Homecoming

by kitashvi

Eons later, Optimus discovers for himself that the war is indeed over. Optimus/Megatron

First foray into Transformers. I've watched the movies, The Unicron Trilogy, and TF: Prime, so this 'verse is kind of a mix of the three.

Warnings/Disclaimers: Swearing, possible overuse of italics, lots and lots and LOTS of Transformers 'verse jargon/terms. Transformers belongs to whoever owns it, but the plot of this story is mine.

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Sixty thousand years in the making, a homecoming.

The ghosts of comrades who died in battle—slaughtered, the Matrix hisses from behind his chassis—linger, weighing heavily on his conscience. Jazz, Ironhide, so many—too many—lost to the war. Rumours of a Cybertron, rebuilt—better than it ever was under your rule—had floated around for vorns, prompting Autobots to break rank and leave. The ache for home—not your home anymore—was all-encompassing for some.

The chill of danger shot down his backstrut, logic center in a fit over abandoning Earth. An Earth century had gone by, and the original human allies of the Autobots had passed away long ago. The scars of Chicago's landscape had been buffed and smoothed away. But his soldiers and the humans weren't in danger of Decepticons anymore, and for once—after eons and eons and eons, you fool—Optimus was heading towards Megatron, instead of turning—running—away.

Scowling, he thumps his chassis with a servo, hoping to jostle the Matrix into silence. Optimus's last encounter—the last, really?—with Megatron had been a violent clash over Sentinel's body. The Decepticon leader was battered, torn, a relic of the war—just like you. Finally, he'd pitched Megatron into the river, optics dead. In the ragged celebration to follow, no one saw him escape.

Their final encounter, however, had been a...quiet affair. The Matrix sneers at his choice of glyphs and Optimus grits his dentals.

"The humans know you've escaped."

"Escaped?" Megatron turned slowly on his struts. "Like a rat in a trap, isn't that the phrase?" He lets out a sharp ventilation. "Is that why you're here, Prime? To finish me off?" A gust of wind tears the cloak from around his neck; two pairs of optics watching it flutter away. Optimus jumps back as stripped gears scream, and Megatron sinks to his knees, patronizing. "Well?" His vocalizer churns static as he roars, "Is this not what you wanted?!"

Optimus pauses. Wasn't that what they'd spent thousands of vorns barreling towards? This fight, this war, all towards the final instant where one stood above the other, to strike the killing blow? So many stellar-cycles dragged them to this one moment?

To each other, the Matrix insists.

"No."

Megatron sneers. "No? Even now, you are weak." He spits the glyphs like acid. He rises to his pedes and for one astrosecond Optimus is sure that Megatron will strike. He would have let him, but instead Megatron brings his servo to his own helm, digits skating over the damage. "You would let the fleshlings do your dirty work for you?"

"They don't want to deactivate you." Saying that left a bitter taste. "They want all Decepticons gone. Ten Earth days."

"And if we refuse?"

Optimus doesn't reply. It's answer enough. Megatron turns away from him, and Prime marvels at the show of...weakness? Trust?

Megatron's next glyphs catch him off-guard. "So, you are going to stay here." It wasn't a question. Just a comment.

"Do I have a choice?" Optimus shakes his helm at the laden glyphs. Cybertron was gone. The humans relied on them. His Autobots had found a new home. He was pinned to this planet in more ways than one.

The shove of servos against his chassis startles him, and Megatron knocks them both to the ground. Their faces are only inches apart, and Optimus can't help but arch up, the movement so familiar. The Matrix purrs in approval. Megatron pauses for an astrosecond, his optics scanning Optimus, something unfathomable crossing his face. "You are a failure as a Prime!" he snarls.

Optimus leans his helm back against the dirt. The world is quiet around him—if this is how he deactivates, he won't be sorry. "I know."

The Decepticon lurches back. "What?"

"We waged war against each other. We tore Cybertron apart." Lip plates rise in a sardonic smile. "Glitched Prime and Lord High Protector. Quite the dyad." He ventilates quietly. "Sometimes I wonder if Cybertron wasn't doomed from the moment I ascended."

Something not unlike the grin the Decepticon used to wear, thousands of years ago, settles itself onto Megatron's face. If only for a moment, this felt familiar. Good. The chassis against Optimus' rumbled. "Fragging dumbaft." Servos slide across his torso to his hip plates, and bytes of memories float to the surface of the Autobot's processor. He has missed this.

