used to be.”

They made their way to the central control chamber. Omega’s bridge and brain. Arcee was already there, cycling through diagnostic displays. She looked up as the others entered, her face unreadable. “I prepped the core feeds. You said something about a leak.”

Ratchet nodded grimly. “It should hit any moment.”

She gestured toward the holoprojector in the center of the room. “Then let’s see what Optimus was willing to forgive a war over.”

Ratchet didn’t argue. He keyed in the link Jazz left behind to access the public broadcast link to witness the pre-timed burst routed through half a dozen civilian networks.

The moment the connection formed, Omega’s systems flared. The holoprojector activated with a burst of static. And then, sudden familiar screams rang out over the audio system of the ship. The footage rolled unprompted as Jazz had warned them it would. Megatron restrained, trembling, the electric prod driving into his plating with methodical brutality. Megatron, rotting in his tiny, filthy cell. Megatron, shuddering at the torture guised as medical care with Optimus watching on with ill disguised horror at the sight. Then the last feed for them to witness, the one most prudent to their argument: Optimus trembling, optics tight and far away, his voice breaking as Sentinel pressed, pressed, pressed, until it shattered. Until he shattered.

Arcee stood frozen. Her jaw clenched so tight her frame trembled. Omega spoke at last, his voice a low rumble of tectonic sorrow.

“This was done to them under Autobot control?”

“Yes,” Ratchet said, flatly. He turned to Arcee. “It’s going live now. Across every channel. Every screen and projector.”

Arcee took a step back, one servo over her mouth. She didn’t look away. Couldn’t. “How did this happen?”

“Sentinel Prime happened,” Ratchet growled. “And we let him.”

Just then, the console lights flickered. Omega’s nav systems pinged sharply. Arcee leaned over to read the message and visibly frowned.

“Outbound transit has been restricted,” Arcee said quickly, her optics narrowing. “Sentinel just locked the city down.”

Ratchet’s grunted, unhappy but also unsurprised. “He moved fast. He must’ve had the emergency lockdown protocol queued already.”

“Then we don’t wait. We go now.” Arcee turned to address Omega's command panel. “Can you move?”

The titan rumbled, his plating shifting as engines began to warm.

“I can fly.”

Arcee, taking the hint, sat down into the captain’s chair and grabbed onto the console. “Everyone, hold onto something.”

Warning klaxons flared as Omega Supreme roused to full power. Bulkhead scooped Sari off her feet as Bumblebee threw himself into the wall restraints. Outside, in the sky above Iacon, the seams of a long-forgotten titan split open and bled light. Omega Supreme roared into the sky.

The sound of pursuit came not in klaxons, but in comm interference and shifting vibrations through Omega’s hull. Ratchet braced against a console as the engines rumbled louder beneath his pedes, the faintest tremor growing into a full-bodied quake.

Arcee stood at the front of the bridge, one servo steady on the nav controls, the other flicking through Omega’s sensor diagnostics. Her jaw was set, and her optics reflected the red wash of alert signals.

“Two Elite Guard interceptor shuttles inbound,” she said. “Moving fast. They’ll try to flank us in less than a klik.”

Bumblebee leaned over one of the side monitors. “You think they’ll open fire?”

“Do you think Sentinel sent them out to wave?” Ratchet snapped, pushing Bee away from the console. 

From beneath them, Omega’s voice issued like a deep pulse from the core of the vessel itself. “Weapons systems compromised. Defenses minimal.”

“We’re not here to fight,” Ratchet muttered. “We just need to disappear.”

Arcee’s optics flicked toward the horizon. “Hydrax Canyons. If we make it, they’ll lose us in the interference fields.”

Bulkhead’s optics widened. “The equatorial gorge? You serious? That place eats ships!”

“We’re not a ship,” she countered. “We’re a titan.”

The deck jolted as Omega dipped hard to starboard, forcing everyone to grab hold of the nearest stabilizer rail. Outside, clouds sheared past in a blur of red and silver as energy discharge streaked through the atmosphere. Warning shots from the pursuing Elite Guard.

Sari clung to Bulkhead’s plating as he cupped his servos over her protectively, her voice muffled but sharp with fear. “They really are shooting at us!”

“They’re trying to clip our wings,” Ratchet said, then winced as another shot skimmed the dorsal hull. Omega didn’t even shudder or flinch.

“Minor damage sustained,” Omega rumbled. “No need for concern.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Bumblebee muttered.

Then the landscape changed. One moment they were skimming the atmosphere, and the next, they plummeted straight down. Ahead, the yawning scar of the Hydrax Canyons split the planet’s surface like a wound carved by forgotten titans. Shadowed ravines stretched for hundreds of kilometers, depthless and magnetically shielded by natural ore formations that rendered most modern scans useless.

“Hydrax in visual range,” Omega intoned. “Descent vector plotted.”

The moment they crossed the canyon threshold, the world dropped away. The light vanished almost instantly, swallowed by walls of iron rock and tectonic fractures. Omega’s external lights flared, casting flickering shadows across jagged cliffs and outcroppings that barely cleared their wingspan.

“They’re still behind us!” Bumblebee shouted, watching the console. “I think one’s trying to get a missile lock!”

“Let them,” Arcee said through her denta. “One wrong move in here and they’re the ones going down.”

As if on cue, the whole ship rocked. A ripple of heat passed through the air as one of the flanking shuttles misjudged a turn and clipped a ridge, vanishing in a silent burst of smoke and scattering shrapnel.

Sari gasped. “Are they–?”

“Not our problem right now,” Ratchet interjected.

“Initiating stealth measures,” Omega announced. “Beginning sub-surface glide.”

The lights dimmed. The tremors slowed. The thrum of pursuit faded. Then, silence. They had vanished beneath the surface of Cybertron. The team gathered in the stillness, everyone recovering from the adrenaline crash. 

Arcee wiped a servo over her faceplates. “That’ll buy us time. They won’t risk another pursuit that deep without being able to track our signatures, and they can’t this far under the surface.”

Bulkhead slumped onto his chair, servo on his brow. “So… what now?”

Ratchet exhaled slowly, optics scanning over the readouts. “Now? We catch our breath. We make plans. And we wait for Jazz.”

Arcee startled. “The insider… it was…?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Ratchet, and Arcee fell silent, looking nervous and thoughtful.

Sari slid down from Bulkhead’s servos, sitting cross-legged on the console, her hands still trembling slightly. She looked up at Ratchet. “Do you think he’ll make it out?”

Ratchet look up at the darkened viewport, out at the dark and jagged. He couldn’t bare to answer.

~*~

The holo-map flickered violently, tracking symbols stuttering in and out of alignment. Elite Guard transponders swarmed the airspace over Iacon, but the red mark in the center – the signature of Omega Supreme – had vanished entirely.

“Gone,” murmured Mirage, staring at the terminal. “He dropped below scan range mid-dive. Disappeared into the Hydrax Canyons.”

A moment of stunned silence.

Sentinel’s fist slammed into the console.

“How in the Pit did a half-dead Titan manage to launch under your noses?!”

“Sir,” one of the other officers began cautiously, “Omega Supreme hasn’t flown since his return from Earth. He was marked as preparing for decommission. We didn’t think–”

“Clearly,” Sentinel snapped. He turned sharply, optics blazing, cloak flaring like a shadow behind him. “He took off in full defiance of flight protocol. With fugitives onboard.”

“You believe Ratchet and the others are with him?” asked Mirage Major, standing as his side with arms crossed over his chest.

Sentinel leaned forward over the console, bracing his servos against the edge of the display and still staring at the screen where the transponder had vanished. “Of course they are. Do you really think it's coincidence that right after that data leak hits the public feed, Optimus’s former crew of misfits and miscreants vanishes off the grid with a war machine? They're running. And that means they know something.”

He turned his head just slightly, just enough to give the room a profile of contempt. “Or even worse, they helped Optimus betray us.”

A low murmur passed between the gathered staff.

Mirage grimaced slightly and cleared his vox. “Sir, with respect… Omega Supreme is a decorated war veteran. He’s the one who brought down Megatron’s armada. Ended the war. Some of our own guards served aboard him during the Second Wave. We can’t just–”

“Spare me the history lesson.” Sentinel’s voice was like steel grinding on stone. “The past clearly means less and less around here. Optimus is being hailed a hero for siding with the Butcher of Tyger Pax, and Megatron – Megatron himself – has people wondering if he was right all along.”

He straightened, voice cold and precise.

“Omega Supreme is harboring fugitives. That makes him a target.”

“But sir, he’s–”

“If you’re about to say he’s too noble, too honorable, or too damaged to act,” Sentinel snapped, “then you haven’t been paying attention to how fast loyalty erodes these days.”

He turned to the nearest command officer. “Issue a priority Omega-black order. Hunt down Omega Supreme. If he resists, if he fights, if he so much as moves toward a secure site…”

His optics narrowed.

“You shoot him down.”

Silence. Then, slowly, Mirage nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

His intent may have been to monitor guard patrols... but as time stretched, and stretched, and stretched... Optimus saw no one. Not a single soul entered the Level Four room. He couldn't tell how much time per say, there were no windows or other doors, and inside the cell, the only sound was the soft but incessant hum of the generator that kept his cage up. Even when he had come in, the roar of the Level Three Decepticons had been entirely muted. He had no company at all except for the buzzing, and his dreams.

His dreams were plagued with what he could only assume were continued fragments of his mind. He could see himself in a repair chamber, looking out at purple, black, and silver mechs he didn't know. A red grounder mech much smaller than himself was speaking to several more towering and obvious Decepticons, a few who looked vaguely familiar from his studies, but he couldn't hear them. All he could hear was the gurgling of the fluid around him, and his own repair systems. 

Eventually, a guard did enter the cavernous room that surrounded his cell. Or at least, he thought it must be a guard. But the mech wore what could only be described as riot gear. Optimus couldn't see their face or shape, or even their color. And by the way they were moving, they didn't seem much worried about an attack. They didn't speak to him, instead dropping a single ration cube into the drawer and leaving as quickly as possible, leaving him alone in the semi-dark again. They didn't even try to take the cube inside the cell, or the tiny note datapad, or even the blanket. Optimus was truly and completely isolated. 

Exactly how Sentinel wanted him.

Wake, pace, sleep. That was Optimus's routine here. 

He had no clue how much time had passed. It had been a few solar cycles, at the very least, based on his energon consumption. Time all seemed to bleed together until none of it had any meaning.

The silence was deafening. And it was getting to him. His mind remained quiet for a while, but inevitably his processor began to pipe up more and more, until he began to see his other pieces in the cell with him. They didn't have names. He associated them more with the feelings they held, rather than a title. 

At times, the happy one would soothe him, whispering of joyful memories in his audial and petting him gently as they lay in his berth side by side. Other times, like now... Optimus would stare at the dark corner that the angry one sat in, his pale blue optics locked with its crimson fire.

"You never seem satisfied with any of the choices I make... be it leaning into Megatron's influence, or taking Sentinel at his word,” Optimus muttered allow to the fragmentation.

And the dark one huffed out, and did not look away.

“Because I hate Sentinel. And I hate Megatron. Both have caused us a ridiculous amount of anguish. But most of all, I hate you, for continuing to associate with both of them. For always lending a servo, knowing others are just going to use you.”

"I'm sorry you're stuck with me, then."

“For now.”

"For now?"

“Death is perhaps the only freedom either of us will know, and it'll come for us eventually. One way or another.”

Optimus didn't fall into recharge easily that cycle. He had resorted to bringing the fire smothering blanket out, wrapping it around himself as some form of comfort. The happy one was quiet, and so he had no aid, eventually only falling into recharge because his body shut down on him. 

His dreams confused him, and made his time in the cell all the more disorienting. It wasn't hard to figure out what he was dreaming of. 

He was dreaming of being Megatron.

Yes... if only he could've been strong like him... unwavering in his convictions, and ready to fight back instead of devolving into a sniveling, pathetic scraplet at the slightest bit of intimidation. He had faced much scarier situations before, but none so heavy on the spark as this. 

And as the dreams just became more and more consistent, Optimus was sure he was losing it.

"My processor is fragmenting again... Another piece is forming and it's forming into Megatron, because I'm too weak without him..."

“Are you certain?” the angry one demanded.

"What else would it be? I'm losing it. Talking to my own slagging shadow…"

“Easy, now… No need to be so upset about it... it's more company, isn't it?” offered the happy one.

Optimus could feel the ghostly touch of the happy one's servo run up his arm. He let out a small, pathetic sound.

"I guess so..."

Optimus drank the cube Ironhide had left for him that night, saving the new one as he did the first. 

Sleep. Wake. Sleep. Wake. He didn't even have the will to leave the berth anymore. He was rotting in his own despair.

His servos scratched at his plating roughly for any sort of stimulation. He and his processor fragments had long since run out of things to talk about, leaving him in silence again. 

All he had were those dreams... those sweet, sweet dreams, where he could be strong. Where others could look up at him with respect, adoration, perhaps even a bit of fear. 

And he relished in it, forcing himself to sleep whenever possible. It was his only escape from the terrible, terrible quiet.

Based on the level of noise that slipped through from Level Three every time a guard did enter to ignore him and drop off a cube, the delivery times were scattered and unfixed. Some were dead quiet - middle of the night, possibly. Others were loud and disruptive. Others were downright howling and screaming from the Decepticons in their cages. He never saw the guard's faces. Never heard their voices. They were in and out in a matter of seconds each time. And each day, his energy levels sank lower, and lower, and lower. It wouldn't be so hard to believe a stellar cycle had passed since his arrest. It also wouldn't be hard to believe if it had been less than a deca-cycle.

His dreams were becoming more vivid, and more commonplace, and sometimes lapsing into daydreams with nothing else to occupy him. He still couldn't hear more than muttering and whispers, distant and indistinct shouting sometimes. But he was now walking around, so tall and proud and strong. Speaking with others who bowed to him, passing orders and commands easily, even if he couldn't hear what he was saying. Arguing with powerful mechs, some he recognized as Megatron's generals still at large. He could feel the power of his massive fusion cannon, reattached to his arm and running through his systems. He could feel his strength, so much more intense than Optimus's own, honed by millions of cycles of war. Through his optics, he could see the bridge of a warship, and Cybertron in its sights.

The cell was heavy with silence, broken only by the shallow rasp of Optimus’s vents struggling to cycle air through his battered systems. He sagged in the corner of his berth, helm bowed low, arms locked around his chassis in cold mockery of an embrace. The leg of the berth pressed cold against his back, the floor gritty and stark beneath him.

Time was a wound that refused to clot. Solar cycles, joors, chords, kliks… all of them were meaningless now. There was only the ache, and the slow, inevitable unraveling.

And the voice.

It seeped into his mind like a low tide, patient and cold, but not cruel or even harsh.

"You are slipping," the angry one said.

Optimus didn’t even lift his head.

"You are wearing yourself down to nothing," it continued, almost clinical. "If you keep forcing yourself to endure this, you will shatter. There will be nothing left of you to save."

A faint tremor passed through Optimus’s exhausted frame. He knew it was the truth. AllSpark, he knew it. But he said nothing. The voice – the fragment – ex-vented through him, a vibration more felt than heard.

"Let go," it said, softer now, almost gently. "Sleep. I will take over. I will protect us. You do not have to endure this."

Optimus squeezed his optic shutters shut. The temptation of those words tore through him. Sleep. Just for a while. Just until it stopped hurting so much.

The voice leaned closer, a whisper inside his very spark. "You are not built to survive this," it said quietly. "But I am."

He felt the offer coil around him, not like a noose, but like a shield. He could sleep. He could rest. He could survive. All he had to do was let go.

Optimus's fingers scraped weakly against the floor.

"No," he whispered, his voice raw and harsh and broken.

The fragment paused, as if pained. "Why?" it asked softly, almost gently. "You are alone. No one is coming."

Optimus shook his head, a tiny, stubborn movement.

"You are clinging to a lie," the fragment said, voice tightening. "He is not coming for you."

Optimus flinched, a tiny crack in his resolve. The fragment pressed carefully, like setting a blade to wounded plating.

"He has forgotten you," it said soothingly. "He has moved on. He saved you once because you were useful to him. That is all. You are not needed anymore."

Logical. Merciful.

"If you give up hope now," the fragment said, quieter, "you can survive this. You will survive. Hope will only tear you apart."

The words slipped through his weakened mind like rust in water. And for a terrible moment, he almost believed it. He wanted to believe it. It would make everything so much easier.

But then memory cut through the fog of his static. Not of pain or betrayal. But of light.

Of the cold gleam of the medbay, harsh and sterile. Of Megatron, battered but still functional, speaking without mockery, without cruelty, more genuinely than Optimus had thought him capable of. Red optics locked on his.

If I did ever build that world…I think would want you in it.

Optimus shuddered, his spark flaring weakly against the crushing weight inside him.

"You're wrong," he whispered hoarsely.

The fragment hesitated, sensing the shift.

"He meant it," Optimus rasped. "He meant it ."

The silence that followed was heavy, not with anger, but with sorrow.

"You are going to break," the fragment said, almost tenderly. "I cannot stop that if you will not let me help."

Optimus lifted his helm, optics flickering with weak but stubborn light.

"Then let me break," he rasped. "But I won't stop believing in him."

The fragment recoiled, not in fury, but in grief. It withdrew, retreating like a wounded animal. Still there. Still waiting. Still ready to catch him if he fell too far. But for now, it was his mind again.

Optimus slumped against the berth, dragging the threadbare blanket around his frame, not as a crutch, but as an anchor. He pressed his helm into the rough metallic fabric, breathing in the faint, fading scent woven into it.

Megatron had wanted him in the world he dreamed of. And as long as that dream lived, even faintly, even broken, he could endure.

The silence settled once more, thick and endless. Optimus curled tighter around the blanket, pressing it close against his frame. His vents hitched unevenly as he tried to steady himself, tried to remember the faint weight of hope, tried to remember why he was still fighting.

The cell was cold and lonely. But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the darkness within him did not lunge forward to consume him.

It merely watched. Waiting. And as he drifted on the edge of exhausted recharge, a whisper slipped through the stillness of his mind: not sharp, not cruel, but low and steady.

If he does not come… I will be here.

Optimus's spark ached, both comforted and hollowed by it. A reminder that even if the universe abandoned him, even if Megatron forgot him, even if hope finally died, something inside him would endure. Even if it was only the part that refused to let him fall.

Chapter Text

Megatron had not asked Knock Out for permission to leave the medbay when he’d decided he’d had quite enough of the medic’s hovering. He had not waited for clearance. He had simply stood up, slowly and shakily, walked out with purpose, and not gone back. Every solar cycle since, he had forced his battered frame through grueling joors of planning, drilling, coordinating, and watching. The plans were nearly complete now. All they needed now was his part. The most dangerous part. The most important part.

