Megatron/Starscream/Soundwave scenes are fun to write. I can't help but feel sorry for Soundwave for having to put up with them, though…

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There was something about looking down on mechs lying prostrated and powerless at the base of his throne that never failed to send a thrill through his systems. There were so many different ways a soldier's optics could light up in fear, so many shapes his pleas could take… Megatron had been listening to their supplications for nearly a cycle and had yet to hear one repeated. The immeasurable control he had over their lives gave him an almost heady sense of anticipation.

And yet a familiar sensation of boredom was already clawing itself into his spark.

He wasn't sure why the feeling was so familiar, or why mechs begging for his mercy would ever become tedious, but he was beginning to lose patience. There was an element of the dark surrounding him that seemed to seep into his consciousness… It wasn't merely the shadows hanging in the room; the blackness had something dwelling inside of it. The air itself was thick with bloodlust and depravity. Megatron ached to give into that calling.

Soundwave's voice cut through the black. "You are dismissed. Return to the barracks. Lord Megatron will resume audiences tomorrow."

The kneeling Decepticons rose to their feet, almost toppling themselves in their haste to escape from their commander's gaze. They barely managed the calm it took to salute. There was a small quiver in their every motion.

A smirk curved Megatron's lips, his optics flaring slightly. "I'm guessing you sensed my unrest, Soundwave?"

"I do not believe that mutilating loyal Decepticon soldiers is the most practical means of easing tedium," the telepath responded dryly, giving a faint bow.

Starscream let out a shrill maniacal laugh from his position to the right of the throne. "It'd be close enough to normal for them not to suspect anything." The seeker shrugged, lifting his hands animatedly while shaking his head. "Honestly, it's more suspicious for him not to. If you want to keep his condition a secret so badly, you should have let him have his fun."

Megatron's deceitfully charming smile widened. "It isn't too late to catch them in the hall." He gave a soft laugh, leaning back against the cool metal of his throne. "But I suppose you'd rather me save my fervor for battle, correct?"

"Affirmative," Soundwave responded, his monotone voice somehow portraying unending patience

The white mech nursed the energon cube held carelessly in his left hand. He knew he should feel annoyed at the patronizing air Soundwave seemed to be adopting, but it meant nothing to him. The red light of his optics, always dangerous, was now tinged with amusement. "Remind me what we're fighting over again."

Starscream took slow steps down from Megatron's dais so that he could stand beside the communications officer. "The Autobots are encroaching on our territory near Uraya. They seem quite determined to regain all the land around their precious Iacon, and since Uraya is the largest and most crucial of the tristates… Well, needless to say they want it back."

Hook and Scrapper had been able to reinstate factual information such as geography and history into Megatron's mind despite their inability to address his vast memory loss. Megatron knew that Uraya and the other tristates were in Cybertron's north, surrounding the Autobot capital. He knew he had fought campaigns there before with a high fatality rate in both factions. He knew this, but he had no recollection of the instances beyond what he'd read. The information was textbook and impersonal.

Megatron's thoughts drifted to the mech he had awoken with, the first memory he had… He'd learned the mech's name and position in the opposing army not long after he'd first spoken to Soundwave in Tarmus. His optics brightened as he wondered if the injured Prime had come any nearer to retrieving his memories than he had. "Has Optimus Prime's presence been noted in any battles since Tarmus?"

"Negative, Lord Megatron," replied Soundwave, referring to a datapad clutched in his hands.

Starscream crossed his arms, another laugh parting his lips. "It's rumored that the Autobots have him secluded somewhere for his safety. His troops seem no more aware of the nature of his predicament than yours are of yours. The coward."

A mild interest penetrated the boredom. "Do these rumors suggest where?"

The air commander shrugged. "Unfortunately, no… But we can assume it's well behind enemy lines. They wouldn't jeopardize their precious Prime's life by placing him anywhere that could fall prey to one of our skirmishes."

Megatron considered for moment, the memory of blue optics rising unbidden to the front of his mind. "Soundwave… those mechs under your command…"

"The cassettes," Soundwave clarified.

The tyrant's mouth narrowed into a thin line. "In the next battle, have them keep a close watch on the highest ranking Autobot officers present. Make sure they understand the necessity of stealth. If the Autobots mention where the Prime is being kept, I want to know."

Starscream stared before breaking into a painfully high-pitched protest. "Surely there are more important issues that warrant your concern! The Prime is of no threat to us!"

Megatron's optics flared threateningly and his voice grew deadly smooth. "Strange. I was under the impression that he was the commander of the enemy army. Unless the information you gave me was false, he is quite arguably the only mech standing between me and victory."

"It will be done, Lord Megatron," Soundwave spoke easily above Starscream's babblings, turning and leaving the throne room.

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White.

Every structure, every material surrounding him was white. Pure. Unblemished. The city was relatively small, but sheltered one of the largest surviving communities of refugees. The streets were thick with mechs that had escaped their fates. Fear, aggression, and paranoia appeared to have no place in their smiles. They were protected; and though there was no guarantee how long the protection would last, it was enough.

It was strange… He'd only spent a short time amongst the energon-slick battlefields of the west, and yet such a semblance of peace seemed surreal to him. That revelation alone — that peace seemed unnatural — only heightened his sense of restlessness.

"It's beautiful," Optimus murmured, looking over the balcony to the retreat below.

