Chapter Text
As it turned out, there was an unprecedented level of difficulty in leading a recently revived militia.
Especially if it is composed of mechas older than oneself — and even more so if one had a dead mech constantly invading their processor.
Theoretically speaking, of course.
Megatron could hardly imagine disclosing any of his ‘circumstance’ to his High Command, their pledged fealty aside. Honestly, how would one even breach the topic of a historical figure having taken residence within his chest — one that would habitually prompt Megatron to go offline himself (in which Megatronus could also finally rest in not-peace)?
However waning it was, he still had a reputation to uphold. So, like the resolute, stoic mech he had become, Megatron has since resorted to quietly bracing for whenever his predecessor attempted to derail all of his cognitive senses. And such came often. As it turns out, Megatronus Prime was an easily irritable mech.
It always started with a sensation — overwhelming and dreadful — as reality quickly slipped him into foreboding darkness. He would then find himself on the floor, feeling the sheer soreness of his strained cables and the numbness in his mind — and sometimes under the stunned stares of his subordinates. Megatron had an inkling that he was already on thin ice with the Decepticons due to his performance in Iacon; many had eyed their newfound leader with a wariness that grew more severe with each inactive cycle — and now, his recent apparent ailment.
Once he settled on the fact that Megatronus Prime was not some lethal glitch in his logic circuitry — but rather a ‘supplement’ from his transformation cog — he soon had the lesson of blindly admiring idols hammered into his helm a second time. While there was still an innate respect for the military prowess of Megatronus, being on such a personal level with the not-quite-dead Prime had whittled away a good portion of the reverence once held by D-16. A very good portion.
And obviously, cohabitation proved uncomfortable, especially considering how they were surrounded by thousands of mechs that proudly bore Megatronus’ visage on their chassis (which had grated the fallen Prime to no extent).
Even with a dead Prime lurking in the recesses of his mind and the full might of the Decepticon faction in his palm, Megatron felt absolutely alone.
His High Command, his lieutenants, his subordinates — these were his mechs, but they are no different than strangers. And he loathed the fact that not even he could place trust in his own body — his thoughts, his emotions, his — there was humiliation in that Megatronus could feel it, too.
But perhaps, worst of all, he had somehow unconsciously gained a deep distrust of his own second-in-command.
He could not quite say when this wicked sense of doubt was sown into his mind, as the seeker had not shown any mutinous signs at all. Certainly, his words carried a degree of condescending contempt, but never has Starscream taken himself a step out of line. In fact, he almost imagined that Starscream cared somewhat about whether Megatron lived or died, as the mech had been a frequent visitor to his medbay room.
During the first few cycles after the exile, Megatron had fallen into a fevered haze, a result of wound infections that not even his medics could prevent. From his fragmented memory logs, he caught glimpses of the seeker — fleeting moments blurred indistinguishably into the rest of his hysteria.
Yet, in those hazy interactions, Megatron could only recall a sudden flare of hatred every time Starscream approached. And none of this his own making.
The seeker’s words slipped numbly through, unable to anchor into Megatron, who was too busy warding off delirium from reality. There were conversations, but none he could ever recall. He had assumed it was goodwill and left it at that, however unlikely it was.
But on one restless night in berth, Megatron — finally within the clarity of his own mind — gets intruded upon.
“Save yourself from future pains and kill that seeker.”
Megatron shot up from his recharge position and clutched the frame of his chassis, shakingly. He hasn’t gotten used to the spark-resonating way Megatronus would speak to him. He caught sight of himself in a reflection across the room, his optics flickering between a harsh scarlet and a deep blue.
“He hasn’t done anything to warrant death,” he forced himself to respond steadily, with no degree of ease.
“Wrong,” Megatronus posited, his violent irritation surging hotly through Megatron’s cable-veins. “All these vorns and only to become more vexing. To repeatedly approach your weakened state and entice you to kill the Prime — subliminal conspiracy is reason enough.”
He could not contradict the claim because Megatron faltered. The thought of the new Prime crawled back into him like a maggot into open wounds, too thoroughly tender to touch upon.
And it pulled the scene through him like a broken tape, visceral in every sense — how Iacon thundered with voices of his mechs and dissenters, a choir compelling him to completion — how the blood of the false Prime glistened perfectly on the ruined grounds, a sweet sound of ragged breaths — how he felt the charge of his cannon climb to dizzying heights, singing of power — of his liberation — not even he could expel once it started.
He had no chance of stopping that shot. He couldn’t.
And — how was he to expect Orion to be that absurdly foolish and bold? And given all of his injuries from Sentinel, how well could Megatron have controlled his aim? How could he have known it would result in such devastating damage?
Thrice, you lie.
But — if Orion were to get into his path again, would he — he would —
“Primus, preserve me,” Megatronus snapped, his words a cold, frigid rush. "Remedy those asinine notions of yours at once."
Megatron flinched from the sharpness of his words, grasping rivets into his berthframe. “Get out of my head.”
