Optimus Prime watched in contemplative silence as Galvatron's back retreated from view. The Matrix, now barren, empty, and less heavy was still cradled gently in the Autobot leader's strong hand as his enemy's last words echoed in his thoughts.
There will be no war today, Optimus Prime. You have earned Galvatron's respect.
Hope fluttered through Prime's spark. Hope that perhaps Galvatron meant to end the war. Hope had always been a conflicting emotion for Optimus Prime. As with faith, it was vital in some quantities just to keep the noble and naturally gentle mech from giving into the dark depths of despair that loomed over him like a dark cloud. But he was reluctant to hope. Getting one's hopes up often paved the road to disappointment. As much as he yearned to believe Galvatron's words, only time would tell if the madness would consume the imposing Decepticon warlord again and he'd return with a vengeance. Still, there was a gravity and sincerity in Galvatron's voice that Prime had only rarely heard in Megatron's. And he seemed stable in a way that Rodimus had mentioned he'd never witnessed in their fearsome enemy; stable in a way that reminded Optimus Prime of Megatron. It was a chilling thought. Out of control, Galvatron often did as much damage to his own troops and plans as the Decepticons did the Autobots. Megatron, in greater possession of self control, hadn't had that problem. Perhaps in curing the hate plague, the Matrix had also rectified whatever malfunction had caused Galvatron's pre-exisiting insanity.
Wearily, Prime handed the Autobot Matrix of Leadership back over to a reluctant Rodimus, though he wasn't sure if perhaps he should hang onto it now that he had been restored to life. He realized Rodimus wasn't particularly keen about carrying the Matrix either, but his reasons were different. Unlike his wild, impulsive, and carefree incarnation as Hot Rod, the Matrix had morphed Rodimus into a more mature, reflective, and ultimately less confident mech. Rodimus was a mech burdened by feelings of guilt regarding his part in Prime's death some years before. He felt undeserving of the Matrix and a poor, lacking substitute for Prime as Autobot leader.
Both Primes had inherited the ancient relic not of their own choosing, but rather the Matrix chose them. Destiny would prove itself not so easily shrugged off.
The Matrix was like a hot potato as Spike or Sparkplug would no doubt call it.
As much as he didn't want to admit it, even to himself, Prime couldn't imagine anyone else carrying it while he was alive. It wasn't even that he wanted the responsibility. Far from it. Death at Megatron's hands just a few short years before had mercifully relieved Prime of the responsibility of leadership; and he'd enjoyed a brief respite from the seemingly ceaseless, merciless march of war until he'd been wrenched unwillingly back to life by the Quintessons. But even though he no longer wished the responsibility, he couldn't imagine being alive and not having the matrix within his physical sphere of control. He had a need to be the one to protect it with his own chassis.
Peaceful dock worker Orion Pax had been rebuilt as the Autobot's answer to Megatron; and even though he wished the end of such a heavy burden, Prime found it difficult to imagine his life without it.
He and Rodimus would discuss the matter of the Matrix later.
Inwardly, Prime braced himself for the next wave of Decepticon mayhem as he always did.
Anxious to leave the laboratory where he'd been so hastily resurrected and nearly mangled while still trolling the Ancients for information within the Matrix, Prime transformed and led the Autobots away.
It probably would have worked better if he'd let Rodimus leave because Prime honestly had no clue where headquarters was now. He chuckled to himself and considered the possibility that he and Rodimus could co-lead the Autobots and Prime could groom Rodimus more by delegating and guiding.
The idea had merit.
W^^^W^^^W
Arriving at the Decepticon crypt, Galvatron lingered at the entrance, reluctant to key in the access code that not even the lava bath induced madness he'd suffered with the destruction of Unicron could wipe from his memory.
The Decepticon leader stared at the mammoth metal doors that loomed before him. As Galvatron, he had never seen reason to visit the crypt. Consumed with insanity, he hadn't cared. Those housed within the crypt were dead and no longer cared for the living. They could no longer offer Galvatron anything of worth. Why should he visit a dusty collection of dead husks?
He no longer felt like the madman Galvatron, though his outward appearance would still set any fellow Transformer on edge. Even his own Decepticons would appear anxious and tiptoe around their volatile leader in anticipation of the next emotional eruption.