A three-dimensional projection hovered above the wide slab of his command desk, flickering blue with an incomplete scan of Trypticon Fortress. The scan had been slowly assembled from recon probes and scraps of intercepted transmissions, pieced together by their tech specialists. It wasn’t enough. Not for something this precise. But what choice was there? They had nothing else to work with. While they knew some of the underground structure by weight bearing, they didn’t know for sure what the Autobot’s had altered to turn their fortress into a prison. And Megatron had no intent on going in without planning for every contingency.

He stared at the void where Level Three should have been. This was the level where no probe had reached and no bot returned with information. The level just before where he had been held, and where he knew Optimus was now. His servo curled tightly around the edge of the desk until the metal creaked beneath his grip. He forced it to release with a low, deep breath of self relief. 

A knock at the door was followed by the soft hiss of it opening, unbidden. Strika entered without ceremony, her arms over her chest. “You are meant to be recharging.”

“I have recharged,” Megatron said without looking at her. “Two joors. That is sufficient.”

“That is half of the bare minimum that Knock Out told you that you require.”

“I am not his patient. I am his commander. My wounds have healed and my strength returned. I do not require his permission to do my duty.”

Strika grunted. She stepped beside him as she studied the projection. “Any new insight?”

“Not enough. If we break in this blind, we risk the entire strike team being funneled into a kill box. We need deeper schematics. We need schedules, shifts, routes. I know Sentinel. He will line the halls with bombs and call it security.”

She was quiet a moment, optics scanning his profile. “And the Autobot hero?”

Megatron’s jaw flexed, and he did not answer.

Strika did not push. Instead, she tapped a control on the table. “Then we wait.”

Megatron hated that. Hated waiting. Despite how persistent and patient he was about most things in life, by means of necessity mostly, he hated the edge it left in his spark, as if something were happening without him, as if Optimus might be fading with every second wasted.

He was still staring at the projection long after Strika left the room. Still trying to glean new insight from the exact same information he had been staring at for the past four joors, and getting nowhere. He almost didn’t notice the tiny flicker on his console, designed to be tiny enough to not be noticed by passing optics.

Megatron's optic ridge twitched as the holomap on the desk spasmed, only once, before smoothing out. Just enough to grab his attention. A tiny overlay shimmered into existence atop the projection, unfamiliar code flooding the edges. Not his encryption. Not Decepticon standard. Something much newer, and more subtle. Clever. And dangerous.

He immediately shut down outbound comms and activated a local firewall, servos moving fast and precise. A deep pulse of suspicion throbbed in his spark. This could be a virus. A backdoor. Sentinel’s trap, reaching across the wire to strangle them from within.

As the security net snapped into place, the data resolved easily. No breach alarms, no embedded triggers, not even flagging as malicious on his automatic sweep. The signal hadn’t come from an Autobot channel, or a well used public routing, or even neutral trade lines. It had arrived from inside the Decepticon's own spy network transmission lines, skirting relay towers like it knew exactly what nodes were unwatched. The same frequencies Shockwave had once used long ago to contact Megatron in secret.

He narrowed his optics as files were unpacked automatically before him as he watched the data packet decompress. The contents were somehow more shocking than how the packet had made its way to him. They were detailed, thorough, and impossible to acquire… without inside access. He read each one as they appeared, his spark burning in his chest.

Trypticon schematic blueprints with fully updated infrastructure details.

Active shift rotations of guards in and out of the command center with timestamps.

Security audit of surveillance blind spots with frame-accurate duration cycles.

Override code strings for sub-level maintenance hatches and power grids.

And one final file, isolated from the rest, marked with no tag at all.

Megatron hesitated. His fingers hovered above the file. Some deep instinct warned him… this was personal. He opened it.

The display fuzzed for a moment. Then came the slow feed of security footage. A single room. Dim. Bare. He knew it instantly.

Level Four. The isolation cell. His own former cell.

The same bare naked walls around the wide exterior. The same weld-lined grooves in the floor. The same stubborn stain beside his berth near the rest that he had left on the floor thanks to his damaged leg that had never quite stopped bleeding until it had been welded shut without pain suppressants. 

But those familiar and unpleasant details were not what caught and held his gaze. Curled on the now too-large double berth, as close to the wall as he could get without touching the painful force field, was Optimus Prime. Folded in on himself, armor scraped raw in places, so thin he was near emaciated, curled tightly beneath a familiar swathe of dark silver-blue.

The tin-foil thin, uncomfortable, filthy thermal fire suppression blanket.

His blanket.

The one Optimus had once passed to him through the forcefield with quiet, unceremonious mercy. The one he had left inside the crawl space, when he had been dragged from that cell half-conscious after being tortured to attend his hearing. He had not known what became of it. Now, it was wrapped around the mech who had given it to him. As though the gesture had come full circle, a loop of kindness forged in silence and returned in pain.

Megatron did not speak. He only reached his digit forward and paused the frame.

The image remained. Optimus asleep, or at least with his optics offline, still as stasis, the thin blanket clenched tightly, faceplate drawn and slack with exhaustion that sleep in such a place couldn’t touch. The walls around him felt smaller, darker somehow. The ghost of Megatron’s own memory invaded the feed. He could feel the cold in the floor. The weight in the air. The ache of despair.

He did not realize his servo was trembling until he gripped the table again to still it. No message followed the footage, no signature nor request. But Megatron understood what this was.

A dare. A challenge.

He hesitated. 

No, he realized… A plea.

The still frame lingered. Megatron didn’t move for nearly a full minute, staring down at the captured image of Optimus curled in the cell. Only when the display began to dim from inactivity did he shift again, releasing the table edge, ex-venting once, long and low.

The moment the image vanished, he shut the feed down entirely and wiped the projection buffer of what he had seen. Not archived, not copied, not even referenced in the internal system logs. Whatever the final transmission had been in the packet that now rested in his console, it would live only in his memory now.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his optics. The ache behind his cranial struts had returned, but he welcomed it. Pain had always sharpened him, refined him down to the unbreakable edge. Whoever had sent that footage had risked everything. And they had given him enough.

The same signature knock came again. Strika walked in briskly, as if she'd been on her way the whole time. “Since you refuse to recharge, I suppose I will as well.” She softly shook her helm as she pulled a datapad from subspace. “I finished combing through the known Level Two schedule gaps. I think I can slip an insertion team in through the coolant bay if we time it with one of the scheduled system flushes–”

“We begin the countdown,” Megatron interrupted, his optics still offline as he rubbed his cranial brow.

Strika stopped mid-stride and turned, fully facing him. “You have something.” He didn’t reply except to activate the hologrid again with one well placed blind digit to the panel, this time showing her the full schematic he had just received. No surveillance or footage. Only the logistics.

Strika stepped forward, expression tightening as she realized exactly what she was looking at. “Where did this come from?”

Megatron’s optics were still closed. “An anonymous source.”

“You trust it?”

“No,” he said, flatly as he finally looked up at the projection. “But I believe it. And that will suffice for now.”

She studied the data and said nothing for a long moment. “You understand this could be a trap.”

“I do. It does not matter.” He met her gaze directly. “I will not wait until there is nothing left of him to find.”

Silence stretched between them again. Two ancient war veterans measuring loyalty against truth. Finally, Strika looked away and placed the datapad beside his. “Then I will adjust the insertion timetable. We will need to bait a diversion, something too loud for Sentinel to ignore.”

“I already have the list of targets on final approval. Refineries. Transmission nodes. Things his regime cannot afford to leave vulnerable.” Megatron’s voice was like steel being hammered. “He will scatter his resources. And we will go in while his optics are off the pit.”

Strika gave a short nod. “When?”

Megatron stood, slowly, his frame still heavy but his spark alight. “Two deca-cycles. No later.”

Strika paused. “And if this source tries to contact us again?”

“They will not,” he said simply. “They already told me everything I needed. And knows I will not tolerate another intrusion.”

Without another word, Strika turned and left the warlord to his chambers. The door slid shut behind Strika with a final clunk, sealing Megatron in solitude once more.

He remained seated for several long kliks, staring at the projection again. His optics drifted again to the space where the surveillance footage had flickered to life. Where Optimus had been.

Without thinking, his servo moved to his own chest. He touched the plating where his Decepticon icon rested, the deep slash scar still faintly tender beneath. The place Optimus had rested his servo when he had leaned down onto his shoulder, wept for him, and–

He stopped himself. Clenched his servo into a fist and pulled it away.

Emotions were dangerous. Unpredictable. They softened the edge, dulled the blade. He had sworn long ago that he would wield nothing softer than purpose.

And yet…

He remembered what it felt like to raise himself up, far more weak and exhausted than he would have ever let on, in that cell… to see Optimus there, behind the forcefield, breaking rules just to offer him a scrap of relief. No demands or grand gestures. Just the blanket. A kindness without condition.

Now that same kindness had come back to him. Folded into that image. 

Megatron stepped forward, very slowly, and pressed a servo to the surface of the command table. The surface was cold.

“You have dangerous friends, little Prime,” he breathed quietly into the dark as his spark tightened. “If you can hear me, then know. I have received their message.”

His optics narrowed.

“And I will answer with fire.”

~*~

Jazz didn’t vent until the transfer ended. The final packet link indicator blinked green on his display. Then faded completely to black.

He sat still for a moment longer, servo still hovering over the kill command. His visor glinted in the half-dark of the room, a sublevel relay closet three tiers beneath the Iacon grid. No cameras or movement detectors here. Just the low pulse of coolant lines and the hiss of energy through aging conduits. No one had followed him. He was sure of that.

He’d looped half a dozen security feeds. Overridden two patrol drones. Used access codes no one alive remembered he had. Not even Sentinel.

And Ultra Magnus… Ultra Magnus was still alive. Just barely. Jazz didn’t know if he was aware of what was happening, of what had already happened. Jazz hoped not.

He dropped his servo, activating the kill command. The screen went black as the console completely bricked itself. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as he tried to steady his vents. His spark thudded behind his chestplate like it wanted to claw its way out.

Treason.

The real kind. The kind bots got decommissioned for. Not whispered about. Not brushed aside. Erased.

And still, he’d done it. Because how could he not?

He’d seen the footage. Of Optimus in that tiny cell, rotting. Sometimes barely upright, optics dulled, pacing that cell in dead silence, lying down to curl up. Always under that filthy blanket.. He had leaked what he could. But Sentinel’s grip was too tight. And Optimus didn’t have time.

This wasn’t about politics anymore. It wasn’t about lines or uniforms. It was about saving the one bot in this whole war-torn pit who still gave a damn about anyone.

Jazz ex-vented slowly and reached for the side panel of the console. He slid it open and exposed the buffer crystal and routing memory. The torch hissed as it came online, and in three sharp sweeps he slagged the evidence to glowing slag. The metal sizzled against the floor. Gone. No trace left behind.

He stood, looking down at the molten panel. His reflection stared back at him from the scorched surface, visor glowing faintly, intake set hard.

“I hope you got it,” he said, voice low. “And I hope you’re fast.”

He turned and walked into the tunnels, not pausing once. The shadows swallowed him, and the wire fell silent again.

Chapter Text

"It's just… too weird."

Agent Moonracer frowned, optics flickering rapidly behind her visor as her fingers danced over the terminal keys. The terminal hummed quietly, filtering old security packet logs through a private sandbox instance. Onscreen, a tight knot of code unraveled line by line. Something tucked where it shouldn’t be.

Nautica’s reflection appeared on the screen, calm, composed and analytical. “Find something?” she asked over Moonracer’s shoulder, looking over the tangled code.

Moonracer highlighted the encryption signature of the jumbled code packet. “Okay, look,” she said, more to organize her thoughts than to show what she had to Nautica, as she still had no idea what she was looking at. “It’s pinned to a Class-C archival node. Low priority, barely monitored. But get this: it’s running Jazz’s ID stack. Not a recent login, either. It’s an archived session key from nearly a chord ago, scheduled to activate and transmit automatically. Local transmission data only. That’s not normal. Jazz is good, no one loads time-release authorization tags into dead relay nodes unless they’re planning for stealth infiltration.”

She paused, considering as she looked back at Nautica. “I thought… maybe we should flag it? For internal, low level review. You know… before someone jumps to conclusions?”

Nautica didn’t answer. She stepped forward, leaned slightly, and ran a secondary integrity scan. A moment passed, before she keyed in a command. “Security Protocol Theta-Three. Suspicious packet activity traced to Jazz’s authorization shell. Flagging for breach-level review and High Command alert.”

Moonracer’s jaw dropped open in surprise. “Wait, what?”

“The encryption matches a confirmed identity key,” Nautica said. “Even if it’s forged, the system will accept the trace and auto-prioritize response.”

"It has to be forged!" Moonracer protested. "Or at least manipulated! It’s a planted trigger. This is Jazz we're talking about. Sentinel Magnus's right servo! Someone set him up!"

"No one in Command will care unless it’s proven. And by the time that happens, someone else will have already flagged it. This is beyond our pay grade." Nautica turned back toward her datapad. “If we delay reporting this to Sentinel Magnus, it puts us under scrutiny. You understand.”

~*~

Sentinel stalked through the sublevel corridor, each heavy pedefall echoing through the polished alloy halls. The data vaults hissed open as he approached, security systems parting for him with deference, as every door in Fortress Maximus did. Beyond, several intelligence officers were working at consoles, combing through lines of code, searching for any scraps of information as to what could have led to this disastrous fallout that followed the release of the internal feed. He didn’t wait for a salute or acknowledgement. “Report,” he snapped.

Mirage didn’t seem concerned, even with Sentinel Magnus’s rancor mood. The Intelligence officer flicked one servo toward a string of jumbled code projected between them. “Agents Nautica and Moonracer found this during a routine integrity sweep on a Class-C archival node, 88-A. We’d flagged the node as corrupted or burnout from the security relay grid. That part wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t random.”

Sentinel’s optics narrowed. “Meaning what, exactly?”

Mirage rotated the data field projection. “There was a secondary data masking layer buried under the damaged sectors. Deep stuff. Precision-built. It’s a fragment of an Elite Guard interceptor program, Class 3. Obsolete, but... customized.”

Sentinel’s field flickered faintly and pulled in tighter, as if bracing himself. “Who customized it?”

Mirage tapped one last sequence and pulled up a forensic overlay, and an all-too digital signature bloomed across the display. "Jazz, sir."

For one nanoklik that seemed to drag for stellar cycles, Sentinel didn’t move, staring at the signature in disbelief. “Say that again.”

Mirage turned toward him fully now, face unreadable. “The encryption core contains trace elements of Jazz’s ID stack. Not an accident. He installed it. Disguised it as background noise in the system during a routine protocol update nearly three deca-cycles ago. It would’ve remained invisible if the node hadn’t been corrupted during the blackout last cycle."

Sentinel’s optics were locked on the signature. It flared softly, mocking him. “You’re telling me Jazz embedded spyware in the Guard’s primary archival buffer,” he said, voice low and even, “and no one caught it for almost an entire chord?!”

“To be fair, it was elegant, cryptic work,” Mirage replied. “The chip was set to passively collect low-priority traffic and route selective logs through relay junctions. Someone smarter than most command-level mechs built it. But Jazz... refined it and seamlessly cloaked it into our systems, and perfectly tailored it to avoid triggering high-security monitors.”

Sentinel turned sharply. “Layman terms, Mirage. I don’t have time for your smug nonsense.”

“He planted a bug in our most sensitive systems, Magnus. Our most secure archives were wide open to him. And he was siphoning encrypted data, probably routing it through dead channels. No proof of exfiltration yet, but given his security clearance and the nature of the intercepted files–”

“What files?” Sentinel cut him off sharply

Mirage's field flicked slightly at the interruption, before he flipped the screen to another sequence of code chains. “Internal surveillance footage of Trypticon and Fortress Maximus, patrol logs for all of Iacon, a partial crawl of communications from Trypticon’s central spire and possibly the Metroplex as well. Access logs were rewritten, but the agents caught an irregular echo timestamp. If it’s accurate, Jazz has had access to those logs since the cycle Optimus Prime was relieved of his post.”

Sentinel’s vents hissed sharply as he turned from the console, pacing sharply toward the far wall. His reflection followed him in the polished alloy. “Jazz,” he muttered. “Of course.” The perfect soldier and Cyber-ninja. The polished voice of reason and collaboration. Loyal to a fault. Always just behind Sentinel like a shadow that never stepped into the light.

And now he was a traitor, hiding behind the visor.

“Where is he now?” Sentinel asked coldly.

“Returning from an arrest audit sweep, sector nine interior,” Mirage replied. “He doesn’t know he’s been flagged yet.”

“Good.” Sentinel walked back toward the console, keyed in a private override. The order drafted itself from muscle memory, but he tapped the final line with almost surgical precision.

.:: Authorization: Acting Magnus Sentinel. Immediate extraction of Operative Jazz. Status: Containment. Suspected intelligence breach. ::.

Sentinel raised his head up to look at the cold, calculating Major standing still and watching him. “You’re sure it’s him,” he said quietly.

“I’d stake my spark on it,” Mirage replied, emotionless and steadfast.

Sentinel nodded once, slow and cold. “Then it’s time we reminded everyone that no one is above suspicion. Not even my closest lieutenant. Bring him in.”

Sentinel turned his back to the screen. “The war never ended,” he said darkly. “It just learned how to wear new paint.”

~*~

Jazz moved like a shadow through the lower stacks of Iacon’s central ninth district, his wheels bumping on the warped street. Layers of metal and energy, all humming just a little too loud for his liking, buzzed around him in waves that rose and fell as he passed each building and power relay. Surveillance lines buzzed overhead, pining on his radar every few hundred meters in what was frankly overkill, in Jazz's opinion. Street-level drones lingered longer on corners than they used to and in much greater numbers, like swarming cyber-bees. Not that they did any good to anyone; at this point with the curfew and orders against gathering places, the streets were all but empty.

He passed the final corridor and transformed, stepping into the transit checkpoint between sectors, another new security feature enacted by the great Acting Magnus that was a complete waste of time and resources. A single bored standard Iaconian police unit equipped with only a stun weapon and an Autobot symbol trimmed in gold paint on one shoulder sat behind the scan booth, slouched and half-asleep.

“Afternoon, boss,” said Jazz, handing over his ID chip.

The guard nodded slightly as he took the chip and tapped on his console. “Jazz,” he said with familiarity, leaning back as he waited for credentials he already knew would clear made up their mind. “You’re far out today. Anything interesting?”

“Not especially,” said Jazz, shrugging as he leaned on the check point counter slightly, visibly relaxed. “Just another arrest sweep. Been a ton more of those these days. High priority don’t mean what it used to.”

The guard smirked slightly, and was about to answer when the console gave a low beep. He turned back to it and scoffed in irritation, smacking the device over the top. The screen flickered in protest. Jazz’s vents stilled, as the machine made another low beep, and then the sharp sound of alarm, as every nearby unit was called to the spot. The guard blinked, and looked up again.

Jazz moved first.

A flashbang from his subspace clipped into his fingers and hit the floor before the officer could say his first word. White-out light filled the booth, followed by thick white smoke. Jazz launched himself backward, twisted mid-air to transform back into his vehicle mode, and ran.

