Prologue
Peace was, in itself, a battlefield: One fought to obtain it, one fought to sustain it. It was a denied truth.
But at this moment, it didn't seem to matter. Cybertown's surface was a reflection of Megatron's very own emotions: bright, golden, and hopeful for what the future might bare.
He marveled at the beautiful coloration of the planet, it truly being a remarkable sign of things to come, as well as the ascending spirit of freedom from the primitive ways of the fight.
He touched down on the ground, slightly less impressed by his latest surroundings; a few dilapidated buildings, tattered fragments of such littered across the dull, faded ground. From the air, the planet seemed so very serene. Here in this sector, it was a different world altogether. There was a simple river behind him, trickling quietly to its outward channel, the sound very pleasant -- but the Tarnish sentry had hardly come to admire the scenery. His purpose here was a matter of business. Well, that and nostalgia. He had agreed to meet here, at this relic of a pub, for reasons of camaraderie. He was to here meet with an old acquaintance, one he hadn't seen in vorn. By all accounts they should have met in a more secure area, but the derelicts in this sector were more focused on who to put their fists through rather than vital Decepticon military data. Megatron and his friend had frequented this bar at one point... and it seemed time to settle back into old habits.
Pushing his way through the entrance to 'The Rusty Axle', he instantly felt a twinge of sickness at the scent of spilled fuel, souring his expression accordingly. He frowned as he noted the source of the foul scent, one battered and dying Autobot lying near the doorway, a gaping wound in his chassis spilling its sickening pink gel that was wasted energon. Bar room brawls were somewhat common around here -- perhaps the sole part of the economy that hadn't changed along with the remainder of the world. Megatron noted the bartender speaking urgently with some authority outside, thus quashing any reason he himself had to report the incident. He honestly felt for the poor mech at his feet... but while he loathed to admit the fact even to himself, the fact that the wounded was an Autobot sapped the situation of some urgency.
The defender stepped over the body, the frown still adhering to his face. The uncomfortable barstool he donned shifted slightly under his weight, but to keep up an old tradition, he had to sit at the counter. Poor maintenance in a structure like this wasn't uncommon; it actually seemed to suit the ancient, gritty decor. He looked to his surroundings, knowing instantly that amongst the energon-stained walls, long-extinct animal trophy carcasses, and cracked and unstable relics mounted on the walls that this was *not* the milieu he was accustomed to -- but then again, he may have been spoiled by the kindly and attractive surroundings of the High Council's citadel.
Megatron looked to the stool on his left, seeing it empty as he expected. He ordered a shot of spiked energon with a twist of Quainan ale, only to be waved off by the still-occupied bartender, who was still speaking with the Decepticon lawman in a very casual manner -- severe beatings definitely being an average occurrence. Megatron twiddled his thumbs, waiting for his companion to arrive. It wasn't surprising to see he wasn't yet present; he often got tied up in other things when due to a prior engagement -- more or less a part of his charm. Megatron smiled in reverie, recalling a moment during the War when the two of them had mixed up coordinates, and -- rather than ending up at an Autobot bunker -- had arrived at an Autobot cantina some twelve klicks off-course. Their superior, however, likely did *not* find humor in the topic, even today.
"The botched coordinates incident again?" asked a sudden voice, jarring Megatron from his memory. Catching sight of the speaker prompted a deeper grin.
"However did you guess?" he said sarcastically.
Onslaught's optics sparkled with good humor. "Just a gut feeling."
Megatron chuckled at his comrade's remark; it had been far too long since they had seen one another, let alone chattered meaninglessly. "So," the silver-plated Decepticon said in between chortles, "what demanded your tardiness this time?"
The dark-blue mech took the stool to Megatron's left. "Last-minute report. Can't leave my post without making a report."
"But of course."
There was a pause in the conversation, one that intoned awkwardness on the part of each Decepticon participant. "Look," they both began in unison, then paused once more, each smiling wide in apparent embarrassment.
Megatron broke the bout of silence. "I know it's been a... long time," he said.
