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A/N: I wanted to post this last night (actually it was two in the morning LOL), but I was tired. But hey, it's here now, and that's what counts.

I got this idea back in '08 when the "All Hail Megatron" mini-series was announced and the first cover art images were posted. I didn't follow up on the actual story (there are barely any Transformers comics in comparison to the mass amount of DC/Marvel comics at Barnes & Noble and Borders whenever I go there), but this was how I imagined "All Hail Megatron" to turn out.

Noblesse Oblige

He is the Lord of All He Surveys, and this is what he experiences:

Here is Iacon, the capital of Autobot City. Here it is in all its shining metallic glory, and there it is, all around him, in twisted pieces and chunky debris. He breathes the stink of fire and smoke, the grills in his nasal receptors open and absorbing the individual scents mixed in the air. He tastes the arid stench of spilled energon; the greasy aftertaste of coolant both fresh and dry leaking black rivulets from exposed wounds; the sharp, copper tang of fried wiring and torn gears emitting snaps of frenzied electricity. They allow old memories to resurface – days when once upon a time he was not leader of the Decepticons but a gladiator, crushing opponents' heads into cold titanium floors and punching plasma-powered slugs into weak armored chests, and he thinks – he thinks – how wonderful this is.

Here are the people of Iacon: citizens without the ability of Transformation; old robots who've gone to The Pit and back fighting exoskeletons and horned demons, robots made tough and rugged by countless city-wide skirmishes, planet-wide insurrections, intergalactic wars; young sparklings who aspired to be like their heroes, who joined the Autobots and committed themselves to the Good Cause just after walking out of the factories and mining facilities and menial job they held during peacetime. Here they are, the people of Iacon, and there they are, bleeding and crying and shouting and grunting and cursing. His men are pushing back the tide – Sixshot and Soundwave and Blast Off and Dead End, to name a few – and the tide is pushing back, a useless, futile action. There is no going back, no turning around, no last-minute change in his programming, and he thinks – he thinks – their opinions will not sway him.

Here are the enemies of Cybertron, his brothers and comrades-in-arms and fellow Transformers. Here they are, shackled to the crumbled wall, too weary and hopeless to struggle and protest, and there they are, the Autobots, staring death in the optic. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, united they will stand and united they will fall. He recognizes these worn, chipped faces – Kup, Grimlock, Bumblebee, Hot Rod, Prowl, Jazz, Jetfire, Ironhide, Perceptor, so many nameless Cybertronians. And in the center of the line there is Optimus Prime, broken and dented and covered in so much rust he is recognizable only by the faded blue glow of his optics – the glow of an Autobot chosen by the Matrix. Here is Optimus Prime meeting his gaze with such defeat, such despair, and he thinks—he thinks – this is it, the time has finally come.

He is the Lord of All He Surveys, and he isn't going to let this moment linger any longer.

He lifts his hand, and the sound of guns being raised and fingers readying against their triggers is like a sound of cosmic thunder. The citizens and Autobots, those Transformers too slow and weak and worthy of dying, abruptly pause at these actions, but it is only for a few nanoseconds before they rage and thrash against the impenetrable Decepticons. Shots pierce the mayhem like the roar of ship engines being test-fired, and one by one in the multi-colored crowd robots hit the ground, oil and coolant pooling round their bodies, and he thinks—he thinks—you've had your chance.

He lets his hand fall, a final knell of doom.

The firing squad acts in perfect unison, not a single bullet or bolt misaimed.

Time slows down. He sees all, hears all, and feels all – the network of glassy cracks lacerating the proud Autobot insignia; the warped, disjointed expressions each Cybertronian makes, their jaws endless black pits and eyes wide and afraid; the series of echoes drifting into dreadful, palpable silence; the light of life and strength flickering out in Prime's shattered visage as the sun peeks from dirty clouds and tosses warm radiance on his graying armor….

Time stops altogether, and each experience he is witness to rushes into his cerebral cortex like a stationary electrical whirlwind hovering above a sea of hungry Sharkticons and turbulent waves, growing bigger and stronger and faster and higher and harder to breathe and by Primus it's going to—

He laughs. He does not think. He does not act. He laughs. And laughs. And laughs. And laughs. And he continues to laugh, a harsh, rasping cacophony that stirs in the emptiness of the peoples' structures but does not warrant their individual sparks to move or speak.

He is still laughing, and it hurts so much he reaches up and clutches his head. Oil drips from his optics and paints dark trails even as he stares at the gathered assembly through obscure, tar nettings and thinks THIS IS IT THIS IS IT I'VE DONE IT I WON I AM THE VICTOR!

This is His Victory. Their Victory. Millions of years have come and gone as an idyllic breeze, and at last, at long last, the Decepticons have won the war.

Megatron has won the war.

And as the rumbling guffaws cease and a nasty, sinister smile slides over his lips, he thinks – no, he thinks to himself, he KNOWS – the world is ripe for the taking.

Nothing can stop him now.