If you've read the link on my profile (the devArt journal) then you know that I've made a policy for myself that says "No smut!" The limit to what I will do can be found in this chapter… If you're looking for more action than that, then you had best find another author. I was going to take these scenes out too, but I really need them to show Megs' character progression through this fic.

REST IN PEACE

TAYLOR RILES

DECEMBER 20, 1989 – SEPTEMBER 26, 2008

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The smoke made it difficult for Jazz to discern the expression on Prowl's face, even though their position on the building's roof placed them in better light. "I don't think that they've figured it out yet. They wouldn't still be tailing us if they had," Jazz murmured.

"I agree…" came the tired reply. "The cassettes would have been called off if they'd discovered anything of value." Prowl knelt on one knee, surveying the ruins stretched out below him. The battle had wandered south a few hours earlier. The Decepticon survivors had fled, with Ironhide heading the pursuit. "We should alert Ratchet. He should know Megatron is searching for them."

Jazz shook his head. "Nah… It'll just be one more thing for him to fret over. Let him concentrate on Prime's recovery without worrying about being attacked. The cassettes won't find anything anyway… Rumble and Laserbeak followed Ironhide's group, right? But Ironhide doesn't know Prime's location; he only knows his condition." His visor caught the light from a flaring fire, reflecting the orange glow. "Frenzy bailed when he figured the fight had gone sour, and the others stayed with Megatron at the front in Cannix. The only mechs that know the full truth are you and me, and we're too damned smart to say anything."

Prowl forced himself to his feet, ignoring the untended wound in his side. "I'd prefer it if Ratchet had a warning, however small the threat."

There was a sigh, followed by the breath of a laugh. "Yeah, okay. If it'll ease your recharge, I'll send word as soon as we make it back to base."

The tactician nodded without response, and began to make his way to the stairway that would lead him back down to the surface.

"There's something that's bothering me though…" Jazz called after him, hands behind his head. "I mean… why would Megatron care where Prime was, as long as he wasn't in the front lines kicking his aft? You'd think the 'Cons would be relieved enough to let it lie."

Prowl's face was expressionless, but his optics darkened understandingly. "Think about it Jazz… If you'd lost your memory, and knew someone else had lost his too, and for the same reason… Wouldn't you want to find him? He probably thinks that Optimus has the key to curing his condition. They're the only two like cases on Cybertron."

"Oh, I'd want to find them," Jazz whispered sadly. "But not for information." He paused. "I think I'd want to find them…" he looked out of the fires of battle, lighting the air with a soft saffron light, "… just to be with them."

Prowl stopped, looking back at Jazz.

An out-of-place smile curved the special operative's lips. "To be with the one mech who is in the same place."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The high-grade struck the wall just to the left of Starscream's head, spattering against the gray. "That was mature," the seeker commented offhandedly.

Megatron paused in his rage, optics lighting on the air commander with aggressive intent.

"But continue," Starscream amended. "Temper tantrums make you look oh-so-regal."

Five steps later, Megatron was towering over the seeker, his fists slamming into the cold metal on either side of the flier's helmet. "When I first came back from Tarmus, I noticed still-recovering wounds on your wings and side that could only have been caused by a fusion cannon." He moved to press one arm against Starscream's chest, proffering the aforementioned weapon. "So I'm guessing it wouldn't be too out-of-character for me to beat the slag out of you."

Defiance tinged with fear flickered in Starscream's optics for the merest moment. Then the red flared sweetly. The seeker wrapped a hand around Megatron's wrist and stepped closer with a sneer. "You know what else wouldn't be out-of-character…?" he purred, grazing his superior's chest with warm fingertips. The touch was slow and smooth, obviously practiced at finding the grooves in the white armor. Starscream studied Megatron's face, looking for an objection and finding none. With a smirk he closed the distance completely, lips softly tracing a path that mimicked his fingers.

The tyrant was fleetingly taken aback, but recovered. Suddenly it made sense why Starscream had been so comfortable in the commander's quarters, and familiar enough with them to instantly find the high-grade. There was no denying that the seeker was attractive, even if he was irritating as hell. The same sense of abandon that had overcome Megatron continuously since Tarmus once again ravaged his systems, but this time it had a different intended outlet.

Megatron flashed a roguish smile before he slammed the seeker against the wall, trapping him. He lifted Starscream's face delicately with one finger, marveling at how the flier's smaller body trembled beneath his own. He considered the air commander's expression, briefly wondering if the insolence and wit the seeker normally devoted his mouth to would be felt in his kisses. His lips parted as he lowered his head, determined to find out.

Blue optics, soft and filled with concern. A warm, passionate voice. A body, slick with energon, pressed against his own.

With a furious yell, Megatron shoved Starscream away from him as the vision flashed across his consciousness.

