His inquiring ping echoes throughout the small space of his apartment.
Shoulders are adjusted to follow a line, chin tilted upward to center. He is certain and forward, his optics bright and his biolights tamed, expression welcoming and helpful.
Thus is the stance he takes when greeting others into the Archives, or when he needs to interact with the Senators in the Head Archivist’s place. He has practice in this.
He’s still nervous.
“This is Orion Pax of the Iacon Archives, hailing the Decepticon Warship Nemesis. I wish to organize a interview with Lord Megatron of Kaon, for the sake of the Iacon Archive’s lack of information on the Decepticon viewpoint of the Great War.”
There’s a pause, marked by the raising of a bottle of high-frequency highgrade. “I am willing to pay Lord Megatron for his time, if he desires. The time and location of the meeting place is up to his decision, as are the choice of topics. My only desire is to record what he says.”
(I want to know where I went wrong. Please, Megatron, please tell me where I failed, where we can restart…)
“My Commlink ID is attached. If he wishes to allow me to speak with him, he, or a associate, are free to contact me at any time. Thank you very much for your time, and offering the possibility to fill in the blanks of our scattered history.”
The stream ends with a click. His camera’s light flicks off, the optics unregistering. His hands tremble, clattering the bottle of highgrade against the console.
He throws his servos up in a delighted ‘whoop,’ energy burning through his biolights.
When Soundwave shows him the transmission, Megatron has him replay it. And again. It’s hard to look at him at first, but as the warrior studies the video, he takes note that this Orion seems younger than any he’s ever known. His optics wider, his smile bright and hopeful, yet he’s asking about events that he should already have an inkling of. He plays it again.
Living in the past is very appealing right now. The comm signal is hailed in return. Megatron slides his optic filters back into place, just for these few moments. The room behind him is sparse and dark, as the Nemesis tends to be. Megatron appears confident and intimidating, as he tends to be.
“Orion Pax. I believe that you recognize me. Meet me in three days’ time, in the crystalline gardens at these coordinates, on my Cybertron. If you require transportation, I will send you a bridge. I will be there, and you may record my words. I will not answer any questions about the end of the war, or about Optimus Prime after the fact. If you attempt to press the issue, I will leave. Payment is wholly unnecessary…” The old warrior smirked. “But I would not say no to some high-grade. I look forward to our interview, Orion.”
The camera clicked off and his smile fell. Three days. Plenty of time to write.
Where Blackguard lacked a personal connection, Megatron had entirely too much of one. It happens, when one of your closest confidants goes from friend to traitorous rival to obsessive fixation. It was impossible and terrible to imagine how things might have gone if he had never met the naive archivist from Iacon, despite what he now felt.
Regret is pointless. It keeps us from moving forward.
::I prefer to believe we would have. But history cannot be rewritten. Mistakes are made, the universe mocks us for the casualties we suffer… and we endure to spite it.:: This was what he had always told himself, what he had consoled grieving soldiers with. A bandage over a wound that kept bleeding through them.
::I may arrange for funeral rites to be performed here, on his planet of origin. If my Decepticons protest… it shall be under the guise that any worthy opponent deserves such respect.::
A soft hum is all she would give in reply, the sound made more to express acknowledgement of his words than agreement. Spite was something she could never run on, not for long at least. She felt it every now and then, as easily and as passionately as anyone else could, and during those times she could be fueled by it, but it was never enough to keep her going. Sooner or later, the reservoir would dry up and Blackguard would be left with another sense of emptiness that she could never fill in.
Sometimes, during those moments of void-like emptiness, she wished she could be like everyone else. Running off of hatred and spite seemed a hell of a lot better than barely running on fumes – or nothing at all.
«Can it wait?» She asks quietly, after a long pause. «I.. I think Rigel should go. I want him to go.» She frowns, the brightness of her visor dropping and the new mouth contorting downward. It felt odd, but she was too distracted to think much more of it.
«That Optimus really wasn’t his father, but.. he acted like one for him anyway. And.. I think it might help him get some closure.»
Running on spite was 90% of Megatron’s existence. He knew all too well how toxic the practice was but had rarely had anything else to rely on. It was what he knew: dangerous, but at least familiar.
A fresh wash of solemnity tears at his coronal scar.
::Of course. After he has been returned, after he has had the chance to settle once more.:: He had no desire to force the youngling to come home to immediately re-confront his ‘father’s’ death, and Megatron was not in any rush to do the same. He had heard so many stories, witnessed so many reunions across the multiverse of those thought long-dead reuniting unscathed, or somehow reconstructed with their brethren. The traitorous Soundwave had reclaimed his deployers, Blackguard had rediscovered her conjunx. Even in his own universe, Shockwave had returned with his beasts after the space bridge had collapsed around him. A small part of him still believed that Optimus may do the same… but hope like that would only lead to more pain in the long run.