Onslaught nodded briefly, placing a hand on his fellow's shoulder. "Indeed it has. But I believe we've both been too busy to have executed this encounter earlier."
Megatron shook his head, a frown dominating his expression once again. "No, Onslaught, the fact that the only reason either of us are here now is because we can write this off as business," Megatron hesitated, looking into his longtime compatriot's optics. "The fact that we've both been too busy to keep up regular visits on our own terms *tells* you that we're too busy."
Onslaught exhaled, his demeanor remaining soft. "But from this point on, that shall change."
Megatron rolled his optics, knowing that to be just one of those things one said, but never meant. He decided to drop the subject; perhaps they would keep meeting regularly, but it wasn't likely. Megatron worked most of his time as security lieutenant at the Decepticon High Council's building, and Onslaught kept himself occupied as being Police Commissioner of the Polyhex quadrant precinct. Both were trying tasks, each eating megacycles from their proprietors' time. Megatron abandoned the topic like a garbage scow.
"It's peaceful, isn't it?" he said with a new hope in his tone.
Onslaught nodded, his mind likely wandering onto a new task he'd set out to accomplish the following day.
"You mean Cybertown?"
Megatron nearly jumped, the fact that Onslaught had paid his words any heed being slightly surprising.
"Yes. It's the Golden Age, all right. It gives you a new hope for the future, doesn't it?"
The bartender -- however belatedly -- placed several shots of Megatron's earlier order down on the counter before them, Onslaught paying his own drink no attention. "It won't last," he replied simply, fatalistically.
The silver veteran placed a hand on Onslaught's forearm, a question in his optics. The question didn't need to be spoken to be communicated; Onslaught could tell from a glance that Megatron wanted to know how he could say that.
"Simple," said Onslaught, his optics blaring intensely. "the Autobots are a threat that remains unextinguished."
Megatron pounded his fist on the counter, prompting a brief but exasperated glare from the barkeep. His shotglass jumped. "The Autobots are too busy squabbling amongst themselves to try to make another bid for power. We've established too much control over Cybertown--"
"We both know that's not entirely true," Onslaught interrupted, holding up and examining the contents of his shotglass. The Decepticon's face was a mask of emotion; his temporarily-removed faceplate usually covered his mouth, while he retained a remarkable ability to shade emotion from his own optics, every detail seen through the obscuring lens of the container holding the bubbling pink liquid. There were, of course, those that believed the Autobots were a threat that needed eradicating. Thankfully, those ones were not the creatures in control over the planet. Megatron was by no means partial to the Autobot menace, but to exterminate them was far too extreme a solution. His was the opinion that they were being underestimated by the majority -- those that shared Megatron's own ideals. And he knew that Onslaught shared that view. But he knew what his companion was saying, having mastered interpreting Onslaught's feelings long ago.
"You're talking about the rumors, correct?" Megatron said, gulping down his shot. He winced at both the sour flavor of his drink and the steer this conversation was taking. Detours in the conversation grew tiresome, after a fashion.
Onslaught took a small sip of his drink, then placed it coolly on the counter top. Megatron hated when the Combaticon acted so calm under pressure, but, then again, that *was* why he was awarded that chrome-plated medal he always spoke so fondly of during the last war.
"Of course, rumors are only rumors," Onslaught assured, "but I am inclined to believe they hold some semblance of truth."
Megatron cocked an optic ridge. "You actually believe that -- out of nowhere, completely spur the moment, *under the noses of the High Council themselves* -- another Prime has taken center stage?" Megatron made no effort to hide his disbelief. "If I could count the number of self-appointed Primes that have arisen since Sentinel's fall..." It was true. Any number of Autobot lowlifes had risen from the gutter to claim themselves new emperors over a dead empire, and each had swiftly succumbed to the "might" of other pathetic warlords, the pattern continuing to the present day. Most merely ignored the declarations of war. They stopped paying attention after the sixth time, most likely. And now, the fact that the wise Combaticon tactician actually believed the umpteenth rumor, while paying past instances no heed... well, Shockwave would have a field day with such faulty logic.
Onslaught gulped down the glass's remaining contents. "It wouldn't be the first time." he retorted.
