[Bay] Insoluble - Part Five
a/n: Another day, another update. This part heavily inspired by "Sick Cycle Carousel," by Lifehouse and "The Hymn of Acxiom," by Vienna Teng. Self-betaed. Pretty SFW.
Enjoy!
Title: Insoluble Part V
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM novelisation
Characters: Megatron, Optimus, Ratchet
Rating: T
Warnings: canon-typical violence, canonical character death, major character death
Description: Optimus is not dead. Megatron lives. And there are no more Decepticon medics left.
There are no Decepticon medics left. Or if there are, they are too far to be of use to Megatron.
He limps away from the tatters of Chicago with the realization that, implied truce aside, he limps to his death. He has no allies, no supplies, and nothing to his designation.
Optimus killing him would have been kinder, in retrospect. What does this old spark have left to crave?
Like a wounded beast, Megatron searches for the best place to lie down and offline. It is not an honorable passing, such as dying in battle as should be his lot. But it is shameful and no less than he desires.
Failure should have no lesser consequence.
He finds a fallen warship, useless now for flight but hollowed enough to serve as a tomb. He does not deserve to offline amid his fallen brethren, but there is little choice otherwise. To collapse in the street would invite human scavengers to take advantage of his remains and Megatron has just enough pride left that he cannot allow such a desecration.
His strength fails him. His spark is an uneven flutter. He stumbles into the wreckage, no balance left in his frame.
The scent of spilled energon is strong here, more than that of charred metal and spent ordinance. The ambient temperature is unpleasant, hot and sticky, like this cursed planet. And Prime wishes to make a home here? Clearly something has gone glitched in his brother's helm.
Cybertron would have served a better tomb. Alas, his frame hasn't the means or energy to take him so far. Closer now than it had been, but too far for Megatron to reach.
Megatron tucks himself into a corner wreathed in shadows and half-concealed by collapsed structural panels. He is glad he can't see the mess he has become or the ruin of his once-powerful frame. Once he had been a grand protector. Now he has been beaten into submission by not one, but three Primes. He is an insult to the title given him.
Or perhaps it is only proof that Primus has only ever meant the Lord High Protector to be servant to the Prime. First with the shackles of love and loyalty. And then with the bonds of coding and duty.
Megatron has come full circle with nothing to show for it save the energon of millions on his hands. Such a price to pay for nothing to gain. He and his Decepticons survive, but still in thrall to the rule of a Prime.
Megatron tilts his helm back and offlines his optics. His ventilations slow to a wheeze. There's an unpleasant spatter of something within his internals. Another organ grinds internally, metal on metal. There's too much pain to distinguish one damaged sector from another.
His vents echo around him, an off-rhythm to the pulse of his weakened spark. He has no artifact to call on for strength. There is no ancient scrap of Primus to serve as confidant and consultant. He does not pray. He does not beg forgiveness.
He sinks into the depths of his programming and he waits for the end to come.
0o0o0
The first thing Megatron acknowledges as he rises from the darkness is the sound of something cursing. It's spoken in a mutter, almost offhand, as though the orator curses not out of true anger, but habit.
Confusion makes his awareness arrive even more sluggishly. Surely Primus would be more dignified than to rely on a stream of invective better suited to the slums of Iacon.
Dimly, sensation returns. His ventilations, he notes, are deep and even. His diagnostics trickle in status updates that speak of good health, not optimal, but no longer worthy of a quick end. He is fueled to be functional, but that is extravagant compared to the state of underfueling running his Decepticons ever since he awoke from being frozen.
Megatron's optics online and the first thing he sees is a roof of corrugated steel and a single overhanging light, swaying in minute arcs. Distant to the sound of low cursing is that of music and laughter, the dull thump of large objects in motion.
This is not the Allspark, or whatever serves for an afterlife now that their precious repository has been shattered.
“At last, the fair prince awakens.”
He knows that voice.
He turns his helm, but he acknowledges the speaker long before he lays optics on him. “Ratchet,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“My code of ethics.” The terribly green-yellow medic stomps further into view and his presence explains the source of the cursing. “That and the terms of a truce you neglected to stick around and discuss.”
Megatron twitches his frame. It responds to his commands. He is not even restrained. Either Ratchet overestimates his ability to withstand an assault, or he trusts in Megatron's agreement to the truce.