The boom of the flashbang still echoed in his audials as he burned rubber out of the checkpoint and into the pipe-like understreets of the Ninth District. Behind him, the sirens flared to life. Old emergency klaxons that hadn’t seen use since the end of the war screamed from the overhead rails, rattling windows and stirring the drones that once floated idle.

From an alley to Jazz’s left, a pair of Elite Guard enforcers hurried in front of him to try and block his path. One with heavy-duty restraint gauntlets, the other with an electromagnetic launcher already spinning up a charge. Jazz veered hard, ducking down a side path just as the first EMP blast tore past his rear fender. Too close.

He darted through the narrowing alleyways as randomly as he could manage, hurrying like water through split piping. Each path he chose brought a new echo behind him, a new foe to evade and outstrip. A stun baton clipped the side of his wheel well as a third officer lunged from cover. Jazz transformed mid-skid, came up low and fast, and drove an open-palm into the guard’s knee joint with a sickening crunch. The enforcer folded, groaning. He didn’t stop to check on the damage he had done. 

The next corner opened into a wider sector gate, and that was when the ambush nearly closed around him. Three guards, two with shields, one with a scatterbeam rifle, and behind them, the unmistakable figure of Ironhide, faster than the rest, heavier and most definitely angrier.

Jazz didn’t wait for the rifle to steady. He surged forward as fast as his pedes would carry him. The first shield-bearer came at him like a wall, but Jazz dove low and rolled under, dragging another flash grenade across his plating and shoving it beneath the mech’s pede. The small explosion threw him off balance, just long enough for Jazz to twist upward, drawing his nunchaku and slamming it into the second guard’s audial sensor array, a sharp cry of pain his reward. Jazz didn’t kill the mechs he it. He never did if he could help it, even Decepticons, but his strikes were brutal in their force, and more than slightly painful.

The third officer, a younger one, trembling, panicked and fired the scattershot rifle. Jazz launched himself off of the second guard into the alley wall, but too late. The wide laser array struck Jazz across the side. His plating sparked, searing black along his left hip, and the force threw him into a pile of storage crates. He hit hard, gasped, scrambled to get out of the line of fire. Pain seared up his spinal strut.

Ironhide shouted from the back. “Hold your fire! I said alive!”

But Jazz was already moving again, denta grit, energon leaking down his side in thin lines. He leapt up, spun over the scattered crates, and kicked the rifle from the shooter’s servos before he could fire again. Even injured, he moved too fast for the young officer to respond. He swept the mech’s legs and bolted through the half-open alley gate before Ironhide could reach him.

His vents were ragged now. The injury slowed him, and had mangled his hip joint to the point that he was unable to transform, forcing him to try to run on pede. Behind him, Ironhide gave chase, faster than he was, relentless answer shouting for him to stop. Jazz didn’t look back. There was no room for regret now, only escape and the hope that what he’d already sent and done would be enough. Every pulse of pain from his leg was like biting down on a live wire, his actuator screaming through his frame as it tried and failed to reset. His stride hitched into a hobble, glitching out in his alarm strewn hub with the pain. He threw himself sideways into the next alley over, bounding off a rusted support strut and diving between two disused transport bays.

He slammed his fist against a service grate and tore it open, sliding down into the spillway. His landing was messy, scraping the side of his shoulder painfully along an old rusted pipe, but he didn’t let himself feel it. He couldn't afford to feel pain. The spillway grate above slammed shut with a sharp metallic snap. The drones had tracked his vector, but they didn’t have visuals anymore. The spillway led down, twisting like a skeletal vein of the old city. He limped forward, fast as he could, his optics flicking to the reflected light trailing behind him. The tunnel narrowed, then opened up into an old maintenance corridor that had clearly been long ago abandoned. The metal here had been painted once, emergency white and orange stripes faded to shadow.

He pushed off a wall to steady his gait. Come on. Just a few more levels. Just one exit-

A drone dropped into view. Jazz threw himself to the side again, tumbling through a half-collapsed hatch. The blast from the caught the edge of his arm, but he rolled through it, landing on one knee, then forced himself up and ran once more. He ducked under low pipework, using it as a shield line. Bolts from the drone exploded above him, sending sparks and heavy chunks of pipe raining down. One smashed into his helm, causing pain to sear through him as it shattered the edge of his visor.

Think, mech. Get smart. Get small.

He paused just long enough to drag a half-melted service panel from the wall and threw it down the adjacent corridor. The noise was just enough to force the drone to pivot to track the sound, and Jazz moved again. He leapt for a low ledge, caught it with his good arm, and swung himself up, vanishing into the subroof structure of the factory husk. He crawled forward, venting hard as he tried to get up again to keep running. His vision was narrowing at the edges. The leg was locking up. He wouldn’t get far like this.

The air stank of coolant and scorched energon. Jazz dragged himself across the cracked metal structure, his leg now useless, trails of energon painting the path behind him. Beneath his shattered visor, one optic flickered with effort to stay lit, and his comms panel sparked every time he tried to speak.

With a wheeze, he slumped beside a shadowed wall, back pressed against the alloyed steel, and hit his comm, hoping Ratchet could hear him wherever he was hiding. .:: This is... Jazz. ::. His vox crackled with static. .:: Ain’t comin’ back. No regrets. So if you’re hearing this... don’t come lookin’. Just... make it count. ::. The comm clicked off.

Heavy pedesteps pounded in the distance. Jazz’s one good servo twitched toward the empty holster at his side, only to find it gone, lost somewhere in the chase and the scuffle.

The steps slowed, and Ironhide emerged from the haze, his bulk dark against the alley’s dying light. His blaster rifle was drawn, and his blue optics bright, but unreadable. 

Jazz met his gaze, and didn’t flinch. “Ironhide,” he rasped, smiling crookedly through energon-streaked derma. “You gonna finish this, or hesitate long enough for Sentinel to do it worse?”

Ironhide’s face was a blank mask, his field tightened into his body, and he didn’t answer.

His comm lit up. .:: Ironhide Prime, ::. Sentinel’s voice snapped, sharp and furious. .:: We lost him on visual. You are closest unit to his last known confirmed sighting. Find him. Isolate and neutralize. I repeat: do not offline him. He is to be taken alive. ::.

Ironhide didn’t touch the comm, or look away from Jazz.

.:: I want him dragged back to Trypticon, in pieces if necessary, but functional. He has information vital to Autobot security. ::.

Jazz chuckled, a ragged and resigned sound. “Kill me now, 'Hide. Don’t let ‘em take me.”

Ironhide stepped closer as he lowered his weapon to his side, his brow creased and optics flickering. “Why, Jazz? Why did you do it?"

Jazz vented out in a pained shudder. “Because Optimus is worth it. Because what they allowed, what they did to him, what they're doing to him right now… They can't get away with it, ‘Hide. Sentinel can't be allowed to destroy everything good the Autobots are supposed to be, everything we are supposed to be, to fulfill his own ambitions.” Jazz gave another pained and shuddered vent, this one much more shallow and wet.  “Maybe one day, the truth comes out. But not if they dig into me. Not if they find my backlogs.” Jazz’s voice dropped, the sound full of static. “You know what they’ll do to me, Ironhide. I can’t let ‘em trace what I did.”

Ironhide’s digits tightened into a fist, before reaching for his blaster again. It raised slowly, and Jazz didn’t flinch.

“Please, Ironhide," Jazz whispered. “Don’t let me be their trophy.”

“...I’m sorry, Jazz.”

The rifle hummed, and a single shot cracked the air.

~*~

The command center lights flickered as Sentinel paced the perimeter of the war table, currently focused on Iacon in sector nine, tracking every report and comm and movement in the hunt for Jazz. A crackle rang in his commbead, and Ironhide's voice came through. .:: Target is down. Confirmed neutralized. ::.

Sentinel touched his commbead as he quickly came to the display relay on the war table, tapping into the feed. .:: Visual conformation. ::.

The console of the war table flickered with a received image. Sentinel dismissed the map and activated the message, sending the image into larger than life proportions above the display table, and catching everyone's attention. Jazz’s body, greyed out and collapsed in a ruin-choked alley, was met with assembled gasps of shock and horror. His visor was shattered, one arm twisted beneath his frame, his ruined leg still leaking, energon painted across his form in a gruesome display of wreckage.

Sentinel’s spark thudded once, painfully, before the fury set in.

He slammed a fist against the control surface, shattering a corner panel and sending the nearest officer flinching backward. The room fell still.

He opened the private line. .:: You what?! ::.

There was a short delay before Ironhide responded, his voice flat and clipped over the secure channel. .:: I followed protocol. He wasn't in his right mind, firin' his weapon all over the place. Civilians were potentially at risk. I warned him, multiple times, to stand down. He refused. ::.

Sentinel’s optics burned holes in the flickering holo above the war table. Jazz had been his chance at extracting a confession, unearthing the rot inside the Guard, the Council, Optimus... And now? .:: Do you have any idea what you’ve cost us?! ::. he hissed through the line, pacing fast now. .:: That slagging traitor was the only known active trace between Megatron’s escape and Optimus Prime collaboration! I wanted him online! ::.

Ironhide didn’t answer. Coward.

Sentinel’s fists clenched, digits flexing tight enough to squeal against the joints. The officers nearby pretended not to notice as he stood over the console table again, staring at the image of Jazz’s body. No interrogation, no confession, no chance to break Jazz on record and discredit whatever sympathies remained for Optimus. No chance to gut him in publicly for what he has done to the Elite Guard. Instead he was left with a greyed out husk, and a pile of unanswered questions. Of course Ironhide had fragged it up!

But maybe… maybe there was still use in this...

He keyed in to his console and began drafting the internal directive. The words came easy as his anger pulsed, neutralized while resisting for the protection of the public, behavioral instability, potential Decepticon influence. Just enough to start shaping the narrative. Let the High Council see him as decisive. Let the other guards see that even their own weren’t beyond judgment. Let him exude quiet strength and firm command.

Still, the burn in his spark didn’t fade as he stared at the frozen image again, Jazz's visor dark, and his armor plating grey and lifeless. Sentinel grimaced in his simmering rage.

You should have lived long enough to break.

Art by swindle.r34 on TikTok

Chapter Text

The heavy doors of the Magnus’s office slid shut behind Ironhide with a hiss as he stepped through it, his stride strong and frame upright. The room was dimmer than usual, the glow of the commander’s console and the overhead lights somewhat softened, the towering windows looking out over Iacon turned to opacity. It was dim and quiet here. Private. Ironhide did not feel comforted by any of it.

Sentinel stood behind his desk near the window, his arms folded in a would-be relaxed position, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately, just nodded once and gestured to the chair opposite the desk. The same one Optimus had sat in not very long ago.

“Ironhide,” he said, voice smooth. “Come in. Sit.”

Ironhide hesitated for half a second before complying, armor creaking softly as he lowered himself into the seat. He kept his optics forward, servos set upon his knees to keep them from fidgeting. It was obvious he understood the severity of this meeting.

Sentinel regarded him for a moment, then ex-vented softly and stepped away from the window, toward the desk. “I read your report. Saw the image you sent.”

He paused. “You did everything by protocol.”

Ironhide didn’t respond.

Sentinel clasped his servos behind his back, his expression softening. “I mean that. Really.” His tone was gentle now, almost kind. “It couldn’t have been easy. You’ve never discharged a fatal shot in the field before, have you?”

Ironhide’s jaw flexed. “No, sir.”

“And now, for your first to be against a fellow Guard. A former friend. I understand how upsetting that must be. How painful.” He crossed the room again, slower now, each step measured.

“I know what that feels like to take a life like that,” Sentinel continued, quieter. “That fracture in your spark after it happens. That second of silence after the blast when you realize what you’ve done. Makes your servos feel dirty no matter how justified it was.” He stopped a few paces from Ironhide, just watching him. “I don’t fault you for it.”

Ironhide’s optics lifted to Sentinel, unsure.

“You did what you had to do,” Sentinel said softly. “Jazz made his choice. You followed your training. The training I gave you. You did everything your training told you that you were supposed to do. Even if they weren’t the exact orders you were given.”

Ironhide’s shoulders tensed, but his expression didn’t change.

Sentinel’s voice hardened by a fraction. “You knew I wanted him alive. You knew what he could’ve told us. About Optimus. About the security breach. About who else might be infected by their poison.”

He circled now, slow steps like a predator with a curious interest. “Yet you claim he reached for a weapon. Resisted arrest. Left you no choice.” 

He paused just behind him. Ironhide kept his expression straight and forward, staring at the window, his spark tight in his chest.

“…I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to understand.”

Sentinel circled back around to behind his desk and leaned down, resting both servos on the desktop between them. “You were close to Jazz once, weren’t you?”

“Everyone was,” Ironhide replied. “He trained half of us.”

“And what about Optimus?” Sentinel asked. “Still think of him as a friend?”

Ironhide didn’t blink. “I think he made his choices. I’ve made mine.”

Sentinel’s optics narrowed slightly. It wasn’t quite the answer he wanted, but it would do. For now.

“Did Jazz say anything before you took him out? About Optimus, or anything else?”

“No,” Ironhide answered immediately, giving a soft shake of his helm. “Well, not really. He was raving at that point. Couldn’t hardly make out half of what he was saying. All I could get out of him was ‘I did it for him’. Not my place to assume who ‘him’ is or what he meant.” 

Sentinel watched him for a long, still moment. Ironhide didn’t blink or look away. Staring right back. The moment stretched. But thankfully, not very far.

“I’m glad we spoke,” he said, cool and aloof again. “I need soldiers I can trust. And I do trust you, Ironhide.” He turned back to face him. “But understand something. If I find out Jazz wasn’t acting alone, if I find even a trace of sympathy for what Optimus has done, I will burn it out root and stem. Regardless of rank. Regardless of past service.” He held Ironhide’s gaze. “You understand me?”

Ironhide stood, nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Sentinel smiled again. “You're dismissed.”

The doors opened with a hydraulic sigh, and Ironhide walked out without a word.

Sentinel didn’t sit. He remained standing long after the doors closed, turning back around to stare out of the window over Iacon. His reflection in the glass looked tired. Angry and uneasy.

Something didn’t sit right. He would find it. Dig it out, inch by inch. No more ghosts. No more traitors. No more surprises.

~*~

The canyon had kept them shielded. Shielded from Sentinel’s scans, from the satellites, from open frequencies. But it also meant that the comm hadn’t come through until it was already too late.

Ratchet stood at the console, hunched over, optics dim. The message had arrived only a few joors ago, timestamped hours before the announcement of Jazz’s death hit the networks. It had been routed through old junk frequencies, bouncing between abandoned relays before Omega’s deep-band receiver finally caught the signal.

A voice message. Brief. Steady. .:: This is... Jazz. Ain’t comin’ back. No regrets. So if you’re hearing this... don’t come lookin’. Just... make it count. ::.

The file ended with a short static burst, and then complete silence. 

Ratchet hadn’t told anyone. He hadn’t needed to. Because just after it came in, so did the news. A frozen stillframe. Jazz’s body, grey and lifeless in a battered alley. Officially identified. Quietly confirmed. The Iacon newsfeeds were already calling him a rogue agent. A rogue hero. A tragedy. A traitor. Their alliances to Sentinel, or to the truth, were on clear display.

Optics across the room flicked to the image projected above the command table, the looping display playing in silence. Ratchet shut it off quickly. They didn’t need to stare at the photo. They already knew it was real.

“He said he'd take care of himself…” Bulkhead murmured, resting his helm against one servo as if it ached to even think about. 

Bumblebee didn’t say anything. He was pacing tight, fast circuits between wall panels, venting sharp bursts through clenched denta. His field prickled with the heat of injustice. “He was just showing the world the truth! ”

“Doesn’t matter to them,” Arcee said quietly from the edge of the room. “They’ll make him a warning. Make him out to be dangerous. Like he meant to hurt someone.”

Ratchet didn’t respond at all.

Sari was settled on Bulkhead’s shoulder, arms hugged around herself, watching them all. So many mechs that had once stood proud at the defeat of Megatron on Earth, now looking like ghosts. “You said you just heard from him,” she prompted gently, looking up at Ratchet.

He nodded. “Yeah. Not live. Message only.”

A long pause.

“Was he scared?”

Ratchet shook his head without hesitation. “Not even close. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Bumblebee stopped pacing. “He should’ve run.”

“He did run,” Ratchet said bitterly. “They just made sure he couldn’t run far.”

The quiet inside Omega’s hull seemed to deepen, the kind of hush that wasn’t natural. The kind that came with loss.

“I should’ve told him to wait,” Ratchet muttered. “To hold the file longer. Just a little longer. He would’ve listened if I had pushed him further.”

“No,” Arcee said, finally looking up. Her voice was quiet, but so sure. “He wouldn’t have.” Ratchet didn’t argue.

Sari sniffed quietly, curling up tighter onto herself. Bulkhead reached up and gently collected her into his servos, holding her safely without saying anything, letting her begin to cry. “They killed him,” she said softly, “because he told the truth.”

“And if we don’t do something with that truth…” Arcee added, her voice suddenly iron beneath the sorrow, “then they’ll do the same to us. One by one.”

The team stood together in silence, their bond fraying but still intact, held together by grief and memory. Jazz was gone. But what he left behind would not be forgotten.

~*~

It was hard to tell how long it had been since the last time they came. Joors? Or a deca-cycle?

Optimus sat on the floor with his back to the berth, frame limp, one arm curled loosely across his chest. The ration cube they'd given him several solar cycles earlier lay untouched in the corner of the berth barely glowing now. He hadn't had the strength to move.

Everything ached. Not his plating… he was beyond that. It was his spark, his thoughts, his identity, grinding against itself like broken gears. He hadn’t heard the voices in a while. Not the way he used to. But lately, they’d been stirring again. Louder, closer, though still indistinct. Like rising water rushing through him. And now–

The door hissed open.

He blinked and turned his helm toward it, optics dim, expecting another silent, riot gear clad guard with a cube.

Instead, two mechs entered the Level Four block, different from the usual riot gear clad guards who usually brought him his ration cube. They wore full face visors, and their armor was matte-black, with no other colors except the small red Elite Guard symbol in the center of their chests. 

Neither spoke a single word to him. One carried his regular ration cube. The other held a narrow rectangular device Optimus recognized at once: a portable projection console. Optimus sat up straighter at the sight of it,  a sudden tightness in his throat and spark. As if he were afraid of the tiny device. As if knowing it would show him something terrible. After all, why else would Sentinel permit the stimulation, no matter what it was. 

The ration cube was set in the drawer in the cell's floor, as per usual. Optimus couldn't even find the desire to retrieve it yet, despite his systems urging for fuel. The projector was placed on the floor, aligned carefully to show its full display at Optimus’s optic level.

Then, without a word, the second mech pressed the activation key. The image sprang to life in front of him, unnaturally bright in the dim, sterile room.

Jazz.

Grey. Still. Slumped in a ruined alleyway, his optic visor shattered, one leg mangled beneath him, energon and machine oil flowing in a dark slow stream down the nearby storm drain, plating dulled to the color of gunmetal and ash.