Megatron shifted his jaw in skepticism. "What makes this rumor valid? you're smart, Onslaught; you're smarter than that, certainly."
The dark veteran stared off to a random point within the bar, seemingly transfixed by several of the Autobot dockworkers from the warehouse across the way swindling one another with their ridiculous games of chance. It was an illegal activity, one that Megatron almost thought Onslaught would delay their meeting to put a halt to, but he finally found his voice, his interest in the surly mechs having dwindled. "An Autobot disappeared from the warehouse over the river."
Megatron cocked his head in apparent interest, curious as to why this mattered, along with why his old friend was actually talking about one of his department's cases. He was quite hesitant to reveal anything regarding a hot case under ordinary circumstances...
"We," the blue mech continued, obviously referring to the mechs working on the disappearance, "believe him to have had certain... *connections* to the Autobot in question."
The silver Decepticon stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Has this anything to do with the disappearing energon from said warehouse?"
Onslaught gave his fellow a rather surprised look.
"The Council likes to keep on top of things." Megatron shrugged, returning to his drink.
"We believe him to have been in some way involved in carting the energon to this mystery Prime." Onslaught said in a strangely sterile voice. "That would imply that this particular Autobot cartel is more..." Onslaught paused, seeking out a word to properly describe his thought.
Megatron supplied one with a wry smile. "Organized?" The fact that organization stood out as unexpected in regards to the Autobots proved a source of endless amusement to the security officer. /That's just how petty those foul creatures are.../ he mused privately.
Onslaught slapped the counter top in emphatic agreement. The bartender sent the other war hero a dirty look of his own, one that Onslaught ignored, far too caught up in the present discussion. "Precisely," Onslaught sipped another glass.
Megatron suppressed a shudder; the thought of how much destruction Autobots in disarray could cause was incalculable enough as it was, but the revelation that another group -- an *orderly* one -- could exist was simply terrifying. Despite his inner distress, he was determined not to act out of character. "An Autobot mafia? There's a distressing thought..."
Onslaught smirked beneath his mask of seriousness, and placed his shotglass atop the counter, his demeanor turning deadly serious. Onslaught was like that; one second he was a humorous, entertaining soul -- the next, he was a living corpse. An oxymoron though the musing was, it was the closest analogy he could envision.
Megatron shook his head rapidly, a vain attempt to ignore the previous conversation ever took place. "It's time to get down to business, isn't it?" Megatron asked, knowing from experience that Onslaught always finished his drink before getting to the point of any meeting.
"Yes. It is," Onslaught said. He reached into subspace, pulling out a small data pad that held far more information than one might have thought. Megatron took it in his hands, punching a few buttons to assure the device still functioned properly.
"So these are the top-secret plans that could eradicate all life in the universe as we know it?" Megatron said with a smirk. As a trusted hero of the war, Onslaught had been secretly drafted as a military advisor by the High Council, a position the Combaticon had been all too eager to accept. As such he was always given building plans for any new class of vessels, weapons -- rare though they were -- and miscellaneous contraptions that would in some way be used by the Decepticon military. Since the beginning of the Golden Age, the Decepticons had kept all military operations highly confidential -- likely afraid that if word got out the faction was preparing for a future war, the Autobots would be far too eager to give it to them. Old habits died hard -- a truth found on either side.
"I don't know about that, but these are the basic plans for the new spacecraft. The Council should find them most efficient," Onslaught remarked, rising from his seat. "I made the adjustments myself."
"I'll bet. Maybe we should make it a warship to prepare for the new rise of the mighty Empire." he quipped. Despite the severity of the previous conversation, Megatron couldn't take it seriously -- he was a wisecracker, and he refused to let even the threat of war break his cool exterior.
Onslaught shook his head. "The Golden Age is a wondrous thing while it lasts," he said with genuine compassion, "but war is one of the few universal constants. Those who hunger for blood are most persistent in their chosen methods. Tread carefully."
Megatron gave a knowing nod to his old friend. "I'll take your word for it -- and I'll be sure to give the Council their gift."
