Megatron reset his optics—slowly, not startled but in unexpected amusement. He was keenly aware of the stage now set for him. A wounded flier with clipped wings, his own mech defying orders to protect the little thing, and himself, a feared warlord looking at them both over the edge of his own canon.
And around them, two factions in a broad, haphazard circle, their headlights and landing lights all focused in on the little drama, a spotlight in the dark.
This was his moment. If he hammered home Acid Storm's mutiny, shot them both down, welded his army securely to his side once again, he would emerge victorious over a desert of slaughtered Autobots. The enemy was demoralized, exhausted...their home destroyed.
Victory was a bit of showmanship away.
"Acid Storm," Megatron began. "You surprise me. Betrayal? For this little scrap of tin?"
"Lord Megatron…"
Acid Storm half-turned, one arm out, trying to catch a glimpse of Fireflight behind him. He heard the smaller bot's vents catching in pain, the faint scrape of metal against dirt. But it was impossible to see anything but Megatron's canon aimed at his spark chamber and—through him—at Fireflight.
"You would throw away your loyalties," Megatron said as Acid Storm hesitated. "Your comrades. For the enemy?"
"He's a sparkling," Acid Storm said, his heavy vents audible even to the jets above. "He never—"
"He wears the sigil of the functionists," Megatron said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Our oppressors."
Megatron swept his hand over the Autobots spread throughout the battlefield. In all the fighting, they had mixed in amongst the Decepticons, some paused between shots, all of them fixed in place as he continued. As one, they flinched at his motion.
"They are functionists," Megatron said, "all of them. They would have you as no more than a cog in a machine, sparkless, lifeless—"
"He's not like that!"
Acid Storm cringed at how weak he sounded. All of his anger had vanished into fear at the enormity of what he was doing. Pedes bent, helm lowered, he couldn't even meet Megatron's gaze. His vocal servos shook and scratched.
"He wasn't there—"
Acid Storm's engine coughed. Dry desert winds coated his throat in dust.
"Have you forgotten why you took my mark?" Megatron said, and he glanced around at the rest of his army, turning a slow circle, watching the Decepticons bow their helms as they fell under his gaze. Even the Autobots twitched, shuffling indecisively—this wasn't war. This was a speech. They weren't programmed to fire on someone talking.
And his voice spread. The same echoing quality that had carried Prowl's voice during training now carried Megatron's voice to the farthest edges of darkness surrounding the two factions. The Ark, collapsing in on itself with showers of glowing embers, cast a red glow over the sand, dramatically highlighting his face.
"Have all of you forgotten why you became my Decepticons?" And as he spoke, he punctuated each thought with his hand as if laying out physical arguments.
"The tyranny of the Primes. Disposable class status. Smelters at Kaon. The destruction of Nyon. The Warbuild Restrictions." His optics narrowed. "The Academy at Vox."
It was his trump card, the memory that never failed to spurn their anger and righteous indignation. A night of pre-emptive attack, an early hit on the Armada's beloved school filled with young jets, newly sparked fliers and carriers and rainmakers and deep exploration vessels. The burnt out shells of broken faceplates and ruptured spark cases had lain strewn through the wreckage of the tri-towers.
"Thousands slaughtered in one blow," Megatron said lowly. "All that was left of the proud Armada took my sigil that night."
Acid Storm grit his denta tight.
"He wasn't there," Acid Storm said. "Fireflight wasn't there."
Megatron chuckled at the simplicity of the rainmaker's belief.
"He wasn't there," Acid Storm repeated. "He's not like that."
"You can't—" Megatron started.
"We crossed cables," Acid Storm blurted. "He showed me everything. He wouldn't..."
Megatron's faint smile vanished. This was a problem.
A problem that needed to be squashed.
Painfully.
Irrevocably.
"And did you?" Megatron asked in a treacherously soft voice. "Show him? Everything?"
Acid Storm immediately looked askance again.
"Of course not," Megatron said. "Millenia of war...when our emotions get the better of us. Did you show him the battlefields of Cybertron?"
Acid Storm didn't answer.
"Your Retribution of Kaon?"
Still no answer. Of course not.
Megatron paused.
"...Praxus?"
Silence. The sound of dust puffed up by the wind blew past their pedes. Acid Storm shut his optics.