Optimus didn’t move. The guards left without a sound, the door sealing behind them with a final hiss. Only then did he draw a vent, shuddering through him, sharp and uneven.

"No..."

The word came out dry, small and fragile in his vox. He crawled forward on servos and knees to the edge of the platform, a breath from the forcefield, as if distance would change what he saw. His servos reached toward the image, stopping as the forcefield danced warning flickers of shock across his trembling digits.

"No… please... no."

The image stayed online and bright, frozen in its cruelty. Jazz... He had told Jazz to act. To take the chip. To send the files. To do what had to be done.

And Jazz had. Because Jazz had believed in him. And now he was dead.

His back hit the berth as he crawled back as far as he could, pressing tight against the platform. His legs folded awkwardly beneath him as he crumpled, staring unblinking as pain burst in his spark like fire. His chestplate rose and fell in stuttering jerks as his spark pounded and vents rattled. He pressed the heels of his servos over his optics, trying to smother the world out. Trying to muffle the scream clawing its way up his throat. But it came anyway. A strangled, raw sound, helpless and trembling, that echoed off the walls and carried with it all the pain in the world in it. 

Fragments stirred inside. He tried to shove them away from him, but something still came close. Voices. But not those of the fragments. He howled at himself. 

You did this. You gave the order. You knew what it would cost and you let him go anyway.

You’re not a Prime. You’re a coward hiding in the skin of one.

He died because of you. Just like she did.

His fists slammed into the floor hard enough to split the plating of his servos, energon spilling from the sounds. His field exploded outward, chaotic and unshielded. For a moment, the projector flickered under the wave of grief, but the image remained.

Optimus pressed his head to his knees and rocked forward, a whimper escaping through his lips. He couldn’t vent. He couldn’t stop shaking. There was no one left. No one was coming. Just echoes. Just ghosts. Just that image, seared into his mind.

Somewhere deep inside, the fragment once more slid through the wreckage.

Let me take over. You do not have to feel this. I’ll carry it.

But Optimus shook his head, weakly at first, then again, harder.

“No.” The word cracked, barely more than breath.

Let me–

“No.”

He pressed his servos over his optics again, curling in on himself. “He died because of me. Because I asked him to look into it. I gave him the data.”

His spark ached, a slow burn behind his plating. His whole frame trembled.

“I deserve to feel it.”

The voice fell silent. And the pain stayed. He didn’t move from the floor again that cycle.

Chapter Text

The forward viewport of the Darksyde revealed the looming curve of Cybertron, its ring catching the starlight in a faint silver halo. The view was clean, still, and undisturbed. A homeworld poised in silence.

But Megatron’s optics narrowed. He could feel it. Not the weight of memory, nor the tremors of the war returning to his processor, the thrumming that came before battle. Something quieter, more personal. A signal in the dark. It pulled him like a tide.

You are still there.

Behind him, pedes echoed across the metal decking as the strike team captains began to assemble as ordered. Strika stepped into the bridge’s main projection chamber with her usual unshakable calm, stopping just short of the command dais. Megatron didn’t yet look back to them, optics fixated on Cybertron beyond the viewport.

“Our infiltration cells are in place,” she reported. “All strike zones are within Iacon’s inner perimeter. Industrial sectors, energon routing spires and storage facilities, a Council archive anne. Nothing critical enough to provoke a planetary lockdown, but enough to bait the Elite Guard out of position.”

She brought up a holo-map. Multiple red points pulsed across Iacon’s tidy sprawl. “We hit them hard and loud. Sentinel will respond to any Decepticon presence with direct action from the direct intervention of the Elite Guard. This will force his servo. Let the planet burn in a dozen places. Sentinel will spread himself thin trying to contain it. He will not see the knife pressed to his throat until it has already cut too deep.”

Megatron gave a slow, approving nod. “Timing?”

“Under two joors from signal. If we launch within the next thirty kliks, we hit just as the overnight shift ends. Shift change confusion will help cloak insertion.”

Megatron looked away from the map, back to Cybertron’s surface below. “We cannot afford to launch warnings are to be broadcast ahead of time. But if civilians flee, they are not to be pursued. And if they surrender, they are not to be harmed.”

Strika gave a measured blink. “Sir?”

Oil Slick twisted in his chair to look away from the map and toward Megatron, expression confused. “Since when do we pull our punches on Autobots?"

Megatron turned slowly, his expression carved in steel. Oil Slick hesitated and cowed immediately. “Since the optics matter more than the wreckage. The strikes are diversions. Not the main objective. The less umbrage we instill and civilian energon we spill, the better for our more long term goals.”

He stepped down toward the holomap and swiped the image, changing the city map to that of the more detailed blueprint of Trypticon’s perimeter.

“We will strike with speed and as much stealth as possible, at least as long as we can. Controlled detonations, strategic disarray. Take what you can, but do not risk more than necessary. Sentinel will mobilize toward the first four targets. He cannot afford not to. That opens the window.”

He tapped at one side of the perimeter. Another display flared to life as it zoomed in on a hidden drop corridor from a decommissioned waste channel.

“This is our vector. The Trypticon strike team will launch in a cloaked transport. We land under the comm tower, and drop into the drainage in the east substructure. We make our way through the maintenance tunnels, then cut upward through to the Level Three holding blocks.”

“And the guards?” Cyclonus asked from his corner of the table.

“Any who fight,” Megatron said coolly, “are to be neutralized, without fatality if possible. Any who run from the battle to be ignored, if it will not compromise our position, or otherwise brought down without offlining them. This is not conquest. It is reclamation.”

Strika moved beside him, leaning closer without letting her voice rise. “And Level Four?”

He met her optics for a moment. Only hers. “Yes. The path ends there.”

She nodded once, sharp and discreet. “Then we’ll keep the rest busy.”

Megatron stepped onto the drop platform and triggered his command relay. All comms aboard Darksyde opened wide for him, eager for their launch command.

.:: All units. Scramble for launch. Five kliks. ::.

He looked once more toward Cybertronn toward the faintest echo of a presence pulsing far beneath its surface, as the captains quickly began to leave for their respective strike teams.

Wait for me.

~*~

The stillness in the Hydrax Canyons was unnatural. Even light moved cautiously between the ancient rock faces, filtering down through striated mineral walls in dusty shafts. Omega’s internal lights had been dimmed for solar cycles now, only essential systems online. Cloaking and shielding still held, vents recycled at minimal rhythm. The ship slept with its optics open.

Inside the bridge, Arcee sat hunched over the primary scan array, elbows on her knees, optics narrowed.

“Still nothing definitive,” she muttered. “Magnetic distortion’s jamming half the relay bands. For all I know, it’s just tectonic echoes.”

Bumblebee stood nearby, silent, his arms crossed as he reviewed the faint telemetry that was filtering through. He had become much more quiet since Jazz’s death. Ratchet never thought he’d miss the chatter. “Too many small pings for geology, isn't it?” he murmured. “But not enough for a military mobilization. Could be a decoy. Could be a trap.”

“It's too loud.”

The voice of Ratchet came from behind them, low, grumbled, and absolutely done with being idle. He moved forward from the rear chamber, wiping grease from his digits. He was still working in repairing Omega Supreme, a never-ending task when most of it was done by himself. The others helped, of course, but they weren't exactly space ship technicians, or medics trained in titan anatomy.

“Omega Supreme’s sensors started whining like a brood of glitchmice.”

He tapped the side of the console, pulling up the waveform map, optics narrowing with concentration. “Look, see that pulse spacing? Those aren’t seismic echoes. They’re staggered on purpose. It’s a diversion net.”

Arcee frowned. “That’s not possible. We’re halfway inside a planetary scar.”

“Exactly,” Ratchet said, leaning back. “No way signals this weak make it through the canyon wall unless someone wants someone to hear it.”

Bumblebee leaned in. “How sure are you?”

“Call it a hunch.” He looked up. “And call it him.”

Arcee’s jaw tightened. “It could be bait.”

“Maybe.” He looked out the viewport. “But if it’s not… we miss our only shot.”

All around them, Omega’s voice rumbled low.

“Confirmed multiple synchronized disturbances across Iacon. Tactical correlation suggests coordinated attack.”

Arcee blinked. “Omega, how did you–”

“I listened. Carefully.”

She stood up slowly, servo curling around the back of the pilot’s chair.

“Ratchet, ready the bridge. If this is real, we can’t afford to be late. If it’s a trap…” She trailed off. “We’ll handle it.”

Ratchet hesitated, then nodded grimly.

A moment later, the deck began to tremble. Omega’s internal lights surged from red to amber. Engines cycled online one by one, power humming to full beneath the canyon floor.

“Trajectory calculated. Launch vector cleared. I will carry you.”

And just like that, the canyon cracked open as the warship Titan rose once more.

~*~

Even from their vantage, the view port of the drop ship could see where the other dropships had landed, smoke and tirelight flaring against the silver surface of the plant. The smaller, more discreet drop ship descended like a ghost, shielded from scanners by refractive and Sumdac’s signature cloaking, jamming pulses synced to the chaos erupting across Iacon’s surface. Sirens and alarm lights flickered across the city, distant, but deliberate.

Here, as the drop ship fell outside the wall of Trypticon’s shadow, all was still.

Megatron stood at the front of the hold, silent and composed, watching their homeworld world draw closer. The faint sensation of the bond grew stronger with every klik, like a whisper through a storm. Behind him, Strika braced herself beside the troop rail, ready. She did not speak of Optimus. No one else knew. Yet.

“Touchdown in fifteen nanokliks,” came the pilot’s voice. “Maintenance access corridor. No guard presence.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Open the ramp. Prepare to breach.”

They landed with no fanfare. Just the soft hiss of systems decompressing, and the heavy thrum of pedes hitting steel. The sharp snap of metal cutters flash as the six Decepticons descended into the maintenance tunnels. Megatron, Strika, Cyclonus, Oil Slick, Flamewar, and Cannonball.

The hallways of Trypticon’s underbelly smelled like corrosion, rust, and memory. Megatron pressed his servo to the ancient relay panel embedded in the wall, tracking the flickering currents of security feeds like a predator feeling for the heartbeat of its prey.

“Overload the relay at the junction node,” he said quietly. “Make it look like a power surge.”

Strika nodded once and motioned to Flamewar. She dropped to one knee beside the panel and unspooled a microfilament from her wrist. “Give me ten kliks.”

“You have five.”

A few sparks jumped. A faint whine echoed down the corridor. And then the east wing’s lights surged, and failed.

~*~

“Something’s wrong.”

Strongarm Major’s optics narrowed at the live feed of Level Three flickering in and out. The power spike across the eastern junction was irregular, and the local cameras were dead.

“Probably just be another fault surge,” a tech mumbled, already pulling up the diagnostics.

“No.” Strongarm stood from her console. “During the assaults across Iacon? No such thing as coincident like that.”

She activated her internal comm and barked, .:: Emergency scramble. All squads reroute to Level Three. Possible breach. ::.

~*~

The moment the lights went down, Strika’s team moved up through the maintenance hatch, directly up into Level Three. Two guards at the end of the hall caught the motion, but too late. They tried to raise their weapons as the Decepticons charged. One was disarmed before he could fire and smashed into the ground by a heavy blow from Oil Slick, knocked out cold but alive. The other managed a single pulse that missed, shot before a jagged elbow caught him across the throat.

The prisoners in the first row of cells sat up fast. Most blinked. A few smiled. When the doors opened, they didn’t hesitate.

“You came back,” one muttered in awe, before Cannonball shoved them aside, snapping orders to arm themselves and be ready.

Strika’s crew met them in tight formation. The old drills came back like instinct.

“Spread across the outer corridor,” Megatron commanded. “Jam communications. Collapse their retreat. They will expect chaos… so give them discipline.”

Strika turned sharply toward the distant stairwell. “Reinforcements incoming!”

The first wave arrived fast. Dozens of Elite Guard officers in standard riot gear, plasma batons crackling as they swept into the corridor under red emergency strobes.

“Contain the breach!” one shouted. “Push them back!”

Too late.

Megatron led the charge with Flamewar, Cylonus, and Cannonball at his flank, his fusion cannon discharging in short, devastating bursts. Enough to down, not to kill outright He met the front line head-on with rotor blades drawn, a whirling engine of steel and purpose.

One Guard tried to stand his ground, swinging up a charged pike. Megatron caught it, snapped it in half, and sent the officer flying with a single blow of his servo. The guard smashed into one of the empty cells, and didn't get up again.

“Fall back!” a Guard cried. “They’re breaking the line!”

Behind them, Strika and a few able prisoners surged forward with unfiltered rage. Plasma flared, smoke filled the corridor, and the fire suppression systems finally failed.

“Lord Megatron be praised!” Lugnut howled into the smoke. The Decepticons around him howled right back, even as the battle continued.

~*~

Strongarm shoved a trembling tech out of the way. “They’ve breached Level Three. There’s smoke in the corridor, suppression's out. Eastern wing… All of Level Three cells have been emptied.”

She opened a channel on the highest clearance, even as she ran.

.:: Sentinel Magnus! This is Strongarm Major! Trypticon has been breached! Repeat: Trypticon is compromised! Megatron is here! ::.

~*~

The battle continued to rage, cries of defiance and explosions of heat shimmer echoing through the thick walls. More prisoners were free now, some already fleeing, others falling into line behind the Decepticons with easy familiarity.

Strika slammed the Level Two bulkhead closed and vented her cooling systems, visor coated with debris and flecked energon. She looked at Megatron, his armor scorched, optics focused, and fusion cannon charged. Controlled fury and conviction.

“You go,” she said. “We’ll hold the line.”

Blitzwing looked over Megatron's tight form. He didn't look exactly hesitant. But he didn't move with the same diligence as he normally would. He stepped closer to Megatron, possibly closer than he would have ordinarily dared to.

"He is still zere. Vating for you," came Icy's quiet tone. Quiet, yes, but more sure and sane than Megatron could recall him sounding before. 

Megatron looked at him for a long moment. Blitzwing only nodded and said nothing more, stepping back and flipping to Hothead to help Strika with defending the line. Looking back, Megatron stared through the smoke-choked corridor toward the familiar sealed door at the end.

“Only one way in,” he muttered. “Only one out.”

He stepped toward the control panel and smashed it with a heavy fist. The door to Level Four slid open with a long, shuddering hiss. And Megatron descended into the dark.

Chapter Text

The tactical holomap in front of Sentinel flared to life with another blinking red alert. Then another. And another.

“Energon depot in Sector Twelve just went offline,” Mirage announced across the chamber. “Localized explosion. No casualties, but distribution rerouted. Could’ve been another fault surge.”

“No way,” barked someone else across the room from another monitor. Ironhide, currently on monitor duty as a part of his ordeal recovery (and so Sentinel could keep a close watch on him), turned to look at Mirage. “That’s the third one in a row. And the Sector Five comm tower was just taken out, too.”

A chorus of voices overlapped: technicians, analysts, observation crew, all trying to make themselves heard. Data points lit up in clusters over the war map display at the center of the room. All in Iacon, and all just distant enough from one another to complicate a unified response.

Sentinel stood above them on the raised head dais, arms crossed over his broad chest, optics narrowed. He studied the read outs and displays on the maps, pursing his derma as he tapped one digit against his arm. It was so scattered and random in appearance. Just random enough to be too much for coincidence. But it didn't scream real trouble, either. With all of the riots and civil unrest, some incidences were even expected. It seems the rabble had decided to try to coordinate efforts.

“This is nothing,” he said flatly. “Some opportunistic scavengers or neutral saboteurs, at worst. Taking advantage of the unrest to help themselves.”

“But sir, the timing-” Ironhide began.

“-Is what makes it too convenient,” Sentinel snapped, cutting him off. “Come on, use your helm. Decepticons wouldn’t waste the few troops they have sneaking onto Cybertron just to whack a few energon lines and archival data centers. This is looters, maybe pirates. Not a military push.”

Mirage pauses, then spoke up. “There are rumors going around that Megatron's forces are on the move–”

Sentinel gave a loud, biting laugh. “Oh, please. Megatron’s been licking his wounds since that little escape. He wouldn't throw away the goodwill he's managed to build just to stir the pot here, especially not with so many civilians watching. This isn't war. This is noise.”

“But sir! if it is coordinated–”

“Then it’s coordinated by idiots.”

The room fell still.

Sentinel adjusted his shoulder plating and leaned over the holomap, zooming into a cluster of alert points.

“Deploy additional patrols to Sector Twelve and Fifteen. I want every local precinct captain on full alert. Double local precinct patrol  sweeps near energon storage depots, but I don’t want to see Elite Guard units pulled unless one of those explosions takes out a city block. We do not look weak in front of the press right now.”

A few officers hesitated. He didn’t.

“Move.”

They moved.

But the alerts did not stop trickling in. Within a joor, the map was blooming red like spilled energon spreading out. Not just blinking alerts, but full zone outages. Emergency comms rerouted. Civilian traffic jammed. Sector Nine’s power routing grid had gone dark entirely, and Sector Six had called for aid before falling silent.

Sentinel’s servos were clamped on the edge of the tactical console hard enough to warp the casing.

“They’re faking us out,” he said through his denta. “They’re hitting critical-looking targets to make us spread thin. Keep response teams chasing ghosts.”

Another officer glanced over the holo-display nervously. “Then it’s coordinated?”

“Obviously it’s coordinated!” he snapped. “But not by Decepticons. They’re smarter than this. This is desperation tactics. Neutrals. Old resistance stragglers. One of the slum gangs, maybe.”

Ironhide, now at the communications station, spoke up, his voice tight. “We’ve already sent half the Elite Guard to opposite ends of the city to answer heavy explosions. Sector Commanders are requesting permission to fall back and consolidate–”

“No,” Sentinel snapped. “We hold every front. We don’t give ground. We don’t show weakness. Keep their optics dancing.”

“But sir, if they’re baiting us–!”

“I am not being baited!” Sentinel slammed a fist against the console, cracking the screen. “I’m controlling the board.”

The room went tense and silent. A few of the senior captains glanced at one another.

Sentinel straightened. “Still. Just to be safe. In case it is a Decepticon baiting. I want patrols doubled around Trypticon. I want security layers scanned for infiltration attempts. And if anyone – anyone – tries to run a blackout drill without my explicit approval, I will have them decommissioned.”

Ironhide made a low sound in his vox, immediately drawing Sentinel's attention, and ire. “Something to add, Ironhide Prime?” he asked in a poisonous cadence.

“Well… It’s just that… Are you sure havin’ the extra Elite Guard at Typticon's the way to go, Magnus, sir?”

Sentinel narrowed his optics sharply. But before he could respond, Mirage spoke up.

“I concur with Ironhide Prime, sir,” he said, servos clasped crisply behind his back. “If it is in fact a Decepticon attempt to lure the Elite Guard out to spread thin, logic would dictate that their ultimate target would be Fortress Maximus, not Trypticon.”

