Scene ii

There was no real morning. The clouds of charged particles in the atmosphere blocked out almost all available light. Optimus slowly booted up his systems, and bemoaned the freakish weather. He was increasingly worried about the other mechs he knew were stuck out there, in places much less sturdy than the one he occupied himself. It was long past time, he thought as he listened to the tearing wind, to pull together a more effective rescue force.

He walked over to Megatron's berth, hoping to start organizing the recovery and repair of all the abandoned Cybertronians. He knew that any such rescue work would only be possible if members of both factions worked together, and he wanted Megatron's help in its planning.

But the big mech's bunk was empty. So was the large central room where they worked. He searched the disused rooms and hallways that ran toward the back of the building. No Megatron. Hmm.

He wondered if he ought to be concerned; this was the first time the big mech had left their small sanctuary, and the weather outside was downright life-threatening. But he knew he couldn't pad after Megatron like a worried minder; doing that would certainly drive the old mech to rebellion. He'd have to continue to have faith in him, and let him make his own choices, he decided.

So Optimus got himself some energon from a storage tank, and looked over the datapads full of work that he'd left unfinished the night before. When he felt a bit more alert, he opened a communication channel.

"Prowl, Jazz, Jetfire: this is Prime. How are you all on this lovely morning?"

He watched as the holographic images of the heads of his three friends shimmered into the air, grimacing at his attempt at humor. He returned their wry greetings with a self-deprecating salute.

"First of all: Jetfire, how are things with your team? Is everyone still managing to get along?"

Jetfire's image faded, and was replaced by scenes of the scientists working at their various stations. So far everyone seemed intent on their work, and Prime was heartened to see Hook hand some samples to Perceptor without even a second glance.

"Shockwave never reveals anything unless he has to," said Jetfire, returning to the screen, "But so far he seems more willing than most of the other Decepticons to make an honest attempt at working peacefully together. It's possible he's responsible for keeping the others in line. But frankly we're all so busy right now that no one's had any time to start any arguments or recriminations. I don't think you'll have anything to worry about with this bunch, Prime. Most of us tend not to worry about faction when we're so deeply involved in a project."

"That's what I had hoped," replied Prime, relieved. "Jetfire, I'll be relying heavily on you and your, um, old connections with the Decepticons. We are, all of us, going to have to find ways of working together.

"Which brings me to the matter I wanted to discuss with you, Jazz and Prowl..."

"Lay it on us, Prime," the saboteur grinned.

"How well is our global monitoring system holding together? Can we still locate all of our mechs, keep apprised of their status?"

The two Autobot lieutenants glanced at each other, hesitating. Gravely, Prowl answered, "Much of the system is still functioning, but not all. We've lost the signal in several key areas. Last we knew, we had mechs trapped there; but now we have no way of contacting or monitoring them. And we've been getting more and more distress signals. I don't have the resources to get them all out, Prime." The white mech looked as unruffled as ever, but his voice betrayed the depth of his concern.

The Commander nodded. "That's what I am hoping to change today, Prowl. I suggest we organize a rescue force-"

"But-!" interrupted Prowl.

"-Made up of both Autobots and Decepticons," Prime continued smoothly.

"But Prime! Don't you think it might be a bit too soon for a stunt like that?" asked Jazz, while Prowl gaped, his blinking optics refreshing rapidly.

"Too soon or not," said Optimus, "We can't leave those mechs out there any longer. Many of them have been holed-up since the ceasefire began, and they've got to be running low on fuel-" For an instant, Optimus dimmed his optics, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I want you to go after everyone," he told them, "No matter what their faction. Get them all out; get them all to safety. If we're going to make this work, if we truly mean it when we say we want a lasting peace, then we've got to stop classifying the Decepticons as the enemy. And the sooner we start, the better.

"So Jazz: I need you to coordinate the work with any Decepticons who are willing to help with this attempt. Jetfire, you and Shockwave offer him any insights you have on which mechs might be able to work together without killing each other. Prowl, I'm afraid I'm still going to have to leave most of the overall logistics to you. I'm still... tied up here. It's taking Megatron a little longer to settle in to his new role than I think either of us had anticipated..."

Suddenly, none of the mechs seemed able to meet each other's eyes. The subject of Megatron was still an extremely awkward one.

"I will offer one suggestion," continued Prime, trying to ignore the shifty silence. "I'm sure that, despite the ideals we hold, there are a few Autobots who are feeling dissatisfied with this peace agreement."

"You're not thinkin' of anyone specific, are ya Prime?" interrupted the ever-cheerful Jazz. "Like oh, say, Grimlock and his band of misfits, or that crazy little slagger Cliffjumper?" The saboteur grinned, his visor flashing dangerously. "I've got a list! It's a long one!"

"The habit of blasting Decepticons might prove a hard one to break for some," Prowl agreed wryly.

Prime chuckled in spite of himself, but when he spoke, it was without mirth. He knew what he was asking. "I suggest that the top mechs on that list of yours be the ones you send out on the most dangerous missions. If they're genuinely worried about saving their own sparks, they might not have much energy to spare on kicking skidplate. The same goes for any Decepticons who participate in this effort. Send the berserkers out on the 'death-defying' missions. They'll get a buzz from the danger."