Starscream hit the floor, letting out a small yelp of surprise. "What is your malfunction?" he snapped, holding an arm that had been dented from the tyrant's grip.

"Get out." Megatron's voice was level and cold, thick with an underlying threat.

The air commander recognized the tone, got to his feet, and was gone before Megatron could even glance at him.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The chapel was small, attached to the manor by a roofed terrace. It was comprised of a single round room with a high ceiling, encircled by four stories of balconies. The entire space was white, in keeping with the pattern of the rest of Eirenon.

Optimus walked up the aisle with slow, cautious steps. He knew the chapel was empty, but still felt a pressure in between his shoulders that gave him the sensation that he was being watched. The pews fell behind him on either side, but he did not take a seat.

His steps brought him to a point just below the raised dais.

The Prime stopped, blue optics fixing on the face of the marble statue in the center of the altar. The lights hanging from the vaulted ceiling gave off a dim light that was swallowed by the glow coming from the high windows of the back wall. The effect was soothing, almost ethereal, as it played off of the carved mech's features.

He searched the statue's face, unsure of exactly what he was looking for. Something he'd recognize? Some sense of purpose that he could recover? An answer? A reason? Surely, Prime thought, if Primus existed, whatever had happened to himself and the Decepticon Commander had to be due to His design. The two leaders of Cybertron's factions could not simultaneously lose their memories without some sort of divine providence…could they?

Optimus sank to his knees with none but the statue to bear witness. The light that spilled from the stained glass poured over his armor and the surrounding white, lending to his countenance an almost appearance. When the next words left his lips, they were trembling. "I'm not sure… whether or not I was religious," he spoke into the emptiness, his optics rising to look back at the face high above him. "Ratchet says I was, but… There's no way for me to know whether I prayed out of faith, or to try to give hope to those under my command. Maybe it was both." His shoulders shook as he laughed lightly. "I guess you're the only one that knows that now…"

He fumbled over the next words, and fell into a momentary silence. Prime's head was bowed as he tried once more to understand everything that had happened since Tarmus. When he spoke again, his voice was strong with renewed conviction. "They're dying. Whether or not I knew them before, whether or not any of this is the truth…" He steadied himself. "They're dying. Ratchet says there isn't anything I can do for them, not like this. But that can't be true. It can't be. There's always something that can be done; and you must know that I'm willing. I've heard so many different stories from so many different lips, all of them telling me that I'm a 'savior,' a 'hero'..."

Blue optics fixed on those that were marble and lifeless. "They call me your harbinger. I'm told that you work through me." Optimus abandoned his humble position, rising to his feet. Anger flickered in his spark, and the warmth left his voice in favor of desperation. "Then work through me! Do something! Anything! I can't just stay here watching video feeds while mechs die in my name. In your name!"

White marble stared down at him, silent.

"Help them! Please… Help them…" He took a step back, voice weakening. It wasn't until a memory of red optics and a harrowing smile touched his mind that he made his last request. "Protect him from this. He isn't what he was."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Megatron paced.

It annoyed him that he was pacing.

But he still paced… arms folded, head bowed, the whole deal.

Every now and then he would look up, only to meet his own optics reflected in the window beside him. That annoyed him as well. He could see so many different emotions played out in the red, but no matter how much the fury ate away at his spark, he couldn't undo one simple fact.

He looked so young.

Rage screamed in his mind, a rage that had led to the deaths of countless mechs… And yet his optics looked like those of an arrogant, reckless youth. Despite all the danger, the corruption, the bloodlust, the insanity, the charm, the treachery, the aggression, the power, the egotism… he looked young! The young were vulnerable. He was not vulnerable.

His fists clenched against his arms, and his steps slowed until he came to a stop near his berth. Without a second thought, he fell backwards to lounge across its length, one arm over his optics, the other behind his head. "Dammit… This is ludicrous."

Not for the first time that day, images of the stray Prime dominated his thoughts. Megatron's optics might look young, but they did not scream it like the amnesiac Autobot's had. He had seen countless video feeds and datapads strewn with images of Optimus Prime and of himself before the incident in Tarmus. There was simply no comparison with the images of them now. In Optimus's face, calm wisdom and power had been replaced by the naïve concern that had been etched in his every expression when they first awoke.

He wondered if the Prime had indeed found sanctuary somewhere, or whether it was just a ploy. The cassettes had come back devoid of any valuable information. All they had been able to do was confirm that Optimus Prime was no longer taking part in battle, a fact that aggravated Megatron. A simple loss of memory, and Optimus was no longer capable of leading his troops? Was the Prime truly so inadequate?

And yet there was something tantalizing about the Prime being in such a weakened state…

"I bet he has a beautiful scream…" he murmured with a smile. "I wonder if he remembers that he's too high and mighty to beg."