Sentinel looked to Mirage, his sharp expression remaining, but his field slightly relaxing. “Explain.”

“The Decepticons have never attempted an assault on the prison before, even when Megatron was held within it. They had to wait until he was in transit to strike. It defies logic why they would attempt it now, with Megatron freed. However, they have, several times in the past, made considerable efforts to obtain the AllSpark, which remains at the bottom of Fortress Maximus's vaults. I conclude that right here where we are would be their most likely target, if this is indeed a consolidated effort.”

Sentinel glanced back to Ironhide, who nodded in agreement with Mirage. A quick sweep of the room saw other officers looking at each other, and at Mirage, seeing the logic of his words, but lacking the spine to speak up.

“Very well,” said Sentinel, nodding slowly at Mirage. “Call for additional units to guard. Fortress Maximus. If it is Megatron and he's after the AllSpark, then he's going to have to cut through every member of the Guard to reach it.”

~*~

The hum of engines was steady, but the tension aboard Omega Supreme was anything but. The crew spoke in quiet voices, barely over the sounds of the rumbling thrusters. But every movement, every clipped reply or glance toward the main display, was heavy with held breath.

Trypticon grew larger on the screen, its brutalist silhouette hulking near the city’s edge, half-buried in the bones of old Iacon’s military sprawl. Emergency alerts flared around its perimeter. Something was happening.

“I still think it’s a trap,” Arcee said, arms crossed tight as she stared at the readout. “We don’t know who’s behind it, and we’re heading straight for the source.”

“No one else has this kind of tactical reach,” Ratchet said as he leaned against the console for balance, Omega Supreme still rushing toward their goal. “Not anymore. Not unless they’ve been planning it for deca-cycles.”

“You’re suggesting Megatron?” Arcee asked, her tone grim but searching.

Ratchet nodded once. “It fits.”

Bumblebee shifted anxiously in his seat. “I thought we were hoping Megatron would come. That he’d… try to get Optimus back.”

“We are,” Arcee said, “but there’s a difference between hope and running in blind.”

Bulkhead looked up from where he sat beside Sari, fidgeting with his servos. “So what happens if it isn’t him?”

No one answered.

The only sound was Omega’s steady, rhythmic pulse through the floor, like the old titan was holding his own thoughts close.

Sari broke the silence. “Then we help anyway.”

All optics turned toward her.

“If it’s not Megatron, then whoever’s in there still went in after Optimus. They still broke into that place. They still risked everything. That has to mean something.”

Arcee’s jaw tightened. Ratchet gave a short, tired nod. He looked at the monitor again, his optics faintly reflecting the blur of fire and signal interference ahead.

“They’ve breached something,” he murmured. “Now we just have to figure out what.”

~*~

The holomap was fracturing into chaos.

Multiple sectors now blinked red in tandem. Civilian channels were flooding with emergency traffic. At least two substations had gone offline entirely. And still, Sentinel stood rooted at the center of it all, snapping orders, denying requests, and pacing like a caged warframe.

“They’re collapsing the outer rings!” shouted Ironhide. “They’re not even trying to hold ground!”

“Which means it’s not a true offensive,” Sentinel snapped. “It’s a smokescreen. But for what? There's still no movement near Fortress Maximus. There’s nothing left worth taking in the outer corridors, unless they’re trying to raid junkyards!”

He moved to the perimeter display, servos braced on either side of the console as he studied the reports.

“Redirect Delta Platoon to Sector Fifteen. Have Beta team fortify the–”

.:: Sentinel Magnus! ::.

Sentinel froze as the audio crackled in his commbead, and through the overhead as an emergency all-call. Before he could even reach up to answer, the comm continued, ragged with static and urgency. 

.:: This is Strongarm Major! Trypticon has been breached! Repeat: Trypticon is compromised! ::.

Sentinel straightened, optics widening with horror.

.:: Megatron is here! ::.

Silence. A gasp from someone near the door. Someone else dropped a datapad.

Sentinel didn’t blink. Didn't move. His expression had shifted, still hard, still controlled, but his optics were burning .

“Redirect every unit,” he said, voice cutting like shrapnel. “I want the Elite Guard on Trypticon’s doorstep. All of them. Now.”

“But sir–”

“ Now!”

Alarms flared red across the ceiling. Clearance protocols were initiated. Dropships armed. Officers sprinted from the room.

Sentinel remained still. His servos slowly curled into fists.

“Megatron thinks he can break in and walk away again?” he growled. “I'll make sure never takes another step.”

~*~

The interior of the command skiff was sterile and quiet, save for the steady pulse of engines and the distant murmur of orders relayed between squads.

Sentinel stood at the fore, his shield generator and lance already drawn, staring out through the narrow forward viewport. His reflection glared back at him, distorted by the display.

Behind him, two Elite Guard tacticians whispered over troop routing updates. Mirage at the long-range comm terminal, trying not to look at the back of Sentinel’s helm.

He knew they were waiting for him to speak. To reassure. To lead.

Instead, he let silence rule.

He could still hear Strongarm’s voice in his helm: Megatron is here.

Sentinel’s jaw locked. “I should have dismantled that rusted hulk when I had the chance,” he muttered.

“Sir?” Mirage looked up at him from the terminal. Sentinel didn’t look at him.

“I gave him mercy by letting him live,” he said quietly. “I gave him justice by allowing him a trial. And they called it cruelty.” His optics narrowed. “Let them learn the difference.”

“Approaching Trypticon,” Mirage called a few kliks later, voice clipped. “We’ll be within visual range in under two kliks.”

Sentinel remained where he was, at the front of the cockpit, helm raised, optics locked on the rapidly approaching warzone. Trypticon’s black spires pierced the clouds below like broken knives. Smoke curled from the darkened east corridor, evidence of close-quarters fighting erupting through the facility.

“Deploy all squads to converge on the eastern quadrant,” he ordered. “Drop in waves. I want overlapping fields of fire. Sweep Level Three and drive them at the choke point. No one gets in or out.”

Mirage tapped the orders into the console quickly, then paused, and gave a small frown. “Sir… we’re getting something.”

“What kind of something?”

Mirage blinked, and his stoic expression paled slightly.

“Titan-class.”

Sentinel’s head turned sharply toward Mirage at last.

“Vector?” he asked.

“Coming in from the Hydrax direction. High-altitude breach. Reading a full energon signature, massive reserves.”

“Omega Supreme.” Sentinel’s expression didn’t change. Not at first. But his shoulders straightened and his servos clenched. He stepped closer to the viewport just as a massive shadow breached the low clouds.

Omega Supreme, scored, scarred, and unmistakable, was descending toward Trypticon’s upper atmosphere, engines firing in pulses, hull still glowing faintly from reentry heat.

The traitors were coming from both sides.

.:: Sentinel Magnus to Elite Guard. Prepare to storm Trypticon. ::.

He took a slow, shuddered vent, but he did not hesitate.

.:: Sentinel Magnus to Steelhaven. Prepare to engage Omega Supreme. ::.

Chapter Text

Another long day.

Or a short one. It was difficult to tell anymore. Time had become formless, collapsing into itself like a black hole, stretching across a void that felt eternal. Everything was beginning to blur together: kliks into joors, joors into solar cycles, each one indistinguishable from the last in this cold, dark, and wretched place. The silence was constant now, the low hum of the forcefield barely registering in his awareness, nothing more than background radiation for a spark that had long since lost the will to fight it.

His only visitors were the guards, faceless, armored specters in riot gear who spoke no words and offered no mercy. His only companion was the flickering hologram of Jazz’s withered, grey frame, that had been constant now since his death.

Even so, even in this state of apathy and sensory numbness, he noticed the flickering of the lights overhead, and the subtle rise of vibrations beneath his berth that trembled upward through the floorplate, a tremor that should have meant something, if he still cared enough to make sense of it.

Then the lights died completely, plunging all of Level Four into darkness so thick it might have been a tomb, broken only by the sickly green shimmer of the energy bars and the occasional flicker of the forcefield that wrapped him in like a tomb.

Somewhere, not far away, he heard the unmistakable sound of running and shouting. Heavy, fast pedesteps pounding against metal. Gunfire crackled soon after in short, chaotic bursts.

Optimus didn’t move.

He had long since given up on the waking world, rising only when energon was shoved into the cell, swallowing it like a machine on autopilot, and collapsing again into dreams that were easier to exist within. He may as well have already been offline. In the sickly light of his prison, his frame looked pale, the rich red and blue of his plating faded beneath grime and disuse, almost grey from starvation and stillness.

Were his optics even open? He couldn’t tell. What he saw was hazy and indistinct, Megatron’s perspective bleeding into his own, overpowering his awareness. The other’s powerful frame moved with purposeful force, carving through smoke and flame with terrifying clarity. He felt it more than he understood it, like a memory not his own, yet comforting in its violence and conviction.

The world shifted again, the darkness tightening around him.

Is this it? he wondered, not with fear, but with a numb curiosity. Have I finally gone offline? Maybe they forgot my energon rations just a bit too long this time. A quiet death… not so bad, for someone who’ll be forgotten before the next solar cycle.

He couldn't summon the strength to mourn it. Not anymore. Purgatory had devoured him so fully, he wasn’t even sure when he’d crossed the line between prisoner and specter.

Maybe I died a long time ago, he thought, staring blankly into the dark. Maybe I’ve just been haunting him ever since.

I hope the others don’t grieve for me too long. I wouldn’t want them to suffer because of my decisions, not even now.

A bitter voice, his own and not his own, growled from somewhere deeper inside. You fool. You soft-sparked, broken fool. You never deserved them.

He blinked slowly, painfully, and saw the familiar dark figure seated across from him once more, crimson optics glowing dimly in the dark.

Pathetic, the dark one rasped. I never thought you would give up.

What’s left to fight for? he thought back dully. Not in here. Not anymore. I’ve already lost.

And then the dream shifted. No… reality did.

A door opened in the distance, sliding open with deliberate slowness, like the vault of some precious relic finally unearthed. Sounds poured in through the widening gap; alarms, shouting, gunfire, the unmistakable roar of chaos erupting beyond the hall.

And through it, striding forward, unhurried and terrible, came Megatron, stepping purposely through the open portal.

The shadow across from him looked up, startled, optics narrowing. Optimus stared, confused, the haze refusing to lift.

What do you see…? he asked it quietly. There was no answer. Only silence. When he blinked again, the dark one was gone. And he was alone.

But now he saw himself. His own body, slumped beneath that silver thermal smothering blanket, unmoving. A broken thing, discarded. Had he spoken aloud? Had he even moved at all?

If I’m watching myself… then maybe I really am dead.

But something deeper, primal and aching, twisted in his spark. And he refused to look away. With agonizing effort, he turned his helm, forcing his optics to focus. They flickered, dim and fading, but they held just enough strength to lock onto the approaching figure at the edge of the forcefield.

"Why waste your time on a broken husk, Megatron?" he asked, his voice little more than a rasp, a ghost of what it once was. "Didn’t you get what you wanted from me? Freedom?"

He pushed himself upright, his frame trembled with the effort, vents hitching as he dragged himself up to his knees. If this was truly the last time, he would not be lying down like trash. He would meet Megatron upright, even if it shattered him.

Megatron approached the barrier with the steady grace of a warlord walking through fire. The garish green light cast deep shadows across his face, highlighting the repaired plating and the fresh gashes scored along his frame. His arm cannon was still spattered with energon. Smoke trailed in from the hall behind him, curling around his silhouette like a cloak. He looked down at Optimus with an expression carved from iron.

“I would not waste time on a husk.” His voice was soft, but it cut through the field’s crackling buzz like a blade drawn from a sheath.

“If I wanted death, I would have left you here, buried beneath the rot Sentinel will claim once this place falls.”

He stepped closer, and his posture held the quiet hum of power restrained. His words came carefully measured, louder now, not to intimidate, but to reach .

“I came because you were right,” he said simply, letting the admission hang in the air like a suspended blade. “About more than I care to admit. And I am not so prideful as to abandon the one bot who dared to challenge me with compassion. To offer me kindness, even when I least deserved it. You saw me, when others only spat. You listened, when your own kind turned their backs. That is not weakness, little Prime. That is the foundation of leadership.”

He paused, studying him. Optimus stared back. The haze was lifting. Slowly, like static draining from his audials, the fog in Optimus’s mind began to clear with every word Megatron spoke. Not to the room, not to the chaos, but to him.

You’re not dead yet.

“Cybertron has known tyrants. It has known cowards, and hollow idols dressed in polished plating. They never asked why things broke. Only how best to seal the cracks with stricter orders, and tighter controls.”

He tilted his helm slightly, voice lowering.

“But you… you asked. And worse, for them, you listened. To me. That made you dangerous. That made you worthy of being broken.”

A beat passed, heavy with unspoken truths.

“And now, it makes you valuable to me.”

His optics glowed brighter in the gloom, twin points of burning crimson.

“I did not come to repay a debt,” he said, the words sharp with his ever present conviction. “I came because this war is not over. And I need a voice that can reach the bots mine never could. Not a weapon. Not a martyr.”

He raised his servo, palm open, steady as stone.

“I need you.”

And with a surge of power, the forcefield fizzled out of existence, the cage dissolving with a final crackle of energy.

Megatron stepped forward, onto the platform.

And extended his servo, offering it freely, not as a demand, but as an invitation. His voice held quiet thunder behind every syllable.

“Rise up, Optimus Prime. You will never kneel before another again.”

The realization struck like a cold surge through his vents, making them hitch involuntarily. The red glow of Megatron’s optics bored into him, not with cruelty or derision, but with something gentler, buried beneath the mask of a soldier and conqueror. It wasn’t softness, no. But recognition.

And that recognition sent a flicker of life into Optimus’s spark, chasing away the numb silence that had wrapped him like a shroud.

He came back for me... He...

He clung to Megatron’s voice as if it were the only tether anchoring him to the world, every syllable drawing him closer to the surface. It was as if the sound itself carried the essence of the AllSpark, and Megatron, despite everything, stood in that moment as something akin to godhood.

His servo trembled as he lifted it, hesitant but willing. The gesture was small, but in it was the surrender of despair, and the reawakening of purpose. From this moment forward, his path would diverge from everything he had once known. A mech risen from the dead, returned to life not by a medic’s tools or the will of the Council, but by the very bot he had once believed to be his greatest enemy.

He reached for Megatron’s grasp. And when their servos clasped, firm, steady, Optimus forced his frame upright, rising shakily to his pedes. He nodded once, slowly, resolve building like fire in his fuel lines.

But before he could be led forward, he held fast, forcing Megatron to still.

"Swear to me," he said, voice still raw but gaining strength. "Swear that everything… everything you've done since the escape, the deaths, the sacrifices… it wasn’t for power’s sake. Swear that none of it will be in vain. Swear, on your spark, that this is all for a peaceful, united Cybertron. One that will be truly free. And not just another tyrant, wearing a different badge.”

His optics, though dim from neglect and starvation, burned now with a fire that had not been seen in him for chords. Bright, unflinching, and desperate to believe.

Megatron looked down at their joined servos. One was smeared with energon and the grime of war. The other trembled, but did not release its grip. There was a beat of stillness.

Then, quietly, without fanfare or theatrics, only with the solemnity of truth, Megatron spoke.

“I swear it.”

There was no hesitation in his voice, no ambiguity. Only conviction. Solid, as always. But deeper now, somehow more personal.

“I swear it,” he said again, firmer, “on my spark and every drop of energon that fuels it: Never again will Cybertron trade one master for another. This fight ends not in conquest. But in liberation."

He stepped closer, voice low and deliberate, locking his gaze with Optimus’s.

“No chains. No caste. No branding marks. No shadow decrees passed behind locked chamber doors. The spires of Iacon will stand side by side with the broken columns of Kaon. And when peace is forged… when true unity is earned… it will not bear my name, nor yours. It will belong to the people of Cybertron. To all who have suffered beneath the High Council’s rule. To all who call this world their home. To all of us.”

His voice dropped to a whisper then, so quiet it was nearly swallowed by the distant echoes of fighting and alarms. Yet to Optimus, it rang as clearly as a vow carved into stone.

“And if ever I waver... if I forget what I promised you here, if power tempts me again… then it will be you, little Prime... Optimus Prime… who must remind me. By voice or by blade.”

He gave Optimus’s servo a firm, grounding squeeze. It was not a command, not a pull, but a quiet signal. They would walk forward from this point together.

“Come,” Megatron said. “Cybertron is waiting.”

Optimus stared at him for a moment longer, searching – truly searching – for any sign of deceit, of ego, of manipulation. And he found none.

“I swear,” Optimus replied softly, “to keep your path straight, just as you have helped right mine. And if ever I fall to ambition… if I lose sight of why we began this... I trust you'll remind me. Without hesitation.”

Their pact, unspoken until now, had taken shape: not as a temporary truce, but as a mutual promise. A covenant between two reborn sparks, forged in the wreckage of their dying world.

Optimus stepped forward. His pedes were unsteady, his joints creaked from misuse, but still he moved, side by side, with Megatron.

He stumbled when stepping off the platform, more a sway than a fall, but he caught himself with sheer will and rose again, holding his frame upright, even as he kept the blanket gripped around himself. He moved like a newly forged cyber-deerling, uncertain and fragile, but he walked forward just the same.

Megatron did not rush him. He released Optimus’s servo as soon as the younger mech had found his own footing, walking beside him with vigilance.

The shadows of the prison did not follow them. They remained behind, with the platform and the silence and the cold. What stepped from the Level Four room, they were not ghosts or fugitives, but two mechs with sparks rekindled, carrying the weight of a world on their shoulders, and with it, the heaviest weight of all – hope.

Art by co-author prynxe_of_darkness

Chapter Text

The sky above Iacon had been thick with smoke since dawn, smoke from bombed roadways, from Elite Guard bunkers, from the controlled detonations the Decepticons had triggered across the outer districts to draw forces away from Trypticon. It clung to the steel bones of the city, settling low over towers and shattered energon lines like a shroud. Even the artificial light of the city struggled to pierce through it now, casting a dull reddish hue across the surface, as if the very air had been stained in rust.

Within the compound perimeter, the remnants of the Elite Guard battalion, those not already diverted or routed, were beginning to regroup. Sentinel had poured resources into retaking Trypticon once the outer spires fell. Orders barked through open commbead channels. Defensive formations reestablished. Restraint fields and riot drones positioned around Level Two and the primary turbolift shaft. There was a sense, however faint, that the tide was turning.

Until the rumble came.

It began as a low, arrhythmic tremor. Not quite like an explosion, nor like a strike. Just pressure. Pressure and weight.  One mech looked up first, a rookie Enforcer with an unpatched shoulder and panic already in his optics. He stared at the sky and dropped his weapon.

“Oh, frag me–”

The clouds didn’t part. They split open, as a massive shape descended from the high atmosphere, blotting out the sky completely. Engines roared like planetary collapse, thrusters kicking up gale-force winds that swept across the open street and slammed into the half-ruined outer wall of Trypticon. Some of the Elite Guard were thrown from their pedes as others scrambled for cover behind barricades set up to keep the Decepticons from fleeing.