This is what you gave up, the Matrix whispers to his spark, conspiratorially. This is what you sacrificed for your silly war.

Optimus flinches, horrified, shame stewing in his processor. Between his memories and this moment lay eons of combat. Spilled energon splatters against memories of dark hallways and quiet moments. Cries of unbearable pain eclipse those of another sort. His face shield slams up unbidden, a flimsy barrier.

Megatron's servos still, and he rises off the Prime. He snorts and cranes his helm back to stare at the sky. "You're right. I must be glitched."

Optics averted, Optimus stands. The Matrix keens, furious, and he's sure that any moment it'll break from chassis. "What are you going to do?"

He won't repent, Optimus knows as much. And the humans will have no mercy even if he does.

Stripped gears whir against each other for purchase, and Optimus looks up. Megatron's face is calm. Resigned. He wonders what his own face must look like. Megatron's glyphs are cold. "I'm going to do what you couldn't."

The Matrix screams, rattling his innards and jostling his spark. DO NOT LET HIM LEAVE! YOU WILL NOT CHASE HIM AWAY AGAIN!

You can't chase what's already gone, he tells it. Tries to believe his own glyphs.

Optimus turns and walks—runs, you RAN, you slagging coward—away.

/

It takes him a while to find the new Cybertron, having only the whispers of the younger bots to go on. Cybertron itself was destroyed, but its two moons had been flung from its orbit. They both revolved around the dead world Methuselah with its moon Protos now. Alpha Centauri was bigger than Optimus remembers it, and as its light shines across the three moons, the sensors on his ship pick up objects floating in the space around.

Debris.

Debris from Cybertron's implosion, from the collapse of the space bridge. Peering through the windshield of his ship, he sees scraps of metal and wreckage of his home—it's not your home anymore, the Matrix snarls—whirling by. He watches several smaller bots skirt between the remains, picking up pieces. Optimus slows, waiting for them to notice him.

Seconds later, two mechs pull away from the pack, one shifting from his alt-form. His vocal pattern echoes through Optimus' comm system. "Who are you?"

Optimus pauses, unsure of what to say. Finally, he settles on the truth. A version of it. "Orion Pax."

The second bot shifts from his jet form, floating closer to the Autobot's vessel. "Orion Pax? Never heard of you." He shrugs. "We'll escort you in." In unison, they shift back into jets and Optimus powers up his ship's engine.

Halfway through the atmosphere, the Prime considers turning back. Unease churns in his spark, and he doesn't know what to expect. The jets spin loops and flips, chuckling and hollering at each other. They look—happy, healed, better?

Optimus slams his servo in his chassis again, hard enough to pinch cables. "Shut up," he growls.

"What was that?"

He's forgotten that the comm link is open both ways. "Nothing." The ground is fast approaching, so Optimus flips the switches on the control panel, activating the landing gears. "Where are we landing?"

"New Iacon." The second jet answers this time. "Just outside city limits. Are you here to stay?"

"Just to visit."

The ship jostles as it touches down. Cybertron's former moon is much smaller than its old planet—there are so few left to inhabit it—but the pull of gravity is the same. He steps from the landing dock just as the two bots turn around. "Welcome to New Iacon, Ori—"

Optimus takes a simple sort of pleasure from seeing the look of awe on their faces.

The red mech recovers before his friend. "Is that—are you—I mean, I thought you were—!"

"Huh." A vocal pattern, so familiar in its gruffness, cuts the young mech off. Had it really been so long since that day on Earth? "Orion Pax, my aft. How long has it been since you answered to that name?"

Optimus doesn't turn to face the mech. He can't. His pedes are rooted to the ground and his plating tightens across his torso, refusing to obey. The two young bots stare, optics tearing from one old—you are ancient, withered and twisted in your lies and schemes and treacherous games, you fool—warlord to the other. The silence is crushing—his foot on your chassis, your servo around his neck, how many times have you played this game before?—and finally Megatron ventilates sharply. "Take him to Knockout and Breakdown. Primus forbid he's carrying some kind of virus."

"And then?" Their optics are tracing the warriors' scars, wondering how many of them these two mechs have inflicted on each other.

Megatron raises an orbital ridge. "Put him up somewhere." His pedes scrape the ground as he turns and walks away.

The Decepticon leader—he was your Lord High Protector once—is long gone when Optimus finally rouses himself into motion. "Knockout and Breakdown are your medics now...?" These two are young. So young.

"Superlink," the red mech supplies. He jerks a digit at his partner. "This is Airstreak."