“There seemed little point,” Megatron says and sits up, though slowly. His frame reports back a feeling of repair that is dizzying. He can't remember the last time he was so functional. “I am in violation of my surrender by remaining on a planet I am incapable of leaving.”
Ratchet snorts a laugh and the prickle of a scan washes over Megatron. “That and you're too much of a coward to face Optimus after he was gracious enough to let you live. You can't lie to me, brat. I was there when you onlined.”
Yes. He had been. That memory is dim at best, shelved as it has been with all other memories of his time with Optimus, but Megatron can recall Ratchet being present, albeit as a young apprentice to the on-duty medic, Hardline.
He would like to deny Ratchet's claim, but the anger fizzles out before it can so much as heat his engine.
“Did Optimus send you or did you seek me of your own accord?” Megatron asks instead, choosing to dismiss Ratchet's comment entirely.
“A bit of both.” Ratchet smirks, but it's an exhausted expression, holding little of the joyous snark that had been so common in the medic. “Maybe I just felt sorry for you.”
Megatron waves him off. “Pah. Your spark never had room for pointless pity.”
Ratchet adjusts something on a handheld scanner and then looks at Megatron with a dark chuckle. “And you haven't lost your silver tongue.” The unit beeps a cheerful tone. “Well, you're not optimal but you'll live. Guess this old mech still has a trick or two after all.”
“There's a reason you've survived, Ratchet, and I do not think it luck.”
“Why Megatron, that was almost a compliment.” Ratchet sets his scanner aside and steps back, giving Megatron room. “Your self-repair will do the rest. Come on. You've got work to do.”
He slides from the berth and puts weight down on his pedes, marveling at the lack of pain. There's an ache, that of healing joints and lines shuffling as they accept their repaired state, but there's no pain. He is hard-pressed to call it pleasure simply because it's been so long since he's felt such a thing.
Gratitude is close to the surface, but he reminds himself that it had been duty that saved his life and nothing else.
“Work?”
“To discuss the terms of the truce.”
Ah. Those. He supposes there is a certain responsibility that comes with functioning. Though he wonders how much a truce matters when, right now, Megatron is the only Decepticon still alive.
“Have you found a means to leave Earth?”
“Not for us, but for you, yes.” Ratchet gestures for Megatron to precede him, out of the rickety warehouse that must serve as his medbay and into a cool, rainy afternoon. “Prime will explain all of that to you. I'm just the medic.”
Just the medic? Megatron will never believe that. No other Autobot medic of note had survived the war and even when Ratchet had been a senator, he'd been an unholy terror that few could counter.
Organized chaos best describes the Autobot base. Humans scurry about, shouting at each other. Nearby warehouses of various sizes give off Cybertronian signatures, no doubt more Autobots, all of them injured in some capacity.
But there is only one mech who truly captures Megatron's attention. Optimus steps out of the nearest warehouse, leaving the door open behind him. His gaze sweeps the base but he notices Megatron around the same time that Ratchet calls to him.
Or barks rather. Ratchet does not know the meaning of the word 'subtle.' Or tact.
“You shouldn't even be standing!” He storms forward with all the fury of a medic who hasn't been obeyed.
Optimus, Megatron notices, is still missing an arm, though the connectors themselves have been repaired. His armor gives testament to the recent battle, scarred, dented, and scored.
“I am not so free as to commit myself to a berth,” Optimus replies with that irritating dignity of his. “I am functional. There are other patients who need your care.”
Ratchet's engine growls as he stomps past his Prime and into the warehouse. “Sideswipe is stable, Optimus. And so is everyone else for that matter. Probably because they are resting as I told them to do. Start worrying about yourself.”
“He is terminally incapable of such a thing,” Megatron offers and now, he's close enough to see inside the warehouse Optimus had exited.
A Cybertronian frame rests on a makeshift berth similar to the one that had held Megatron. He recognizes the slim, silver Autobot as the aforementioned Sideswipe.
So. He had outlived Sunstreaker all the way to the end. It certainly shows who Primus favors in all this.
“Yes, I know.” Ratchet grabs the warehouse door. “I'll let you know when Sideswipe's online. But I'd better not see you until then, not unless you are in your own fragging berth. Understood?”
Prime versus medic. Megatron knows who will win.
Optimus' helm dips. “Keep me apprised of his condition.”
Ratchet's answer is to huff a ventilation and slam the door shut in Optimus' face. It would be amusing if Megatron had anything left of humor within him. But he's too angry and too tired to muster up a chuckle.
