Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by Hasbro, Ltd., who owns relevant copyrights to additional material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. Hasbro reserves rights to Transformers material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.
Universe: G1-ish
Warnings: Wargasming (no sex even hinted at; author waxed self-indulgent in writing the fight scene), Character death (sniffle)
Summary: Megatron learns the most important lesson of conquest. (I'm kind of worried this idea has been done before, though.)
Author's Note: It has been such a long time since I started this that I no longer remember my inspiration beyond, 'What would happen if Megatron got what he wanted?' My thanks to Witchwolf, who endures beta-reading for me. It might also be worth mentioning that my technology might be a little too technical as I wrote the fight sequence while studying and working on motorcycles.
To all my older readers: sorry it has been so long since I uploaded!
Alexander Wept
And still the battle raged.
Explosions rocked the ground, turning the whole of the landscape into twisted terrain; murder for the earth-bound to negotiate. This was as the airborne warriors desired, eschewing to touch down in battle. They disdained those locked to the filthy dirt of the ugly planet they were all still shackled to. Yet, they were more eager for battle than the sky or would continue their assault exclusively from above. One by one they were wooed to the ground where they could better look on the hatred in their opponents' optics.
Megatron shone at the spearhead of praxis, reveling in the glowing gore his hands ripped forth and the terror reflected in his silver finish. Terrain was an underlying sine wave to a warrior stamped out of metal and tempered in the gladiatorial pits. Habitat informed the violence, but did not dictate or guide.
Before him his foil, the courageous leader of the Autobots, belied his large frame by speedily traversing the tortured landscape toward him. In him was the brightest spark of courage and will Megatron had seen in any of their kind. It called to him, took his attention from his last victim faster than subluminal electromagnetic radiation. Optimus was not fast enough to enact a rescue; the wreckage of the Autobot known as Brawn fell from Megatron's grasp and was crushed into the ground under a black foot.
"Priiime!" he bellowed; a sound that was vocalized as one part respect to two parts unbridled aggression.
Blue-and-red Prime threw himself bodily into the battle-monger, fueled by a directive rooted to his creation. The urge to protect the greater peace and serve justice no matter the cost to himself was written at the very base of his core. He served that directive brilliantly.
The ground shook violently as the two collided. Metal skin crinkled and tore and glowing energon spattered beneath dull impacts. They painted violence across each other's finish in corrosives sprayed from hydraulic cables. Sensors and potentiometers of every kind failed and flared under crushing force. Their processors were ablaze with flashing lists of failures, fault codes, and rerouted systems.
They were mechanisms of entropy, working to tear each other apart. In the heat of battle they intended to bomb each other into rubble. And bomb again until the remains bounced.
Fists slung into each other with frightening collisions that filled the air with terrible vibrations. Epidermal sheeting shrieked to the heavens. Core strained against core; offensive systems leached energon, overriding all others in a ruthless thrust toward supremacy.
Struts creaked with strain while nitrogen sought desperately to escape from multiple shocks like thermal geysers. Lubricated bearings strained under the onslaught, whirring at speeds they were never designed to exceed, or were crushed, impairing the combatants' movement. Coolant foamed and ruptured from braided steel hoses.
Prime's Earth-inspired headlights and windscreen were shattered with deafening cracks. Crystal slivers imbedded themselves deep between Megatron's black knuckles: he only drove them deeper with continued impacts. They shrieked superficially, throwing dramatic sparks across the Prime's chassis until they were driven beneath the tyrant's metal skin.
At length, the two giants parted, sensing in the minutiae of each other's movements and the choppy reception of environmental sensors that the end was close at hand. Energon glowed around them in a purple halo of Cybertronian radiation. Corrosives released clear coat, silver, and red streams from rarified metal skin and dotted the terrain between them. Both used split seconds to shunt as much power from their core power plants to vital areas for a final surge.
"Last words, Prime?" Megatron had aimed at imperious, but the membranes across his vocalizer were ruptured, stomping his booming bass flat with audio fuzz. He was aware that much of the hydraulic fluid he was losing from his left leg was leading to oxygen contamination and subsequent foaming. If that failed his hissing shock was a poor backup. It was likely he wouldn't be able to meet Prime halfway unless sacrificed agility he locked the limb mid-joint.
Optimus had problems of his own. One of his optical receptors was not functioning, greatly inhibiting his depth perception. To make matters worse, his stores of energon were nearly depleted to the point of debilitation. He wished he still had his laser pistol, but was relieved that the mouth of Megatron's terrible fusion cannon had been crushed in their first pass.
Fortifying himself, Prime retorted solidly, "None you'd like to hear, Megatron."
"On the contrary," the tyrant rasped, "I can hardly wait to hear your begging."
Optimus allowed no more time for energy-saving posturing; he knew Megatron's stalling tactics when he met them. Digging in his heels, the Autobot threw his massive form forward again; proving himself just as much an icon of torque in robot mode as he was in vehicle. He saw Megatron lurch forward stiff-legged only to hesitate momentarily. Possibly his systems were failing. Possibly he was feigning a systems failure.
