Chapter Text
Megatron can hear Optimus’ struts grind as he hauls himself off the berth, and heroically refrains from steadying him.
Optimus draws himself up, “What have I done to merit the attention of Kaon’s Supreme Commander?”
Strika chokes off a snort. Megatron chokes on an in-vent.
“Existed,” he rasps.
Their meeting was a long time coming. As Lord High Protector, Optimus freed mechs of both factions when he recaptured territory from the Quintessons. Shamefully, none of their Decepticon cities were able to declare their spark debts while he was campaigning. Then Optimus passed the Autobot defenses to his second-in-command, and their intelligence only detected him on rare solo missions like the one that brought him to them.
Megatron’s servos clench at the memory. They were desperate to catch up to the Quintessons who had stolen sparklings from what should have been a safe zone. His mechs burst into the slavers’ outpost with their weapons primed, but it was unnervingly quiet. They picked their way past a barricade into what must have been a bottlenecked kill zone.
It was like stumbling into a legend of Unicron.
The Lord High Protector’s slumping frame was surrounded by Quintesson corpses, an executioner gasping its last breaths around the axe in its chest. He turned to them and pressed a key into Strika’s servos, his own shakily signing “sparklings.”
Afterwards, Megatron marveled at the mech. Optimus’ field had blanketed the entire compound. The training to extend one’s field was agonizing, and they inserted a field suppressor in case he’d strained himself, but his full range was probably beyond belief.
Then their medics pulled him aside to tell him that Optimus was blind, and had been for some time.
Megatron grit his dentae. The city of Kaon drank to him when he stepped down as Lord High Protector, celebrating his victories and boisterously sympathizing for the poor mech who’d succeed him. That he hadn’t retired but was given a commission on the outskirts of Autobot space, treated like he was expendable instead of revered, made Megatron and his command seethe.
The mech in question clears his vocoder.
Megatron squares his shoulders, “The city of Kaon welcomes the Lord High Protector and will accord you all hospitality.” He shifts on his pedes at Optimus’ silent contemplation.
“Ultra Magnus has been Lord High Protector for nearly a metacycle,” Optimus tilts his helm, “Does Autobot news really not reach Decepticon space?”
Apparently, they will not be engaging in diplomatic double-speak. Megatron sternly reminds himself that he once made a speech during a firefight. Strika nods at him and he tries again.
”A bit, but not as much as you might think. For the mechs here, you'll always hold that title no matter who's in office.”
Optimus frowns. “That almost sounds like you want me here. What was it you called me at our last encounter? I think it was a ‘shard in your pede’.” He thumbs the knotted weld on his forearm.
Megatron stares, resisting the urge to touch his own ragged weld (left shoulder, 31° angle, skirmish outside Polyhex). He looks back at Optimus. “Yes, actually. Your liberation of Sonic Canyons saved us the trouble of retaking it ourselves.”
Optimus’ optics shutter, then online, taken aback. His helm tilts like a confused cassette, shifting his balance, and he catches himself.
Megatron purses his lips and watches him sway on his pedes. “Respectfully, Optimus. You’ve not allowed optic blindness to stop you—” Megatron sees him freeze, but like any self-respecting Decepticon, he barrels on, “But your injuries are serious and no mech will think less of you for resting.”
The delicate scaffolding cradling Optimus' lumbar struts screeches alarmingly as he stiffens. His servos tighten into fists.
Megatron can feel his officers’ stares boring into his helm from the medbay's window, and Strika gaping at him in disbelief. Primus’ aft he must have fragged up already. A distant part of Megatron’s processor allows itself to be impressed at how the Lord High Protector mastered the appearance of sight. Few mechs can look Megatron in the optics and if it wasn’t for his foreknowledge, he would have sworn that Optimus is glaring murder into them.
“How disappointing,” Optimus grits out, words clipped, “I’d been wondering about the field suppressor. What happens now?”