No, he felt more like… Megatron. But how? And why?
No doubt it has something to do with that accursed Autobot Matrix, but that can wait. First…
He couldn't deny that he was curious to learn what had seemingly freed him the prison of incoherent thoughts and uncontrollable rages, but he would find no such answers here. The crypt called to him for other reasons and he determined he'd best get on with it.
Reaching up, he tapped in the necessary access code and the tall, heavy doors yawned open before him. Darkness enveloped him as the doors slowly sealed him inside. His optics narrowed in irritation as they adjusted to the lack of light. There were torches along the way, but they hadn't been lit in some time. Had Megatron still been running this outfit, the crypt would never have been allowed to go dark and each marker would have been maintained according to strict standards, bestowing the proper respect each Decepticon was due.
Instead, dust had settled everywhere and on everything, he'd noticed, lighting the torches as he made his way down the stairs and through the main chamber. Flickering shadows came to life, dancing on the walls as he continued on down the corridor. His footsteps were as heavy as his spark and echoed off the walls as he rounded a final corner.
He stopped. Merciful silence greeted him. It had been far too long since last the Decepticon leader had been alone in the company of his own thoughts, free from the inner chaos. There was still disquiet as he took in the dismal surroundings and pondered his future and the future of the Decepticons and the whole bloody war. But the full blown chaos had finally blown passed.
Of course there was inner discord. The Autobot Matrix had apparently restored Megatron's personality within Galvatron's chassis; a mercy so profound that the longtime Decepticon commander found himself compelled to entertain the notion of peace. But emtombed before him was the long dead corpse of his mate slain in the prime of her life by former Autobot leader, Sentinel Prime eons before the Decepticons had ever followed their enemies to Earth.
While her death had not been the catalyst for the re-ignition of the war, it had added fuel to the raging inferno of hatred that propelled Megatron tirelessly through eons of war.
But would he disrespecting her by choosing to end the war? Would it be dishonoring her?
He stared at her marker beseechingly as he lowered himself to the cold floor across from it, nearly willing her to magically reactivate and give him an audio full of what she really thought, whatever that was. He thought he had known her so well, but now, slumped against the wall across from her marker he found it difficult to hear anything in her warm voice. Perhaps it had been too long to hear her as clearly as he wished. Surely she'd have at least a witty barb for him regarding the matter?
Of course only silence responded. It didn't matter. War or peace, she was dead. Only her barren chassis kept him company in the cold, dimly lit crypt. A strange yearning to slide the cover off her tomb and peer in at her corpse tugged at his spark, but he shook it off. That was creepy, even for him. Still, he couldn't help the desire to gaze at her face again or to satisfy the morbid curiosity about the condition of her body. Some held up well for ages. Others deteriorated quickly.
He smirked slightly. Perhaps he hadn't forgotten so easily after all. If she'd realized that he'd entertained the possibility of peeking in at her corpse, she might jokingly refer to him as what the humans referred to as a "peeping Tom" and then wander off with that maddening, knowing smirk of hers.
He missed that; her sense of humor. It could manifest in multiple ways; sarcastic, gallows, self deprecating, dry, and even macabre in the right circumstances.
The mech shook his head forcefully. Abolishing the caste system and establishing equality had been dreams she'd spoken of with a wistful longing. Somehow he'd lost sight of that as the Decepticon leader. Vengeance and the teaching of the Autobots a lesson in the consequences of oppressing others had consumed him completely. The gaping hole in his spark left by his mate's death had never been filled over the years, not with war or with the deaths of his enemies.
That bothered him. A lot. Megatron had always been a mech with a clear vision of the future he wanted for his Decepticons and Cybertron. To sit there now realizing that there had been little real progress in achieving equality or even just satisfying any personal need for revenge for his mate's death was damning. Sure the Decepticons were no longer crushed beneath the bootheels of the likes of Sentinel Prime or forced to fight in the Arena in bloodsports, but the fighting continued. Surely the Autobots had had their fill of the fighting that they'd be willing to negotiate for better lives for everyone on their homeworld now?
Perhaps it was finally time for Megatron to let the past go and make reality the more noble dreams he and his mate had when they were young.