Megatron wanted Optimus to read his lurching lope as hesitation rooted in apprehension, but it worked to his advantage either way. As far as Prime was concerned, it gave himself just that much more built-in speed to multiply by his considerable weight. He clasped his hands together and wound back for a massive blow designed purely to cave Megatron's chassis from front to back.
Prime's brutal attack came as a surprise to the Decepticon leader, but brutality was something he innately understood. He calculated the blinding speed and arc of Optimus' incoming fists and threw himself forward. He intended to dive under the punishing blow and come up just behind it, left arm and fist primed for an epic uppercut. It was not in his plan, however, to experience a hydraulic failure before he locked his leg at the joint.
Oxygen contaminated lines failed the tyrant entirely. The massive mech's weight was too much for the bulging shock contained within. His left leg folded beneath him, geysers of nitrogen expelled from the shock and hissed angrily from every leg seam. The effect was the same as he had planned; he went down on his knee beneath Prime's crushing fists.
Megatron could not shoot upright to deliver the cataclysmic uppercut he had desired, but could still take advantage of Prime's incredible speed and mass. He thrust his hand before him, spade-like, to intercept his rival with all the power his spark's lust for conquest could provide. The result was as physics demanded. Though black skin and multiple tensor cables were peeled back from Megatron's fingertips and down his wrist, the rigid interior frame did not buckle. Five metal struts pierced Prime's chest and continued through him as the Autobot leader's mass slammed inexorably forward.
Together, both combatants roared, but it was unclear whether in agony, victory, or defeat.
A localized cacophony of tearing, crumpling, and colliding metal centered on the point where Decepticon arm mated with Autobot torso. Three of the five remaining fingers pierced the opposite side of Prime's chassis. The hideous sound faded only when the crown and worm gears within Megatron's shoulder reached the limit of their endurance. With a final shudder and then pop, followed by a short burst of ripping metal, Megatron's left arm was wrenched off. It continued on with Optimus rather than staying with its rightful owner.
Prime ran several more steps before the momentum that had not been subtracted by Megatron's attack played out. He stood, head bowed, the optic that no longer provided a visual feed flickered and died. His remaining optical sensor was dim, the images it provided were muted, but it still showed him the wrecked silver arm buried to the elbow joint in his torso.
He did not hear the screams or bellows of his Autobot brethren. Too damaged to move, too deprived of energy to run internal repairs, Prime saw the silver limb and thought vaguely that a one-armed Megatron would be much easier to defeat. It was apparent, some small amused part of his mind observed, that Megatron would be hard pressed to get his arm back.
The Decepticon tyrant struggled upright, his malfunctioning left leg locked into rigid place. Optimus was several lengths away, motionless. Megatron could not see his opponent's face but even without the facemask, he doubted the Auotobot would reveal much. He lurched stiffly toward his respected foe, shoulder joint leaking lubricant and hydraulic fluid mixed with metal shavings.
Beyond him, the long-standing aerial trine of Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker were utilizing every last bit of their martial skills to keep the frenzied Autobots from their impaled leader. It was rare that the trine had to use tactics against mad rushes that were not Decepticon in nature.
Megatron reached out and took hold of Optimus' primary red shoulder and pulled back, thinking to wrench the mech around.
Optimus did not swivel. He toppled to the ground, impacting the earth with all the dead weight of his tractor trailer alternate form.
Disbelief flooded Megatron. The heady rush of triumph followed, though it was contaminated by a troubling emotion that he could not name. He focused on triumph and gave it the fullest voice possible, hampered as he was by audio fuzz. His roar of victory was deafening and chill. It bolstered his minions and stole the will from their foes.
Where his fuel systems and power plant failed him, the euphoria of millennia-withheld victory sustained and fed the Decepticon leader. He stepped onto the fading Autobot's chassis for leverage and wrenched his severed arm free. Deeming it useless, he tossed the limb aside and reached down, insinuating his scarred hand into the open cavity. His fingers, driven by a respect he rarely voiced, felt gingerly where before they had only brought destruction.
Sharp, jagged edges, met his questing fingertips. Megatron caressed the morbidly beautiful prize within the depths of Optimus' ruined chest.
It glittered with racing electricity even as it died. Traces of energy crackled softly, like static, along the broken edges, as if it would operate fly-by-wire between the scattered shards. Miniature lightning lost vitality, refracted fewer flashes of blue life, and finally… they faded completely. The scattered crystalline wreckage was dark within the twisted cave of the fallen mech's chest.
Megatron stood over Optimus' still form, his metal mouth a thin line as he looked down. "All your sacrifices for naught, my friend. Within a meta-cycle your minions will be slaughtered, this mud ball will be drained dry, and I will bring all of Cybertron to heel."
Optics locked on the fallen warrior, Megatron did not hear the shrieks of victory or wild-sparked keenings of loss. Triumph still fed and sustained him. And yet, there it was, the encroachment of a feeling that was distinctly at odds with a conquest he'd thirsted after for so long.