Prime picked up a stack of datapads, preparing to sign off. "Keep a close watch on every team, my friends. Megatron seems to have put the fear of the Pit into them, and it's kept them from breaking the ceasefire so far. But no matter what happens, you get... them... all... out," he growled, jabbing a finger to emphasize each word. "We've lost more than enough good mechs over the last few million years; and I don't want to lose anyone else, now that we have a real chance of ending this Primus-damned war."

"My, such language, Prime!" gasped Jazz in mock horror. "A little of ol' Megsy's programming get uploaded into your systems?"

Prowl looked shocked at Jazz's brazen (and worse, flippant) reference to the recent bond. Usually such bondings were not spoken of; and if they were mentioned, it was with reverence. Jetfire's usually calm face showed that he'd also been deeply offended.

Prime set down the datapads he'd been holding, and hissed a hot sigh from beneath his faceplate. He'd known that a link between himself and the Decepticon Commander would cause a terrible confusion in the ranks; and although it would be very hard for him to discuss it, he supposed that it was good that Jazz was brave enough to bring it out into the open and force everyone to deal with it directly.

"It all uploaded, actually," he said bluntly. Optimus spread his palms against his desk, straightened his shoulders, and told himself sternly to go on. "It's all right to talk about it," he assured his lieutenants. "We're all going to have to get used to a lot of new things in the next few cycles, and I'm fully aware that this... bond" the habitually reticent mech forced himself to speak the word, "Is going to be one of the hardest ones to accept."

Though Jazz still wore his cheeky grin, the light behind his visor was soft as he watched his Commander. He'd worked with this Prime too long not to know what it had cost his friend to be so forthright. Until now, the red mech had always been quick to squelch any speculation about his private life.

"While we're on the subject of Megatron," Optimus continued reluctantly, "If any reports come in on our old enemy, relay them to me, would you? He disappeared this morning. I don't think it's anything to be concerned about yet," he continued hurriedly, as he noticed his lieutenants' horrified expressions, "But if anyone hears anything, let me know..." He leaned back and sighed. There was so much to do! "I think that's enough to be going on with for now. Good luck to all of you. Prime out."

Megatron cursed the weather creatively, profanely, and profoundly. He dodged his way between lightening bolts toward a nearby short-range shipyard. The storm was making flight extremely difficult. It was also making it dangerous; the Decepticon had already been given a few new burns.

He wanted desperately to avoid prying eyes and curious questions. He didn't want to explain or justify his mission to anyone, but the old bluff and bluster just wasn't coming to him as easily as it once had. So he had determined to steal a shuttle, instead of chartering one.

As Megatron came within view of the hangar, he broke into a new volley of curses, this time directed at the few miserable mechs who still braved the storm in order to kept a dutiful watch over the motley assortment of space-faring vehicles. What the slag were they doing out here now? Shouldn't they be snuggled away in some hidey-hole? Who did they think was going to come out in weather like this to compromise their precious transports?

Who besides him...

The gray mech flew in close enough to recognize the guards as low-level Decepticons, and growled more profanities under his breath. He would have preferred a few Autobot groundpounders. These mechs would be able to fly after him, if he was spotted.

Formerly, he would have blasted them into oblivion without giving it a second thought. But lately, he'd found himself, like Prime, stubbornly determined not to lose a single mech more if it could be helped. Stealing a ship was one thing, but shooting down lowly mechs just to save his pride was another. So using whatever cover was offered, but trusting mostly to the weather to camouflage him, Megatron sneaked quietly past the miserable, huddled guards.

He hot-wired the shuttle which he thought had the best chance of slipping away unnoticed. It was smaller and lighter than he would have preferred, but it would have to do; the larger, sturdier ships were much nearer to the guards who cowered, still unaware of him, under their makeshift shelter. Keeping close to the ground until he was out of their sight, he slowly accelerated away.

Almost immediately, however, Megatron began to wonder if he ought to have slagged the guards despite his high new ideals, and taken a sturdier ship. The storm was playing merry havoc with his guidance system, so that try as he might, quite a few lightening bolts seared through his ship as they sliced across the sky. He could hardly see; his optics could not adjust quickly enough between the burning white flashes and the pitch darkness between them. Each bolt that strafed his tiny shuttle sent energy surges throughout the ship's systems, and by extension into his own. The pain when that occurred was intense, for his buffers could not protect him from the voltage. But Megatron was paying more attention to the flickering readouts on his rapidly-failing instrument panel, as he fought his bucking, plunging ship.

At last, he burst free of the tumultuous atmosphere into the relative safety of space. In that vast, starry darkness, the Decepticon Commander pushed, pulled, kicked, and cursed the battered craft toward the nearby C-12 outpost. He arrived there just as his last readout screen cracked, sent up a feeble trail of acrid smoke, and went dark.

His landing wasn't pretty. One engine had been blasted away by a bolt of lightening soon after takeoff; and as the sensitive guidance systems had one by one been melted into oblivion, flying the ship became more like trying to balance on a falling sheet of scrap metal. His "landing" took out not only the landing gear, but most of the shuttle's under-plating as well.