“As if I crave the spectacle of you," the dead Prime growled. "And we both know the solution to this."
"No. This is not up for argument again.”
“I will bring this up however many times I please, filthy grave-robber.”
“And despite how many times you do, we will go nowhere. This is no longer your t-cog. And you —" Megatron's voice faltered on the edge of slighting. "You are no longer anything."
“And you are an absolute recreant," Megatronus Prime hissed, low and venomous; each word a sharp jab into his sparkchamber. "Do not drag me into your pitiful dilemmas and then spurn the only answer. If you will not bring yourself to death here, then bring yourself back to Iacon and atone.”
“I'd rather die and by my own terms,” Megatron spat back. Orion and his senseless group of Autobots with their inane society — he seethed at the thought of having to be imprisoned once more, especially under the one mech he had once cared solely for, and under that same system they had all suffered from. “What use is it to me to go back there? How could you not see how your Iacon has long rotted to its core?”
“The rot you speak of is Sentinel — he had inflicted unforgivable damage to Cybertron, not merely just Iacon. And for once in your pitiful life, you did right by culling it. However, I will not quietly stand to see Prima’s design stay desecrated or let it be annihilated because of you, Prison-Maker,” Megatronus spoke with an iron finality and then no more.
When the voice fell into a dead silence, Megatron ex-vented from the shuttered conversation, slamming his fist into the side of his wall in frustration. The frequency of their arguments has only increased, as Megatronus Prime found many things to be incensed over. He tossed over in his berth for some chance of recharge, unsteady and bitter as his spark was.
From the ceiling, the soft padding of silicon weight went unnoticed in the quietude of the night.
—
“Starscream: analysis conclusive.”
“Yeah, I’ve been saying it. See?” The seeker grit out between mouthfuls of energon ration, wings ruffling in a manner of satisfaction. “He’s losing it, always muttering to himself. I mean, look at his optics — he's blue-screening every other fragging cycle.”
“There is reason to presume the new generations of Iaconians exploited by Sentinel are prone to severe processing issues,” Shockwave inputted readily, not sparing a glance from his datapad. “His development cycle has been highly irregular, and maintenance periods were likely ignored. The Lord may simply be recalibrating from achieving his overdue upgrades — however, only a hypothesis until thoroughly examined.”
“Primus. That's a long-winded way to say you want to split open the little Lord’s helm,” Starscream said vehemently, “which we are absolutely not doing.”
"I insinuated nothing of the sort,” the scientist replied boredly. “However, I'd imagine that would still yield some form of insight."
“Save that for another cycle. A power vacuum is much too precarious to introduce this soon. The Decepticons will not accept me after such a… hiatus.”
“Starscream: chances of reclaiming executive position astronomically low, regardless of timing.”
It peeved the seeker to no end that Soundwave has grown dexterous in dodging all assortments of projectiles. And that he just sacrificed his dinner.
“Keep your damn pets on him,” Starscream finally ordered instead, such a tone coming to him naturally. He loathed the loss of his role with each passing cycle, but there is thankfully still rank to pull when it comes to the two other High Commanders. “I need to know how truly far gone our 'Lord' is. And then, perhaps we can consider a transition of leadership.”
Initially, Megatron had served as the perfect catalyst for riling up the High Guard's morale into one final attempt on Iacon. It was what the army had needed after its stagnation, and it had worked profoundly. And then, he would finally be homebound — once he rid Iacon of the leftover stragglers, he will acquire a lovely habsuite off the highest of towers, take a excruciatingly overdue solvent bath, eat his absolute fill of energon that isn’t tainted with a ration’s typical processed impurities — and then, finally, he will reign, because no other living bot comes close to matching his experience in managing large groups of unruly mechs.
However, Starscream had half-banked on the young leader to lose his life in the dregs of their Iaconian coup, or at least being left vulnerable enough afterward for manipulation. But as it turned out, the hardy Lord had survived his injuries and proceeded to only grow more deranged and even colder to the seeker.
A rather problematic turn of events.
He needed new contingency plans. Yes, that — and to ensure that his role as the head of the flight forces is consolidated. He needed to weed out the High Command from Megatron’s control. And he can almost imagine it. There will be a coup — another one — and a glorious one if he can afford it. And he would need —
Starscream only then noticed a dull flicker of a notification on his HUD. The inbox application was so archaic that Starscream almost wondered why the software was ever still installed — until he recognized it as a remnant of his past life, one before the skies became his violent haven.
He trained in his sudden shock and slinked out of the refueling room with a scowl, hoping his demeanor was foul enough to deter the rest of the High Command from contacting him (even though neither of the ‘Waves had qualms about pinging at one's convenience). His spark thundered as he swept through the halls, wings rigid in stance.
