Author's Note:

March 13, 2009: MAJOR REWRITE COMPLETED.
An unforgivably high cheesiness factor has been successfully reduced, and I am no longer embarrassed by this portion of the Epic!TFSagaOfInfiniteLength.


--It'll help if you have read the Megatron: Origin comic book, but if you haven't, you should still manage just fine, for I shall expound all!
--And I'll just say this right here: Primus does not equal God. Primus is just another mech, doing his best. If you want a Biblical parallel, try Michael the Archangel, maybe.
--I'm using the earlier iteration of Sentinel Prime, rather than the Apexed-out version of him in Megs:Origin.



----Act Two: Helmet----

--------------------------------CHAPTER ONE-------------------------------------

Restless again, Megatron paced the length of the starkly utilitarian room where he and Optimus Prime had spent the last few days in seclusion, working out the logistics of how not to wage war against one another. He was feeling rebellious. This peace-and-brotherly-love thing was a lot harder to do than he'd thought it would be. He ground his dental plates. What in the name of all chaos could have made him believe that he wanted any of this?

Optimus looked up from his work, and watched the other mech with concern. So far, Prime had assumed that the less he butted in when Megatron grew restive, the better. He knew the Decepticon was having to reformat a lifetime's worth of emotional and cerebral programming, and Prime could only guess how difficult that was proving to be for him.

During the past few days, Megatron had grown increasingly uncommunicative, his temper more volatile, his mood darker. Watching the mech strive to adapt, Prime felt apprehensive in spite of himself. Was it, after all, asking too much of any mech to change as much as Megatron was trying to do? Was such comprehensive change even possible? Although at his core Prime believed that there was goodness in the spark of even the most depraved mech, he worried that after spending so much of his life subsumed by hatred, Megatron might not be able to abandon the habits of hostility and violence. He feared that he and Megatron might not be able to hold onto their fragile new dream of personal and planetary peace.

Usually, Optimus refused to contemplate such a possibility, since the thought that he and Megatron might fail brought him immeasurable sadness. He knew that the Decepticon Commander had seized upon the spark-bond as a way to escape the swelling madness inside him, yet it now seemed to Prime that the gray mech's mind was more frenzied than ever. Optimus did not want to contemplate what might happen if Megatron could not, in the end, find his way in the new world they had agreed to form together. If Megatron foundered in his current uncertainty, he would almost certainly die insane... which would mean an immediate descent into anarchy for their race, and an endless, terrible grief for Prime.

Optimus shook himself out of such negative thoughts. He refused to give up on Megatron, refused to relinquish his longstanding belief that there was more to Megatron than madness and destruction.

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The morning which followed the declaration of the ceasefire dawned a terrifying red. Before anyone recognized the seriousness of what was happening, an energy storm the like of which no one living had ever seen lashed down upon the planet. Lightening struck constantly, and a corrosive rain pelted down as mechs everywhere bolted for whatever shelter they could find. Many were seriously burned before they could find safety.

And then the earthquakes began. The whole surface of Cybertron buckled and groaned. A few spooked mechs swore they could hear a moaning from the depths as of some monstrous being crying out in agony. The command centers of both factions were inundated with distress calls, as more and more mechs were trapped, injured, or just plain terrified in the abrupt, inexplicable cataclysm. “Why,” they cried, “When we have finally made a real attempt at peace; has Cybertron suddenly turned on us?”

Startled at the unpredicted ferocity of their planet, Shockwave sent a carefully-worded priority pulsewave to Jetfire, and the two of them hurriedly assembled a team of like-minded scientists and assistants from both factions. They then began a desperate, scrambling effort to find out the cause of the planetary breakdown. The lives of all depended upon their finding some answers.

On the second day, after exhaustive research in a hastily pulled-together laboratory, they offered their conclusions. The general ceasefire seemed to have effected Cybertron itself, not just the mechs who cowered on its torn and ruptured surface. The planet, they said, was entering into a healing crisis of its own -- a crisis on a global scale. The sudden cessation of warfare seemed, ironically, to have thrown the planet into chaos. Over countless millennia of being continually bombarded, their world had come to a kind of set-point in which cataclysm was the norm. Peace, it seemed, was driving the planet crazy.

Jetfire's team believed that the whole of Cybertron was now engaged in a frantic effort to cleanse itself; and it wasn't being too gentle about it either. The residue of countless battles, which until recently had roiled unceasingly in the upper atmosphere, was now, they said, being vomited onto their cringing heads in the form of energy storms and acidic rain. Mechs unfortunate or foolish enough to be caught out in this rain found that it ate through their armor and disrupted their internal systems to such an extent, that only in a dire emergency would anyone emerge from hiding and risk exposure. The almost-constant earthquakes, the scientists believed, were attempts by the planet to heal the many gashes and tears in its battered surface, which had opened during the years of warfare.  

With the wild weather taking the place of ambushing enemy forces as the greatest danger to spark and servo, most mechs had quickly holed up in the safest, sturdiest shelters they could find. Already some uneasy alliances and even a few uncertain friendships had been struck across the factions, as mechs from opposing armies had been thrown together in struggles for survival all over the planet. But most of them were simply biding their time, quietly hiding out until they could figure out where things now stood, and the new lay of the land. Above all, they wondered what their leaders were doing. They waited for the word of command.