Airstreak's wings fidget anxiously. "Our old medic, Flatline, was—" He searches for a suitable glyph to describe the deranged Decepticon.

Optimus interrupts. "I remember Flatline well. He was overzealous, at best."

"He blew himself up a while ago. Megatron was fragged, and Knockout and Breakdown arrived just last stellar-cycle. I guess they've been pulled apart enough times to know how to put other bots back together."

Ratchet would have a conniption. "Are there many cases?"

"Naw, mostly construction injuries." Superlink gestures at the small buildings off in the distance. Few were taller than four stories. "We get new bots coming in every few months, and some don't know a bolt from a rivet!"

The comm link snaps open with a hiss of static—still privy to it, Optimus hears Knockout's drawl. "Where are you two scraps with that new bot? Megatron's already commed us for progress, and no one's aft is in my med bay!"

Airstreak's wings flutter again as Superlink replies. "We'd better get you over there." He nudges Airstreak in the side. "I wonder how surprised they'll be to have a real Prime in med bay!"

A real Prime? You? Hardly.

Optimus doesn't disagree.

/

To call Knockout surprised was the understatement of the vorn. He'd dropped the tray of medical supplies with a curse and powered his cannons. Optimus' sword was in his hand before he could even process the command to his weapons system.

The two young mechs flinch, and Optimus sheaths his weapon. "Knockout," he acknowledges. "Breakdown."

Breakdown lowers his guns. "Prime." A vorn without battle still can't break the snide sneer from his tone. "You're Megatron's guest?"

I am? Optimus arched an orbital ridge. "I suppose it is so." He sits on the berth, clenching his servos to keep from attacking as Knockout plugs him full of cables. He lacks Ratchet's finesse and First Aid's bearing, but he is competent. Given time, they'll both learn. Breakdown tells him from across the room, "You can stay the night here. There's no one in here." He rubs a servo over his helm, his energy field pulsing aggravation. "Yet."

Optimus' optics are drawn to the small, silvered scar on one side of Breakdown's chassis. He doesn't remember the former Decepticon having it when he left Earth. Observing Knockout, he notices that he has the same scar, in a different location.

Knockout finally remembers the two young bots in the corner. "What are you standing there for?" he snaps, but it lacks the malicious edge that used to tinge it. "Go get us some slagging energon or something!"

Airstreak and Superlink scatter, tripping over their pedes to escape. Optimus chuckles. "They're scared of you."

Knockout's lip plates curl up in a grin. "Someone ought to be. Now that there are no Autobots to knock around. No sides anymore."

Optimus has seen Knockout and Breakdown in battle several times before. They reminded him of Blades in their bloodlust. Breakdown stares at him, and Optimus gets the bizarre feeling that the mech can hear his thoughts.

The former 'Con leans against an empty berth. "Odd, not being at each other's throats anymore." He pauses. "Are there any of us," he didn't have to elaborate, they all knew whom he meant, "left on Earth?"

Prime remembers the day that a Decepticon had flown into the airspace above Chicago, six months after the attack. Mearing hadn't hesitated in gunning him down. Prime hadn't stopped her, either. You are no longer who you set out to be. You are corrupt. The Matrix rattles in his chest. Who are you?

He tries to ignore it. It only makes the Matrix louder. Tyrant. Villain. Murderer. Where is your mercy, Prime? What happened to 'til all are one'? When did you change it to 'til all the other bots are dead'? It chuckles, dark voices of millennia of past Primes sniping, I suppose it's catchier that way.

"Prime?"

Knockout startles him out of his thoughts, and he reboots his vocalizer. His next words are careful. "If there are any Decepticons left on Earth, I do not know of them."

It's like the truth, only easier to swallow.

/

The night is shorter here, and Optimus onlines quickly. The two medics are nowhere to be seen, but a cube of energon is waiting for him by the berth.

Stepping outside, it takes a moment to remember that this isn't Cybertron. The sky is too bright, and no tall buildings loom to cover the sunlight. Mechs scatter throughout the city, most of them working on construction. Whispers that the Prime had landed clearly already spread through the citizens, and many of them stop and stare as he walks past. He recognizes many of them from the war, Decepticons and Autobots alike. All share the same scar that Optimus had noticed on Breakdown and Knockout. Many of them however, the younger ones, had no scar. He doesn't recognize them at all.

"Neutrals, from colonies around the universe. We sent out the message to them, and they came pouring in."