Revealing the existence of the multiverse had always been met with immediate suspicion, and Megatron had yet to gain the trust of any version of Optimus, no matter his intentions. With good reason, he supposed. How did those other blue-optic alternates of his ever manage it?
Perhaps a different approach, letting the other come to the conclusion on his own that the Megatron he spoke to was not the one with whom he was currently at war? This was dangerous territory on its own, too. If this one began to feel at any sort of peace with him, he was then in danger of walking into his own Megatron’s traps. …An experiment, then.
::I mean only that, Optimus. Tell me, what do you remember of our last meeting?::
The question caught him off guard, his optics cycling wide as he tried to focus on anything in front of him. What matter would that make? Surely the mech knew just as well as he did. A small voice, however, reminded him of the Multiverse, and all the possible encounters that lay within it…
Optimus let a beat of silence pass before he typed his answer in return:
:: You broke my sword. ::
::Ah, yes. I remember it well…:: In their long lives it may as well have happened an hour ago, but Megatron felt the years. So much had happened since. He decides against a delicate approach.
::What if I told you that when last we spoke, we sat in a bar, discussing the paths we’d led each other down? That to me, a year has passed since you offlined, after the war, and not by my hand?::
His ridges furrow at the mention of an anniversary. Who… Oh.
…Has it really already been a year? All at once, Megatron was aware of the weight of his thick armor, the heft of his sword and cannon. He shut his optics, unable to block out the waver in her voice.
::Stop.:: It isn’t an order, but a pained request. What could he possibly say to make any of this better? He’d spent the later part of his life hunting Optimus down, trying to find any little way to hurt him. Even Rigel had been a tool in his crusade, before he’d begun to come to his senses. And now, he was one of Blackguard’s only remaining connections to the Prime? How tragic was that?
::I knew him. I didn’t understand him. I hated him because he didn’t understand me, or because he did and turned away.:: Hating him was easier than thinking about why, but the gates had been opened, and Megatron found it frighteningly easy to continue.
::It was only after I murdered his alternate, after we were literally forced into a room together… that we were able to talk, on terms that didn’t end in battle, or betrayal. I was able to look at him and recognize him, we were going to-!:: The warlord’s servo hurriedly covered his face,concealing his expression from the camera-less console as he came to the most terrible realization of all. His chest began to burn, for the first time in months. After a pause that was entirely too long, he quietly added:
::His loss is felt. I assure you.::
She immediately falls silent, hearing the hurt in Megatron’s voice but misunderstanding the single word he uttered as an order rather than a plea. In her mind, someone such as him could never be made to beg; Megatron, in any universe and in any circumstance, did not beg. He only ordered, demanded, threatened, debated, and occasionally conversed.
Still though, regardless of how he say it, she follows through with it and wallows in the silence, letting her anxiety and self loathing take hold of her thoughts and gnaw away at her resolve again as Megatron collects himself on the other side. When he speaks, she listens, trying to understand the meaning of his words and withhold her judgement at his hatred and anger. It doesn’t surprise her, not in the least bit, but apparently some part of her had dared to hope he wouldn’t get into that subject. How naive of that part…
«I’m sorry.» Is all she can think to say to him. She lacked a personal connection to the fallen Prime, having only ever spoke to him in regards to returning Rigel, and thus had nothing to add on or share, only empathy. It probably would mean nothing to him, but she offers it anyway.
«I’m sure you two would have done great things together.»
Where Blackguard lacked a personal connection, Megatron had entirely too much of one. It happens, when one of your closest confidants goes from friend to traitorous rival to obsessive fixation. It was impossible and terrible to imagine how things might have gone if he had never met the naive archivist from Iacon, despite what he now felt.
Regret is pointless. It keeps us from moving forward.
::I prefer to believe we would have. But history cannot be rewritten. Mistakes are made, the universe mocks us for the casualties we suffer… and we endure to spite it.:: This was what he had always told himself, what he had consoled grieving soldiers with. A bandage over a wound that kept bleeding through them.
::I may arrange for funeral rites to be performed here, on his planet of origin. If my Decepticons protest… it shall be under the guise that any worthy opponent deserves such respect.::
That feel when your computer restarts when you’re one sentence away from posting a reply to an emotional thread and tumblr doesn’t save your progress
Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?
Megatron's back up 