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Outside, the storm lashed at the tumbledown storehouse in which the two Commanders had taken shelter. The tired old walls shook in the buffeting of the wind, and there was an occasional unsettling thump as heavy objects, torn loose in the gale, were hurled against the sides of the building. Optimus had gradually become accustomed to the sounds, and paid them no heed. But as a tremendous crash shook the floor only a few meters from him, he jumped, startled. Looking up quickly from the work he'd been attempting to complete, he saw that Megatron had picked up an old, solidly-built bench, and hurled it to the floor in his frustration. Abruptly, Prime decided then that the time had come to abandon his policy of patient waiting. Tersely ending his briefing with a startled Prowl, Optimus closed his communicator, slapped down a stack of datapads, stood, and walked across the room.

"What's grinding your gears, Megs?" He knew that using the nickname would anger the other mech; but getting Megatron angry had so far been the only way he'd found of getting him to talk.

Megatron whipped around, and stabbed a finger at Prime's chest. "You." Punctuating each word with a ‘clank’ as his finger jabbed Prime’s chestplate, he growled, "You and your high and holy way of thinking. It's like a virus. And I'm becoming infected with it. By the Pit, I wish I'd slagged your aft when I had the chance!!"

Prime deciphered the outburst as well as he could. Trying to sound calm and unconcerned, he asked the pacing mech, "So, what are you thinking now that's got your servos so jammed? Feeling the need to strip yourself down for spare parts, and donate them to the needy, or something?" Megatron froze, and his optics blazed fiercely. Prime watched as the Decepticon crouched down as if in preparation for a fight.

"Actually, I do feel that I ought to get rid of... something, " Megatron admitted grudgingly. "But I don't see why the slag I should have to do it!" he added, grinding his jaws. 

"So... you're thinking it's finally time to give up that fluffy petro-rabbit you cuddle with while you recharge?" As sudden rage flared in Megatron's optics, Optimus saw that his teasing attempts to pry out information had gone too far. He backed away a step, raising his hands in a gesture that was both placation and self-defense. The spark-bond might make it theoretically impossible for either mech to ever again bring harm to the other, but Megatron’s murderous glare convinced him that the Decepticon wouldn’t hesitate to test that hypothesis.  

"I'm sorry," Prime said gravely. "I have no right to make light of what you are going through. I'm just trying to understand, to find out how I can help you... if indeed I can help at all. I do not want you to have to find your way in all of this alone.” He paused, and his gaze dropped to the overturned bench. “Neither of us should have to do any of this alone," he murmured.

Still angry, Megatron glared at Prime, his hands balled into fists. "So now you're claiming that making cheap cracks is your way of trying to help me?" he snarled.

Optimus shrugged. “As you well know, my perception and decisions have never been perfect.”

He extended a hand, a peace offering. "Can we compromise? I will not pester you again, if you'll make the effort to communicate with me.” Prime looked at the big Decepticon, and felt momentarily overwhelmed by all the obstacles they had yet to overcome if they were indeed to have peace.  He pushed down his doubts, and continued, "There are a whole lot of things that need sorting out now. I had hoped that we could work through them together. I need your advice. But you have to be willing to give it, Megatron. The time has come for you to take your place in this new world, if that is still what you want."

Megatron's fists began to unclench. He knew that Prime was right.

Prime dropped his hand to his side. He'd known Megatron wouldn't take it, but he'd wanted to make the offer nonetheless. "We need to be able to trust each other, Megatron. We have to be able to talk, or this whole enterprise will have been for nothing. Please..." he entreated as he turned away,  "Please don't let all this... everything we've done... come to nothing."

Optimus picked up one end of the battered old bench, righted it, and dragged it resolutely back to its place against a crumbling, dirty wall. Then he sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and allowed himself a moment to process his frustration.

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After a long moment, Megatron slouched across the room to where Prime sat, flopped down beside him, and threw his arms across the bent backrest. Sighing melodramatically, he made an attempt to speak the thought that had taken over his mind. "I --" There was just no way to say it without sounding ridiculous. Barely audibly, he muttered, "I have to get rid of my helmet."

"Oh." The reason behind the gray mech's agitation was now much clearer to Prime. "Is it still so important to you then?" he asked gently.

Megatron sighed resignedly. He loathed being so forthright, even with Prime, to whom he still couldn't quite believe he had allowed such access to his innermost self. His particular difficulty would seem so small and foolish once he put it into words. He hated the idea that it was possible for him to struggle so desperately with such a seemingly insignificant thing. It made him feel small, and he hated that. But feeling foolish was even worse.

"You slagging know," he grumbled, "How this scrap-eater's helmet has always served to remind me why I do everything I do..." He broke off. "Everything I did...” he corrected himself angrily. He pounded his fist on the old, dented armrest, and flakes of umber enamel fluttered to the floor. “I wanted to destroy you all. I HATED you." His belligerent voice sank to a whisper, “Now it's all I can do not to hate myself.”

Optimus, for once, was at a loss for words. "Oh," he responded lamely.

“I've abandoned everything I spent my whole life fighting for," Megatron continued bitterly. He smiled crookedly over at the Autobot leader. "I'm a traitor to my own cause, Prime," he said flatly. "Now I'm wondering if I've even betrayed myself."

A flood of bitter words poured from him like a system purge. "I made one decision, took one step, and as a result I find myself required to be a completely different mech.” His voice rose as his desperation mounted. “But I'm not sure if I like the mech I'm supposed to be now! And I can never go back! It's not that being the old me was that much more enjoyable, but...Slag it all!! Autobots! I'm helping... Autobots!!" The words ground to a halt, and he threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness and despair.

"Oh," repeated Prime.