Optimus jumps, his vocalizer hissing static. He turns on a pede, but Megatron isn't looking at him. "Most of the Decepticons arrived from around the galaxy as well, and then came the Autobots." He snorts. "Only a few of them. Neutrals are the most useful, adaptable—the youngest."

"I see." Few from Cybertron chose to stay out of the war, and they took as many sparklings with them as they could when they fled.

The mech steps past him and shoulders several metal bars. "Grab some beams." Megatron's optics skate right past Optimus. "As long as you're here, you may as well be useful."

The silence is uncomfortable as Megatron leads them to the build site he's currently working on, and Optimus keeps his energy field pressed tight to his body. The skeleton of a home towers over them, and several of the younger robots clear out when they see the two approaching. Only one hangs behind, and she smiles when she sees her former leader. "Optimus."

Part of him is angry, hurt and disappointed that she had abandoned the Autobots. "Elita."

His tone makes her flinch, pulling her plating closer to her body. "The war is over," she tells him, by way of explanation. "That's what you said, isn't it?"

"I know."

She scowls. "Earth isn't our home." One servo reaches up, tracing the same scar Optimus had seen on every other veteran.

The Matrix croons. Someone, finally, with common sense. What can be said about a Prime who is less loyal to his people than a battalion leader?

He settles instead for nodding, acknowledgement without agreement. "You did what you thought you must."

Elita studies him again, before nodding to Megatron and walking away.

Didn't you all 'do what you thought you must'? When did the Lord High Protector turn into the would-be conqueror of worlds? When did the Prime become a—

Optimus hits his chassis yet again, scowling. Megatron looks at him out of the corner of his optic. "The Matrix of Leadership isn't all it hails to be?"

You can't be a leader if there is no one left to rule. How many of you do you think there still are? Thousands? Hundreds? There used to be billions.

Optimus doesn't respond, and Megatron laughs. "No one said being Prime was easy."

A riot, coming from him.

Two jets fly overhead, and Optimus wonders how old they are. "Are there any new sparklings?" He focuses on the metal under his palms.

"No. Hatchlings, yes, but without sparks. Mindless drones." Megatron pounds away at the metal, unforgiving. "It is my—our—hope that if we rebuild enough, Primus may return to us."

Primus—their god who had sat in the core of Cybertron, creating new life. It catches Optimus by surprise, like a glitched code. Megatron had always been devoted; to his role, his cause, his god. A traditionalist. How could Prime have forgotten?

There are many things you've forgotten. Primus was your god, your planet. You killed your creator.

He lurches to his pedes, his fuel tank churning. This was too much. The shift to his alt-form is almost desperate, and his wheels crunch against the ground as he peels away from the city limits.

Breems later, he jerks to a halt, far enough away that he can no longer see the new city over the horizon. New Iacon was enormous, and with the expansion underway, Cybertron's tiny, old moon would fill up quickly.

"You should see New Kaon," a voice above him drawls as his sensors pick up the signal of a another bot, "It's fragging giant."

Optimus doesn't bother to ask how Starscream knew what he was thinking, but he turns to face the Seeker, nodding a greeting.

Starscream has always been a vain one. His armor and plating was good as new, millions of years of scars buffed and painted and forged away. He, clearly, wanted no reminders of his time as Air Commander for the Decepticons.

And yet, Optimus noticed, he had the same square scar as all the other mechs he knew from the war.

"Megatron threatened to tear limb from limb anyone who tampered with the scars—painting over them and the like." Starscream's lip plates twist up into a smirk, but it lacks the nastiness the Prime was accustomed to. Optimus flinches, caught staring.

It's an open invitation, and yet Optimus doesn't take it. Doesn't ask. The Matrix roars, enraged by his cowardice. Instead, he asks, "How many cities are there?"

The former 'Con ticks them off on his claws. "New Iacon, New Kaon, New Vos, Memorial City. So far. In fact, if you'd kept driving for a hundred more hics, you would've ended up in Memorial City." He pauses, considering a stream of memory data. "Megatron was there up until a deca-cycle ago. It's where he spends most of his time."

Oh? "Why?"

Starscream shrugs. "Senseless." He doesn't elaborate, and Optimus isn't sure what to make of that answer. Was it a comment on how Megatron spent his time, or what he was doing there?

"He is incomplete without you." This tidbit comes as they all do from Starscream, with his weary brand of sarcasm, and he catches the Prime off-guard. "You two weren't built to be so far apart."