His words were a self-fulfilled prophecy. With the Autobot Matrix of leadership littering the chassis of their final leader, there were none among the Earth-bound Autobots to take the place of their cherished Optimus Prime. Without effective leadership, the small-time aggression that had been a miniature war of attrition aping that on Cybertron, became eventual slaughter. Point by strategic point, the Decepticons enforced the Autobot backslide and slowly ravished the planet's resources. Autobots staved off despair with heroic effort, while humanity wrung its eternally divisive hands in helplessness.
Millions of light-years away, Decepticon territory on Cybertron began to glow anew with energy leached from the darkening Earth.
Before an Earth year expired, Megatron withdrew his elite troops from the dimming planet. He was tempted to leave his treacherous lieutenant behind to oversee the Constructicons as they fashioned endless solar arrays to reap the benefit of the solar system's relatively young star. Normally such cruel notions amused the tyrant, but he found the Air Commander's wildly diverse schemes had taken on a strange new element of empty entertainment. More than ever he began to look forward to each deception and attempted assassination.
Back on Cybertron, Megatron found the scales tipped overwhelming in Decepticon favor. Shockwave's silent grasp of Autobot security combined with their new stores of energy made conquest inevitable. Easy.
"This is too easy," Thundercracker complained quietly to Skywarp at a strategy session. "What fun is conquest when it's this easy?"
Megatron was intrigued despite himself. He wasn't a mechanism engineered for introspection, but he knew his own thoughts when he heard them echoed. He said nothing, continuing to chart energon supply routes with Shockwave and Starscream, but his focus was divided.
"Your problem, Thundercracker," Starscream was quick to remark, looking at his trine-mate through the three-dimensional holographic map, "is that you haven't plotted the next coordinates. You can't fly to a destination you're already at."
"Yeah?" Skywarp's voice was dubious, but interested. "So where are we?"
"In all but the final details, we have arrived at conquest," Starscream smirked, enjoying the attention. "You should plot the new destination: subjugation and humiliation."
"Oh, joy," Thundercracker drawled, every word distilled high grade sarcasm. "I don't think I'll be your wingman for that joy ride."
"Dunno," Skywarp mused, equally dubious of the Air Commander's idea. "I think it will get old fast. No sport in it."
"You two always find a path to ground before you can light a bulb," Starscream groused. "You need more imagination."
Megatron doubted a mech was yet Sparked that had more stores of creative chaos infused into his core programming than Starscream. His lieutenant was intelligent, his continued scientific exploits as brilliant as his martial abilities, but his pettiness was as deep as his vanity was wide.
The Decepticon leader tuned out the conversation; the Seekers had provided the piece of the puzzle he hadn't known he lacked.
"Get out," the silver tyrant commanded.
Being the last to speak and unequivocally self-centered, Starscream assumed he was the only one being addressed. His wings slanted back slightly, the more angular appearance adding menace to his body language. "I can answer an elementary philosophical question and plan supply routes simultaneously, Fearless Leader."
"In the next few kliks there will only be one functioning mech within this chamber," Megatron continued in a deceptively conversational tone, "whether the lot of you leave or not."
Habitually silent Shockwave was already on his way out. Skywarp and Thundercracker snapped off salutes before falling into step behind.
Starscream paused, more rebellious than ever with the Autobots no longer serving as a distraction. "Well, do you disagree, Mighty Megatron? Are we not arrived?"
The tyrant did not turn from the intricate holographic projection before him. The Air Commander's constant tests and treacheries were still useful; they kept him on constant alert. Starscream's wildly diverse schemes added continued streams of experience to the Decepticon leader. This had become increasingly important when the Earth's subjugation became a forgone conclusion, but it was not as satisfying.
Starscream waited for Megatron's response, instinctually looking to the Decepticon leader for what he most needed: something to struggle against. The tyrant's response was eloquent and terrifying; Starscream felt the air vibrate before his audio receptors gathered in the sound of Megatron's fusion cannon abruptly powered up.
"Ah, yes," the Seeker's voice doubled back on rebellion to take up placation. He backed toward the door quickly, blue hands raised, palms out, surrendering poise for haste. "I see we'll have to postpone this little spark-to-spark talk for another time."
As soon as his Air Commander was gone, Megatron sent a silent command to lock down the control room. It was a full breem before he powered down his trademark canon. He collapsed all the programs he was engaged in, from supply route planning to the many layers of surveillance he habitually ran on his surroundings.
Skywarp had unknowingly answered the question. There was suddenly less sport in Megatron's life, less struggle, less… conquest. He cast about for other civilizations to conquer, but none presented a challenge. He considered momentarily manipulating Starscream into leading a Decepticon civil war, but knew the Seeker's tactics far too intimately to see a true challenge. His Air Commander need more personal growth before a decent rebellion would be possible.
It all went back to the dirty little planet, Earth. He replayed the final glorious conflict with Optimus Prime and, at length, found a name for the strange emotion roiling in his spark. It was disappointment. No connoisseur of nuanced emotion, he was unaware that he might also call the feeling regret.
He had wanted to beat Optimus. He had wanted to overcome the Autobots. He had wanted to conquer Cybertron. Now that he had all that he desired, there was nothing left to take. The prize, once grasped, no longer glittered.
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