/They might need them shortly.../ Megatron mentally added, just as quickly letting his mind move away from the topic.
He and Onslaught stood, one placing his palms face up, the other, face down. They gripped each other's forearms, each chanting the ancient Decepticon parting ritual: "Til all are one." And they went their separate ways. Megatron stepped out of 'The Rusty Axle', the wind kicking up as he did so. He gazed at the sunset, at the purity seen within the golden star high above. He admired its beauty, smiling in appreciation of the vivid colors. It was so calm... so serene. The very thought that this fragile state of things could be shattered so easily-- he pushed the thoughts away as though they were a disease. Now was the time for belief, for hope. He looked forward, seeing the small river not far off. It glistened in the fleeting sunlight, its trickle almost audible even from the distance between them. /Beautiful.../ the lone Decepticon thought, an appreciative smile forming on his face. The shadows grew long, his own extending for seemingly a half-klick -- all of it symbol of all that was happening... all that would one day be. He felt confident that, at a not-too-distant point in time, all would be peaceful. The gods owed it to him -- to the Decepticons as a whole -- to set things right, to let the demons of the past remain buried in their depths. He deserved it. They deserved it. And he allowed himself to walk, to ponder over the things he learned.
It was, despite his sanguine outlook, the last peaceful sunset Megatron would ever see. It was the last time the river would run with anything but spilled blood.
Before Armageddon could end, it would first have to begin.
Megatron despised the late shift. He was missing out on precious time he could be spent enjoying this period of peace, which, after his discussion with Onslaught, seemed a little more fragile. The last thing he wanted was to squander it.
But another thing Megatron was reliable. And the fact was he had pledged his time to cover for an absent partner of his who had an... appointment. The mech was young and inexperienced; Megatron honestly wondered how one so young had even acquired such a vital position, and the fact that this was his third 'appointment' in as many solar cycles did not bode well for his future within these ranks -- but such things were of the Council's concern, not his own.
The Council believed that in an era of peace such as this, there would be no leeway granted them for the luxury of laser grids and automated security mechanisms; it promoted too much an aura of militant paranoia, rather than the desired air of tranquility and passive belief that the public could indeed be trusted. A few security guards here or there maintained that stillness, while showing the masses that they would not allow themselves to trust so blindly that no one intended them harm. Naivete had been said to spark nearly as many wars as a photon charge.
And Megatron had indeed taken down his fair share of would-be attackers: be it a drunken Decepticon veteran or a vengeful member of some random Autobot militia. Primus only knew Megatron *was* the security system, or at least its primary segment. Granted, there was one other sentry standing watch at the moment, as he could be clearly seen standing before the elevator mechanism used for transit to the Council's summit and the lower floors. Said lift chimed quietly, indicating it to be in use this very moment.
The gunmetal sentry stood vigilant at his post now, within the primary corridor, ready at a cycle's notice to strike down an invader. His optics scanned casually, at present absorbing only the average decor; a few chrome-plated seats for those awaiting their turn for the floor, a stray camera or two surveying the area, prepared to send additional forces to any sector of the citadel requiring it. Majestic holograms of great Decepticon peacekeepers adorned the walls, ringing loud the chime of factional pride. It was more Megatron's home than the small apartment leased him in Polyhex. It was serene. It was normal.
And in the single moment that Megatron exhaled fondly, Chaos took free reign and made it a bloodbath.
Hails of photon charges and rapid-fire projectiles spewed from the transport beside his fellow sentinel, shredding the inspirational animations that had caused an upswelling of pride in so many. The elevator doors now reduced to jagged scrap, Megatron's fellow guardsman caught in the surge, his cries of pain drowned in the sea of fire.
The devastation had barely begun when Megatron had already crouched, rolled, and ducked behind a pillar, his pistol out of subspace and prepared to fire. He could unload his ammunition at any time, but had his attacker's goal been complete annihilation of the Council, the firestorm would have been large enough to encompass the entire corridor -- and the vital figures within the meeting chamber consumed with it. The ornate entryway to said chamber was hardly impenetrable, yet remained, at this moment, unscathed. Clearly, the perpetrator's intention had been to avoid it. And while one mech against what was, judging by that scale of the attack, at *least* four or five heavily-armed soldiers, those were the kind of odds -- the kind of limits -- he seemed to thrive under.