His vocalizers spit static for a moment, unable to piece together a reply. In his chest, the Matrix stirs. He's right. You are a pair, it spits at him, and pain shoots through his spark. Look at what denying that fact has dragged to fruition. Starscream can buff away his scars. Can you?

Optimus shakes his helm clear of the thoughts. "How far away did you say Memorial City is?"

The Air Commander chuckles, and raises an arm to point. "Keep driving that way, and you'll get there in about a joor."

Optimus shifts into his alt-form and leaves Starscream in his dust. The Seeker hollers after him, voice merry, "Still no time for niceties, Prime?"

/

Memorial City is larger than New Iacon, and more inhabited—clearly it was built first. Shifting back, Optimus is surprised by the atmosphere.

Peace? New concept for you, hmm?

"Prime!"

Two servos slap him on the dorsal plating, and it's all he can do to keep his battle protocols from onlining. Two familiar faces lean into his periphery, and the warmth of their greeting is doubly surprising when he recognizes them. "Thundercracker? Skywarp?"

"The very same!" Skywarp grins wickedly. "Screamer commed us and said you were coming." Thundercracker matches his grin at the sound of Starscream's nickname, and Optimus doesn't want to know why.

Oh, yes, those three are trinemates. How lucky they all survived the war, isn't it? Can you imagine the sheer number that didn't? How many halved creatures float around the universe, their mates slaughtered?

Optimus thumps his chest and Thundercracker arches an orbital ridge. "He said you did that a lot, too."

"You are here to," he can't even believe he's saying this, "to greet me?"

"Chill your hydraulics, Prime." Skywarp slings an arm around his shoulders, and Thundercracker slips his around Optimus' hips and they start walking down the street. "We aren't going to kill you." He cackles, and it reminds Optimus of the twins back on Earth. "What brings you to Memorial City?"

He recalls what Starscream said. "Megatron is spending his time on something senseless?"

Something flickers across Thundercracker's optics and Optimus follows his gaze to the silver scar on Skywarp's chassis—a quick glance confirms both Seekers have one. "You mean he's working on Senseless."

Optimus pauses, his steps lagging as he fails to differentiate. "What?"

Skywarp's digits skim over his shoulder plate. "It has a formal name, sure, but when Megatron first starting working it—"

"When we first arrived here," Thundercracker interjects.

His trinemate throws him a dirty look. "Yeah. Megatron called it Senseless once, and it stuck."

"What is it?"

Both of the bots stop, and Optimus is chilled by how quickly their expressions have become somber. They pull away from him. Thundercracker gives him an unreadable look. "I think you should see for yourself, Optimus."

"It's just outside on the city," Skywarp says, no longer grinning. "You can't miss it."

/

Skywarp was right. Just as the last few buildings clear away, Optimus sees it.

Not that he's entirely sure what it is.

It looms on the horizon, a tall, wide swatch of iridescent black. As he draws closer and shifts from his alt-form, he realizes it is a wall. It is only a bit taller than him, and a servo-span wide, but it stretches out to his left for a hic, before abruptly cutting off. To his right, the wall ends at a stack of enormous crates. What is it?

He walks to the left edge, and discovers that the wall turns sharply and continues away from the city. Taking a few steps away, Optimus discovers that the wall was built in the basin where the land curls up. Sand slithering in between the treads on his pedes, he treks partway up the hill and turns to look down on the monument.

His vents shudder, a raspy intake. The Matrix hums, deep in his chassis. 'Senseless', indeed. A fitting designation.

It's a labyrinth, stretching out from the city limits into the desert. From above it, he can see the entrance, blocked by the crates. From there, the walls twist and turn, an eternal maze that would have no end—half a hic away, the maze ends abruptly, still under construction. He half slides, half runs back down to the beginning, imagining the effort it would take to build something like this. How many stellar cycles has Megatron been working on this? He runs a servo along the metal, entranced.

That is when he sees the glyphs.

They're etched into the metal, painstakingly perfect. Row after row, column after column—did they span the entire labyrinth? Skirting around the crates, he peers into the labyrinth. The inner walls are lined with glyphs as well. Between one second and the next, Optimus grasps that the glyphs form a designation.

Shockwave.

This isn't simply a monument. It is a mausoleum. Optimus stares at the wall, and slowly, the glyphs become ghosts.

The first few designations are no surprise. Shockwave. Soundwave. Ravage. Blackout. The next few, however, choke Optimus's processor. Jazz. Arcee. Jolt. Ironhide. Que. All here. Millions of designations spanning the entire labyrinth. Every last one, jumbled together with no order—they are no longer Decepticons and Autobots. They are veterans.