Megatron let out a huge, long-suffering sigh, and growled, "Optimus, if you say 'Oh' like that one more time, I swear I'll rip you... AAAUUGH!!!" Megatron pressed his hands frantically to his head, as if attempting to stop it from flying apart. "Slaggit, if I can't tear you to pieces, what else is there for me to do?! WHAT THE FRAG WAS I THINKING?!?!?" Desperately, he jumped up, and began smashing anything that came to hand.

Somewhat stunned by the sudden outburst, Optimus left him to it. He had to let Megatron try to break through the block he now seemed to be facing, and hope that afterwards he would be able to move forward... A few more holes in the walls wouldn't matter much, and the rudimentary gear that they'd brought with them could be replaced if necessary. He hoped that if Megatron were allowed to vent all of his pent-up frustration -- even if the method he had chosen of doing so was somewhat destructive --  the results might be worth a few pieces of damaged equipment. As if in response to that thought, the chair which Prime had been occupying earlier came flying toward his head. Prime dodged it distractedly, and watched it smash on the floor beside him.

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Megatron's destructive ire gradually abated. At last he was forced to stand still, his hand trapped in a hole he'd punched through the wall. With slow determination, he began to beat his head dejectedly against the cold, hard surface in a relentless, unforgiving rhythm.

Optimus cringed. It was horrible to watch any being self-destruct like this. As he watched the big mech, the Prime felt each blow as a physical pain in his spark. He'd thought he'd been acting so selflessly, in agreeing to the bond with Megatron. But he saw now that any risk to himself had been laughable by comparison.

He, to his surprise, had gained a friend. Megatron, he was beginning to worry, had lost himself.

Though he still wondered if he might do more harm than good by interfering, Prime couldn't stand to watch passively any longer. The painful empathy in his own spark impelled him to try something, anything, to help the tortured mech on the other side of the room. Hoping that his actions would not rouse the Decepticon to further anger, he carefully made his way through Megatron's wake of destruction, and stepped nervously up beside his former enemy. When no better idea presented itself, he reached out, and began loosening the twisted metal from around the huge black fist. Megatron continued the slow beating of his head. He did not even seem to realize he was no longer alone.

"I was a fool," Optimus admitted in a low, troubled voice. "A selfish, blind fool. I should never have... I should have realized how..." As the freed fist fell listlessly from the hole in the wall, he lowered his head in shame.

"I should know better! I was so worried about my own precious soul that I didn't give much thought to you. I was unforgivably selfish. I should have made sure you knew what the consequences would be for you, instead of just worrying about what all of this would mean for me. Now it seems that there is nothing I can do to help you, nothing to make any of this easier for you, not even a way to make amends.” His shoulders sagged as he watched the big mech continue dully beating his head. “I am so very, very sorry, Megatron..."

He meant every word, but knew that his feeble apology would mean nothing, mend nothing, undo nothing. Frustrated by his own helplessness, he reached up and gently turned the gray head away from the wall. Blue optics looked achingly into blank red ones dulled by despair.  

"I can't change things back to the way they were before," the Prime began. "But I believe in you, Megatron. It's not much, but I offer you all I have to give: myself, my friendship." With a little shrug, he extended his hand for the second time that evening. "Take it if you need it... Brother."

The hulking gray mech stared bleakly into steady blue optics. He turned back to look at the wall, at the dents he'd made with his own head. He looked down at Prime's extended hand. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached out, and took it.

Optimus bowed his head, and pressed the palm of his free hand against Megatron's scarred chest. It was the first time he had fully acknowledged their bond.

To his surprise, he saw black fingers brush his own red chestplates in return. "Hello, Brother," the gruff voice said. "Greetings from a fellow idiot."

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Optimus chuckled, relieved. "Idiot? What did you do?" he asked.

Megatron laughed bitterly. "I thought this would be easy." He snorted derisively. "Naive. Fool. Idiot. I believed that I could download it all onto you, and that would be the end of it." Releasing Prime's hand, he leaned his back against the wall, and slumped to the floor.

Prime had never heard such sadness in the other's voice as he admitted, "I do want to find another way to live. I am frustrated with trying to feed my ambition, because nothing I accomplish is ever enough... There's never any end of things to take," he added desperately.

Even though he knew Megatron was speaking from his soul, Prime's optics twinkled with a touch of humor as he considered his bond-brother's unusual dilemma. He put a comforting hand on the other mech's shoulder, and patted it awkwardly.

After a moment, Megatron went on quietly. "I thought you could heal me somehow... I thought I'd come out on the other side all shiny and new and... and happy..." He paused, and looked up at Prime, who was shaking his head, amused.

"I imagine it was quite a disappointment to discover what a silly idiot I am, then," Prime replied, with a chuckle in his warm voice.

He thumped Megatron's shoulder. "We both were fools," he said lightly. "Have been fools, are certainly now fools, and will most likely continue to be fools in the future..."

Megatron grinned up at Prime, then shoved him sideways so that he stumbled, off-balance. "Shut up, Prime. Your rambling speeches are going to be the death of me!"

Optimus laughed. "I'll stop speechifying, if you'll get up off your aft and act like a civilized mech," he said, optics twinkling.

"Civilized? When have I ever been civilized?" came Megatron's quick rejoinder. But he reached up, and allowed Optimus to pull him to his feet.

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Megatron walked over and flopped back down onto the comfortable old bench, spread his arms across the back, and propped one foot on his knee. Optimus, following, sprawled out on the floor, leaned back against the bench, and let his head fall back to rest on the seat. Now that the tension had finally broken, both mechs realized that they were exhausted. The past few days had taxed both mental and emotional reserves, and it was a relief to finally relax.