As the ship finally ground to a stop in a cloud of dust and debris, Megatron smiled grimly to himself. He'd been more concerned than he liked to admit that the bond with Prime might have weakened him somehow. But he'd made it here alive. It seemed that he still had the touch.

Disembarking, he clapped a hand against the blackened hull of his stolen vessel. The proprietors of the shipyard would hardly have recognized the little craft. But the gray warrior gave no thought to the return journey just yet. The test that faced him here worried him far more than the dilemma of how he was going to get back to Cybertron ever could.

Slowly, unwillingly, Megatron raised his head to view the ancient mine. Ever since that fateful day, he had always found reasons to avoid this place. And from the looks of things here, so had everyone else.

Once, the C-12 Outpost had been rich: a bustling hive teeming with toiling laborers who extracted the raw energon crystals, processed the ore, and shipped the clarified fuel down to the hungry planet below. Abandoned in haste after that first disastrous rebellion, the mine had been left to fall into ruin. Now the site was nothing but a gaping maw, with nothing to devour but itself.

Like crooked teeth, remnants of the old outbuildings could still be seen sticking up here and there. Drooping lines that had once run the ancient machinery now hung crazily over the pit, reminding Megatron of strings of sputum in the mouth of some hideous organic creature.

Wishing he was somewhere else, the Decepticon Commander walked into the pit.

When the ground he'd been standing on gave way, Megatron activated his thrusters just in time. He watched, as an entire gatehouse fell down into the opening mouth of darkness beneath him, to be consumed.

"Idiot!" Megatron glanced back in apprehension to see if his ship had fallen in with the tumbledown building. But the old dock on which he'd crash-landed still looked relatively sound. He pressed onward then, more carefully than ever, to do what he knew he must.

The old miner remembered his intended destination all too well. But he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get down to the place. He didn't even know if it was still there. Treading with unaccustomed care, Megatron made his way gingerly into the mine.

After several close calls during which he was nearly crushed, entombed, or bisected, he allowed himself to question whether it was really necessary to go to all this trouble just to get rid of a helmet. But he was so close now. And he craved the satisfaction of a worthy end for his talisman.

At last, pushing through a dragging door hanging crookedly in a rusted wall (and dodging a few falling beams as the ceiling collapsed behind him), he found himself in the familiar wide, open space which he had been seeking. The workers' assembly hall was remarkably unchanged, considering its precarious location in the heart of the old mine. He stepped warily into the room, not knowing if the rust-streaked floor would bear his weight. It creaked and trembled, but it held.

Megatron raised his head to look around him, and saw ghosts on every side.

There, lopsided and crumbling, was the podium at which, so long ago, the Senator had stood up to give his oblivious, patronizing speech. Once, the ruin of tangled beams at the front of the room had been a raised rostrum, from which the huge, impassive sentinels had watched. And there, indistinguishable from the rest of this wrecked chamber to any other living mech but Megatron, was the spot where that single crazy, loud-mouthed bot had stood up to it all...

Megatron wondered if, in the rust beneath the layers of debris, that long-dead mech's life-fluids still stained the floor. He looked unconsciously at his own hand, and remembered the first shock of seeing it slicked and dripping, after he'd pounded it through the body of a captain of the Cybertronian Guard.

Reverberating across his mind, the Decepticon Commander began to hear faint echoes of forgotten sounds from the past: the feral clamor of the crowd... the sickening thunk of his axe as it buried itself in the Senator's shoulder... the guard captain's panicked shout of "Fire at will!"... the tumultuous, heaving screams of trapped and unarmed mechs faced with pitiless blaster fire...

Megatron swayed, sickened in the queasy rush of memory. True, he had grown from an unknown laborer to a Commander of armies. But his thoughts were still as disordered now as they had been on that fateful day. He'd proclaimed a desire to bring equality. But his plans had quickly morphed into a more self-serving goal of personal domination.

For over a hundred thousand vorns, the Decepticon Commander had lived surrounded by death. He'd plunged ahead, splashed and caked and stinking of bled-out fluid, constantly pursued by an ever-increasing army of ghosts. How long had it taken him, he wondered, to cauterize his soul? When had he last felt anything at all, as he smashed through another mech's spark-casing, and raised his dripping fist in triumph?

The fire that burned within him had exploded into white-hot rage that day, and he had killed without mercy. He had become a murderer. But to what end? He hadn't come far, seeing as he had only ended up here at the beginning of it all, once again.

The gray Decepticon sank slowly to his knees; and with the same sense of dark ceremony which he had displayed in the arena, he lifted his hands (he was faintly surprised to see that they were unblemished by the too-familiar stain of purple mech fluid), and removed his helmet.

Then he leaned over, gagging, and purged; and the filthy splash of his bile was added to the layers of rust and slime around him.

He remembered what he had come here to do. But it all his efforts now seemed like nothing more than the pathetic thrashings of a loathsome, dying worm.

For how could he have dared to think that it was possible for Megatron to become anything but a destroyer? And what heights of arrogance had led him to believe that he could actually be forgiven? It was hopeless. He was broken. And some things could never be repaired.