Ratchet looked up from the medical equipment he'd been unloading and smiled. "Yes… Eirenon is a jewel. One of the only cities to remain untouched."

"But why am I here?" Optimus asked, turning away from the scene. His optics were dull, his lips parted beneath the mask. "This war… whether or not I agree with it… I want to fight alongside the rest of the Autobots. I can't stay here, safe and secure, when those under my command are dying. I don't belong here, Ratchet."

The medic bowed his head, still trying to busy himself with the supplies he had brought. "We don't know what happened to you, Prime. Normal cases of memory loss are caused by head trauma, perhaps emotional trauma, but you've never been susceptible to that. You experienced no such injury, and none of the procedures that I or my colleagues have performed have made the slightest bit of difference." His voice grew soft. "Something dissected your spark. There's no way to know what kind of damage has been done, or what consequences may occur in the future as a result."

Optimus' optics retained their light, but the emotion behind them died as Ratchet stood to face him fully.

"I know you don't remember me, but I've known you for a damn long time now. Memories or not, there are inherent qualities you still possess. You're still Optimus Prime, and I know it's killing you to feel like you're running. You feel like you're deserting them, you feel weak and helpless, and I'm pretty slagging sure that the next time we hear of a battle's high casualties you'll blame yourself." Ratchet's tone grew stony, unyielding, as he reached his point. "Your spark has been tampered with. If your condition were to deteriorate while on the battlefield, what then? You don't remember combat, and you sure as hell don't remember what it is to take a life. I'm sorry, Prime… but in your present condition…"

"I'm a liability," Optimus finished wryly. He walked past the medic, optics downcast and faraway.

Ratchet couldn't suppress a slight shudder. Optimus might look younger, might seem more innocent, but there was still a power that clung to him. "I'm sorry… But until we can heal you completely, this is the most rational course of action. Eirenon is perhaps the last city in which we can remain in one place long enough to make progress. What happened to you… it shouldn't even be possible."

Optimus looked over the datapads littering the desk against the far wall. At Prime's request, he'd been supplied with every historic document of the war that could be given to him. "That other…" Red optics, alive with fire, flashed across his thoughts. "Megatron… He's still fighting even though he suffered the same phenomenon."

There was a pause. "Megatron is a mech born of brutality and turmoil. War is his world. He is seemingly unaffected because he awoke in his element. I imagine that there was always a part of him disposed to aggression, something that even a clean slate couldn't erase. Perhaps if he had awoken somewhere besides a battlefield there might have been hope… but he didn't, and he adapted." Ratchet closed the crate that had been carrying his supplies. "War is his world, but peace is yours. Even before this amnesia, war was a concept you struggled with. You fought to protect and defend. You fought to give others hope. You fought so that we could regain our peace. You fought to unify our factions. But, Optimus, you never fought for the sake of fighting, and that is why Megatron is still on the field and you are here."

"I can't stay within the walls of Eirenon and do nothing," Optimus said smoothly, the strength of his voice giving Ratchet momentary doubt.

"Then do something" Ratchet managed smoothly. "Jazz and I spent the entire trek here answering your questions about the war." He started to leave the room. "And besides asking the aforementioned questions, you stayed completely silent… except to say that you don't understand."

Prime's hands clenched on the datapad he had been trying to decipher. When he had said that he didn't understand, he hadn't been talking about the war itself. Optimus understood what the Autobots were fighting for. He understood why their half of the war was necessary.

He had not meant that he didn't understand the war.

It was Megatron that he didn't understand.

His optics dimmed.

He wanted to understand.

Ratchet continued speaking over Prime's thoughts. "The best thing you can do is try to reacquaint yourself with your past. Maybe the more you learn, the closer you'll come to remembering. It seems to me that, if you want to regain control over your life, that'd be a decent start."

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Megatron walked the streets of his Kaon, ignoring the optics that darted fervently to his face and then lowered themselves in submission. Truth be told, he found it irritating that he couldn't disappear into the crowd. Yes, power and fame were exhilarating, especially since he had allegedly won them through spattering the lifeblood of countless beings across his hands and spark. And yet, he felt that something was missing… something which he found he still desired.

One look at the Decepticon soldiers -- supposedly the most depraved, animalistic, and feared beings in the universe -- as they cowered away from him, gave him the answer.

He wanted a fight he didn't know he'd make it out of. There was some sort of feral craving that darkened his spark, shrieking in him to find a challenge. A danger. A gamble.

A wild sense of abandon overtook him. More than anything, he wanted to lash out at the mechs around him, to tear into them, to torture and mutilate, to light the black streets with florescent lifeblood.

He suppressed it with a haphazard shrug, and settled for a drink instead.

"I must be the sanest insane mech on the face of this planet," he murmured through a smile.

His optics narrowed minutely. This planet…

Cybertron…

An entire planet swept up in, devoured by, war.

A war that revolved around him… and that other.

"Optimus Prime…" Megatron whispered over the rim of his high grade.

It seemed impossible that optics as pristine and blameless as the blue ones he remembered could have seen an amount of death and desecration equal to his own.

Fleetingly, Megatron wondered if his optics had looked innocent when he first awoke… before he had — what was the phrase Soundwave had used? Ah yes. Returned to his natural state.

When he found the stray Prime, he'd have to remember to ask.