What's more, the glyphs are familiar. The curve of the lines, the slant. These designations were all carved individually, manually, and Optimus knows by whom.

He steps back from the memorial, servo still tracing the carved designations, when his digits brush over a rough edge. He leans closer, and a familiar pattern jumps out at him from the metal. An Autobot sigil, mostly melted but still recognizable. Another one forms before his optics, and a Decepticon sigil higher up. Realization hits him hard, scrambling his processor. This memorial was forged from the symbols the Cybertronians' had worn to announce their allegiance. The scars he'd seen on Knockout, Breakdown, Starscream, Elita, on Megatron himself, had been from sigils torn off their armor and melted down, remnants from their gory civil war used to create a memorial of remembrance. Of honor.

"I thought you would be halfway back to Earth by now."

"Megatron." Optimus can't find the glyphs—they crowd his processor, shutting down everything that should've made sense until all he can do is stare. Even the Matrix was silent. "This—"

The former warlord chuckled. "Was an aft-load of work." He pointed to crates stacked against the far side of the memorial. Crates, Optimus realized, that were filled with sigils from both sides. "Still is."

Almost without his bidding, Optimus's logic center points out that such a massive structure couldn't be amassed by collecting only sigils from their armor. Megatron's optics pins him with his gaze, and Optimus wonders—only half-sarcastic—if all Decepticons can read minds.

"Anything," he says. "Anything that was marked 'Autobot' or 'Decepticon'. We scrapped it all." He gestured at the land around them. "There are maybe twenty thousand of us on this moon, and most are neutrals. The first wave of them to flee only remembers the start of the war. They only know the designations of the first, what, million to die? Less?" He taps a digit against the side of his helm. "I remember them all, and I'm sure you do as well, Prime. When we finally go to stand before Primus, who will be there to remember them?"

There are no glyphs for this, Optimus's spark insists, overriding his processor. Nothing he can say. Blindly, he fumbles for the sigil on his own chassis, wincing as metal separates. It's a clean throw into the crate, where it clinks against what looks like the side of a Decepticon fighter jet.

Megatron studies him for a long moment before shrugging. "Come on, then. We abandoned that build site back in New Iacon, and I'm sure Airachnid will have my aft for it." Optimus is stunned by the camaraderie and fatigued humor in his tone. "Or she'll threaten the young ones into doing the work, one of them will injure themselves, and then I'll have to listen to Knockout whine about having to patch them back together." His lip plates twitch up into a grin that so familiar it makes Optimus' spark ache. "Your fragging ground form will slow us down like no other."

Optimus returns his grin and for an instant, he remembers what it was like to be that pair—Prime and Protector. "Oh, really?" Megatron's optics widen. "Would you care to bet on that?"

/

Slowly, the building came together.

Their silences were still awkward, uncomfortable and cramped. Optimus encountered more and more former allies and foes, and was comforted by the fact that they seemed happy. A deca-cycle had passed, and Optimus only had one more before he had to return home.

The Matrix, peacefully silent for the past several solar cycles, sneers. Your home? It is your prison, fool.

Over the roar of the Matrix churned Optimus' own guilt. The endless labyrinth of designations floated to the forefront of his processor every time he shuttered his optics, and he knew that he had no right to be cheerful. Comfortable. Had no right to look at the former Decepticon leader to his left and remember happy times. Thousands of vorns of bloodshed and hate spanned between their last happy memory and today, and neither his own processor nor the Matrix will let him forget it.

He sits back, leaning against the exposed beam. He sits several stories above the ground, welding two beams together. Optimus has grown used to the brightness of Alpha Centauri, and the longer days. It reminds him of Cybertron, and in that, he thinks, Megatron has succeeded.

Airstreak and Superlink fly over him, barely skimming the building and towering poles of metal that stretched like human fingers toward the sky. "New arrivals!"

Animated conversation floats up to the two mechs as those below head to the landing ground to see who it'll be. Megatron rolls his optics and throws Optimus an exasperated look before jumping down, the ground shaking under his pedes to absorb his weight. Optimus takes the safer way down, sparing his suspension. Together, they walk to greet the newcomers—before they even step onto the smoothed ground of the landing bay, Optimus knows who the ship belongs to.

Starscream greets the two Autobots who step out of the craft. They flinch at seeing the Decepticon so close, and Megatron snorts—Starscream always had a penchant for unnerving those around him. The Air Commander skips straight past the formalities, instead jabbing a claw at the two. "You'll have to surrender those."