It was then that he realized one of his hands had been given over to lazily tracing circles over his own chest.

With a wordless yell of frustration, he slammed his fist into his berth. The metal screeched in protest, giving under the pressure. "Slaggit!" He snarled, shaking. "Damn him…"

"Megatron," someone said calmly.

His fusion cannon rose and pointed at the voice's location before it had even fully registered.

He was aiming at empty air, with nothing but a windowpane behind it. "What…?" he whispered. He slid off his berth, closing the distance between himself and the glass. It was then his optics locked on a reflected image above his shoulder.

Someone was standing behind him.

Megatron spun, set to fire.

"Lower your weapon. It will not harm me."

He lowered his weapon automatically. The tyrant stared down at his arm in shock, confused as to how it had ended up there by his side. Megatron growled, refocusing his angry attention on the stranger. "Just what the slag do you… think… you're…" his voice trailed off and died.

He would have called the figure a silhouette, except that it was pale blue-white instead of black. The outline was definitely that of a mech, but there were no features. It was comprised of a two-dimensional pool of color that rippled with its every movement.

"Who are you?" Megatron demanded heatedly, regaining his composure.

The voice was smooth as it answered without hesitation or lead-in. "I am Primus."

Megatron stared in temporary shock. His head tilted slightly. "Heh… heh… heh heh…" He dissolved into laughter, arms crossed over his waist.

"Silence. I do not have long. The time in which I may be materialized is limited."

The laughter died in his throat.

"You must stop this, Megatron."

"Stop what?" enquired the Decepticon commander, smirking.

"This war heralds the destruction of your race. You must stop it."

Having reasserted control over his voice, Megatron didn't hesitate to renew? his laughter. "Ha! And why the slag would I do that? I don't know about you being Primus —but hey, if you are, good for you; must be nice— but I can tell you right now, I have no intention of stopping anything." His hands rose in an all-encompassing gesture. "This power? This control? It's a beautiful thing. However I might have thought or felt before, right now I am perfectly happy to just play along. Until Hook and Scrapper find a way to fix whatever the slag's wrong with me, I'm going to have my fun, and I'll be damned if anyone —divine or not— can stop me."

"Do not be fooled, Megatron," the specter replied smoothly. "You are damned. You have damned yourself and all those that follow you."

Megatron let out another laugh even more insane than the last. "Oh really now? I was under the impression all of our sparks went to the same place when we died."

"The Well has two currents. One is under my dominion; the other is under the dominion of my brother. You would not want to be under his thrall."

"And?" Megatron shrugged. "Even if I've essentially slagged myself, I don't see how I can be blamed for the choices of the rest of the Decepticons. They made their own decisions. I don't see how you can say I damned them."

"They followed you across the line and into the blackness. You conceived the poison that destroyed their light."

"Uh-huh. So that makes me what? An accessory to damnation? Wow." He clapped his hands twice. "Bad me."

Silence.

The humor in Megatron's voice vanished. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

"I wish for you to end this. I wish for there to be peace." A note of pain entered the words. "I am not permitted to interfere, yet I have broken my bounds in order that I may do so. But there is only so much that is within my capability to enact. If I so desired, I could force a peace. However, I refuse to tread on my creations' free will in that fashion. That is why it must fall to you, and to the Prime."

"The Prime?" Something clicked into place in Megatron's thoughts. An unprecedented fury erupted in his consciousness as the revelation took root. "Our memories… You did this!"

There was a pause. "I have initiated the means necessary for you to make a choice true to your own beliefs, rather than a choice fueled by years of bias and hate."

The Decepticon's yell held enough aggression to make even the most gallant mech cower. "You took my slagging memories! You slashed up my spark, yet you have the gall to tell me that you don't toy with free will! You sanctimonious, self-righteous, arrogant, pit-spawned slag heap!" A tiny malnourished voice in the back of his mind tried to tell him it probably wasn't wise to badmouth a god, but he ignored it. "You honestly think you can use me? Me?! I'll tear out your slagging throat!"

"My throat happens to comprise two entire districts of Cybertron, so that might prove difficult for you."

Shrieking a wordless cry, he fired two blasts from his fusion cannon into the wraith's chest.

The blasts failed to pass through. They were absorbed, the specter's color momentarily rippling purple. "We do not have time for this, Megatron. He is waiting for you. He is in pain."

Megatron paused. "What…?"

The window behind him flickered, almost seeming to undulate.

Megatron turned to face the glass, staring through it into what looked strangely like a chapel.

"Step through it," Primus murmured. "He will meet you on the other side. Touch the statue's chest when you wish to return. I leave this in your hands, Megatron."

The god's image shimmered and died.