The hangar bit at him, channeling the cold winds into the open space. No one paid mind to the Air Commander's presence — whether out of indifference or from knowing of the seeker's habitual flying without clearance. Starscream slipped into the sky, swiveling low enough to go undetected by Quintesson scanners, if such were to be lurking within the night clouds. He felt his engine shake with apprehension as the software linked him into an old Iaconian remote terminal. To his disbelief, Starscream's credentials still validate after all these vorns. Part of him scoffed at the glaring security flaw, as it seemed none of its tokens had ever been purged.
The only message he found in his inbox was a file — a mass of encrypted text that seemed to be a dense wall of failure logs generated by a system. Now, his curiosity grew deadly.
He spent the next few moments scouring his hard drives for a root decryption key long since forgotten, his processors cycling with growing urgency as each fragment he unearths fails. He cursed all the while — Starscream used to know it by spark. But much of this data was fragmented by age or by processes, rendering it unusable. He did not spend efforts to preserve any of this — Starscream never imagined needing to, as he had been resolute in abandoning this life.
But at last, he retrieved one from a half-corrupted correspondence older than their Quintesson War. His processor ran the key with suffocating anticipation — and just barely made out the message — before the server severed the link, the terminal collapsed back into his HUD, and Starscream was left with the dark expanse of the night sky, feeling infinitely emptier than before.
[CYB-LUN-A03-EXP-HUB STATUS — REACTIVATED]
>[LAST ACTIVE]: T-94 VORNS
> [AUTHORIZED LOGIN INITIATED] — UID:【undefined】
[D-LOG]: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS ATTEMPT: 3 TIMES
[D-LOG]: ADMINS NOTIFIED
> [AUTHORIZED LOGIN INITIATED] — UID:【STAR_RCH-EXPLORE】
> [DECRYPTION KEY VERIFIED] — SESSION ESTABLISHED
[D-LOG]: MIRRORED CONNECTION DETECTED
[D-LOG]: SESSION TOKEN SHARED — DATA STREAM ACTIVE
[D-LOG]: "AUTO WARNING — Unfriendly reminder to all LUNA-3 faculty researchers."
[D-LOG]: "AUTO WARNING — Do not log in with multiple simultaneous sessions under the same UID."
[D-LOG]: "AUTO WARNING — Duplicate processes waste our resources and risk crashing our hub servers."
[D-LOG]: "AUTO WARNING — Remember, we are academics on academic budget cuts. — Star"
> PROCESS — RETRIEVING QUEUED SIGNALS
> PROCESS — SIGNALS QUEUED: 1286
[D-LOG]: RECEIVED DURING HUB DORMANCY
> [DECRYPTING TRANSMISSIONS] — SOURCE UID:【SKYF_RCH-EXPLORE】
[KEY] {"STAR_SYS": "SOL, III", "GALACTIC_VECT": "L=121.4° / B=+27.8°", "TERRA": "89.99214N / 136…"}
[T-(NULL)] — [SKYF]: EXTRACTION REQUESTED [MESSAGE]: //VOICE SIGNAL CORRUPTED //
[T-(NULL)] — [SKYF]: EXTRACTION REQUESTED [MESSAGE]: //VOICE SIGNAL CORRUPTED //
[T-(NULL)] — [SKYF]: EXTRACTION REQUESTED [MESSAGE]: //VOICE SIGNAL CORRUPTED //
[T-(NULL)] — [SKYF]: EXTRACTION REQUESTED [MESSAGE]: //VOICE SIGNAL CORRUPTED //
…
> PROCESS — LOST CONNECTION… ESTABLISHING RELINK…
[D-LOG]: POLLING RETRY…
[D-LOG]: POLLING RETRY...
> [SOCKET SHUTDOWN — CONNECTION TIMEOUT]
[CYB-LUN-A03-EXP-HUB STATUS — INACTIVE]
“Huh,” the visored mech ex-vented and abruptly sat up from his strut-breaking position at the desk.
He grasped randomly at drawers, still unaccustomed to his workspace (Primus knows he’s not cut out for desk work), and rifled through them with deft fingers. He grunted in dismay at the irrelevant content.
“What do you need?” The mech beside him queried, almost monotonously, not looking up from his own monitors.
“A map.” He tried the drawers on the other side.
“They’re in our network,” his coworker replied. “Check under the resource directory —“
“Nah, I need a star map. One of those that Sentinel’s crew wiped out our whole reserves of. Slag,” he cursed, both at his drawers only storing stress toys and uncharged datapads, and at Sentinel’s irrational act of burning anything Quintesson-related within Iacon's vicinity. Which, unfortunately, also meant that any historical archives of space travel were lost. Not that they would be attempting that anytime soon. “Prowler, any shot your wings connect to the satellites around Cybertron?”
“They are short proximity assets,” Prowl gritted out. “May I remind you we’re on duty for monitoring sub-atmospheric activities as our access range is limited from the Cybertronian surface, Jazz?”
Jazz decided it was wiser to keep the thought of the Praxian’s fanned-out wings looking quite similar to a satellite dish to himself. He chuckled instead.
“Yep. Which is why I think you would be interested in extending our range to a planetary scale. Maybe even galactic. Say, did you know we had a third moon?”