He arches an orbital ridge instead. “Do you have a vested interest in that Autobot?”
Optimus gives him a cool look and turns away, walking with an unbalanced tilt. “We have work to do.”
An evasion. How curious.
“Work,” Megatron repeats and falls into step beside his brother, side by side, equal as they had never been. “I assume you expect I'll agree no matter what terms you lay.”
Shackles, he reminds himself. He never managed to escape them after all.
“I expect that you'll be grateful I spared your life.”
Megatron's optics cycle down. “Not enough that I'll allow myself to be beholden to you. I'd sooner offline.”
They arrive at another warehouse, this one empty of all but a stack of crates, perhaps supplies. Optimus turns to face him now that they are free of prying optics and something in his expression is different than before.
“You regret nothing, do you, Megatron?” Optimus asks, and there's a slump to his shoulders that wasn't present before, as though he's given himself permission to show weakness now that no one is looking. And he sounds... tired.
Megatron's hands form slow fists. “No, I do not. You would not hear me.” He cycles a ventilation, alarmed by its sharpness. “I did what had to be done.”
He regrets that it had taken him this far to come to this place, the beginning all over again. He regrets that he'd failed. He regrets losing Sunstreaker and millions of Decepticons all for the sake of a failure.
But he does not regret the choice to try.
“I'm listening now.”
This time, Megatron does bark a laugh. But there's no humor in it. He spreads his hands. “I'm at your mercy, brother. There seems little point.”
“Do not call me that.”
Optimus steps closer to him. His energy field is a dull press against Megatron's, enclosing him in a sensation not unlike that of being trapped.
Megatron does not step back, but he does acknowledge the threat. Optimus may have only one arm, but it would take a single glyph from his comm to call reinforcements. Megatron would be offline before he had a moment to reconsider his action.
So it has come to this. Very well then.
He dips his helm. Optimus wants subservience? Is that not the part the Lord High Protector should play?
Round and round and round again.
“State your terms.”
Optimus looks at him. And then he produces a datapad from subspace, holding it out to Megatron. He takes it, knowing that just by taking it, a chain is forming around his spark.
He reads the introduction. He skims the table of contents, the rules at their minimum before delving into details. And he almost wants to laugh.
Of course. Of course. Optimus probably thinks he's doing Megatron a favor. That he's being gracious and merciful.
But what choice does Megatron have?
He signs.
0o0o0
He leaves.
The Autobots supply him with a functioning ship just large enough and Megatron leaves. He takes with him the surviving Decepticons they pulled from the wreckage and as they return to Cybertron, still more are waiting. They've heard the call.
Those who fuss about the end of the war are quietly disposed of. Others help rebuild his tired ranks. They throw their weapons into a smelter pit, per their agreement with Optimus and the Autobots.
How kind of Optimus to turn Cybertron into a prison. One they can leave but choose not to because, despite it all, it is home.
Megatron finds mechs to trust, to lead beside him. They pick Iacon to rebuild first because it's the least ruined and nearest to an active energon mine.
Empty frames are gathered at last with respect. Names are taken for an ever-growing list, their frames recycled, an unfortunate necessity.
There are three assassination attempts, only one of them perpetrated by an Autobot. It is unfortunate that he didn't survive the encounter. Megatron doesn't have to be armed to be a danger.
That doesn't mean he can't still acknowledge the reproach Optimus will bear.
He spends his evenings on the roof of what they call their main command center, though it is less command and more a gathering place. They recharge in this building. They process energon. They perform repairs as Knock Out's arrival had been quite fortuitous though his experience compared to Ratchet's is lacking.
This building is what the Decepticons call home.
But from the roof, Megatron can see the distant star that is Earth. Close enough to reach but far enough that Optimus isn't around for daily visits. He has yet to decide if he is disappointed or relieved.
He recharges alone.
Megatron has had offers, but he declines. There's no room left in his spark, he believes. Not with the pain of Optimus, alive and near but too far. Further, Sunstreaker's loss is too fresh.
Sunstreaker had been the only balm to the pain of Optimus' betrayal, the only one who could possibly understand.
He is not replaceable. Megatron is not willing to try.
All he can do is abide by the terms of the truce. He rebuilds. He restructures. And bit by bit, the fetters enclose his frame, all the way back to the beginning.