"Did you show him what you did in your nightmare?" Megatron whispered, just loud enough to carry on the breeze. "An entire city...in one night? Come now...how could an Autobot possibly want you? It's a lie. Will you fall for their tricks? You can't honestly think he loves you?"
Acid Storm hesitated for a long moment, then—in trembling hesitation—turned just enough to look over his shoulder.
Fireflight, energon trickling from the corner of his ruptured optic servos, stared back.
He knew about Praxus. He'd talked with Bluestreak. He'd seen the files. It couldn't be erased.
Fireflight was about to be shot through for loving a mass murderer. For being loved by that murderer.
In more pain than he'd ever felt in his life, he raised his helm and squared his shoulders. His mouth quirked very slightly.
The quirk turned into a small nod.
Acid Storm's vent hitched.
He didn't have to say anything.
The look in Fireflight's optics was enough.
Acid Storm felt a great weight lift off his shoulders. Death was inches away, but the fear was gone. He turned and faced Megatron with his helm held high.
In one swift motion, Megatron raised his canon and fired.
The sudden movement was what saved Acid Storm, who thought that Megatron meant to kill Fireflight. Lunging to cover the smaller Autobot, Acid Storm felt the burn of the bright ion canon flash across his wings, burning sensitive struts, melting electronics. He cried out, toppling onto Fireflight and bracing himself on his hands. His audios tuned out everything so that all he heard was a distant, high pitched whine.
"You sentimenal fools," Megatron growled. He turned his glare on the mechs around him. "Millenia of fighting to free ourselves from the Primes...from the functionist Aubots...and you let their lies turn your sparks?"
The army rumbled, engines revving in the darkness, but it was as lights dimmed and stepped away, recoiling from his terrible look. His disgust grew.
"There is no room in my Decepticons for weakness or doubt," he said. "No traitors. No cowards. I will have your obedience—"
Here he cut himself off, turning his canon back on the combined target of Acid Storm and Fireflight beneath him. It would have been better to sway Acid Storm back, but no matter. They were an easy example to destroy and cow his soldiers back into his command. As his canon glowed, the heady rush of certainty swept over him, the high pitched whine of excitement growing in his audios. No one would defy him after—
No. Not a whine of excitement. It was growing louder—
Powerful engines roared overhead, the terrible whine of a single jet engine rushing insanely fast toward them. He looked up to see a blur of bright yellow pulling up just in time to avoid crashing, and then the terrible splash of acid completely immersing him for an agonizing split-second.
As he reeled in pain, closing his burning optics, clear viscous acid sunk into the seams of his armor, searing the thick cables and sparking along his systems. Somehow he kept on his pedes, yelling his rage as his armor sagged on his frame.
He didn't see the second blue streak flying past to drop a second payload—all three rainmakers complicit in mutiny.
One full acid strike was enough to topple most mechs. Almost inconceivable that a mech—even Megatron—could stand for two. He dragged in a hoarse vent, dripping acid...and stood straight through sheer willpower. His systems, scourged and exposed, glowed bright as acid stripped away the diode casings.
As Megatron struggled to stay upright, dust plumed behind him. There was a shimmer of an invisible field, Mirage appearing at Fireflight's elbow as he took flier's arm and hauled him upright.
Mirage gave a sharp look to Acid Storm, then gave a sharp tilt of his helm. Neither of them risked saying a word that might catch Megatron's attention—they simply gathered Fireflight between them and faded back into the dark edge of the armies.
"Tr̀ai ̶tor͜s̨ …"
Megatron's scream had been terrifying in its rage. Now he was all the worse for the promise of violence in his low, damaged voice. As he straightened, mechs leaned away, accidentally stepped into the Autobot or Decepticon beside them. Megatron was not as tall as a combined gestalt, but he projected menace far greater than himself.
"̀I ̸am on t̸he̸ ̶cus̡p ́of vi̡c̀to̢ry̕ an̴d y҉oư ̨w̢ou͡ld t͡hŕoẃ i̶t҉ áway for͡ lies!̵ Fo͠r̸ —"
"Hardly lies, Megatron."
In as much as he was, Megatron turned and swiftly brought the canon up at Optimus. The canon blazed bright, sparked, flashed—
—acid poured out of his shoulder joint straight into the canon and ignited something inside. Megatron screeched as flames and molten steel dripped down his arm, and he cursed as the power shorted and whined into nothing. The fuel coils inside dribbled down in molten streams with the melted lump of the power core clattering uselessly into the sand. His movement twisted the slagged joint, dropping him down on one knee.