Inferno arches an orbital ridge. "I'm unarmed." He jerks his chin back at his companion, who is too busy consulting a datapad to bother with manners. "And this is Skyfire." Which is explanation enough, it seems—Optimus chuckles; Skyfire would sooner break a beaker than fire a gun.

The Seeker shook his helm. "Not what I meant." He taps the silver scar on his own chassis. "You're no longer Autobots if you wish to stay here."

It takes a long moment before they understand, and longer still as they exchange looks. Finally, in unison, they tear off their sigils. A ragged cheer goes up from the crowd, Starscream tosses a look back at his former overlord, and Megatron nods. Slowly, the crowd disperses, and Skyfire looks up from his datapad, straight at Optimus.

Optimus tries to smile, wondering what these two are doing so far from the Ark. They approach him and Megatron cautiously—more from surprise that the two weren't trying to bury energon blades into each other than anything else—and Prime steps forward to tell them, "I have a deca-cycle left before I said I was to return. Is Ratchet truly so worried?"

Inferno can't quite meet his optics. "We aren't here for you, Optimus."

Those with any sense at all are coming here. To stay.

His expression must speak volumes, because Megatron tenses at his side and Inferno fidgets, clenching and releasing his plating. "I'm sorry."

"There is no need to apologize, old friend." Optimus keeps the static from his tone, but the Matrix is unimpressed. How many times must you say that before it loses any meaning? "The war is over."

"No." Both Optimus and Megatron pause, confused. Skyfire's lip plates twitch up awkwardly. "The war will never be over, Optimus. Not for you. That is why we're here."

It's a sickening thought, but in that moment Optimus realizes that the scientist is right. He is still fighting.

At war with an enemy that no longer exists. What would it cost you, Optimus, to give up your Ark, your weapons? Are you so busy fighting for freedom that you no longer remember peace?

What pains him most is that this last thought doesn't come from the Matrix. It hisses from deep in his processor, one of the lingering thoughts that keeps him from recharge at night. The Decepticons have retreated from Earth. Sentinel is dead. Cybertron is gone. He is just so tired of fighting. And yet, he still is; so accustomed to battle that to stop moving, fighting, planning—surviving—is unthinkable.

You stay on a world of chaos because you have no place in a world of peace.

He turns, not hearing what Inferno is telling him, brushing off the servo that reaches for his shoulder. Once his pedes leave the smooth surface of the landing ground, he shifts into vehicle form. This time, he heads straight for the foothills surrounding the new city, not stopping to shift back until he can no longer smell the stink of city life.

"You make me regret not deactivating you when I had the chance!" Metal screeches as Optimus is pitched to the ground, Megatron's chassis scraping against his dorsal plating. Battle protocols activate before he can stop them, and he rolls, nearly launching Megatron off of him. But the Lord High Protector has the advantage of being bigger, and possessing armor that has recently been reinforced. The extra weight pins Optimus to the ground, and Megatron looms over him, snarling, "Have you told yourself the same lies so often that you actually believe them?"

Optimus struggles and a clawed servo slams into the dirt by his helm. "Get off of me!"

"No! Not until you listen to reason!"

A laugh crackles through Prime's vocalizer, and he can't help his spite. "Now? Now you want to talk? Diplomacy only after you've exhausted all of your other options?"

"And where has your diplomacy gotten you before, Prime? Chained to the fleshlings, doing their bidding?"

"You brought your war to them!"

"Our war," Megatron roared. "And we left! We have been gone for over a vorn, and yet you still remain there! Who are you hunting now, Prime?" Megatron leans down and the distance between their helms is infinitesimal. His next glyphs are quiet, said right against Optimus's audials. "Who are you protecting the humans from?"

Optimus drops his helm back to lean against the cool ground. "Themselves."

Megatron sits back, and the Autobot leader takes a certain amount of smug pleasure in shocking the mech. "They will never be another Cybertron, Optimus."

He has enough room to lean back on his elbows—Megatron is still straddling his thighs. "I know. I will keep them from it."

Claws dig into his jaw plate, knowing just where to press to keep his face shield from slamming closed. "You sacrificed our race to save one that you owe nothing to!"

"I have already failed one race," Optimus answers coolly. "I will not fail another." His spark steeps in anger, and he adds, "Besides, it was not me that order your warriors to slaughter their brothers."