***
a/n: Two more chapters to go and then, maybe, the possibility of a sequel. if I can get all the particulars worked out in my head. It was a subplot that was supposed to take place during the course of this fic, but it felt so out of place that I took it out.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/281560.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Enjoy!
Title: Insoluble Part V
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM novelisation
Characters: Megatron, Optimus, Ratchet
Rating: T
Warnings: canon-typical violence, canonical character death, major character death
Description: Optimus is not dead. Megatron lives. And there are no more Decepticon medics left.
There are no Decepticon medics left. Or if there are, they are too far to be of use to Megatron.
He limps away from the tatters of Chicago with the realization that, implied truce aside, he limps to his death. He has no allies, no supplies, and nothing to his designation.
Optimus killing him would have been kinder, in retrospect. What does this old spark have left to crave?
Like a wounded beast, Megatron searches for the best place to lie down and offline. It is not an honorable passing, such as dying in battle as should be his lot. But it is shameful and no less than he desires.
Failure should have no lesser consequence.
He finds a fallen warship, useless now for flight but hollowed enough to serve as a tomb. He does not deserve to offline amid his fallen brethren, but there is little choice otherwise. To collapse in the street would invite human scavengers to take advantage of his remains and Megatron has just enough pride left that he cannot allow such a desecration.
His strength fails him. His spark is an uneven flutter. He stumbles into the wreckage, no balance left in his frame.
The scent of spilled energon is strong here, more than that of charred metal and spent ordinance. The ambient temperature is unpleasant, hot and sticky, like this cursed planet. And Prime wishes to make a home here? Clearly something has gone glitched in his brother's helm.
Cybertron would have served a better tomb. Alas, his frame hasn't the means or energy to take him so far. Closer now than it had been, but too far for Megatron to reach.
Megatron tucks himself into a corner wreathed in shadows and half-concealed by collapsed structural panels. He is glad he can't see the mess he has become or the ruin of his once-powerful frame. Once he had been a grand protector. Now he has been beaten into submission by not one, but three Primes. He is an insult to the title given him.
Or perhaps it is only proof that Primus has only ever meant the Lord High Protector to be servant to the Prime. First with the shackles of love and loyalty. And then with the bonds of coding and duty.
Megatron has come full circle with nothing to show for it save the energon of millions on his hands. Such a price to pay for nothing to gain. He and his Decepticons survive, but still in thrall to the rule of a Prime.
Megatron tilts his helm back and offlines his optics. His ventilations slow to a wheeze. There's an unpleasant spatter of something within his internals. Another organ grinds internally, metal on metal. There's too much pain to distinguish one damaged sector from another.
His vents echo around him, an off-rhythm to the pulse of his weakened spark. He has no artifact to call on for strength. There is no ancient scrap of Primus to serve as confidant and consultant. He does not pray. He does not beg forgiveness.
He sinks into the depths of his programming and he waits for the end to come.
0o0o0
The first thing Megatron acknowledges as he rises from the darkness is the sound of something cursing. It's spoken in a mutter, almost offhand, as though the orator curses not out of true anger, but habit.
Confusion makes his awareness arrive even more sluggishly. Surely Primus would be more dignified than to rely on a stream of invective better suited to the slums of Iacon.
Dimly, sensation returns. His ventilations, he notes, are deep and even. His diagnostics trickle in status updates that speak of good health, not optimal, but no longer worthy of a quick end. He is fueled to be functional, but that is extravagant compared to the state of underfueling running his Decepticons ever since he awoke from being frozen.
Megatron's optics online and the first thing he sees is a roof of corrugated steel and a single overhanging light, swaying in minute arcs. Distant to the sound of low cursing is that of music and laughter, the dull thump of large objects in motion.
This is not the Allspark, or whatever serves for an afterlife now that their precious repository has been shattered.
“At last, the fair prince awakens.”
He knows that voice.
He turns his helm, but he acknowledges the speaker long before he lays optics on him. “Ratchet,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“My code of ethics.” The terribly green-yellow medic stomps further into view and his presence explains the source of the cursing. “That and the terms of a truce you neglected to stick around and discuss.”
Megatron twitches his frame. It responds to his commands. He is not even restrained. Either Ratchet overestimates his ability to withstand an assault, or he trusts in Megatron's agreement to the truce.
“There seemed little point,” Megatron says and sits up, though slowly. His frame reports back a feeling of repair that is dizzying. He can't remember the last time he was so functional. “I am in violation of my surrender by remaining on a planet I am incapable of leaving.”