There was a terrible silence as the lone officer could hear only the creak of the stressed wall-bearings and the incomprehensible moans of his fellow guardian. The rage in his spark was strengthened as the malefactor behind the mysterious assault continued to remain beyond his vision. Was such deafening silence intended to unnerve any survivors? Add drama? Temptation to write it off as some kind of hit-and-run rose, but he quelled it. If he were incorrect, to move now might well seal his fate.
At long last, six figures entered through the elevator, marching methodically and treading carefully, as though walking on foreign ground. Dual lines of three parted through the middle, each trio taking their places exactly parallel each other at either side of the hall, standing silently.
Another silhouette stepped inward, the original group straightening their posture further still. Megatron wondered very briefly what sort of chiropractic history these had, then recalled the severity of the situation.
This one was cloaked in crimson and a foreboding gray, the blue fires set in his face sparkling with open glee at the surrounding destruction. "At ease, boys," spoke the higher-up, a thick drawl in his voice triggering within the lone Decepticon warrior a certain sense of revulsion.
The stranger turned toward the vile groans near his chosen entrance, glaring with disdain at the crippled form laying upon the floor, largely obscured by the rubble. He gripped the dying watchman by the forearm, hauling him up to eye level, staring blankly at the writhing form glaring back.
"Well?" he asked, as though expecting an intelligible answer to some unasked question.
No response.
The contemptuous one shook his prisoner violently, growling low in his throat. "Don't you have somethin' to say?"
The intruder received his response as a gob of fuel tacked itself to his face, carefully applied by the wounded, who smiled spitefully in return.
The attacker hurled the Decepticon violently into the wall, snapping his elbow up quickly to pin the Decepticon by the throat.
"Ironhide!" bellowed a voice Megatron had not yet heard. It seemed to emanate from the shadows of the elevator's interior...
In stepped a form that had the crimson brute at instant attention, the broken Decepticon falling to the floor in a heap. The Cybertronian, apparently named Ironhide, mumbled, "I'm sorry, commander. He just... he spat on me!"
The group of six, still aligned with the walls, thumped their fists to their chests as one, throwing the arm opposite out in a fifty-degree angle as the latest warrior entered the fray.
From the shadows came forth a being of perfectly hideous proportions: Chassis bathed an ominous scarlet, legs and helmet sheened a gleaming cobalt. His optics aflame with indefinable madness, alight with power, ambition, and certain fury. He wore upon his face a mask that shielded his emotion, which could now be focused and freed through his bitter, anger-ridden optics. Two all-too-familiar insignias, etched in ivory, adorned the creature's shoulders, deeming him the leader, the orchestrator, and sealing of Megatron's deepest fears.
He had, on some level, already identified this particular warrior from the optics alone, but it was still a shock -- one that nearly caused him to make some outcry that would let on his presence.
He was a Prime.
"But I told you to leave any survivors for *me*." the Prime thundered, his tone cruelly conscious of the nightmare around him.
"I'm... sorry, sir." Ironhide pleaded, attempting to stay strong from beneath his master's boot sole -- likely to keep a certain measure of respect from the shock troopers that remained stuck to the wall, their expressions blank.
"See that you are."
The subcommander swallowed hard, relieved that he seemed to be let off with merely a warning.
The Prime stared about, fixating finally upon the only visible Decepticon -- the one near to death.
"Only one night watchman?" he seemed to both declare with distaste, yet at the same time inquire with venom.
"Looks that way," replied the other.
The Prime glared at his second, prodding him with an invisible spear for one unknown reason or another.
Though its meaning was lost on Megatron, Ironhide seemed to know immediately to what his superior referred -- and Megatron knew what it was the millicycle the Autobot reached for his subspace pocket.
The Council no doubt knew what was going on; they were, as always, wise beyond vorn. But they were also frail, weak. They had relied on a mere two imperfect Decepticons to keep them among the functioning... and Megatron would sooner be damned than fail his protectees.
