"Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants. We know more about war than we know about peace, more about killing than we know about living"
Omar N. Bradley
You should have finished me, Optimus Prime.
Organic particles, dust, float through the air. They are the remnants of a battle recently finished. There is a ghostly silence where only moments ago the sound of metal clashing could be heard in every corner of the human city. Megatron stands over his enemy, now nothing more than an unrecognizable chunk of gray metal. The organic planet's sun gleams off the victor's magnificent alloy frame, even with cracks and dents Warlord manages to ooze an aura of authority. With a smirk of satisfaction the Decepticon leader heaves his sword out of the hallow spark chamber to which it had dealt the lethal blow. Foolish Autobot. After taking a second more to admire his handy-work, Megatron wipes the fresh energon from his sword and turns to survey the city. The city that is now his to control. His to destroy. No human or Autobot will be able to stop him, but, perhaps just to remind the masses of his power, he should hang the dead Prime's body where all could see it.
All will kneel before me.
However, when Megatron twists to face the mangled corpse at his feet, there is nothing but a crater of rock where the body had lain not more than a few clicks before. Red optics widen in surprise. How is this possible? The body must have stolen from right under his nose! But, by whom? A roar of frustration escapes through fanged teeth and Megatron wipes around, determined to find the bot who took his spoils from him. His sensors detect nothing. No movement occurs in the destroyed civilization except his own. No other life form reveals itself on his radar. How can this be?
Without warning, pain explodes on the right side of the Warlord's face, as if he'd been punched. Megatron groans as reels from the invisible attacker, cupping his now bleeding lip with a large black hand. The Decepticon is quick to recover into a defensive stand, sword and fusion cannon at the ready. Just to be sure, he runs a scan for life-forms, organic or Cybertronian, but, again, there is nothing. The next blow feels like a kick to his abdomen and Megatron is knocked to his knees, wheezing. The assailant must be more than invisible, for Megatron to neither have heard nor felt him come in for the attack. Using his sword for support, Megatron attempts to pull himself back to his feet, but his systems will no longer respond to him. His legs feel as if they've been filled with tar. The city, his city, begins to fade away, but instead of darkness, another image appears before Megatron's eyes. Gray walls. Dim light. He fights to hold on to reality, although he is not quite sure which is reality and which is dream.
Megatron!
A deep voice calls him, taunts him. Where does it come from? The city fades away again, revealing the silhouettes of two mechs above him. Megatron roars in frustration as he once again endeavors, to no avail, to stand.
Another blow to the face, and Megatron wakes up.
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Three gray walls and a steel door enclose Megatron in a small cell. Above him a dim light flickers, illuminating the filth and desolation of his living arrangement. The small box to which the Decepticon is confined is not large enough for him to stand. Upon his arrival he was forced onto his knees, arms wrenched out and back and shackled to the wall behind him. Further shackles rise up from the floor and latch around the Warlord's thick neck, dragging his head forward and down, allowing him to look at nothing except for the grimy floor and his own damaged silver thighs. The cumbersome position had already taken a toll on his systems in the few short days he had been in the stockades. The constant stretching of the wires in Megatron's shoulders and back caused them to burn with discomfort.
A kick to the face reminded Megatron of what had woken him. The Decepticon strained his neck upward much to the chagrin of his circuitry to face his assailant. Two Autotroopers gazed back down at him, any emotion hidden behind their wide visors.
"Meal time, Megatron." One said, voice scarcely more than that of a monotone drone. The second Trooper placed a cube of florescent energon inches away from the hulking frame of the Warlord. Every day since his arrival, they've done this. Taunted him with the promise of sustenance that his system so desperately required, only to keep in just out of his reach. So be it. Megatron will not be baited by their poor attempts to demean him. He allows the chains to pull his head back down and proceed to ignore his jailers. When the Autotroopers realize he won't be persuaded to beg or plead, they grow bored and exit his already cramped cell, returning to their post just outside the thick door. When Megatron is certain they will not return for the day, he steals a quick glance at the cube, its pink hue lighting up the dank room. His gray tongue rolls across his lips as his tank lurches and twists, beginning for fuel. It is useless to tantalize his insides with the sight of energon, so Megatron heaves out a great sigh and offlines his optics in a bid to once again enter recharge.
You should have finished me, Optimus Prime.