Ratchet snorts a laugh and the prickle of a scan washes over Megatron. “That and you're too much of a coward to face Optimus after he was gracious enough to let you live. You can't lie to me, brat. I was there when you onlined.”
Yes. He had been. That memory is dim at best, shelved as it has been with all other memories of his time with Optimus, but Megatron can recall Ratchet being present, albeit as a young apprentice to the on-duty medic, Hardline.
He would like to deny Ratchet's claim, but the anger fizzles out before it can so much as heat his engine.
“Did Optimus send you or did you seek me of your own accord?” Megatron asks instead, choosing to dismiss Ratchet's comment entirely.
“A bit of both.” Ratchet smirks, but it's an exhausted expression, holding little of the joyous snark that had been so common in the medic. “Maybe I just felt sorry for you.”
Megatron waves him off. “Pah. Your spark never had room for pointless pity.”
Ratchet adjusts something on a handheld scanner and then looks at Megatron with a dark chuckle. “And you haven't lost your silver tongue.” The unit beeps a cheerful tone. “Well, you're not optimal but you'll live. Guess this old mech still has a trick or two after all.”
“There's a reason you've survived, Ratchet, and I do not think it luck.”
“Why Megatron, that was almost a compliment.” Ratchet sets his scanner aside and steps back, giving Megatron room. “Your self-repair will do the rest. Come on. You've got work to do.”
He slides from the berth and puts weight down on his pedes, marveling at the lack of pain. There's an ache, that of healing joints and lines shuffling as they accept their repaired state, but there's no pain. He is hard-pressed to call it pleasure simply because it's been so long since he's felt such a thing.
Gratitude is close to the surface, but he reminds himself that it had been duty that saved his life and nothing else.
“Work?”
“To discuss the terms of the truce.”
Ah. Those. He supposes there is a certain responsibility that comes with functioning. Though he wonders how much a truce matters when, right now, Megatron is the only Decepticon still alive.
“Have you found a means to leave Earth?”
“Not for us, but for you, yes.” Ratchet gestures for Megatron to precede him, out of the rickety warehouse that must serve as his medbay and into a cool, rainy afternoon. “Prime will explain all of that to you. I'm just the medic.”
Just the medic? Megatron will never believe that. No other Autobot medic of note had survived the war and even when Ratchet had been a senator, he'd been an unholy terror that few could counter.
Organized chaos best describes the Autobot base. Humans scurry about, shouting at each other. Nearby warehouses of various sizes give off Cybertronian signatures, no doubt more Autobots, all of them injured in some capacity.
But there is only one mech who truly captures Megatron's attention. Optimus steps out of the nearest warehouse, leaving the door open behind him. His gaze sweeps the base but he notices Megatron around the same time that Ratchet calls to him.
Or barks rather. Ratchet does not know the meaning of the word 'subtle.' Or tact.
“You shouldn't even be standing!” He storms forward with all the fury of a medic who hasn't been obeyed.
Optimus, Megatron notices, is still missing an arm, though the connectors themselves have been repaired. His armor gives testament to the recent battle, scarred, dented, and scored.
“I am not so free as to commit myself to a berth,” Optimus replies with that irritating dignity of his. “I am functional. There are other patients who need your care.”
Ratchet's engine growls as he stomps past his Prime and into the warehouse. “Sideswipe is stable, Optimus. And so is everyone else for that matter. Probably because they are resting as I told them to do. Start worrying about yourself.”
“He is terminally incapable of such a thing,” Megatron offers and now, he's close enough to see inside the warehouse Optimus had exited.
A Cybertronian frame rests on a makeshift berth similar to the one that had held Megatron. He recognizes the slim, silver Autobot as the aforementioned Sideswipe.
So. He had outlived Sunstreaker all the way to the end. It certainly shows who Primus favors in all this.
“Yes, I know.” Ratchet grabs the warehouse door. “I'll let you know when Sideswipe's online. But I'd better not see you until then, not unless you are in your own fragging berth. Understood?”
Prime versus medic. Megatron knows who will win.
Optimus' helm dips. “Keep me apprised of his condition.”
Ratchet's answer is to huff a ventilation and slam the door shut in Optimus' face. It would be amusing if Megatron had anything left of humor within him. But he's too angry and too tired to muster up a chuckle.
He arches an orbital ridge instead. “Do you have a vested interest in that Autobot?”