Megatron opens his intake then closes it, words eluding him, his processor woefully blank. Strika harrumphs and slashes a servo down in an unmistakable ‘get on with it’. He looks back at her helplessly.
To his great relief, she speaks. “Lord High Protector, we would have helped regardless, but we owe you a great debt." Optimus' attention snaps to her as she continues, "Your campaigns at Uraya and Sonic Canyons, much less the land between our cities, saved thousands of us. We owe you spark debts and would be honored to fulfill them during your stay here.”
Optimus’ optics narrow. Whatever the mech expected it clearly was not this. He taps a pede, then turns back, zeroing in on them. “What am I permitted to ask for?”
Megatron says, “It cannot harm us. We won’t put you in danger either.”
Optimus chews it over then nods. “For at least some of the spark debts, it seems reasonable for Autobots in your custody to be returned to the Republic. I would be happy to facilitate once this,” he gestures at the field suppressor, “is off.”
Megatron and Strika look at each other. Retired or not, if the Lord High Protector dies so close to their borders the fallout will be catastrophic. His termination could open a second warfront with the Autobots and weaken both factions. The rare times they detected him, he was perilously close to Quintesson territory and conducting maneuvers that bordered on suicidal.
Megatron's optics linger on Optimus' shattered struts. The Lord High Protector let the Autobot Republic throw him away, and his spark was nearly extinguished because of it. He looks back up and takes a steadying in-vent.
“General Strika will personally oversee their safe return. As for the suppressor, you might have taken out an entire Quintesson outpost, but we cannot grant something that will kill you. Will you return to solo missions if we remove it?”
Optimus relaxes minutely, then goes rigid as he keeps speaking. Megatron can see rising trepidation on his face as he reads between the lines. There’s something gut-wrenching about seeing a brave mech afraid.
Optimus jerks his helm in horrified denial then hisses, “I’m sure the Decepticon Coalition is not saying it will cheapen its thanks. Will you cripple a soldier on the front lines?” His jaw works and for the briefest moment he lets his composure break. “Supreme Commander, my field allows me a fraction of what I lost with my sight. Releasing it is within your power and costs you nothing.”
“Lord High Protector…” there’s a bitter, choking taste in Megatron’s intake. He tries again, “Optimus, I don’t want to deny your request, but how can I do otherwise?”
Optimus’ face contorts and his frame caves in on itself. He presses a clenched servo to his intake. It feels like a violation to see him in such anguish.
He closes his optics for a long moment—then his expression twists into a snarl and his battlemask snaps over his face. He whips toward them, presence growing and face thunderous. Megatron sees a shadow of the Autobots' Lord High Protector, Pathfinder of Iacon, Scourge of Quintessons, Liberator of Sonic Canyons.
Optimus’ voice is lethally quiet, “Are Decepticons so cowardly that you’d tie my servos to avoid a fight?”
Megatron’s combat protocols engage, sensory input flooding in about the new hostile. He takes an involuntary step back. This could go very badly.
Optimus juts out his jaw, optics burning. “My soldiers look termination in the optics and rush to meet it for strangers. My officers carry the weight of their deaths and every civilian we can’t save.” He sneers at them, “Your cities only move if there’s something in it for them. I hoped you might rise up to defend Cybertron, but clearly I was mistaken if you’d cripple a mech to protect yourselves.”
He stares them down, face a hard mask and servos clenched as if for a fight. Megatron doesn’t doubt that if the Lord High Protector were armed he’d be hefting his axe.
Strika comms him urgently. ::I’ve fought for you for eons. Please leave this to me:: She holds his gaze when he looks at her. She rarely, if ever, asks anything of him much less invokes her service. He nods.
Strika asks, “Did you forget your High Council’s response when the Quintessons first became a threat?” Optimus’ helm snaps toward her.
“Blaster City was the first to be attacked.” At the city's name, Optimus flinches but Strika mercilessly continues. "The Decepticon Coalition begged for Autobot support until our forces could reach them. Your faction’s High Council told us in so many words ‘good riddance’ then suggested we primitives invited this on ourselves by our own lack of discipline and shortsightedness.”