And then, with a thunderous impact that cracked the metal ground beneath it, Omega Supreme transformed from his ship mode, and landed.

He stood like a colossus in the dust storm that followed, taller than any tower still standing nearby, his frame braced, his main gun arm already raised up. His blue optics burned, and his voice cut across every open commline.

.:: WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED DETENTION OF PRIME SIGNATURE DETECTED. FORCEFUL EXTRACTION: IN PROGRESS. ::.

Inside Omega Supreme’s command bridge, the crew stood frozen in shock. The deck had stopped shaking, but none of them moved. Ratchet was the first to step forward, his digits trembling slightly as they flew across the console, scanning, filtering, verifying. The silence stretched long. Then, with a vent that almost sounded like a sob.

“It’s him.”

“Optimus?” Sari asked, her voice cracking.

“I’ve got his signature. It’s… It’s so weak… faint… but still running. He’s alive.”

Bulkhead sank to the ground where he stood, one servo over his intake. He didn’t speak. Only the faint, choked venting of someone who had feared the worst. Bumblebee turned sharply, wiping at his face as if to hide it. He leaned against the console and stared sharply at the wall, saying nothing, but the shaking in his frame spoke volumes.

“Where is he?” Sari asked. “Where exactly?”

Ratchet’s voice came tight with emotion, trying to stay clinical. “Level Four. But the power grid’s shot. I can’t unlock the cell blocks from here. No way into the detention levels from the outside.”

A grim quiet fell over the deck. They looked at each other, unsure what to do, knowing full well Sentinel’s forces would be actively on them in nanoklils, if that. Omega Supreme answered, his voice resonant and steady.

“Solution: Manual breach.”

Outside, the Guard lines were just beginning to stabilize when Omega Supreme moved. The whirring of servos shifted into a low grinding howl as his right arm transformed into his impact tool, the heavy vibro-plate stabilizing along his shoulder to offset the impact.

Then, he struck.

The first impact sent a shockwave through the fortress wall, buckling reinforced plates and causing a cascade of sparks to ripple through the grid, sending the line of Elite Guards below scrambling for cover. The second impact sheared plating away completely, exposing interior ductwork and reinforced girders. The fortress itself seemed to scream with pain at being rend asunder.

By the third strike, the wall was giving way. Flames erupted from the breach as compressed air and severed power conduits ignited in a chain reaction. Debris poured out into the open, blanketing the entire eastern yard in smoke.

The group watched from the main observation deck, high in Omega’s chest, shielded behind polarized armor glass.

“I don’t believe it,” Bumblebee whispered. “He’s tearing a hole right through Trypticon’s walls!”

Ratchet didn’t reply. He was still scanning, scanning, scanning. Hoping for movement. Hoping to see something, someone, emerge. Bulkhead finally got to his feet, gripping the railing, optics wide, as suddenly, several someones began to emerge from the breach.

~*~

Inside the walls of Trypticon, the world was rapidly becoming a dark labyrinth of fallen debris and flickering lights. Some levels still pulsed with intermittent power, automated security systems firing blindly into empty air. Others had gone entirely dark, abandoned by the guards when Strongarm had called for all units to report to Level Three. The wall of Level Three, one of the oldest sections of the facility, had cracked under the first siege. And soon enough, the entire wall came down.

Strika stepped back sharply. “Fall back!” she roared, sending the Decepticons scrambling away from the bulkhead as the ceiling began to crack open above them. 

Optimus and Megatron had only taken a few steps out of the shadow of his would-be tomb, when Trypticon shuddered with impact. Automatically, Megatron grabbed Optimus as he stumbled, quickly taking stock of the situation. Shouting troops, crumbling walls, cracking ceiling. He grabbed Optimus in one deft servo, much like he had done in the past, only this time, he held him much more protective against his side as the sky began to fall.

“I can… walk!” Optimus protested, shocked and flustered as Megatron seized him up from the ground.

“But you cannot yet run,” Megatron answered simply as he moved rapidly with the other Decepticons out of the way of the shattering wall and ceiling. “Take your own advice and accept help when you need it.”

From the far side, it sounded like the end of the world. The Level Two bulkhead leading to Level Three shrieked as it caved in, dragging down ceiling supports and security nodes in a rain of sparks and broken steel. The floor trembled, power lines burst from behind the panels, and stale air from ancient ductwork came rushing in, bringing with it a pressure change that felt like the gates of some forgotten underworld had just been thrown open.

The Decepticons inside Level Two watched as the Guards ran away from the collapse, staring as their own force fields flickered and died away. The strongest among them moved first. The cells and corridors bled prisoners like energon through a wound and scattered. The sound of gunfire and shouting guards in the distance could be heard through the shattered bulkhead.

Blitzwing was the first to step forward as the collapse began to slow, standing in the flood lights from Omega Supreme standing over the top of the breach. His Icy demeanor blinked in clear shock, and for a moment, he didn’t seem sure what to make of it. The other parts were far less indecisive.

“VUNDERBAR!” Random howled in his high pitched voice, spinning around to face Omega Supreme with a playfully adoring look. “YoU bRoUgHt Me A HOLE! i LoVe HoLeS!"

A sudden jerk. “MÜVE, müve müve MÜÜÜVE!” Hothead bellowed like a steam engine whistle as he rushed over the debris through the breach. “ ZEY VON’T GIF YOU ANÖZER VUN!”

His shout broke off in manic laughter as he was joined by others, stumbling and limping into the smoke-drenched corridor, past the ruined threshold. Dozens followed from both sides of the broken bulkhead, streaming out of the to meet the lines of the Elite Guard head on. Even without onboard weapons, the warframes rushed out to meet them with all the fury they could muster.

“Come,” said Strika sharply to Megatron, eyeing Optimus who was still trying to get down, before moving forward toward the collapse, thrusting one of her weapons into Lugnut’s waiting arms. 

“Megatron… Put me down! Please!” Optimus said with sudden sharpness. Enough to make Megatron hesitate and look down at him. “They need to see me on my own pedes.” He stared at Megatron with more conviction than he knew he had left. “They need to see me walk.”

Megatron hesitated, for just a moment, looking down at the still very weak Prime. However, he did inevitably lower him down, letting his trembling pedes touch ground again. “Then walk, Optimus Prime,” he said quietly, somehow still heard over the rush of battle outside. 

~*~

The light outside was absolutely blinding. The bright white of Omega Supreme’s flood lights that stood before him made him flinch and stutter in his steps. Optimus held a servo out to shield his gaze as his optics adjusted, stepping out of the breach over the twisted rumble of what remained of Trypticon’s eastern wall and ceiling. 

In the light, everyone could see just how neglected he was... a shadow of his former self. Dirty and emaciated, looking as if he had just crawled out of a tomb.

If only they knew how apt the comparison was. 

A frame thinner than it should be. Dull blue and scraped red. Movement halting, as though every step were a question answered only by sheer willpower. Blinking, he looked up at the massive form of Omega Supreme as Megatron came around his side, drawing his rotor blades as the Elite Guards and the Decepticons battled mere meters away. 

The breach still crackled faintly where Omega Supreme had punched through, with Iacon’s sky visible through the open wound. The air reeked of coolant, smoke, and heat-treated energon. And in the midst of it all, Omega Supreme stood motionless. From within his torso canopy, Team Prime watched, servos pressed to the observation glass.

Bulkhead, who had been so unsure of his own strength until he encouraged him to embrace it.

Bumblebee, who had never wanted to be anything more than a hero under his command.

Ratchet, whose spark had been carried through countless wars and now trembled for one mech.

Sari, who barely remembered life before him.

And there he was. Optimus Prime.

Not marching like a soldier or striding like a victor. Walking, like every step was a hard-won victory against the decay and abuse done against him. His pedes barely lifted from the ground and his vents shuddered with effort. But he was upright, and moving forward. Megatron remained close, not guiding but shadowing, his attention divided between the forces regrouping on either side of the square and the younger mech beside him. His frame moved like a storm held just beneath the surface, still powerful, but turned now toward protection instead of destruction.

“Stay close,” Megatron muttered, just loud enough for Optimus to hear as they moved through the battle toward the drop ship left several meters away from the building and from Omega Supreme. “We do not know when they will strike.”

Optimus nodded once, slowly, though his expression was fixed upward. Because he had seen them.

Across the distance, high above the breach in Omega Supreme’s observation canopy…

They stood. His team. His family.

And for a moment, the battlefield dropped away. He could no longer hear the voices of the Decepticons and Elite Guard around him, nor feel the cracked metal street beneath his pedes. The buzzing in his processor quieted completely. There was only the sight of them. Those familiar shapes framed against the harsh light of a war-torn sky.

Ratchet’s derma moved, clearly calling his name.

Sari waved both arms furiously, optics glinting with moisture.

Bumblebee leaned so far over the railing he nearly slipped.

Bulkhead gripped the edge of the panel like it was the only thing anchoring him.

And the noise of the world came rushing back in.

~*~

At the edge of the battlefield near the command skiff where he had stepped out with Mirage and his other officers in tow, Sentinel stared at the breach, and what was expelled from it. Smoke framed the live feed like an ancient portrait.

Megatron. Optimus Prime. Together .

“...No.”

He gripped his lance so tight, the handle nearly broke. His shield shook as his rage began to boil over, optics so hot they began to glow white around the edges. Steam curled from his ventes as he grit his denta, his spark pounding like a hammer against an anvil in his chassis.

“NO!” he roared. “HE WAS MINE TO EXPOSE! MINE TO END! NOT– NOT THIS!”

His voice cracked into static. He grabbed at his commbead, optics wild. .:: Steelhaven! Descend on my mark! Bring down Omega Supreme, and seal that breach! ::.

“Sir,” Mirage began beside him, hesitating, “Omega Supreme is-”

“Megatron and Optimus Prime are fugitives!” Sentinel was shaking now, vox rasping. “ Traitors to Cybertron. One Decepticon, one disgrace. I don’t CARE what that walking ruin thinks he’s protecting! Optimus is not a Prime! He NEVER was!”

His words echoed, but no one moved. He stared at them still, just in time to see Optimus placing a servo on Megatron’s arm, stabilizing himself for a nanoklik before moving forward again. Together.

Then, Mirage stepped forward toward Sentinel. Blue optics unsure, but determined.

“Sir… The Steelhaven is less than five kliks from entry. There are civilians near… For the Steelhaven to fire on Omega Supreme would put them in immediate danger.”

Sentinel didn’t answer at first. He kept his optics on the pair as they made their way through the wreckage of the breach toward the battlefield proper. He could see at the edges of the battlefield others appearing, staring at the wreckage through the smoke. Civilians. Protestors drawn by the noise and by Omega’s attack on the building. pushing through the smoke to join the escaped Decepticons, some climbing rubble just to get a better view. Others recording. Others cheering.

And Optimus, limping, battered, but upright. Alive. Free. Standing beside the mech Sentinel had promised the Council would never again rise.

“Sir?”

Sentinel’s optics narrowed. The heat of fury suddenly plunged ice cold.

"My orders stand. Bring down Omega Supreme. No matter what it takes."

~*~

Optimus stumbled. A sharp burst of pain lanced up his spinal strut as his weakened leg gave, but Megatron’s servo was already there, not to hold him, but to steady. He didn’t speak nor scold. He simply helped him find balance again. He gritted his denta and drew in a ragged vent, forcing his systems to cycle. You can do this. They need to see you walk. They need to know it wasn’t all for nothing. He placed one pede in front of the other, finally stepping out of the breach entirely. 

Back within Omega, the others surged toward the paneling.

“Open the deck!” Ratchet barked, already slamming his servo against the emergency release. “Open it! Now!”

“Wait! Ratchet, it’s not safe!” Arcee protested, but the ramp was already unlocking, sliding open with a hydraulic hiss as Omega adjusted his posture to accommodate the movement. The platform extended, forming a narrow deck just beneath Omega’s central chest plate. The four of them ran out onto it, heedless of the acrid smoke and the fires below, and the Decepticon soldiers who might still bear them no goodwill.

Because this was him. Their Prime. Their friend.

The wind was sharper this high, slicing through the haze that clung to the battlefield below. The observation platform extended from Omega’s chest like the prow of a ship, and for a long moment, Team Prime simply stood there, silhouetted against the breaking light. Four figures desperate to hold the one thing that mattered in their line of sight.

Optimus slowed when he saw them. The ache in his limbs, the tightness in his vents, the hollow feeling in his tank… It all quieted. Not because the pain was gone, but because this moment eclipsed it. It filled the air around him like heat before a storm.

They were here. Not because they were ordered or because they were assigned. They had come for him.

Ratchet stood firm at the front of the deck, shoulders squared, optics locked onto his. He didn’t say anything. His face held the weight of every sleepless cycle he’d spent wondering if Optimus had survived, and the quiet pride of knowing that he had. 

Bumblebee looked like he didn’t know whether to cheer or cry. He gripped the railing with both servos, venting rapidly and outright shaking, bouncing slightly on his pedes as if he couldn’t decide whether to leap off the edge or just scream. “Boss Bot! OPTIMUS!” he shouted, voice cracking. “We knew you were alive! We knew it! You aft! You’re not allowed to do that to us!”

Bulkhead was already crying, openly and unashamedly. His shoulders shook as he laughed and sobbed at the same time. “Oh, man… Optimus… You look… awful, but… but you’re here! You’re here…”

Sari, eyes wide with tears streaming down her cheeks, was held onto Ratchet’s arm to keep from flying straight over the edge. “We missed you so much,” she called down. “We missed you so much.”

Down below, Optimus stopped walking completely. The wind caught the fraying edges of his plating, tugged at the battered thermo fire-smothering blanket he hadn’t realized was still tucked into the seams of his armor. He turned to look up at them, optics glowing faintly but focused. He raised one arm toward them, digits splayed, as if he could touch them. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, but strong enough to carry through the smoke.

“Take care of each other!” 

The battlefield quieted. The wind paused. Even the crackling of burning rubble seemed to hold still, just for a second. 

“I love you all!”

The words rang out like a bell across the ruined battlefield, even over the sound of continued fighting.

Bumblebee finally broke down into sobs, but he didn’t try to hide it. He raised both arms and waved wildly at Optimus, half laughing and half crying.

Bulkhead was all but entirely undone, grabbing Sari from Ratchet’s grip to hold her in a crushing hug, both of them openly weeping.

Ratchet… flinched. His optics closed hard as his jaw trembled and his helm dipped. And when he raised it again, he forced himself to straighten as he saluted. Just once. The first time he ever had. The only time it would ever matter.

Omega Supreme did not speak. But his plating adjusted, just slightly, a subtle motion of a bow to his captain.

Below, the freed Decepticons watched, confused. Some murmured. A few turned toward Optimus with something new in their expression. Not suspicion nor fear, but instead curiosity. Respect as well, perhaps. Or something dangerously close to it.

Megatron said nothing during the exchange. He stood slightly behind Optimus, quiet and still as a mountain. His optics tracked Team Prime, his expression unreadable. But when Optimus’s voice rang out across the square – I love you all! – he closed his optics, just for a nanoklik. Then opened them again.

“We need to move,” he said softly, voice low.

Optimus gave one final look upward. He touched his own upper arm, where his insignia still sat, the paint scratched away, but the etching was still visible. And then he turned away.

Chapter Text

Sentinel saw Optimus turn away. And that was all it took.

His fury reignited in full, molten and uncontainable. With a wordless roar, he leapt from his place at the front line, boosters kicking up a trail of fire and smoke as he descended upon the breach like a hammer from the heavens. He raised his lance in his fist, aimed not for Megatron, but for Optimus.

“YOU BETRAYED ME! YOU WERE MINE TO EXPOSE!”

A split-second blur of silver and crimson intercepted him mid-charge. Megatron’s fusion cannon flared to life, catching the shaft of Sentinel’s lance and deflecting it wide. The impact drove both of them skidding across the scorched ferrocrete, sparks screaming beneath their feet.

Optimus stumbled back, servos thrown up instinctively. “No–!” he rasped, reaching out.

Megatron didn’t look back. He planted himself squarely between Sentinel and Optimus, armor plating flared, rotor blades tight in servo and raised upward, crossed before him like a shield. His expression was cold, but there was fire in his voice. “You will not touch him again."

Sentinel’s voice broke into a rasping static screech as he got his footing again, shield and lance held up again. “You think this changes anything?! You think dragging that broken coward out here like some kind of martyr redeems what either of you are?!”

He stepped forward, shield raised. “Optimus Prime is a fraud! A failure! A coward who couldn’t even keep his own crew alive without my charity! I made him! And he STILL spat in my face!”

“You made nothing but your own illusion,” Megatron growled back.

Sentinel lunged again, jabbing the lance low for Optimus’s abdomen. Megatron caught it on a rotor blade with a screech of metal. He twisted, snapping the shaft from Sentinel’s grip, and slammed his cannon into Sentinel’s shield with brute force. The impact rang like a thunderclap. The energy shield cracked, but held.

“You wanna talk about illusions?” Sentinel barked, stumbling back. “You risked your life and your troops to get him, and for what? So he can speak for you? What is he now, your pet? Or is he just another tool to get the citizens of Cybertron on your side?”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Watch your glossa, Autobot,” he growled.

But Sentinel only laughed, high and ragged. “You’re both pathetic. A war criminal and a walking embarrassment, locking digits and playing habsuite while the world burns! ”

He bolted forward again, this time flanking hard, and this time, feinted. The lance thrust wasn’t aimed at Megatron. It arced over his shoulder as the mech swung down to intercept. Straight for Optimus’s chest.

“YOU ARE NOT A PRIME!” Sentinel screamed, eyes blazing. “YOU NEVER WERE! You are a PITY CASE AND NOTHING MORE, you glitched-up half-sparked NOBODY!”

The lance came down, and stopped, dead in midair. Megatron had moved to intercept it, his rotor blade intercepting the strike, and his cannon arm snapping up.

“Do not speak to him like that.”

And then he fired his cannon point-blank into Sentinel’s shoulder, a pulse blast so violent it tore a chunk of armor away and sent Sentinel hurtling backwards, smoking and half-spun. He slammed into the wreckage of the breached wall. Debris tumbled around him.

Optimus wheezed, staggering, servo pressed to his side. “Megatron… don’t…”

But Megatron ignored it. His optics locked on Sentinel as the other mech pulled himself upright, ragged and sparking, his vents running high as he wiped energon from his derma with the back of his servo. 

“You’re going to run?” Sentinel hissed at Optimus, voice unsteady now, but hate still burning. “You always ran. From the Academy. From Archa Seven. From everything. Even now, Megatron has to carry you.” Optimus flinched, and remained silent.

Megatron stepped forward, slow and steady. “Do not confuse silence for shame. He is stronger than you ever were.”

Sentinel spat energon and lunged again. “STRONGER? Don’t make me laugh! He couldn’t even stand up without you! He crawled back to you like a whipped canid because he couldn’t handle being alone! That’s not strength! That’s just the weakness he’s always had!”