"Nor I yours." Optimus arches an orbital ridge, and Megatron grins grimly. "Ruling dyad, or have you forgotten? We both failed them."

"That, at least, is a truth we can both agree on."

"We are fools," Megatron snaps. "And I will regret my actions until the solar cycle I deactivate. Do I regret pushing our kind to action? No." His optics burn red. "But do I regret inciting a war? Do I regret sending millions to slaughter? Do I regret compromising what I originally set out to do just so I could sink my blade into your chassis and watch your spark gutter? Do I regret being consumed by all the things I said I would never be?" He takes in a deep ventilation. "Yes. Always."

Optimus thinks over the Autobots that wait for him on Earth. "Ratchet was a healer once—not a combat medic. Mirage was a noble."

"So was Starscream." Megatron pulls his claws from the earth, his servo resting on Optimus's shoulder. "Hard to admit that we destroyed an entire planet." The servo moves up his neck to the side of his helm.

Optimus leans into it, and shutters his optics. "You were right. The Council was corrupt."

"Oh?" The purr steals through Megatron's vocalizer and he leans forward. When Optimus looks up at him, the former 'Con is grinning. "Did the great Prime admit he was wrong?" He pauses. "I should have listened to you, that last day in Iacon."

"If you turn your back on me, Megatron, you turn your back on all of us! You turn your back on your responsibility!"

"You're wrong, Optimus. I'm saving us. Protecting you."

They both flinch; both hear shouted glyphs that are so old, half-forgotten. Megatron's face is unreadable. Optimus moves slightly, and their chassises scrape together. "I miss you."

Neither is sure which one said it, but the Matrix glows from beneath Optimus' chassis, illuminating them both. Megatron looks like he wants to take the glyphs and shove them back into his processor. He starts pull away, but the Matrix screams—as it did a century ago, in the dark woods—DO NOT LET HIM LEAVE!

This time, Optimus doesn't.

He slings an arm around Megatron's shoulders, the weight pitching them together. He doesn't kiss him—it's too soft, too forgiving.

This isn't about forgiveness.

Optimus sinks his dentals into the cables of Megatron's neck hard enough that it must sting, his servos scrabbling over smooth metal. Claws dig into his hips, and Megatron snarls above him. The 'Con forces his legs between Optimus's thighs, but his servos skate upward, setting sensors on fire. A moan tears through Optimus's vocalizer, and he can feel Megatron's smirk where he's pressed his face into Optimus's neck. He drags his glossa up the thick cables and Optimus arches, digits denting Megatron's dorsal plating.

The shriek of chassis plates being forced apart startles him, and he can feel Megatron's claws curved around the armor. His own armor peels away and the light of his spark blinds Optimus' optics—a deep blue glow that he knows so well. The Matrix keens and it echoes through him, his own armor parting with the groan of weathered metal.

Sheer hunger makes them both tremble as the sparks reach for each other, clashing and spitting like a thunderstorm. They've always been one spark, though Optimus had always thought that distance had stretched their bond beyond its breaking point. But clearly, he's wrong as static roils across their plating, glyphs they'd never actually speak aloud chasing each other through their processors—I'm sorry, I love you, I missed you, it will be alright! Feedback loops between them, and Optimus can hear the fizzle of his circuits as he blacks out.

/

He onlines slowly, body aching and stray bits of electricity sparking over his armor.

"Been a while, hasn't it?"

His vocalizer spits static before he can chuckle, rolling on his side to face Megatron. The Lord High Protector presses his leg against Optimus's, servos bracing him as he sits and watches Alpha Centauri set. "It has."

Their silence, finally, is a comfortable one—the Matrix, nestled by Optimus's spark chamber, is content. Eventually, Optimus sits up, leaning against Megatron. After a long while, Megatron asks, "So what do you plan to do?"

If someone had told him, a vorn ago, that he needed to consider the option of return, Optimus would've laughed. Now, he grew somber. "I do not know."

"Will you return here?" To me?

Optimus vents sharply, and Megatron flinches. Crimson optics watch him. "The humans have a saying. 'Better late than never.' I do not know how soon, but we," Optimus's glyphs are warm, "I, will return.

Megatron rises to his pedes, extending a servo to help Prime. He grins, baring sharp dentals. "And I'm supposed to take the word of an Autobot?"

Optimus turns to face him, and for a moment, they are back on Cybertron, the day they both ascended—Prime and Lord High Protector, two ruling as one. "I've put my trust in a Decepticon, haven't I?"

---

Reviews would be lovely.

Ash