He prepared to lunge from his place of refuge when he felt a void in his chassis; there was no pain... just a certain sense of relief. He wondered if it was guilt seeping from his spark, leaving his spirit just before he redeemed himself by dying a valiant death.
Megatron's fleeting spirituality suffered a slight blow as he noticed the Prime's smoking rifle leveled in his direction, of course.
His legs gave way beneath him, falling to the floor with a muffled thud. The conqueror stared into Megatron's very soul right then, piercing him with optics akin to a cyberhawk's. Ironhide gritted his teeth agitatedly, the infantrymen each wincing at the sight of his wounded form.
"You could really use some battle-worn soldiers," Megatron suggested weakly, the emptiness in his chest now giving way to crushing pain.
The Autobot seemed to mull over the statement a moment, then, "Beggars cannot be choosers," He paused, "so *they* chose to join *me*."
Megatron could hear a mocking grin in his tormentor's voice, and it took more energy than he cared to spend to stifle a groan at the arrogance of this lunatic. The being would not even refer to himself as a beggar in a metaphorical sense! It brought to mind stories of Sentinel Prime...
The dark one now glanced menacingly at the quietly-bleeding mech Ironhide had nearly decimated, then again to Megatron. A ferocious smile spread into his optics as he repeated the gesture.
Megatron still felt the gap in his chest, numbness beginning to set in. He could move if he truly desired it, but it was obvious now that he was doomed.
Prime riddled the dying mech to his backside with charges, the cry of the blaster ringing true in Megatron's audio modules as a desperate cry for help.
Ironhide seemed to grin in response to his master's delight in such bloodshed, enjoying it as a child enjoys his own private little games.
The thunder stopped abruptly, the smoldering corpse an apparent example of what would become of Megatron himself in coming cycles. He felt pity for the dead one, certainly, but he felt the most pity for the Councilmen in the next room; awaiting their assured demise as a canine awaits its master's return. Megatron felt failure -- and the feeling seemed to overtake the numbness; to forge within him a terrible pang that grafted itself to his very spark.
"Watch him," The Prime commanded Ironhide, referring to Megatron. "I've some business to attend to."
The door vanished in a wash of tangerine flame, giving the Prime clear entrance to the chamber. He stepped through, finding himself in an atmosphere he had always thrived under: A dark shroud played over him, with only a sole bulb to emit a small beacon for all within to see.
The blackened chamber held a total of seven beings, each one masked by shadows, a sea of ruby-hued optics fixating upon him.
"Did I come at a bad time?"
"We thought the Matrix destroyed with the fall of Sentinel," rang one of the seven, a mild inquiry more than a statement of awe.
"You can thank a very greedy... friend... of mine for that."
He found it grotesque how passive these creatures were -- even when fully aware of death's imminence, they spoke in monotone, giving no hint of fear nor anger. It was as though they'd been expunged of all emotion. Such was not at all odd for an Autobot, no, but such aloofness from a guild of elite Decepticons seemed rather odd.
"But now it is too late, gods forgive us," the first Decepticon grieved soullessly.
"This particular god will readily forgive you," cooed the Demon.
"Had you resisted the Matrix, you might not be on the inner rims of megalomania."
The Autobot made no effort to restrain his disgust. "It is a small price to pay to fulfill a once-impossible dream."
"You waste your time with words, Autobot; it is highly inefficient to go on chattering when you could have killed us each quite a number of times over by this point."
Touche.
Optimus contemplated, then remarked, "No -- if you desire it, than I shall by no means permit you to go to the next plane with such swiftness. No... I've a better fate for you..."
"You may torture us until the stars burn out, but the song of justice shall yet be sung."
"History repeats," chimed another.
The despot's optics narrowed, poison creeping into his voice. "History is about to be severely rewritten."
"In your own image?" challenged another.
The Prime let slip a sinister chuckle, deep as Cybertown's core and foreboding as its blackest alleyways. "No one else's can instill the fear of Primus in even the noblest soul."
