The Anon’s magic dissolved the familiar halls of Iacon and Cybertron in favor of a flat, darker grey room that seemed endless. No walls, no ceiling – though a gradual fall off around them indicated that there was some light source above – and the strange human-built bar was far larger than it should have been. Clearly, it was made for mecha he and the Tyrant’s size, but it was hardly comforting.
It was quiet. Perhaps like the quiet that overcomes someone when they’re alone in someone elses’ home at night, trying to sleep. An uncomfortable, unfamiliar quiet only broken by the Prime’s steps as he took in the spartan surroundings. Two cubes of energon rested perfectly still on the counter top.
But his main concern was the acute angles that made up Megatron’s cast shadow. He kept his focus there, rather than meeting glare that was surely boring into him.
“This was not my doing,” Optimus rumbled quietly.
Megatron could not remember the last time it had been so quiet. His life was so infused with sound; the cheers of his follower, the roar of the wind as he flew, the deafening ring of blaster fire and metal-on-metal. Even in the solitude of his quarters, the hum of the Nemesis’ engines was a constant. In the absence of it all… he felt exposed.
His digits clenched into tight fists. The sword contained in his arm wouldn’t release and his cannon wouldn’t ready itself. How he despised magic.
“As if I would have arranged this… I have nothing to say to you, Optimus.” He clenches his dentae, concealing a wince. How was he meant to calm himself now?
Megatron's back up 