Disclaimer: I don't own them, but if history has taught us anything- someday I just might
Note: This fic was inspired by the song "Strangers" from Wolf's Rain
Paradise
By Cyrelia J
"What is a perfect world, Prime?" Is it a world in which I no longer exist? A world where the Decepticons no longer exist? He looks up for a perfect moment and in the most far back, most beautiful recesses of his memory banks he can see the three moons in the sky and he can pretend that the amber waves surrounding him are the shimmering golden streets of Cybertron at its most beautiful. He feels the warm of the sun absorbed by his dermal plating, most of the rays of the unfamiliar star bouncing back to whence they came but a few warm him and he enjoys the moment of peace that will be gone before too long.
"Peace is a funny word, Isn't it, Prime?" For Optimus Prime, perhaps, peace is endless sunsets and a quiet world of contemplation and perhaps laughter. A world in which no one is strong and no one is weak and no one fights for glory or energon or their lives. Of all the battles, all the fruitless conversations and ridiculous war, his counterpart never has understood that for their kind, Prime's peace would mean death. He looks down at his hands, scarred in a way few Cybertronians could ever attain and fleshlings would marvel at. In a way they shared more with the fleshlings than their own brethren. These aren't hands that create or nurture. These aren't the hands that hold a lover or comfort a dying friend. These hands can do nothing but wield weapons for war and in rare, eternally deniable moments even unto himself he wishes just for one hateful instant that he bore the hands of an Autobot.
For a few moments longer he ignores the call of his second to continue gazing upon the new sky and wonder what it might be like to be able to live as one who wasn't bred for war. Searching his databanks for the old, well cherished images, he sees behind his glassy red optics the faces of the dead who gave their lives, for something far more valuable than idealistic nonsense. He recites the names of the dead to himself, knowing that even with his superior computation he could remain here, frozen in ennui for so many cycles, and yet he dares not stop. Their fellows may never mourn for them and the more simple of them may even look back with scorn and disdain upon those too weak to still live.
"You'll never understand what it means to truly protect and serve something greater than yourself, Prime." That is why he is their leader. It is his duty to protect them. He'll never hold back a blast of cannon fire or go back for a fallen comrade- Not because he doesn't die inside when one of them can no longer fight, but because he is Megatron. Megatron the slag maker, the destroyer of worlds, the bringer of hell. He is not the gladiator who only wants to live. His cranial plating, battered a thousand times over, reminds him every second of his age, and the unending war that has shaped him and millions of others. He knows he's lived far too long and at times he feels far too tired for a immortal and all knowing leader and yet even after these millions of years he still wants to live. He wants to see stars and he wants to let the light of the world dance along his dermaplating. He knows he can never die because he is the only one who truly knows what it is they're fighting for.
"You know nothing of true peace, Prime. You know only a world where the lamb lies down with the lion and not the world where the lion eventually starves and dies." The lions don't know why they must kill to survive, only that it is their fate. He knows that they could be reprogrammed for peace, and yet to contemplate such a thing is unthinkable. He could never ask them to murder and destroy everything that makes them wonderful and unique, and in his eyes, perfect. He wonders sometimes, what his ideal world would be like, knowing that it will never come to fruition.He imagines the great battles and the rush of synthed dopamine released into the unending churning of mechanical fluid and he dreams behind his shuttered optics of the colosseum, of the roars of the crowds, and the thrum of life that he held pulsing beneath him when he and his opponent held each other in an embraced far more intimate than any recreational interfacing could dream. The dance, the clang of the weapons rendered the most impassioned of lover's embraces meaningless.
"I'm too old, am I, Starscream?" He thinks of the young plane, replaying every snub, ever insult and scheme. The wonderful spark of youth that Starscream has, the unabashed confidence, the brilliance, the belief. The glory he sees in this war, the passion he has for every little victory, draws him, even as the curses spill from the seeker's vocals and Megatron hopes that the other will never be forced to assume true leadership. Megatron prays to Primus almost every night that he never dies and yet he would sooner kill the other than have him lead them. Not because he covets his damn position so dearly, but because to truly understand what they fight for, the real burden of leadership, and the blasted agony of knowing that if the war ever ends it's because the autobots won and they died or they were finally victorious and still died... it's too much for anyone to bear besides himself. He would sunder galaxies if it would protect his warriors from that- the greatest pain any sentient creature could experience.
Knowledge.
That is what is means to truly protect.
"We were made to fight, Prime, not destroy. And we fight in this pointless war, because we don't want to stop existing."
"I don't want Cybertron to forget us."
"I want..."
He feels the presence behind him and yet he doesn't feel ready to turn around just yet.
"When I am leader of the Decepticons, Mighty Megatron," the brilliant seeker vows, "I'll be too busy winning the war to bother with foolish daydreaming."
In a rare moment, the "tyrant" turns and faces his second with an unguarded expression, the two of them, standing proud and eternal in the waning dusk. His hand reaches out, worn and wise, and for once the jet doesn't draw back in fear. He meets Megatron's optics, curiously, defiantly, as that strong grip rests on his shoulder.
"Never stop dreaming, Starscream."
Starscream is silent and the elder wonders if perhaps he doesn't understand after all.
"Do you think Prime, that there is a Paradise for us?"