Optimus gives him a cool look and turns away, walking with an unbalanced tilt. “We have work to do.”
An evasion. How curious.
“Work,” Megatron repeats and falls into step beside his brother, side by side, equal as they had never been. “I assume you expect I'll agree no matter what terms you lay.”
Shackles, he reminds himself. He never managed to escape them after all.
“I expect that you'll be grateful I spared your life.”
Megatron's optics cycle down. “Not enough that I'll allow myself to be beholden to you. I'd sooner offline.”
They arrive at another warehouse, this one empty of all but a stack of crates, perhaps supplies. Optimus turns to face him now that they are free of prying optics and something in his expression is different than before.
“You regret nothing, do you, Megatron?” Optimus asks, and there's a slump to his shoulders that wasn't present before, as though he's given himself permission to show weakness now that no one is looking. And he sounds... tired.
Megatron's hands form slow fists. “No, I do not. You would not hear me.” He cycles a ventilation, alarmed by its sharpness. “I did what had to be done.”
He regrets that it had taken him this far to come to this place, the beginning all over again. He regrets that he'd failed. He regrets losing Sunstreaker and millions of Decepticons all for the sake of a failure.
But he does not regret the choice to try.
“I'm listening now.”
This time, Megatron does bark a laugh. But there's no humor in it. He spreads his hands. “I'm at your mercy, brother. There seems little point.”
“Do not call me that.”
Optimus steps closer to him. His energy field is a dull press against Megatron's, enclosing him in a sensation not unlike that of being trapped.
Megatron does not step back, but he does acknowledge the threat. Optimus may have only one arm, but it would take a single glyph from his comm to call reinforcements. Megatron would be offline before he had a moment to reconsider his action.
So it has come to this. Very well then.
He dips his helm. Optimus wants subservience? Is that not the part the Lord High Protector should play?
Round and round and round again.
“State your terms.”
Optimus looks at him. And then he produces a datapad from subspace, holding it out to Megatron. He takes it, knowing that just by taking it, a chain is forming around his spark.
He reads the introduction. He skims the table of contents, the rules at their minimum before delving into details. And he almost wants to laugh.
Of course. Of course. Optimus probably thinks he's doing Megatron a favor. That he's being gracious and merciful.
But what choice does Megatron have?
He signs.
0o0o0
He leaves.
The Autobots supply him with a functioning ship just large enough and Megatron leaves. He takes with him the surviving Decepticons they pulled from the wreckage and as they return to Cybertron, still more are waiting. They've heard the call.
Those who fuss about the end of the war are quietly disposed of. Others help rebuild his tired ranks. They throw their weapons into a smelter pit, per their agreement with Optimus and the Autobots.
How kind of Optimus to turn Cybertron into a prison. One they can leave but choose not to because, despite it all, it is home.
Megatron finds mechs to trust, to lead beside him. They pick Iacon to rebuild first because it's the least ruined and nearest to an active energon mine.
Empty frames are gathered at last with respect. Names are taken for an ever-growing list, their frames recycled, an unfortunate necessity.
There are three assassination attempts, only one of them perpetrated by an Autobot. It is unfortunate that he didn't survive the encounter. Megatron doesn't have to be armed to be a danger.
That doesn't mean he can't still acknowledge the reproach Optimus will bear.
He spends his evenings on the roof of what they call their main command center, though it is less command and more a gathering place. They recharge in this building. They process energon. They perform repairs as Knock Out's arrival had been quite fortuitous though his experience compared to Ratchet's is lacking.
This building is what the Decepticons call home.
But from the roof, Megatron can see the distant star that is Earth. Close enough to reach but far enough that Optimus isn't around for daily visits. He has yet to decide if he is disappointed or relieved.
He recharges alone.
Megatron has had offers, but he declines. There's no room left in his spark, he believes. Not with the pain of Optimus, alive and near but too far. Further, Sunstreaker's loss is too fresh.
Sunstreaker had been the only balm to the pain of Optimus' betrayal, the only one who could possibly understand.
He is not replaceable. Megatron is not willing to try.
All he can do is abide by the terms of the truce. He rebuilds. He restructures. And bit by bit, the fetters enclose his frame, all the way back to the beginning.
***
a/n: Two more chapters to go and then, maybe, the possibility of a sequel. if I can get all the particulars worked out in my head. It was a subplot that was supposed to take place during the course of this fic, but it felt so out of place that I took it out.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/281560.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.