Her face is flat with old anger. She gestures even though Optimus can’t see it. “I'm sure you know they'd promised us a fair deal. As soon as we depended on them, they cut us off at the knees. Your Council opened their servos to us, but spat in our faces when we came to them for help.”
Optimus recoils slowly, optics wide. She studies him with disgusted resignation. “Didn’t you Autobots wonder why our cities staggered under the first wave of Quintessons? We were starving because of you, barely feeding ourselves much less preparing for a crisis. But when the last High Protector saw us being enslaved, he left us to die and your Republic followed him.”
She steps in, voice hardening into a quiet snarl, “You might have forced your mechs to see us, but that doesn’t erase vorns of broken promises.”
Megatron looks at Strika in grim satisfaction and a bit of pride. They were direct, but her words echoed the sentiment of most Decepticons. That the Autobots censor their histories and teach their people to take offense at the mention of their sins is an insult to the untold mechs whose sparks extinguished because of them.
Megatron studies Optimus. He can see him pivoting this in his processor—examining it, reassessing Decepticons as he knows them. He probably didn’t know how deeply these hurts embedded themselves.
Megatron leans forward. This was why Optimus was formidable as High Protector. He took everything into consideration and adjusted his operating framework without hesitation.
Optimus’ battlemask withdraws with a snick, his face drained of everything but a tired sadness.
“You’re not wrong.”
He shutters his optics, opens them, then measures his words. “My faction's High Council has a long history of doing wrong by your mechs and mine. They claim dignity for all, but they’ve pushed for the slow eradication of non-Autobots and even Autobots they find disposable. I'm truly sorry for what’s been done in our name.”
Megatron's frame releases a tension that he didn’t know he carried. For all that he and his mechs rage at the hypocrisy, hearing an Autobot agree it’s wrong, shakes him to his spark.
He studies Optimus, the grief twisting his face seems sincere. He notes mildly, “Mechs can choose to look away. Your faction’s High Council members see these things, and use it to keep themselves in power. Why bother apologizing?”
Optimus thinks about it, then smiles wryly, “I suppose for the same reason I fight. If I don’t, who will?”
Megatron looks at him appraisingly, “Who will?”
Optimus shrugs, then his face shadows over with remembered frustration, “Reclaiming Quintesson territory was unthinkable when I took command, but our small victories ignited a campaign that halted their forward movement. It was possible because I dared to see a threat and act on it.”
He nods toward them, face grim, “You’ve shown this to me. How could I ignore it?”
Megatron turns to raise his eyebrows at Strika and his officers behind the medbay window, then the words register.
It’s nearly impossible to exaggerate Optimus’ social influence in the Republic. He holds the sparks of Autobots even if he lacks a formal place on the Council, which is probably why he was shuffled off. Reopening interfactional relations, or even a joint offensive into Quintesson territory, could be feasible if they have Optimus to advocate for them.
Megatron hears himself say, “I need to discuss this with my people. We won't remove the field suppressor, but we can return all Autobots in our custody, and those we detain in the next four decacycles.”
Optimus jerks his helm in acknowledgement, seeming to deflate. He sways on his pedes and Megatron idly wonders if the stoicism works for him when he was on Autobot High Command. He’ll need to warn their medics to monitor him closely.
“I’m glad we could speak. We’ll leave you to rest,” he says.
Megatron and Strika join his command in the medbay’s viewing gallery. His officers chatter among themselves, discussing the Lord High Protector’s spark debts and apology (and perhaps his welds too).
Megatron's optics linger on Optimus as the mech gropes for his berth and sinks into it with a sigh. Their Autobot prisoners were right, the High Protector is honorable in word and deed. He can see why Optimus is a pillar of the Autobot Republic. It’s a rare mech who holds onto their ideals and forges a new way forward rather than compromise them.