He darted and drove the bent lance at Optimus’s chest, the tip slicing sharply into the plating, drawing energon … but this time, Megatron caught it, and before he could drive it in deeper, the tip of the lance slid up into the hollow of his rotor blade. He pulled, twisted downward, and snapped the weapon in two. 

Sentinel reeled, stunned as the remains of his lance clattered to the ground, just as the fusion cannon slammed into his helm. Another blast, another eruption of sparks, sent him back into the pile of debris.

From above, the sky cracked open with cannon fire. The Steelhaven had begun its descent, its batteries aimed at Omega Supreme. The titan rocked at the sudden barrage, and everyone watching from the platform reeled.

“Omega’s getting hit!” Ratchet barked, grabbing Bumblebee before he toppled over the edge. “We’re out of time! We gotta move!”

On the battlefield, civilians screamed as they scattered from the raining firepower of the Steelhaven. Decepticons and Elite Guard both scattered as the fires from the aerial assault rose. And Sentinel, sparking, cracked, leaning against the rubble, laughed. Unhinged. One of his optics was cracked and dark, energon leaking from his helm and staining his denta, making him look even more deranged.

“Go ahead. Run. Run to your stolen ship, with your stolen Prime. But you’ll never outrun me.” He jabbed a broken piece of his lance toward a bleeding Optimus. “You’ll never be a hero again. I will bury your name, do you hear me? I’ll drag you down so deep no one will remember you ever existed! I’ll turn your memory to dust!”

Megatron stood between them again, steady and unflinching. “Then you are already too late.” With one final glance up at the observation deck, Megatron gathered Optimus, wavering and bleeding, into his arms, gentle but firm, and disappeared into the drop ship.

“This isn’t over!” Sentinel roared. His vents howled with each ragged breath, smoke curling from the shattered plating of his shoulder. “You think you can take him… take what was mine to break, and just fly away?! You think this ends because you ran?!”

He stumbled forward, half dragging his shattered lance, half reaching after the darkening trail of Megatron’s shuttle. “I will find you, Megatron! Both of you! I will chase you to the edge of every system, through the void, through black hole and broken star! I will rip him out of your claws and make him look at me when I end him!”

His voice cracked into a shriek. “YOU HEAR ME?! I’LL HUNT YOU TO THE ENDS OF THE STARS! I’LL NEVER STOP! I’LL NEVER LET YOU REST!”

He raised a fist, shaking it at the sky, at the fleeing silhouette of the shuttle.

“YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE BOTH DEAD! I WON’T STOP UNTIL YOUR SPARKS ARE CINDERS!”

The drop ship rose into the air, with Lugnut at the helm, screaming praise, and the shuttle disappeared into the growing storm of fire, smoke, and revolution.

~*~

The interior of the Decepticon dropship was dim, the lighting kept low to preserve power. Burned plating and dried energon marked the walls from previous skirmishes. It was fast and armed, but not built for comfort.

Megatron had barely made it up the ramp before setting Optimus down in a reinforced seat, locking his arm around the harness as gently as he could.

Optimus’s frame trembled. His limbs spasmed subtly with every jolt of turbulence, every shift in the ship’s stabilizers. The strain of walking under his own power had been a defiant miracle. But now that adrenaline was gone, his systems were collapsing under the weight of everything he’d endured.

“Try not to move,” Megatron muttered, kneeling beside him. “The cabin is pressurized. You are safe.”

Optimus’s optics flickered as he fought to stay online. “I’m not… a package…”

“You are cargo until further notice,” Megatron growled, adjusting the harness tighter. “And you will stay online.”

Optimus let out a faint, strained ex-vent. Then his optics dimmed. He sagged in the harness, unconscious before Megatron could call his name again.

~*~

The first strike shook the ship like a thunderclap. The four observers were thrown into the railing as Omega Supreme reeled, one of the Steelhaven’s plasma bursts striking his arm with enough force to send internal alarms howling through the walls.

“Omega’s getting hit! We’re out of time! We gotta move!” He shoved Bumblebee inside. “Omega! Take off! Now!”

Bumblebee reeled as Ratchet yanked him back from the edge and all but threw him into the bridge. He toppled backwards as he lost his footing, hitting the floor hard as the ship rocked again, and the engines began to fire for take off. “Wha-what was that?!”

“We’re under fire!” Ratchet snapped, already hauling himself upright and throwing himself into the captain’s chair. “The Steelhaven’s targeting us!”

The plating rattled heavier as Omega Supreme rose rapidly up into the air, his thruster rushing out hot wind in all directions and knocking several guards, including Sentinel, into the ground. Arcee’s optics flared as she dove into the forward pilot’s chair. “Are they even trying to avoid civilians?! We’re not even out of range yet!”

Another impact. The ship lurched heavily, a spray of sparks bursting from a conduit along the wall, showering them in stinging heat. “Damage report,” Ratchet growled into the console, slamming his servo against the panel. The screen fuzzed with static. “Come on, Omega, talk to me!”

Then, Omega’s voice filled the corridor. “Alert: threat confirmed. Source: Autobot flagship Steelhaven. Designation: hostile. Response: activated.”

Bulkhead’s intake dropped open. “He… he’s gonna fight back?”

“He should fight back,” Ratchet said, voice tight. “He’s not a target range dummy! They’re trying to shoot us out of the sky!”

Another tremor rocked the hallway. Then a new sound, low and rising, as Omega’s central plasma cannon began to charge. The air itself seemed to pulse around them, filled with an electric tension that made the plating on their armor vibrate.

“Ratchet…” Arcee said, stepping forward.

“I know.”

Outside, through a viewport near the corridor’s bend, the sky lit up white. Omega fired.

The sound didn’t come through the plating, per say;. It reverberated through the frames of the crew, shaking them to their cores with the power behind it. The Steelhaven’s dorsal cannon erupted into fire and slag, the shockwave shaking every panel of Omega’s hull. Sirens on board the guardian’s systems shrieked in tandem with proximity alarms and damage feedback. Consoles along the walls flared with warning sigils in violent red.

Inside, Team Prime could only brace and watch as their ancient protector, the first and last of the Project Omega titans, opened fire on the ship that once represented Cybertron’s law.

“He’s really doing it,” Arcee whispered. “He’s firing on them.”

Then Omega spoke again, once more broadcasting rather than speaking. His voice echoed through every commlink, every local transmission channel, amplified beyond protocol, into the battlefield and over the Steelhaven’s systems.

.:: I do not serve the Magnus. I do not serve the Council. I serve Cybertron. And Cybertron remembers who fought for her. ::.

“He just made himself a target,” Arcee said softly, as if in disbelief. “To the Council. To the Elite Guard. To everyone who still follows their orders.”

“He always was a target,” Ratchet muttered. “If he wasn’t, he would have been properly repaired a long time ago. He just stopped pretending otherwise.”

Outside, a second barrage rained down from the Steelhaven. Omega fired twin rockets from his shoulder mounts, one detonated a shell mid-air, but the other missed, causing the strike to slam into Omega’s chest and sending him reeling from the force. The corridor creaked as metal twisted down on itself. The deck tilted hard, sparks bursting from the overhead as Bulkhead grabbed the wall to steady himself.

“He can’t take much more of this!” he cried. “He’s coming apart!”

“No, he’s holding together,” Ratchet said through gritted denta. “For Optimus. To give him time to get away!”

“We have to get him out of here,” Bumblebee said, panicked. “We have to fly after them! We have to get to Optimus!”

“No,” Ratchet snapped. “We don’t bring Omega to them. He’s already doing what no one else would.”

They turned as Omega groaned, adjusting his course. The force of it made the deck floor quake again.

From the port side viewport, they saw it. The Decepticon dropships broke cloud cover, engines blazing, rising to escape. One of them, the smallest, and most discreet, carried a faint signal signature none of them could mistake.

Optimus.

Omega shifted again, placing himself directly between the dropships and the Steelhaven’s guns turrets. His cannons pulsed one last time, firing a final defensive volley into the flagship’s flank. The blast seared across the sky, knocking out another turret.

And then, he moved. It was subtle, barely a motion, but they felt it. A shift from attack to defensive positioning. Omega Supreme was done fighting. He would guard the escape. Even if it killed him.

The plasma banks went quiet. The deck lights flickered. Bulkhead’s voice cracked. “Is he…?”

“He’s still flying,” Ratchet said, almost to himself. “But not for long.”

Another siren began to wail. The engine feedback turned erratic.

“He’s burning out,” Arcee whispered. “He’s giving everything.”

They watched in silence as Omega veered away from the Steelhaven’s line of fire, slow and unsteady, his silhouette battered but unbroken as he followed the drop ships into the clouds, and finally broke away. All of them, for the moment, were free.

Chapter Text

The low groan of Omega Supreme’s wounded systems continued to grind and hum beneath their pedes like the pained breathing of a giant. The corridor lights had dimmed, stabilizers now emitting a constant pulsing whine. Power was being diverted to flight systems from all others, just enough to stay in the air. The crew sat in silence, scattered around the sloped wall of a maintenance alcove. No one spoke. No one moved to patch the sparking wires overhead or fix the damaged lights. They all knew it would be pointless. War had returned, with new and more dangerous players than ever before, and none of them had armor thick enough to pretend it hadn’t.

Arcee sat with her elbows on her knees, head bowed low. Her optics were closed, and though her faceplate was calm, there was a tension in her jaw that hadn’t eased since the first blast struck. 

Ratchet leaned back against a wall support strut, arms crossed tight across his chest. His optics were open, scanning nothing. Watching static on a half-functional monitor. Listening to Omega's heartbeat struggle beneath them.

Bumblebee stood nearest the viewport, servos still clenching the edge of the frame, as if he could hold the horizon still with sheer force of will.

And Bulkhead had said nothing since they left the breach. He sat with his back against the wall, optics flicking toward the ceiling every time Omega shuddered. The ship jolted over and over again,small, subtle twitches, but enough that they all felt them. Omega was compensating.

“Think he’s going to make it?” Bulkhead asked, his voice unsteady.

Ratchet didn’t answer right away. He looked up toward the ceiling, as if he could see through the plating, through the pain. “…Not if we ask him to keep flying like this.”

“He was built to protect cities,” Arcee said after a moment. “To carry whole colonies. And today he stood between a warship and a few fugitives.”

“Not fugitives,” Ratchet said. “Family.”

That word stopped Bumblebee cold. His servos loosened on the viewport. “We all saw him,” he said. “Optimus. I didn’t think… I mean… I thought he’d be gone. Or too broken to ever…”

“He’s not fine,” Ratchet said. “Don’t pretend he is. You saw what they did to him.”

“I know,” Bumblebee whispered. “I just… he still raised his servo. Still looked up at us.”

Bulkhead gave a soft sound. A choked sort of laugh. “Still told us he loved us,” he murmured. “Still had that in him, after all that time.”

Ratchet gave a slow nod, lifted his servo to scrub his faceplate and pretending his optics didn’t sting. “Then we hold on to that. Whatever happens next, we hold on to that.”

The deck rumbled again beneath them. They could feel Omega tiring, beginning to slow down. Sacrificing himself to keep them up and away from Sentinel’s tracking forces. And for the first time in a long, long while, none of them knew where they would go next. But they were alive, and together. For now, that had to be enough.

Omega drifted through the clouds like a wounded leviathan, every movement slow, careful, and calculated to conserve as much power as possible. The scoured remains of the battlefield were far behind them now, but its weight lingered in the stillness of the ship.

They separated after the last tremor, each of them needing space, silence, and a moment to feel something without the others watching. 

Arcee sat alone in a small medbay alcove, fiddling with a cracked energon line that didn’t need fixing. Her thoughts were far away. In the silence, she could still hear Omega’s voice.

I do not serve the Magnus.

She wondered if Optimus felt any remaining contrary convictions, even after everything he had been through. He had always been so loyal to Ultra Magnus, even after the dismissals and distrust. Sentinel had once been his friend. But now it seemed all of the Autobots had turned against him. Did he feel any loyalty to his faction anymore? Should he? They were questions she couldn’t bring herself to try to answer.

Not far away, Ratchet had found a flickering terminal near one of Omega’s central command conduits. He ran diagnostics, checking power levels and trying to ignore the fact that most of the readings were bad. Very bad. Omega was dying, slowly bleeding power, and the gigantic Autobot didn’t want them to know it. Ratchet recognized that kind of silence… He’d seen it many times before.

Bumblebee paced the corridor, restless energy sparking from his movements. He kept running one servo over the side of his helm. Too many thoughts, too much guilt. Optimus was alive. He’d seen him. Heard him. Take care of each other. I love you all. And even after hearing that, he wasn’t sure if he felt joy that he had, or shame that Optimus had gone so far alone.

Across the corridor, Bulkhead sat slumped near a damaged wall panel. He hadn’t moved much since they had escaped the Steelhaven’s barrage. Not out of injury, physically, anyway. Just heaviness. The kind of heaviness grief and relief could leave behind in equal measure.

“Hey,” Bee greeted gently. “You okay, Bulky?”

Bulkhead replied with a quiet grunt. “No,” he said honestly. “Optimus looked just as bad as he did when he greyed out before. Worse, even, somehow. And he was so thin. His plating rattled when he walked. How could Sentinel do that to anyone, much less somehow who was supposed to be his friend?”

Bumblebee paused, and slowly shook his head. “I don’t know, Bulk…” he replied quietly. “I couldn’t imagine doing something so horrible, not even to a Decepticon. Fighting’s one thing. But that was… that was totally different. That was…” 

He slowed and drew quiet, unable to finish the line of thought of how terrible Optimus’s treatment had been under the servos of the same organization he had wanted nothing more than to be a part of so short a time ago. He gave a small shiver, feeling unnerved, and tried his best to brush it aside. 

“How’s Sari doing?”

Bulkhead blinked, slowly. “What?”

“Sari. Is she with you?”

Bulkhead sat up straighter. “Nah, I thought she was with you.”

“No.” Bumblebee frowned. “I haven’t seen her since we took off. I figured she went with you after the deck.”

“I mean, she was with me before,” Bulkhead said slowly, uneasily. “Right after… right after Optimus. She was crying, I took her from Ratchet, picked her up and hugged her, and then…”

His optics narrowed. He looked around.

“…Then when the deck rattled, she pulled out of my arms when we all ran inside. I thought she stayed by the rail and followed us inside, but I don’t remember seeing her…”

Bee was already halfway down the corridor.

“Sari?” he called down the empty hallway. “Sari, hey, it’s safe now, you can come out!”

“Maybe she went deeper in,” Bulkhead said, standing quickly. “To the habsuites? Or the engine room?”

Arcee poked her head out of the bridge room to look at them, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“We can’t find Sari,” Bee said, voice concerned.

Ratchet looked up from his console at the end of the hall, peering down at them. “What?”

“She was right there!” Bulkhead insisted. “She was with us out on the balcony to say goodbye to Optimus! She was hugging me, and then…”

“Sari!” Bee called again, louder as he hurried down the hall, not waiting for Bulkhead to answer. “Come on, it’s us! You’re not in trouble!”

They split up. Arcee checked the medbay. Ratchet rerouted power to the intercom to call for her or try her commbead. Bulkhead searched the storage bays. Bee ran through corridor after corridor, optics sweeping every shadow, every tucked-away corner where she might’ve hidden.

Nothing. No signal ping. No commlink. Complete silence. She wasn’t here.

Ratchet’s voice finally echoed from the comms, grim. “She’s not aboard.”

Bulkhead looked ready to panic. "No... She has to be. She wouldn’t just… She’s just a kid! She wouldn’t leave us–”

“She would,” Ratchet murmured softly, “If it meant following Optimus.”

Bulkhead staggered back a step. “She… No… she wouldn’t…!”

“She already has,” Bee whispered. “Of course she has. She snuck onto one of those dropships. She’s with them. She snuck aboard to follow Optimus... Oh, Sari..."

They stood there in the dim corridor of a failing titan, with no fire left and too much left unsaid. And realized, once again, someone they loved had gone where they couldn’t follow.

~*~

The Council chambers immediately hushed when Sentinel entered. Not silent, really. There were too many murmured conversations, too many datapads in motion. But quiet in that particular way only fear could command.

But Sentinel did not seem to be afraid at all. He moved slowly and deliberately toward that same center dias he had occupied previously. His shoulder plating was freshly welded, the worst of the slagged metal cut away and replaced with a gleaming interim patch. His damaged optic still flickered faintly, a visible scar he refused to allow the medic to cosmetically correct. His shield arm hung stiff, but he carried it anyway.

He wanted them to see the wounds. He wanted them to remember.

The eight members of the High Council stood arrayed on the upper platform, looking down from their semicircle like a tribunal of ancient judges. Only three, Alpha Trion among them, bore neutral expressions. The rest wore varying degrees of skepticism, unease, and thinly veiled disgust.

Sentinel reached the platform below them, square in the center of the old Spire's central chamber. He raised his head. And smiled.

“Let me begin by saying,” he said, voice pitched to carry, “that I am not here to apologize.”

That caused a stir. Murmurs rippled across the dais.

“I am not here to ask for pardon,” Sentinel continued, louder now. “Nor to seek validation for the decisions I’ve made. I am here to remind you why we must sometimes act with uncompromising resolve.”

He stepped forward, slightly limping but unbowed. “You saw it. All of you. The Titan. The destruction. The escape. The traitor, standing beside Megatron like a trophy.”

More murmurs. Perceptor raised a servo as if to object. Sentinel overrode him with a gesture.

“I warned you. More than a chord ago, I told you that Optimus Prime had broken from us. That he had sided with a war criminal and subverted protocol. You doubted me.” Another step forward. He raised his voice further, letting it fill the dome. “Well, doubt no longer. He has fled. Joined with the Decepticons. Escaped aboard a stolen warship under enemy fire, protected by Omega Supreme himself, who has now gone rogue and fired on our flagship.”

Now the murmurs gave way to stunned silence. Sentinel let it settle.

“I stood on the battlefield,” he said, lowering his voice now, drawing them in. “I faced Megatron directly. Took fire meant for you. For Cybertron. I bled for this Council. For our people.” He let optics sweep the room, calculated vulnerability in his field. “And still, I did not fall.” He leaned back his helm, his intake set. “And I do not come before you now asking for forgiveness for surviving. I come to you with clarity.”

He straightened to full height, pain be damned. “Optimus Prime is no longer one of us. He is lost. Taken. Perhaps broken beyond recovery. But Cybertron cannot be. Not while we stand. Not while I stand.” He looked toward Alpha Trion then, gaze heavy. “You appointed me Acting Magnus for stability. For order. And I have brought that order through the worst uprising since the Great Wars. I will bring it again. But only if you stand with me, not behind me.”

He let the moment stretch, before letting his voice ring with all the strength he could muster.

“If we fracture now, we lose everything. But if we are strong, if we act with one voice, one will… then history will remember this day not as the beginning of our fall. But as the beginning of our victory.”

