Optic filters shutter back, flicking red away from blue (a hint of violet there in the inbetween, laced so deep in his very being like the true horror of repetition), and his spark twists.
This is hardly a surprise. The few videos he has of Megatron prior to the War depict the mechanical with the blue optics common to Priman Cybertronians, a match to the shade of energon typically found in those days. But, like many other things about Megatron, the sight is unreasonably aching.
His audials flick back at the (immense, but much less intimidating) frame joining him. Nervous energy bunches and bounces around in his EM Field, optics dim as his Energon shifts around and pulls itself in tight around his Spark. A courtesy, perhaps, one meant to match his overbright frame to the plainer one of a unadorned Miner.
He is not afraid (tho’ his optics stray towards that fusion cannon, and the sharpened edges of a mechanical built to survive), but he is… uneased.
“I don’t understand.“ he says, in that honest manner of the old Prime and the innocent Archivist. “I cannot possibly begin to understand what you and your fellow Decepticons went through. Not in any true manner, at least; research is helpful, yes, but it adds a comforting distance.“
History is written by those who survive, and those who survive long enough to write it down rarely know of the struggles that fueled the creation of a War.
“But,” he says, with a sigh heavier than need be (something inside aching, feeling regretful). “I have not quite heard this side of the story before, and that does make more sense than the current running theory. And if I have not heard of it, then very, very few have.”
He thinks, briefly, of all the Decepticon ‘drones’ that ‘helped’ construct most of Iacon, and begins to feel vaguely nauseous.
“The War started as an attempt to equalize others, and yet it ended as a massive scramble to gather energon and deal with… other such dangers.” Like over-obsessive Gods who somehow managed to get to Cybertron, and the beginning conflict caused by the rising Predaking Empire. “What changed?”
If Megatron had heard his soldiers referred to as drones in such a context, he would take great offense. Their frametype was one that was mass-produced, but each had his own spark, his own personality and thoughts, and each had chosen on his own to serve the Decepticon cause. They deserved more than to be relegated to the same social standing and menial tasks that would have been asked of them had the war never began.
“In a way, it’s precisely as you described. Two beings so at odds with one another that we tore the world apart. But to simplify it as such would be an injustice to those who gave their lives.” The problem wasn’t that it shouldn’t be put into such terms, but that it was exactly that. It had been an injustice, and too many had paid the price for something far different than they had begun fighting for.
Megatron turned slightly, watching Orion. His optic ridges furrowed a bit for a moment before he continued, as if something were making it difficult.
“When we met with the council, I came to the realization that nothing we said could make a difference. No argument that didn’t somehow benefit the upper castes had any sway, what did our discontent matter so long as they remained safe and in power? I was willing to do anything, to force change if I had to, so I threatened their safety, I threatened their power, their lives, as ours were threatened every day, they heard me then! …And then HE stepped in.” Megatron wrenched his gaze away from the little phantom of his memories. He didn’t want to slip, and refer to this Orion as the one who had betrayed him.
“He tried to placate them, reassuring that a solution could be reached peacefully… the naive fool. Because of him, they knew they had an easy way out. They wouldn’t have to answer for the atrocities committed every day beneath their pedes because here was a mech who thought me too extreme, someone willing to see their side.” He winced, servos tensing into fists. “It disgusted me, infuriated me. We had worked so hard together, only to be undercut by one I considered a Brother, in favor of catering to the elite who had done this to us! And he was the one who received the Matrix-!!”
Sharp, hot pain lanced through his chest. He couldn’t conceal it this time from his field or from his reaction, leaning forward and clamping a servo over his chest. Everything hurt, a strut-deep ache as the self-inflicted poison reacted to his weakness. Too much anger. He opened all of his vents, effectively panting to cool his systems, focusing on the physical instead of the past. The solidity of the bench and the ground at his pedes, the subtle breeze through the crystal garden. Violet pulsed in his optics for a moment before it faded, as he was slowly able to calm himself. His gaze flicked to Orion as he straightened in the seat again. Since when was talking so draining?
“…The war would have happened regardless of our personal conflict… but it colored everything that followed. It changed us. He became a Prime in reaction to my revolution, and I became… ‘Lord Megatron,’ bent on destroying all trace of the old system… including him.”
Megatron's back up 