Optimus Prime allowed instinct to carry him through the ensuing moments, the savagery etched deep within his spark flowing effortlessly outward -- an ocean channel gone untapped for so many vorn finally finding an outlet and indulging within it.
Of course, he was able to quell just enough of his instinctual brutality to let his victims live, though barely. There was an experiment he had been itching to test for himself -- or so a small, dark voice in the back of his head claimed.
All councilmen incapacitated, but conscious, Prime saw his opportunity to succumb to the voice's pleas. The thought running through his mind was nothing if not fitting for these misguided fools.
Spying the nearest councilman, the tyrant gripped him firmly by the wrist, gazing into his magenta optics and relishing the vague sense of fear within. One had to focus intently -- and know well what they were looking for -- and only then could you sense that there was feeling beyond the strong emotion evident to the naked eye... but it was there all the same.
Optimus Prime's chest compartment slid open, a cerulean glow of the purest form seeping out, enveloping the blackened room in its pale illumination. His victim appeared entranced my the luminary jewel before him, any struggle he may have made diminished by his apparent hypnotism. Prime drew the Decepticon's hand closer, the black melody climaxing gloriously as the politician's fingers closed around the radiant sapphire, its gold casing adding a prominent saffron gleam the deadly sapphire hues.
Screams filled the chamber -- one from his victim, but the others seemed to emanate from the room itself, a thousand future outcries, a thousand future deaths; each one ringing shrilly in his audios, but each one satisfying Optimus Prime's lustful spark.
He prayed conquest would always be this fun.
Megatron still lay against the wall, his very lifeblood seeming to drain away from under him. It was an eerily tranquil feeling, knowing he was knocking on death's door.
His misplaced serenity shattered clumsily as cries rose from the chamber adjacent him. The surrounding Autobots tensed in alarm, but only one dared to move. The infantryman charged through the door, taking barely a single step inside before an amber bolt of flame tore through his chest, a shriek arising not from the crumpling corpse, but from the inner chamber, a furious Prime shoving the body aside before it could hit the floor. He seemed to be sealing some mechanism upon his upper chassis as he stormed in, sending enraged glares to all surrounding, and finally settling it upon Ironhide.
"I asked for SOLITUDE!" he fumed, cracking his second across the jaw with the muzzle of his rifle.
Not daring to nurse his wound, Ironhide stood his ground, mumbling through his injured jaw, "Forgive me, commander."
"Only once you have deemed yourself worthy, deputy," He hissed. "Scan the building and eradicate any remaining Inferiors," --Megatron would later learn this to be one of many codewords meaning 'Decepticon'-- "now."
Ironhide executed the Autobot salutation, fixing his hunter's optic upon Megatron and cocking his pistol.
The Prime swatted Ironhide aside once more, pinning him to the wall as though he were a silver arrow. "No! That one," he snarled, nodding indignantly toward Megatron, "is to be our messenger."
Megatron was unsure whether to be fearful or rapturous.
"Messenger?" Ironhide inquired, his jaw appearing to be wholly out of place on his gruesome countenance.
Optimus shoved him across the room, glaring viciously. "Let him speak of the horrors he's seen today to his fellow mech. And our enemies," he smiled demonically behind his facemask, "will cower."
The bold stride of the demon before him broke as he stared down into Megatron's fear-stricken optics. The guardian couldn't help but notice that the devil refused to kneel -- as though to do so would have been some subtle sign of submission to his enemy.
"Tell them that the end is near," Prime declared with a new strength behind his words. "And that Optimus Prime will stand for no insurrection."
As an afterthought, the hulk shredded the wall immediately behind the Decepticon with the rifle that seemed to defy the laws of physics. The tyrant stared down with obvious disdain, sneering behind that faceplate of his. Before he was cast out of the citadel as though a sinking stone, Megatron wondered why the gods would allow such a thing to be taking place before his very eyes: The birth of a new war.
He felt no external pain as the Prime's boot connected with his abdomen, sending him tumbling out of the towering structure, only one solitary thought ringing true in his mind:
Destiny was a force greatly overrated in his mind. But he'd accept what was handed him.
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