The field suppressant weighs heavily on him. He joyfully matched wits and physicality with Optimus when their patrols chanced on each other, but the mech in front of him has been ground down by war. The scaffolding around his struts is the only thing holding him up.
Megatron has the irrational desire to gather him into his arms and smooth a servo over his helm until he falls into recharge. To lick inside his thighs, the pillowy softness of his valve, until Optimus thrashes in pleasure and that spark-sick weariness falls away. He frowns, chiding himself. The mech deserves better than his fantasies.
“Supreme Commander.”
Strika looks at him expectantly, the room's attention on them.
Megatron’s spark jumps at her expression. That smirk typically precedes a berserker rage or his world falling down. He shuffles his musings away and comms her. ::whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it::
She raises an eyebrow and glances at Optimus.
Megatron narrows his optics at the niggling suspicion of the cluster-bomb she’s about to throw. ::that’s an order::
Her face splits into a grin and he bares his fangs at the wild light in her optics. ::Don’t. You. Do. It.::
A vocoder clears. The rest of High Command is watching them like a cube match.
“Does he know he can appeal with a judicial duel?”
Strika’s voice drips with sincerity. Megatron slowly turns back to her. She blinks coyly, and he reminds himself it’d be imprudent to blast one of his best generals into a heap of twitching durasteel.
Soundwave projects on his visor: “Optimus combat = Kaon debut?”
Megatron whips his helm to him and stares. Optimus’ already formidable popularity exploded in the Decepticon public once security footage of his last stand leaked. Vids of his campaigns were rooted out and obsessively analyzed by his fans. A public duel would dominate the net for a stellar cycle and whichever lucky mech was Optimus' opponent would probably call on him.
“We could leverage him to negotiate a joint operation.” Cyclonus rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t object if the Autobot Republic offered us a gesture of good faith.”
Helms tilt, optics brightening at the prospect of a united front. Then Megatron sees the exact moment his mechs realize what ‘a gesture of good faith’ could entail with respect to one peerless (and presently unaware) mech.
He pounds the table before they start chattering again. “We’re tabling demands. Plan for a strategy meeting at 19:00 on a two-pronged offensive with Iacon.” He stares them down until they duck their helms. “Soundwave, generate projections on detainments. Strika, you’ll coordinate prisoner retrievals. Everyone else, get back to work.” Mechs filter out throwing resentful glances over their shoulders.
Cyclonus pauses by him, “You can’t blame them for admiring a mech with such a weak claim.” Megatron glances around, but Cyclonus is between him and the exit. His second continues as always.
“Your coquettish marks were adorable a vorn ago, but now they’re embarrassing. Are you really going to make the Lord High Protector a fling? He seems like a nice mech for an Autobot. Show him you’re serious or step aside.” He looks pointedly at the weld on Megatron's shoulder that Optimus caused with one glorious blow, then turns to leave.
Megatron heaves an ex-vent. For all the older mech's care, he delights in flustering him.
Cyclonus turns abruptly at the door, a twinkle in his optics, “Don’t forget an interface virus panel, CMN is a pain in the aft.” He winks and strides merrily away as Megatron gapes after his retreating back. He’ll never be able to look him in the optics after this.
In a bit of a daze, Megatron turns to Strika and Soundwave who have been patiently waiting and blatantly eavesdropping. He stares at them for a full breem while his processor recovers. He opens his intake, closes it, opens it again—
“You are not to meddle.”
They look at each other, then flicker their optics back to him with all the innocence of newborn sparklings. Soundwave’s visor lights up: “distrust = wounds us”.
Megatron wonders if the Autobots’ High Command is open to swapping factional leaders for a vorn or two. His dignity might be in tatters, but he’s certain he can scrounge up something to persuade them. He looks flatly back at his traitorous officers and powers on his fusion cannon for good measure.
“Keep your servos out of it,” he snaps and stalks away. He rather doubts it’ll stick.