Optimus didn't blink.
"You will never be on the cusp of victory because your war will never end."
"Si̛l̶e̡nc̛e̡,͟ y͘o͢ù mi̡s̨ęr͜able̡ —" Megatron's vocalizer scratched static, and he smacked it, trying to clear the acid scorching the components.
Optimus Prime's voice rang across the battlefield. Every audio bent to his word. It wasn't like Megatron's speech, full of promises of victory and violence. Optimus Prime gave voice to nothing more than truth.
"After each victory, you always find a new enemy, a new target—after you destroyed the primes, you conquered Cybertron. After we are gone, your war will simply chage targets. Perhaps the neutrals who fled to the colonies. Perhaps your own Decepticons who aren't loyal enough."
"S̢̛͝ile̸͜n͏̸c̷e̛̕ !"
"Because you can justify any abuse as long as there's an enemy to unite your soldiers against."
As Optimus spoke, his voice drew the armies in closer to hear him.
"I ͞ẁi͏l͞l n̸ot ͡h̶ear t̢h͡i͞s̢ —"
"Lies. Starvation. Fear. Murder."
The Armada swung low, hovering, stepping lightly onto the sand where they could find a spot. Thundercracker landed in the open space, just behind Megatron, across from Optimus.
"And now...your own mechs."
Optimus held up the twisted fragment of steel that had once been part of a faceplate. Little of it was recognizable—it had sheared down the middle, melted badly at the edges, blackened in the heat. But there was no mistaking the outline of one optic socket, the heavy top of the helm that had torn apart.
"There was no love lost for Motormaster here," Optimus said. "But this wasn't an Autobot kill—"
"Sa͘n̷̸ct̛͠ì̛mo͢n҉̡i̸͟ǫ̴ú̷͢s̛ ̶̛l͝i̢͜a̛̕r̴̨ ," Megatron snarled, buoyed by hate. "Y̛our ͟Aŕk ͏ís̕ ̷d̵est̸róy͟e̛d—al͢l͟ ̶yóu ̴have̕ léf̷t͜ ̧is̛ w̢or͟d̷s҉ —"
"Yes, words," Optimus agreed. "And an audience to hear them. Finally."
Surrounded by both armies, the totality of both factions that had brought war to earth, Optimus focused only on the mech just behind Megatron's shoulder. Thundercracker.
"Freedom is the right of all sentient beings," Optimus said. "The choice is yours."
Thundercracker waited a moment. Then, realizing nothing else was coming, he reset his optics. This was not how decisions were made. Moments like this were punctuated with Megatron's fist, Megatron's terrible canon.
But Megatron was panting, dragging in vents, forcing his repair cycles to their utmost. That he was alive was a testament to his powerful frame. But there were still minutes before he could fight again. And Optimus waited.
Thundercracker looked at the broken steel in Optimus' hand.
"What choice?" he asked.
"Do҉n̡̛̛'t̵͟͜," Megatron tried, striking his own vocal box as it struggled to reset. "D̴̀́o͢҉n͝'̶t̶͢ ̨͡l̸i̷͘s̀t͘͜en͜͝—̨͘͝d̛́o̵n̢͢'̢̡t̷͜͝ ̕—k̨t̡ć̕h̶k͘ —"
His vocal cords wore through and severed with the effort. He tried a wireless signal—his relays were fried. He tried to stand—his worn pede buckled, and he caught himself on one hand, still venting hard. As if muted in a chat program yet again, he had to wait for self-repair. It was not lost on him that the fight had stopped, that no one was at his side.
That the conversation continued over him.
"We did not keep our energon all here," Optimus said. "My security officer...my paranoid, wonderful Red Alert...wouldn't allow it."
Thundercracker's optics widened. His internal comm lit up with the sudden influx of messages from his Armada, all of which he ignored. He knew what they were saying. They were as close to empty tanks as he was.
"We have fuel," Optimus said, "medical supplies, and most importantly, the willingness to stop fighting."
He vented out. "...we never wanted to fight."
Thundercracker glanced around the army on either side of him. Fireflight stood in Acid Storm's arms, supported in a circle with Ion Storm and Nova Storm. Whisper hovered with Silverbolt among the jets. Dead End stood with Gunrunner, Spasma with Groove. Even Starscream kept the much larger Skyfire behind him, safe from any attack.