Optimus dimmed his optics, and ran an internal cooling protocol. Finally he asked, "What was it we were discussing, back before you decided to incorporate yourself into the architecture? Oh... slag," he added, remembering. "It was about your Primus-forsaken helmet, wasn't it?"

Megatron chuffed. "Primus-forsaken," he repeated. He looked down at Prime. "We were, you know. Forsaken. Primus had nothing to do with that place..."

Optimus remembered what he had seen while bonded with Megatron's spark: the supercilious Senator's curt dismissal of all those hapless, lowborn mechs who'd labored in the old C-12 mining outpost... The brutal silencing of that nameless one who had spoken out... The riot... The slaughter... What hurt Prime most about the memory that he now shared with Megatron, was the prominent Autobot symbol displayed arrogantly by the guards as they brutally put down the workers' weak resistance...

"I saw," he said sadly. "I remember. I wish--" he broke off.

"I know," replied Megatron shortly. "But it was before your time, so process it and let it go." He groaned, leaned back, and stretched out his legs to loosen a few crimped joints.

"I swore I'd never forget, never forgive; that I'd make them all pay," the old warrior continued thoughtfully, looking down at his open hand. "I clawed my way forward, through the fight pits, over the bodies of countless mechs. I made myself stronger, harder, bolder. Built an army. Declared my own personal war on those I thought had condoned everything that happened back there.” He clenched the hand, remembering. “I was determined to wrest the power from the fools who did not know how to use it fairly, and mold the whole planet according to my own wishes. And by the Pit, I made them pay.”

Megatron paused, and slowly let the hand fall open. “I've been making you all pay ever since," he said flatly. "I've spent my life seeking more and more power because I never wanted to be talked down to again, the way I was back there at that accursed mine. I never again wanted to be told that there was anything I couldn't have, anything I couldn't do..."

The big mech's vocal purge seemed to have wound down, so Prime finished the thought. "...And you kept your old mining helmet to remind you of your grievances, a focus to pilot you on your Death-To-All-Autobots course... Only now..." He paused, grunted, and shifted to a more comfortable position. "Now you find yourself bonded with the leader of those same Smelter-spawned, Primus-cursed Autobots, and trying to bring an end to the very war you started... Well, mostly you." he amended, judiciously.

"Yeah, something like that," Megatron agreed. Then, with a crooked grin, he added, "That 'Never forget! Never forgive!' oath is now proving quite an obstacle, since it seems I'm going to have to break it if I ever want to feel whole again..." He looked down at Prime, lying there so relaxed and at peace, and felt an echo of the old envy.

"I am, slag me for a ditch-crawler, trying to forget and forgive, to move forward..."

"I know you are," said Prime quickly. "I do see it, my friend," he added, thumping the well-scuffed black ankle-joint beside him.

Megatron smirked. "Yeah, well -- This fragging helmet is too strong a reminder. I'm going to have to get rid of it." The Decepticon sagged, looking exhausted. Looking at him, Prime wondered if the big mech had been getting the full recharge he required.

"I don't know what I'll do without it," Megatron admitted in a low voice. "It's been the single talisman holding me to my path for so long... Slag; it helped me define the path. You wouldn't understand... You have always had so many things to guide you!”

Prime winced at the stabbing jealousy he heard, and remembered the terrible dark fear he had felt within the secret depths of Megatron's ancient spark. The mighty warrior had been so desperate to escape the yawning void inside him that he had been willing to look to anything -- even a dented old mining helmet -- in the hope that it might guide him to freedom.

As if reading his thoughts, Megatron continued bitterly, "If I get rid of this wretched thing, I'll be letting go of my last link to the familiar path that I carved out so carefully for myself...”

Megatron allowed his head to loll back against the bench. “If everything I ever thought I knew is wrong, than how can I start over, with nothing to give me direction?" He dimmed his optics, and acknowledged his own fatigue at last.

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Optimus too felt his own awareness fading. It seemed to him that he owed Megatron a better response, but he was suddenly so very, very tired. As so often happened, his good intentions were being thwarted by his own weakness...

"Megatron my friend,” he began, “I will help you however I can. It sounds to me like you will have to get rid of the thing. You won't have to do it alone if you don't want to. But right now..." With an effort, Optimus Prime pulled himself up to a sitting position, then slapped Megatron on the knee. "I'm sorry, but if I don't go recharge soon, I'm going to go into stasis-lock right here, and it won't be pretty. Let's finish sorting all this out in the morning, shall we? If we get a morning, that is, in all this crazy weather..." he added, grumbling. With a creak and a groan, he hauled himself upright, and stumbled off down the hall to one of the makeshift berths they'd brought into their shelter.

Megatron signaled the lights in the room to shut down, and sat for a while in the darkness, red optics glowing. Then he too shuffled off to his own bunk to recharge.

---------------------------------CHAPTER TWO------------------------------------

There was no real morning. The global energy storm filling the atmosphere blocked out almost all available light. Optimus slowly booted up his systems, and bemoaned the freakish weather. He was increasingly worried about all of the other mechs who 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 an effective rescue force.

He walked over to Megatron's berth, hoping to finish up with the helmet business and 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 dangerous. But he knew he couldn't pad after Megatron like a worried minder; doing that would certainly drive the old mech crazy. He'd have to continue to have faith in him, and let him make his own choices, he decided.

