restitutiopax:

      That smile (sharp, intelligent, fierce) weighs strangely on his spark. 

He expects the anxious energy, the innate intimidation that eats away at his stance (which he would keep, as Megatron, terrible as he may be, cannot possibly be any worse than an entire decacycle of working in specialized, customer-service-specific retail without a break); to a point, he even expects the stare, that thing that broke down hundreds upon thousands of Autobots before him.

       His spark twists up with a strange, untenable sadness. 

       He sits as instructed (requested, maybe, in the only way that those forceful sorts know), feeling all the smaller for it. His optics drift from the focal point (Megatron’s kneepads, the metal dented and scratched from repeated use) to his faceplates, making careful note of every pit and scar he sees. He knows the origin of some, he thinks, from his holovids; others were lost to history, or made in the time of Destron Political Unrest that proceeded the Unicron Crisis. 

        Looking Megatron in the optic is easier than expected. He is nervous, yes, but he doesn’t not feel afraid. 

        Maybe his self-preservation programs finally shorted. The damned thing always was picky about choosing what he needed to worry about.

        “Everyone knows about the Great War,” he starts, initial disbelief (confusion) clogging his field. “It is the very foundation upon which our society is built, the prior-event that lead to the specificities of our culture.”

        He settles the Datapads on his lap, flicking a Stylus from his subspace. The weight is comforting. “Personally, sir, I was made soon after the War ended. I’ve seen our cities rebuild, watch the dead be smelted down and returned to the Allspark, reorganized the records of a War that nearly destroyed our species and half of a galaxy, and I’ve seen… a lack.”

        “The belief is that the War began because of an Inequality, exasperated by… unyielding forces.” His optics flick at the implication, digits curling into a loose fist. “Thus is what the remaining original Autobots say, and thus is what populates the historical texts. There are no original Decepticons left to give their side of the story, and thus our culture has taken an… biased approach to a War that cannot have been as simple as two stubborn mechanicals disagreeing about the decision of the Matrix.”

        There’s a weighted (_regretful) pause, optics flickering before they return to meet the (once?) Warlord’s. “… is that alright?”

Prior event. Megatron’s optic sharpen in focus as he begins to understand that this version of his former friend is not from the distant past, but an alternate version of his own time, long after when he currently exists. The warlord stares down at Orion as he speaks, both absorbing his words and a deeper revelation. Suddenly, this is more than simply an interview, it’s an entirely new and dangerous possibility.

What if he could come back?

It takes Megatron a moment to respond, because he has to play back the latter part of Orion’s explanation to be able to focus on it. …Ah. The only way the Decepticons’ accounts could have been lost was if Orion was from one of those universes in which his alternate had perished or been exiled. He would never have allowed such a skew to take hold.

After Orion meets his gaze again, Megatron studies him a few more moments, and lets his red filters slide away, revealing exposed blue optics. He takes a step, turns, and sits beside the much younger mech.

“The war, in some shape and form, was inevitable. Perhaps it may not have been as costly without our initial conflict, but things could not have continued as they were. You speak of inequality as if that alone were not enough to cause it so I don’t believe you understand what life was like for those in the lower castes.” Megatron didn’t look at Orion now, instead glaring off into the distance.

“We were nothing more than tools. Slaves to our alt-modes and treated as disposable, especially in the labor caste. Some were forged and extinguished in the mines, without once seeing the sky. Never was it considered that we could be anything else, that we were worth more than that. With me at the helm, we rose up, demanding change, to be treated as equals.”

Megatron closed his optics wearily. “That is why it first began, what it was meant to be.”

restitutiopax:

    He would have arrived early, matching the Warlord’s time, except his train was a bit late. 

     Such hadn’t sat well for him. Concern already soaked him through, coming out in the way he fiddled with his stylus and the way he chewed at his derma, watching the skyline pass and the gardens approach.

       He’s the first one off the tram when it begins to slow, brushing past any mechanical that was in his way. 

     He skids to a stop outside of the gardens, chronometer registering a few moments until his appointment, and thus he leans against the nearest hard surface to bring himself together. He’s had three days (and then some, cycles taken to get here and cycles spent doing nothing) to prepare, to ease himself and keep himself from looking like an absolute fool, and yet it doesn’t seem to matter.

       He glances into the garden, half-hidden behind a delicate formation, and balks at the sight of powerful silver and violet.

        His spark contracts painfully. 

        His chronometer pings. He has no more time left. 

        It’s a confident Pax, the Archivist who keeps the Iacon Archives in one piece and helps all he comes across, that walks out into the designated meeting space. His Datapads are settled under the crook of one arm, the other hand filled with two reasonable bottles of a roughly-cut highgrade, and he has plenty of styluses in his subspace. 

          He looks ready, but a careful brush against his EM field reveals nearly the obvious. 

      “I’ll admit,” he says, with the cheery sort of confidence that any service-oriented mechanical is capable of throwing onto their voice. “You are… far larger in person. It is one thing to know your structure, I suppose, and another to see said structure standing before me.”

       He barely graces the very bottom of Megatron’s abdomen. 

Megatron’s field, by contrast, is tight to his frame, barely detectable to those not touching him. Millenia of paranoia practice. The time ticks to the hour, and there he is, like clockwork. Some things transcend the multiverse, so it would seem. Orion’s punctuality and… his size. In fact, this one seemed to be even a little smaller than his own had ever been. The warlord chuckled, grinning down at the young archivist, at the supplies in his servos.

“You are different than the others. Much younger… and yet you seem to know so much, already, don’t you? Before you begin to ask me your questions, I have one of my own.” The old warrior turned, motioning for Orion to follow him. He took a few long strides over towards a bench, standing before it with his arms crossed behind his back, waiting for the archivist to take his place. Only after the young mech sat down did he speak again, voice even and serious.

“How did you come to know about the war? Before I can begin to answer you, I must understand your… personal context.” The warlord will remain standing until he receives an answer, towering over Orion even from a few steps away.