And just behind Optimus, Soundwave had knelt so Jazz could sling his wounded arm over the larger bot's shoulders. There was no doubting the way they leaned into each other. Or how Soundwave no longer wore a mask or visor, his wary glance obvious as he protectively shielded the smaller bot with his own frame.
All of them stood behind Optimus Prime. He had no doubt that all of them, Autobot and traitorous Decepticon, would defend their leader if the fighting began again.
"You knew they were fragging 'Cons…" Thundercracker's voice trailed off. "And you let them?"
Despite the carnage around them, Optimus chuckled once.
"How could I stop them?" he asked. "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings."
Thundercracker hadn't absorbed that the first time Optimus said it. The repetition began to sink in. The surnet. The stories. The illicit affairs between enemies. Optimus had been B-Ball-Bot, and B-Ball-Bot had reviewed almost everyone—and known who they were the whole time.
Including Boom-Boom.
"Even now?" Thundercracker started slowly. "After this?"
As if punctuating his thought, the last supports of the Ark gave way. The ship finished collapsing in on itself in a flurry of embers that blew overhead, illuminating the smoke rising to the sky. The Autobot army gave a collective shudder.
Optimus watched the red sparks float by, closing his optics briefly. And then turned back to the jet.
"The Autobots are not the Ark. We aren't the past. We're just...civilians trying to survive." Optimus gently lay Motormaster's faceplate in the sand and stood again. "What are the Decepticons?"
Their collective look fell to Megatron, who glared not at Optimus but Thundercracker. There was a terrible smell of burnt silicon and insulation as he strained his repair functions so that his vocal box overheated.
"M̧̀in͏̵é̴," Megatron said. "Min̨e̷—t̡he͡y҉'r͜e ́mi̵n͜e—a͝r̛r̵o̢ǵa̕n̵t upst͝a̸r̕t̴—to҉ơ co͟wa͜rd͞l͡y to ̸a̛t͘ta͢ck̶ u͞ntįl I'm̨ we͘a͏ke̢ne͘d—y͡o̕u̡ w͠o͠n'̕t҉ l̛a҉s͘t̴ a͏ ͠da̢y͝w̧itḩou͝t̀ ͠me—"
Thundercracker narrowed his optics.
"And Motormaster?" he demanded. "Onslaught? Vortex?"
"Ņo̷ ̸sa̢cr̷i͟fice t͟oo̕ g҉re̷at ̨to ̶ ҉dèfeat̷ ̶Aut̷obót͢ func͞ti҉o͜nísm," Megatron snarled.
"...including the rest of us," Thundercracker said. It wasn't a question.
Megatron heard the decision in his voice. Thundercracker was a jet, given to snap judgments and violent solutions. Damn the canon anyway—he materialized his spiked mace, swung it in a wide arc at Thundercracker's cockpit—
He reset his optics. A second passed before he realized that the mace was gone—ripped free as Thundercracker caught the chain and snapped it clear.
Thundercracker tightened his grip on the stub and pulled. What was left of the arm sheared off of the joint, sloughed at the edges, and landed with a heavy whump where the jet tossed it.
Now the pain hit, shocking Megatron's positronic center just as Thundercracker stomped a heavy pede directly into the Decepticon commander's worn knee joint. As Megatron dropped, a gun barrel pressed against his helm.
"WE͝A̸K҉̶̶ F͢͝͡Ò͠O͡L̴Ş͡-TH̨É͘Y̴҉'̵͝͏LL̀͘̕ ̡T҉̀A͡͡K҉͢E̸ ̴̡V̀͞E̛͜͝N͢͞G͜͡E͢A̡̕NC̷E̴̡ ̕ A̵G̴͘͟͞͡À͠҉I̸̧͝N̕͏̧Ś̷̛͏T҉̴̸͢͟ ̴͜Y̧͘͢҉͝O͞͡Ư͜͝ -̢͠-͢҉ H̕E ̸Ẃ̸Í́L̸̀L͠ ̧͜L҉E҉̢͢A̶̶D҉҉ YOU͏̸ ̛͡ÍNT̢͠Ò͞͞ ͞͏S̨̧̧Ĺ̡A͟V̶̡͢E̸̡R̷̀Y҉͘͞ ̵͟YO̡͘͡U̵ ͡A͟͡R̡̛E̵̕ ̡B̧E̴͟G̶҉Ģ̛I̴N͢G҉ ̢͞F͜O̴͘R̢͢ ́Y͏͡O҉̀U̷R̕ Ć̸̸̡H̨͝҉À̕͞͏̀I̵͞͏͘҉Ǹ̵S̶͘͝͞—̢͘ "
The plasma bolt discharged. Megatron's consciousness fled down into the cold silence of his lonely spark chamber, waiting to see how his final words would bear out. He had no doubt of it. Fear and paranoia were the fulcrum upon which he'd turned his army for millenia.