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He got himself some energon from a storage trunk, 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 early-morning attempt at humor. He returned their wry greetings with a self-depricating 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 he'd procured to Perceptor without even a second glance. Jetfire's image returned, and he nodded. "Shockwave never reveals anything unless he has to, as you know, but so far he seems more willing than most of the other Decepticons to make an honest attempt at working together peacefully. It's possible he's 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... No, I don't think you'll have anything to worry about with this bunch, Prime. We're all scientists; most of us tend not to worry about faction when we're 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..."

"We're listening, Prime." The saboteur grinned. "Last few days've sure been a trip, haven't they?"

"How well is our global monitoring system holding together?” queried Prime. “Are we still able to to maintain contact with all of our mechs, know where they've ended up, keep appraised of their status?"

Prime watched as his two lieutenants looked at each other in hesitation. Prowl's voice was grave as he responded, "Much of the system is still functioning, Prime, 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 them, or of knowing their status. And we've been getting more and more distress signals. I don't have the resources to get them all out, Prime." He looked calm as ever, but his voice betrayed the depth of his concern.

Prime 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, as Prowl gaped speechlessly.

"Too soon or not, 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 dangerously low on energon...

“And that's another thing,” he added. “I want you to go after everyone, 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 'Cons who are willing to help out with this effort. Jetfire, I hate to add to your workload, but see if you and Shockwave can help with that as well. Prowl, I'm afraid I'm still going to have to leave most of the organization of everything 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, attempting to resume the role of confident leader. “I'm sure that, despite our ideals, there are a few Autobots who are feeling dissatisfied with this peace agreement."

"Of course you're not thinkin' of anyone specific, are ya Prime?” interrupted the ever-cheerful Jazz. “Like oh, say, Grimlock and his crew, or the Wreckers... or that crazy little slagger Cliffjumper?" Jazz grinned. "The list goes on! I can think of more!"

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

Prime chuckled, but then nodded seriously. "I suggest that they be the ones whom 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 you are able to get to help. Send the berzerkers 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. “Megatron seems to have put the fear of the Pit into them, and it's kept them from breaking the ceasefire so far. But keep a close watch on them all. We've lost enough good mechs over the last few million years. Now that we have a real chance of ending this Primus-damned war, I don't want to lose anyone else. Not a single mech, if at all possible. Get... them... all... out!" He emphasized each word with a stab of his finger.

"My, such language, Prime!" gasped Jazz in mock horror. "A little of ol' Megs'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.

Reluctantly, Prime set down the datapads he'd been holding, and sighed. It appeared that he wasn't about to sign off after all. He'd known that his and Megatron's decision would cause a lot of 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.

"I guess you could say it all uploaded, actually, " he said, and shrugged a bit awkwardly. "It's all right to talk about it,” he assured them, even though he hated the idea of allowing anyone to discuss and speculate about his private life. “We're all going to have to get used to a lot of new things in the next few cycles, and I'm very aware that this... bond" the habitually reticent mech forced himself to speak the word, "Is going to be hard for a lot of you to accept. You are each going to have to come to terms with the new situation as well as you can, in your own ways...”

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 the red mech to be so forthright.

Prime was looking at his second in command. “So Prowl," he said knowingly, "Don't be too hard on Jazz, all right?"

"While we're on that subject..." Optimus continued reluctantly, "If any reports come in on Megatron, 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 the sudden change that came over his lieutenants' 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."

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Megatron cursed the weather creatively, profanely, and profoundly. He dodged his way between lightening bolts, toward the short-range shipyard. Flight was proving extremely difficult and dangerous in such an unusually violent energy storm; he'd already received a few new burns. He wanted desperately to avoid prying eyes and curious questions. He didn't want to explain or justify himself 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 he 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 shipyard. What the slag were they doing out here now? Shouldn't they be snuggled away in some hidey-hole or other? Who did they think would come out in weather like this to endanger their precious transports?

...Who besides him, that is...

The gray mech flew in close enough to recognize the guards as low-level Decepticons, and growled more profanities under his breath. They would be able to fly after him if he was spotted. Formerly, he would have blasted them out of the sky 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. Using whatever cover was offered, but trusting mostly to the weather to camouflage him, he sneaked quietly beneath their gaze of the miserable, huddled guards.

He hotwired 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'd have to do; the larger, sturdier ships were much nearer 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 carefully accelerated away.

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Almost immediately, Megatron began to wonder if he should have slagged the guards and taken a sturdier ship after all. The storm was playing havoc with his guidance system, so that try as he would he could not avoid every lightening bolt that seared 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, but he merely cursed and ignored it, paying more attention to his rapidly-failing terminals.

Bursting free of the tumultuous atmosphere, he pushed, pulled, kicked, and cursed his battered ship toward the nearby C-12 outpost.

His landing wasn't pretty, but he survived it. He smacked the steering controls, and smiled grimly. He'd been more concerned than he liked to admit that the bond with Prime might have made him weak. But he still had the touch; he could still come relatively unscathed through situations that would bring a grisly end to any other mech.

Disembarking, he examined what was left of his stolen vessel. The proprietors of the shipyard would not recognize their little shuttle, he thought as he surveyed the damage. One engine had failed halfway through the trip, and with most of the sensitive guidance systems burned to a crisp, flying the ship was like trying to pilot a piece of sheet metal. His “landing” had of course completely smashed the landing gear. He knew that his getting here alive had been a minor miracle, but he gave no thought to the return journey just yet. The test that faced him here worried him far more than the difficulty of getting back to Cybertron ever could.