Silence followed his speech. The Council stared down at him, as though waiting for him to flinch. He did not even blink.

Slowly, Xaaron nodded. Then Cliffjumper. Then Botanica. More followed their lead. It would not be unanimous. But it would be enough, for now.

~*~

The chamber doors sealed with a final hiss, shutting out the last of the Council’s scattered discussions. Sentinel stood before the broad windows of the spire’s upper floor, optics fixed on the smoke still drifting faintly over Iacon’s skyline. Behind him, soft pedesteps approached.

“Your speech,” Alpha Trion said evenly, “was calculated.”

Sentinel didn’t turn. “So was the attack.”

“I meant your speech was crafted. Chosen. Like a blade.”

Sentinel nodded faintly. “Good. I meant it to cut.”

Alpha Trion stopped just behind him. He didn’t raise his voice. He never had to. When he spoke, even mechs like Sentinel heard him. “The others are shaken. The Council has never had a flagship been fired upon by a Titan before. Nor have they seen a Prime call fugitives his family.”

“Then they needed to be reminded what leadership looks like.”

“They needed the truth.”

Now Sentinel turned to him, but he did not quell. He only stood taller, his intake tugged into a slight sneer. “The truth?” he echoed incredulously. “The truth is that Optimus Prime aligned himself with a war criminal and broke ranks. The truth is that Omega Supreme fired on us while harboring fugitives and enabling the escape of Megatron himself, and over two hundred Decepticon prisoners of war.” His voice lowered. “And the truth is that we are still standing.”

He stepped closer, voice rising just enough to echo slightly in the polished chamber. “Do not mistake survival for moral compromise, Alpha Trion. I did what had to be done.”

Alpha Trion’s expression didn’t shift. “You are becoming what we once feared Megatron would be.”

That silenced him. And angered him. His field bristled with it, but only for a moment. Taking a vent inward, Sentinel smiled instead, thin and cold.

“Megatron failed because he thought too much like a soldier. I will not make that mistake.”

“No,” Trion said softly. “You’ll make one far worse.”

Sentinel’s optics narrowed. “You sound almost sorry for me.”

“I am,” Trion admitted. “Because I remember the mech you used to be. Before ambition eclipsed duty. Before you believed the mantle of Magnus gave you permission to become your own law.”

Sentinel’s field flared slightly again. “You speak as if you still have power here.”

“I speak because someone must.”

He turned then, walking slowly back toward the lift platform.

“You will not hold their loyalty forever,” he said as he stepped into the circle. “You’ve welded your position shut with fear. But when fear turns to shame… even the Council will look elsewhere.”

The lift began to rise, taking him down. He watched Sentinel until he disappeared from sight.

Sentinel said nothing as he looked back out the window over Iacon. He stood alone in the high chamber, staring back out at the drifting smoke and fractured sky. His fist curled slowly at his side, ignoring the sharp pang of pain from his freshly welded digits.

He wasn’t wrong.

He couldn’t be wrong.

Because if he was…

He was no better than the traitor he had tried to break.

~*~

There was no time. No sensation of falling, or dreaming, only being. But felt a lot different than it had in the cell, too. Quieter, somehow. The buzzing had faded away, leaving peace behind.

Optimus’s senses tilted and warped. Everything was darker. Taller. His armor felt heavier, the motion of his limbs unfamiliar. But powerful He was not himself. He was Megatron again.

He saw the world from behind crimson optics, vision tinged red at the edges, processor hot with restless fury and guilt. Strika stood before him in the war room aboard the Darksyde, jaw clenched, field roiling with restrained frustration.

“He is unstable,” she snapped. “He is injured, fractured, and worst of all, still an Autobot. And now you’ve made him a symbol of your cause.”

“I made nothing,” Megatron replied. His voice was sharp, tight. “The Council did that when they chose to torture him on open circuit. I merely rescued what they tried to discard.”

Strika advanced a step. “You risked everything. A three-front assault. A Omega Titan. We lost ten of our warriors holding those diversions, and who knows how many prisoners never made it out of Trypticon before the Steelhaven fired on it. All for him.”

“He is not the war,” Megatron said, denta clenched. “He is what comes after.”

Strika scoffed angrily. “And what if he doesn’t survive the after?”

Megatron looked away. For a flicker of a moment, Optimus felt his own image reflected in Megatron’s mind. Pale, limp, slouched in that dropship harness. Vulnerable and completely unresponsive. He felt Megatron’s rage pulse again, hot and wrong.

“I did not drag him from that prison to watch him rust in my medbay.”

“You dragged him here,” Strika said coldly, “without telling the rest of the crew. Without actually consulting your command structure. You’ve made your personal crusade ours. You may believe he is your future. But the others? They see a wounded Prime on our ship.”

Megatron’s voice dropped to something raw. “Let them see him.”

“Why?”

“Because he is still here.”

~*~

.:: Power Levels: 34% and rising. Emergency energon infusion detected. Weapon units: Offline. Rebooting central processor. Please stand by. ::.

Optimus awoke slowly. The world took its time to return as his systems rebooted. He raised a servo, confirming he was back in his own frame, before a soft light drew his attention.

“Mm…”

As his optics finally began to focus, he saw only a soft, dull light around him, and a small blue glow off to his right. The gentle beeping of medical instruments cut through the silence more effectively than shouting ever could. But the ominous buzz of the forcefield was gone.

Beside him sat Megatron, reclined in a chair, reading a datapad, and, apparently, waiting. Another soft beep, and Megatron lifted his helm, looking down at him. “Ah… good. You are awake at last.” He turned off the pad and set it aside on a shelf near the berth, shifting his full attention to Optimus. “How do you feel?”

He remembered the battle. Omega Supreme. The faces of his crew. How much he loved them. It was the only thing on his mind as he had stumbled and sank into oblivion.

He turned toward Megatron, studying him.

“Physically, I feel... significantly better. Processor-wise..? I feel… strange. Dazed.” He closed his optics, rubbing at his faceplate as systems continued their slow reboot and defrag. “I fear my personality matrix may be fragmenting again... I’m sure you’ve noticed something is… off. I’m not entirely whole. You’re observant… and you have Blitzwing as a reference.”

Megatron looked him over and nodded softly. “Indeed. Knock Out detected disruptions in your personality matrix. Similar to Blitzwing’s, though far less intense. And unlike Blitzwing, yours is not the result of a poorly conceived experiment.”

He leaned back slightly, still watching Optimus carefully. “Blitzwing noticed it, too. Perhaps you saw him observing you more closely in the days before your arrest. I believe time with him may help you control the fluctuations. I assume you do not wish it entirely defragmented? It seems a defense mechanism. To disable it outright would do more harm than good. So, we aim for control.”

Optimus nodded. “It began with an injury... but a traumatic event cemented it. Since then, it’s been the Three of Us. No names, just nicknames. The Happy One. The Dark One…” He rested his servos on his midsection comfortably. “I noticed Blitzwing watching, yes. I think I acknowledged it, once. We’re fairly controlled, so long as we aren’t trapped… like in that interrogation room…”

He grimaced. “But... thank you. For considering whether I want to be defragmented. As much trouble as they cause, it feels wrong to erase them. They feel… too sentient for that.”

He shifted slightly, groaning at the heaviness in his limbs.

Megatron’s optics dimmed slightly. “Stay still,” he said gently, rising. “I will return shortly.” Spoken like a promise, as if sensing that Optimus feared being left alone.

Optimus stilled, then gently nodded.“...Okay.” The reassurance that Megatron would return soon soothed him. The thought of being alone would haunt his circuits for a while yet to come.

Megatron stepped out of the small private room. He wasn’t gone long, less than a ten kliks. But alone, the beeping machines grew louder. The rushing in his audials swelled into something like buzzing… louder than his vents… his spark racing…

But then Megatron returned, locking the door behind him. In one servo, he carried a full-sized Decepticon energon cube. In the other, a basin that looked small in his grip but was large for Optimus. He set the basin by his pedes, and turned his attention to the cube.

“Can you intake energon? The infusion will help restore you gradually, but if you can ingest as well, all the better.”

The Prime gave him a small smile. “I can try. Slowly, maybe... but I don’t think I can hold that cube myself. Not yet.” Energon had weight. And his frame was still so weak.

Megatron knelt beside the berth, lowering himself to Optimus’s level. With careful precision, he brought the cube close to Optimus’s lips and steadied his helm.

“Then we go slowly,” he said. “We have time now.” No flourish. No pride. Just quiet, deliberate care.

“I have not forgotten this moment,” he said softly, setting the cube aside. He dipped a cloth into the warm basin and began wiping away grime and dried fluid from Optimus’s arms. “It was not weakness. What you gave me. It was strength. I did not understand it then.” He paused to wring out the cloth, then continued. “But now... I want to see it live on. In you. And in what we will build, once this war is done.”

There was steel in his voice, but buried beneath it was a quiet softness Optimus had not heard before.

“So yes, little Prime. We have come full circle. But this time,” he met Optimus’s optics, “I will not let it break.”

Optimus visibly relaxed. His finials drooped in relief. He sipped slowly from the cube Megatron held steady. A small shiver passed through him at the first touch of the cloth, but just as before, he soon melted into it. He watched Megatron’s servos at work, then looked to his faceplate. And when their optics met, his vents hitched.

He looked away, voice low. “I doubted myself. I doubted you. I wore a mask of strength, but Sentinel saw right through it. His words poisoned me. I crumbled.” He shook his helm slightly. “I dreamed of you. Of being you. Of having your strength… even as I feared you’d used me.”

He looked back at Megatron, hesitant. “But then... you returned. I had died in that cell. But you lifted me. You brought me back to the light, even at risk to yourself. And now you clean me, as I once did for you…”

His servo reached out, gently touching Megatron’s shoulder. “I’m not strong like you. But just as you wish to learn from me, I wish to learn from you. Strength and gentleness, together... that’s what Cybertron needs. No more coldness. No more subservience.”

Megatron stilled. His optics glanced at the small, scarred servo on his armor, like the weight of those words had settled deeper than expected. Then he looked back at Optimus, holding his gaze. Slowly, he brought his own servo up, curling it gently over Optimus’s.

“You are wrong,” he said quietly but firmly. “You are not less than I. You are strong in ways I never knew existed. You have endured betrayal, starvation, solitude, and still you hope. Still you reach out. Still you carry love.” He dipped his helm. “That kind of strength is rare, little Prime. Even among warriors. You dared to care, even when it cost everything.”

He gently ran a clawed thumb across Optimus’s servo, cleaning it with careful strokes. “I will teach you what I know. The strength that breaks chains. But in return, you must teach me how to build a world that does not need them.” He leaned in, just slightly. “No more coldness,” he echoed. “No more subservience. No more masks. Just you and I. Sparks laid bare. Together, we will unmake what broke us, and forge something greater.”

Optimus’s chest warmed. “You speak of hope, too… Even with all you’ve endured. Maybe you lost your way…but your spark didn’t.” He shifted his servo in Megatron’s grasp, optics locked to his. “Your spark held on. And now… here we are.” His other servo joined the first, resting atop Megatron’s. “Together. Lifting each other up. But… I wouldn’t say ‘unmake.’ This world broke us because it is broken.”

His touch softened. “I think healing it is a much better sentiment.”

Megatron felt the shift. Felt the weight of that touch. He had borne weapons heavier than mountains. But nothing had ever grounded him like this. He looked down at the mech who had, despite everything, reached for him with hope instead of hatred.

“I speak of unmaking because that is what I was taught. Forged to do. But you…” he looked at their servos entwined, “you speak of healing. I once thought that word weak. I was wrong.”

His voice fell to a whisper, just for them. “I meant what I said in that cell. I need you, if anything I hope to do is to mean anything. I would burn every fortress, crush every crown, if it gave us a path forward. But healing… that takes more strength than I possess.” He looked back into Optimus’s optics. “That takes both of us. Together. If you will teach me to heal… I will teach you to endure. And from what we build together, Cybertron will rise anew.”

Optimus didn’t pull away. He took Megatron’s other servo, holding them both. “I’m here for you. “But I don’t need you to destroy. I need your trust. In me. In my efforts. In my willingness to listen. Trust in me, and I’ll return it. I swear it. We made a pact, after all.”

Megatron stilled. The warmth of that touch lingered long after it faded. He bowed his helm, not in defeat, but in understanding. “You shall have it,” he said softly. “My trust. Fragile and unfinished. But yours.”

He dipped his servo back into the basin and resumed cleaning Optimus with care. The silence between them was peaceful. Shared. They would rise from ruin together. Not as tyrant and rebel, but as survivors. As partners.

Megatron glanced at the young Prime, worn, weary, but burning with quiet fire, and allowed himself a rare smile. “Rest now, little Prime. The path ahead is long. But tonight, you are safe with me.”

And for a while, there was only the hum of the ship, and the sound of water as Megatron worked.  The bond between them pulsed, quiet but undeniable. Neither understood it yet, but its presence was steady. The answers would come in time.

And when they did, they would face them together.

The End

To Be Continued...

Chapter Text

The room was far too quiet for a world that had just cracked open.

Sentinel stood over the inert form of Ultra Magnus, his helm bowed and frame openly trembling. The hum of the spark monitor pulsing in slow, steady intervals was the only sound in the silent room, a flickering reminder of how little remained of the mech who had once commanded the might of the Autobots. Tubes curled from the Magnus’s frame like withered vines, and the faint light of his spark barely registered on the monitors anymore.

But it was there. Faint and persistent. Just like the ache in Sentinel’s processor.

“They’re gone,” he said hoarsely, not looking up. “The prisoners. Optimus.”

His fingers clenched around the edge of the berth, plating groaning under the strain.

“You told me to hold the line. You said I was the future. I would make a fine successor. That you believed in me.”

The monitors replied only with the steady beat of survival.

“I did everything right,” Sentinel hissed. His optics were wide and unfocused, somehow looking more though the crumpled Magnus than at him. “I took action when no one else would. I held this planet together with my bare servos! While everyone else fell apart, I remained. Loyal and steadfast, just like you always taught me. You made me this way!”

His fist slammed into the wall beside the medical berth. The reinforced groaned, but did not buckle or even dent Sentinel's face contorted into something almost like a protoform, desperate and lost.

“You were too weak,” he whispered. “You couldn’t finish what we started. You were going to hand it all to someone who didn’t understand what it takes to rule.”

His voice crackled and caught in his vox. “He was going to forgive them. Work with them. The Decepticons. The traitors. The monsters. And now look what’s happened. He’s gone. He left with Megatron.”

He laughed then, a truly broken and ugly sound.

“Of course he did. Of course he would.” His steps carried him around the berth in uneven, twitching motions. “Because Optimus always wanted to be the hero, so desperate to be one, even if it meant becoming someone else’s villain. But me? I will be the villain they fear. I will be the iron fist. The Magnus they deserve.”

He stopped beside the life support console and leaned in close to Ultra Magnus’s unmoving faceplate, staring at the cracks in his ancient, greying plating.

“I need a sign,” he whispered. “Just… something. Tell me what to do. Tell me I’m right.”

The silence pressed in again. Sentinel's jaw began to tremble as his knees shook, and he pushed himself back up, a slow vent rolling through his systems. 

Then...

BEEP.

The monitor flickered. Once, then twice. The sparkline twitched with a sudden spike in rhythm.

Sentinel froze. Another spike rolled across the screen of the monitor. Another pulse made the plating slightly shudder, louder this time.

BEEP-BEEP.

Sentinel stared at the monitor like it had spoken to him. Slowly, he turned to look back down at the body of his beloved mentor, optics wide with something between stark awe, and terrible dread.

"...You do see. You do understand. You’re still in there. You know what I have to do."

He smiled lovingly. His servo gently brushed over Ultras battered helm in a reverent, adoring motion, soothing and gentle.

“Thank you.”

With one smooth motion and without looking away from Ultra Magnus’s prone and vulnerable form, Sentinel reached up and brushed the command key on the monitor with a single digit. The alarm silenced, swallowed back into the mechanical hum of machines and the slow beat of a failing spark.

He remained where he was, bent over and perfectly still beside Ultra Magnus, expression soft and almost frighteningly kind. Waiting, and watching. The monitor’s rhythm stuttered, glitched, and began to slow.

Beep.

A longer pause.

Beep.

And finally.

Beeeeee–

The light on the monitor faded to black. The alarm silenced. Ultra Magnus’s body slowly faded to the full gunmetal gray. He sagged just slightly, as if the machines that had been holding him together, keeping him alive, also vented their last gasp.

And Sentinel…

He smiled.

A small, slow, elated smile.

He pressed his helm against that of his fallen predecessor. “No more second-guessing,” he murmured. “No more questions. No more shadows in my way.” He rose up his helm and looked down at the lifeless frame of the mech who had once been his mentor, his commander, his symbol of order. He saw no tragedy. Only liberation.

“You would have tried to stop me,” he whispered gently, almost fondly, as he stroked his knuckles against the fallen mech's face plate. “You would have done everything to. Even if you knew I was right.”

He pulled his servo from Ultra's face, and pressed instead on his shoulder. “You did well. For your time. But your time is over.”

He pulled his hand away, instead reaching out to pull the Magnus Hammer from the body’s stiff servos. He gave an almost kind smile as it slid away, giving no resistance at all. Exactly what Sentinel has expected.

“I will take your title. I will take your command. And I will restore Cybertron to order. No matter how much energon must be spilled to do it.”

He turned and walked out of the room, slow and deliberate, each step echoing like a war beat drumming down the sterile corridor.

Behind him, the room was still. No beeps. No pulse. No light.

Only the cold silence of a legacy snuffed out. And the rise of a king, crowned by fear, to carve an empire from the remains of a dream.

~*~

The Magnus office was dim, the glow of Iacon's skyline casting fractured light across the floor. Sentinel stood still before the wide viewport over Iacon City, his shoulders squared, one arm folded neatly behind his back, the other holding the Magnus Hammer just beneath its head, the end of the handle against the ground. A black mourning patch had already replaced the vibrant gold beneath his Elite Guard insignia. The hammer was slowly turning on its end as Sentinel’s servo moved with slow, deliberate motion.

Strongarm hesitated in the doorway, her voice low. “Sir… Ultra Magnus…”

Sentinel didn’t move. A quiet beat passed before he spoke, calm and hollow. The hammer continued to slowly turn in Sentinel's grip. Strongarm noticed that he was staring at it, rather than out over the city.

“Nothing has changed.”

Strongarm took a step forward, swallowing hard over the lump in her throat. “Sir… with respect, the Council… surely they’ll convene, there will be questions–”

“My orders still stand.”

Sentinel glanced over his shoulder, optics narrowed and frigid and burning all at once, voice edged with steel and finality. He gripped the Magnus Hammer so tightly, his gauntlet armor creaked.

“Bring me Optimus Prime.”

"He who hunts beasts must beware, for the scent of death clings first to himself, and those who raise their blades against monsters are doomed to inherit their fangs."

- Rediux the Ascended, “The Helix of Supremacy"