He had been gravely wounded before.
He would rise up again.
Startled by how quickly Thundercracker had acted, Optimus turned his helm. Megatron still lived, but the frame was a twisted wreck. He sickened at the sight of it, but at least it was done.
Then Thundercracker braced his pede on Megatron's chest, grabbed the other arm, and pulled with all his might. This shoulder was not worn through with acid, and it took a long moment of snapping wires, groaning armor and screaming braces to completely rip Megatron's limb out.
Energon splashed across the sand, across Thundercracker's faceplate. He drove his pede down hard on what was left of Megatron's helm so that it crumpled flat.
It was obvious that he meant to continue until there was nothing left.
Optimus vented in sharply, raising his hand as he took one step. Thoughts flashed through his helm—trial, evidence, justice of the people—the attack had been too sudden to form words. He barely managed to transmit those thoughts out loud in a shocked burst that everyone heard.
A hand fell on Optimus' arm. He looked down with wide optics as Jazz shook his helm.
Don't, boss, Jazz said on the same public channel. You can't stop this.
But...this...it's an execution...it's not...
Trust me, Prime—it's gotta be him.
But...
Culture clash, boss. Decepticons do things different than us.
Optimus watched Thundercracker turn Megatron over, plant a pede on his back and begin peeling the heavy armor away. It came loose in great chunks where the acid had worn through, and he scattered the metal around, wincing as it burned his hands.
When Thundercracker was satisfied, venting with exertion, he glanced at Optimus, partly daring him to try to stop the disassembly. And partly to see the Prime surrounded by his mechs. Soundwave and Jazz stood at his side, as did multitudes of vehicles that Thundercracker didn't recognize. Through all the loss and one-sided war, Optimus had never lost the love of his army.
A small army. Thin armor. Haphazard armaments that they clearly had not been sparked with.
Civilians.
Thundercracker turned his helm. Too many epochs of war had taught him that weak little civilians could be lethal in their own way. Bureaucrats with law and authority and morality on their side. He felt no pity for them.
Besides, he had his own army to solidify.
He took a long moment to meet the looks of the Decepticon forces on the ground. He had no doubt of his command among the Armada, but the rest of the forces…
He locked gaze with the first Decepticon he saw.
Breakdown. The smaller white and blue vehicon cringed as Thundercracker turned his look on him. He was already on his pedes, holding someone who'd broken down in the sand. As several headlights followed Thundercracker's glance, he saw Swindle, one arm and both pedes gone, his optics flickering unevently. All that was left of the once powerful Bruticus.
The jet wished he'd spotted someone else. Breakdown was paranoid—true, they all were—and he was busy tending to the maimed Swindle. But this was not the time for second guessing. Thundercracker tilted his helm at Megatron. After a long moment, Breakdown stood, already drawing his rifle.
The vehicon put his barrel against Megatron's frame and looked at Thundercracker for confirmation. At his nod, Breakdown pulled his trigger. The concussive blast punched through the weakened frame and splashed acid in the sand.
As Breakdown retreated back to Swindle, Thundercracker spotted another Decepticon, Scrapper, one of his own readers. This time there was no hesitation. Scrapper stepped forward, put his gun against Megatron, and fired.
After that, the work became rhythmic. Decepticons came close, waiting, backing away when they had fired their shot. Thundercracker silently watched, willing to spend himself down to fumes to see each one pledge their loyalty by destroying the past.
Somewhere in the line of mechs, Megatron's spark chamber ruptured. His form turned gray. The Decepticon army barely made a sound as the firing went on. By the time the last mech was done, there was only a pile of black slag in an acid slurry of mud.
Tbc...