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Now that the task itself was before him, he found that he was extremely reluctant to look again on the place that had haunted his mind for so long. He forced himself to move around the shuttle's blackened hull. Slowly, unwillingly, he raised his head to view the ancient mining site.

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. He remembered the mine teeming with grunting laborers, a rich hive shipping out a constant flow of newly-processed energon. Now it was empty, a gaping, hungry maw slowly devouring itself. Remnants of the old outbuildings could still be seen sticking up here and there like teeth, and the ancient machinery hung crazily over it all like strings of sputum in the mouth of some giant organic creature.

Megatron walked forward gingerly.

He was reminded of just how much he had forgotten when the ground he'd been standing on gave way. He activated his thrusters just in time, and watched as an entire gatehouse fell down into the mouth of darkness and was consumed.  "Idiot!" he chided himself. "You should know that you can't just tramp merrily around in this place!" He looked back to make sure his ship was still safe. It was; the old dock on which he'd crash-landed still looked relatively sound. He pressed forward then, more carefully than before, to do what he knew he must.

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He remembered his intended destination all too well. But he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get through to the place, or even if it was still there. Walking when he could, using his thrusters when he had to, he made his way carefully into the tumble-down mine site.

After several close calls in which he was nearly crushed, entombed, or bisected by the ravenous old mine, 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 rusted wall (and dodging beams as the ceiling fell in behind him), he found himself in the familiar wide, open space which he had been seeking: the old assembly hall. He stepped warily out onto the floor, unsure if it would bear his weight. It trembled, but it held. He made his way across its pockmarked surface, and saw ghosts everywhere he looked...

There, crumbling and half-collapsed, was the podium at which the Senator had stood so long ago to give his oblivious, patronizing speech. That ruin of tangled beams had once been the raised rostrum from which the huge, impassive sentinels had watched. And there was the spot where that crazy loud-mouthed mech had stood up to it all... Megatron wondered if, in the rust underneath the layers of debris, his 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 that overbearing guardian... Suddenly he seemed to hear, swirling and reverberating across his mind, the faint echoes of sounds from the past: the maddened roaring of the crowd, the sickening thunk of his axe as it buried itself in the Senator's shoulder, the guards' panicked cries -- "Fire at will!"-- the swell of terrified screams as the unarmed mechs were mowed down by the pitiless blaster fire... The sounds overwhelmed him, and he sank to his knees, the weight of so much death pressing in on him.

For so very, very long now he had chosen this, to be surrounded by death, to be splashed and caked by it, stinking of it, pursued by an ever increasing army of ghosts... He looked at his trembling hand again. How long had it taken him to completely cauterize the frayed ends of his soul, to keep himself from feeling anything at all as he smashed through yet another spark-casing, and lifted his dripping hand in triumph? Like he had so many times in the arena, he lifted his hands (he was faintly surprised to see that they were clean), and removed his helmet. Looking down at it, he felt sick and filthy in the wash of bitter, grimy memories. He leaned over, gagging, and purged; and the splash of old dirty mech fluid was added to the layers of rust and slime around him.

He looked at the battered helmet which he had carried with him over the many millions of years since then. He remembered what he had come here to do. But it all now seemed so pointless. How had he dared to think it possible that he could ever become anything but a murderer? And what heights of arrogance had led him to believe that he could actually be forgiven?  Megatron curled around his despair, and bowed his head down into the dust: a lone mech, buried in a long-abandoned hole, on an asteroid that everyone but he had conveniently forgotten.

----------------------------------CHAPTER THREE------------------------------------

During the long, slow passing of three days and nights, Mirage had gradually come to accept that he would have to die. He was lying partially crushed under a fallen beam, bracing himself over a fathomless pit. He could of course have extricated himself; days ago, he'd been in the process of doing so, when he and the other three Autobots with him had realized to their horror that if he was removed from beneath the beam, nothing would prevent it from falling into the crevasse below... And that beam was all that supported the tons of fallen wreckage which hung precariously over them.

The pain, the long darkness, the constant effort necessary to prevent himself from sliding into the crack below, and above all the lack of energon, had dulled his feelings on the matter of his own death. Hound, Windcharger, and Gears had all donated some of their own energon to give him the strength he needed to brace his body. But he was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness.  He hoped that the others would be rescued before he slipped, and they all perished here together.

The silent darkness had gone undisturbed for some time, when a bright light broke through above them, startling them all into bleary wakefulness.

Mirage heard a familiar, albeit somewhat unwelcome voice call out, “Me got three – four live ones down here!” Sounding surly, another voice, one which he particularly detested, answered, “Wonderful. Let's haul their sorry afts to the shelter and get out of this awful weather! I'm never gonna be able to fly straight again!”

Sturdy cables were thrown down, and Mirage watched as his three friends were hauled out to what he hoped was safety. At least, he comforted himself, he could know now that his death would not be in vain. He relaxed his braced body, and prepared to let himself fall into the pit below. He couldn't seem to summon the energy required to explain to Grimlock that if a rescuer came down to pull him out, they would both die...

A soft pop sounded nearby, and the hated voice sounded suddenly close to his ear. “C'mon, Mr. Big City. We wouldn't want that fancy finish to go to scrap, now, would we?”

Mirage tried weakly to protest. “The beam... the roof... all fall in...”

“Shut up, idiot,” said the voice. “I'm not as dumb as you think I am. Now trust me and hold on, Fancy-Bot. I'm gonna give you the ride of your life!”

Exhausted, Mirage gave in. He felt Skywarp reach under his arms, grunted as the seeker's grip locked around his broken torso, cried out as the beam scraped painfully across his chest, heard the roof begin to cave in as the pressure on his body was lifted...

There was another soft pop...

...And Mirage found himself out in the open, striving weakly to clear his air intakes in a cloud of dust. The sinkhole that had trapped himself and his companions for four days was rapidly filling, a little distance away. He looked up, and saw Skywarp's smirk.

“What did I tell you?” gloated the black seeker, as he dropped Mirage unceremoniously onto the ground a few feet below. “Ride of your life!”

Mirage had always been repulsed by Skywarp's brutish lack of manners. But today he was forced to realize not only that the rough-edged seeker had saved his life, but that no other mech could have done so. It took him a moment, but finally he murmured sincerely, “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it, my good mech!” replied Skywarp in a mock-highbrow tone, then added with a growl, “Don't you ever mention it...”

The motley little group turned, and began making their way to the nearby emergency shelter.

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Megatron did not know how long he had allowed himself to succumb to his despair, when a thought as clear and piercing as a beam of light broke through the blackness in his mind. In its brief illumination, he remembered an outstretched hand. One mech, at least, had forgiven him. Despite all that he had done and all that he had been, Optimus Prime believed that he could change. Prime even, in his way, loved him. Megatron had often mocked the Autobot's stubborn belief that there was something good within the spark of every mech. Now he found himself clinging to that belief.

Megatron felt himself grab hold of Prime's love and forgiveness and lean on it gratefully. It might be just enough to keep him going for a while... Maybe.

But he hated the idea of depending on Prime for reassurance. He was determined to make his way in this new life independent of anyone else.

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A quiet whisper sounded from the most ancient, primitive center of his spark. Out of habit, he shushed it. It came again, more insistent this time, and he was forced to admit that he was hearing voices.

"I believe in you. I always have."

Megatron raised his head. He told himself it was only a thought, a voice in his mind. He told himself it had only been a random firing of neural synapses. But he knew the voice. It was deeply familiar; part of, but separate from him; not a creation of his own consciousness. He knelt, hunched in his emptiness, and let the primordial stillness he felt growing inside fill him.

"You were not meant to be what you chose to become. I had hoped great things for you.

"But you chose the way of my brother, the destroyer. In doing so, you allowed him to also destroy you.

"You have been given a rare gift: the chance to choose again, the chance to rebuild yourself.

“Who are you?

“Who will you now choose to be?”

Megatron sat motionless in the empty darkness. “Primus,” he whispered, testing, tasting the name in his mouth. He was intensely surprised that the ancient being would choose to speak to him. But he was not overawed for long. He had been angry at Primus for too long to retain what some mechs considered to be the proper respect.

He thought about the questions his creator had posed.

"I want to be me," he said, finally. "I want to be me. I'm warning you, you may not always like it. I'm not nice, like your Favored Son, Optimus Prime. But I am strong. I get things done."

“What is it that you want to do?”

Megatron thought for a long time. That was the core problem: he wasn't sure what he wanted to do now...

He did, however, know one thing. It was small, but significant.

"I don't want to be a murderer anymore. I'll be a soldier. I'll be an enforcer. Slag, I'll even be an executioner. But I don't ever want to be a murderer again."

“That is a good start.”

"Oh, I'm so glad you think so!” Megatron exploded in frustration. “Three cheers for me! I've 'made a good start!' But where do I go from here? I don't have a fragging Matrix like your Beloved Prime. If I do what I came to do, I won't even have a fragging helmet!" He laughed mirthlessly. "What you call 'a good start,' I call 'going back to the void.' I've spent thousands of vorns stumbling around in the dark trying to escape it, and here you are, congratulating me for willingly jumping back in!"

His anger rose at what he saw as yet another example of the unfairness of authority. Why did Primus give personal direction to only one mech out of millions? What did he expect all the others to do? Guess? And if that was the case, why was he so disappointed that his precious creations had ended up fighting and destroying each other? What did he expect them to do, if he so callously turned them adrift immediately after giving them life? If their lives were given no meaning, didn't Primus realize that they would have to invent some sort of meaning for themselves?

"I did not set them adrift," the ancient, careful voice replied to his thoughts. "I did not leave them alone. I sent a piece of myself with each of them. I can speak to each mech in the same way I am speaking to you. But, like you, they so often refuse to listen..."

"We don't listen because we don't trust you!!!" Megatron almost screamed. "You hide yourself away in there somewhere, and never help us when things get really dangerous. You expect us to protect you! You're little more than a selfish puppeteer, playing mind games with your little creations. I hate you! You're such a fragging coward!!” Megatron's chest heaved as he tried to cycle enough air to cool the heat of his overwhelming rage.

"It is true I do not know everything. I do my best with the knowledge I have, which, incidentally, is far greater than your own. I do what I must. I resist my brother. I am not a coward. By choosing the path of resistance to chaos, I have severely limited my own options of action. I did in some sense create you all to do what I could not, hoping that some of you would resist him with me..."

Megatron sniffed. "Oh yes, very brave and noble of you..."

The quiet old voice continued, unruffled, "You are jealous of the Matrix. But it is not a perfect guide. It is the accumulated wisdom of imperfect mechs, nothing more. I choose a Prime whom I hope will lead you to resist the forces of chaos and destruction. I hope to be able to guide him in that resistance -- to influence him just a little -- through the Matrix. But I can not control him. He makes his own decisions as best he can.”

There was a long silence during which Megatron perversely tried not to think anything.

“Do you know that I once considered choosing you to lead them? But with Nova, I had seen to my sorrow the results of choosing a leader who was too focused on expansion and power.  Sentinel's scholarly compassion did counteract some of the ruthlessness of Nova's methods, but he proved too weak in the face of your own physical brutality. Optimus is, I believe, the best Prime I have found yet..."

Megatron was forced to admit the fairness of that assessment.

“But just like all of the others, he also was unable to achieve any lasting peace. Watching him struggle and fail, I almost gave up hope forever. I think he could feel it; I could sense his fear, feel his despair...

“Now, this bond of yours has given me hope once again. Perhaps the two of you together can undo some of the damage that the forces of chaos have inflicted here. Together you two are extraordinarily powerful... if you choose to be.”

Megatron snorted. “Powerful,” he repeated mockingly. “Oh, yes. But since, as you may possibly recall my saying, I now have no idea what to do with all my 'power,' and am now blundering around blindly and hating my existence... What can you expect from me other than that I'll 'powerfully' ruin a lot of things? You tell me to choose my path. But you offer me no help in finding it. You leave me in the dark – the same way you've always left all of us... all of us except your precious Prime...”

His rant was interrupted by the voice of Primus within him, sounding unusually harsh.

“You lie. You lie to yourself as well as to me. I leave none of you in the dark. You have always known the way to choose your path. It is easy. It is only you yourself who make it difficult. There are only two paths. You must simply choose between pursuing order, and pursuing chaos. It is easy to tell which path you are on, for there are always, always signposts. The one will lead you to your own destruction, as you well know, for you have felt that destruction growing within yourself. The other... Do you not see that your own happiness and fulfillment only adds to my own? I may have created you for my own purposes, Megatron; but I have not shackled you to my desires! Now stop whining to me about flailing around in the dark. Any darkness you face is of your own personal making. Stop blaming others for the consequences of your own choices! If you want light, then step out into the light! Choose a path, and walk!”

Megatron froze. He became suddenly and intensely aware of everything around him: the pulse of his own spark, the cycling mech fluid cooling his softly-whirring servos, the gritty rust on the shaky floor beneath him, the soft, ominous creaking of the ancient metal surrounding him...

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Megatron stood. He moved resolutely up to the rickety old podium. He placed his helmet carefully, almost lovingly on its leaning surface. Then he backed away slowly, activated his thrusters, and rose into the air.

He raised his right arm, and aimed his fusion cannon precisely. It hummed as the charge rose to full, devastating power.

“I... Choose,” he proclaimed, and released the pent blast of energy.

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Optimus Prime was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on the minutiae of governmental reorganization. His concern for Megatron was growing with each reverberating crash of thunder, each tremor under his feet, each new report of planetary convulsion. Not even the dispatches detailing the successful rescue of stranded mechs gave him comfort, since they only served to remind him that his bond-brother was out there somewhere in all of this, and that no one would be saving him. Prime began to mumble half-formed prayers under his breath.

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It wasn't only the helmet which immediately ceased to exist in the explosion. Megatron  intended a much more thorough cleansing. As the big gray mech punched upward through the falling roofbeams, the entire mine collapsed inward, a molten mass of white-hot metal consuming itself as it fell into oblivion. Megatron watched from above. His face was inscrutable, cold, adamant. He watched as the twisted remains of everything he had spent his life fighting to escape and avenge was consumed in an immense conflagration of exploding energon.

He realized, too late, that he had forgotten about the remnants of ancient energon deposits still buried deep within in the mine.

His stubborn expression never changed as he watched the little planetoid shudder and tear open, watched an immense crevasse yawn wide to receive the mine, watched as his tiny, bright ship fell in with the rest...

As he sped away through the darkness, the entire sphere burst apart into quivering, jagged fragments with a shuddering scream that almost overwhelmed his sensors. He was left alone, out in the black immensity of space, to somehow limp home on his own.

It was an utterly impossible task. While he might have just enough power to make his way back to nearby Cybertron, it was preposterous to believe he could survive the journey through the planet's tempestuous atmosphere without a ship to shield him. But Megatron felt light, happy, free. He felt as if he were being upheld in a bubble of absolute safety. He knew without a doubt that he would make it back home one way or another... Home, to a ramshackle old storehouse, where a simple-minded old mech believed that he could change.

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Prime almost failed to notice the tiny addendum attached to the latest report of global system upheavals, but when he read that the minor planet on which the C-12 mine had been located had inexplicably exploded, Optimus felt a numbing terror rise up in him. He guessed that Megatron might have gone there. Primus smite that crazy mech's obsession with overkill! It had always been his weakness. Before, Prime could have found a kind of justice in Megatron perishing in an explosion of his own making. But now, when there had been so much to hope for...!

His bonded spark twisting painfully, Optimus fell to his knees, and called out to whatever forces might be listening. “Please save him! Don't let him be lost while he is trying to do so much good! Please let him come back safe... and whole...”

He felt a gentle hand fall lightly onto his shoulder.

“Thank Primus!” Turning, he admitted, “I was worried about you, Megatron, you worthless piece of-- Elita!!”

Still kneeling, he threw his arms around her, and let his head fall against her blessedly familiar body. “I'm so sorry!” he whispered.

“I know,” she replied lightly. She reached down, took his chin in her hand, and raised his face to look at hers. Running a sly finger along his brow and then down along his mask, she added, grinning, “We've got a lot to talk about, don't we?”

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----End of Act Two----