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It landed in Optimus’ lap like dead mouse dropped from the blood-stained mouth of a house cat. He landed in Optimus’ lap like a dead mouse. It was the worst gift he could have been given. It was the worst gift Megatron could have gave him. Happy would-have-been Armistice day to him.
Oh, but in a more beautiful universe such confessions would be lauded by the next ten generations of Cybertronian writers. Megatron might have written it into a book, to be referenced for millions of years like Solus and Megatronus. It could have been love memorialized eternal.
Optimus’ foolish processor kept looping back to that vision. They could have been twin statues in a crystal garden, intertwined in embrace, their story written on a plaque before the benches sparklings crawl over at play. That might have been their legacy. Peacemakers as much as lovers, lovers as much as peacemakers.
The tragedy of it was timing. It was always timing. He cursed Megatron for not having his revelation months ago – the injustice of it! He had lost what he had thought he had already lost. He wanted to beat Megatron’s faceplates in. He wanted to cry.
Happy would-have-been Armistice day, he wanted to shout, if only you had not destroyed us before. If only you had this epiphany a year ago. One Earth year, and they could have had heaven.
It was August on Earth. Summer in the Northern Hemisphere, sunny and humid in the Pacific Northwest. Optimus drove to the overlook and climbed gently down. There remained the small landslide that Mirage had caused which, after a concerned call from the local mayor, had forced Optimus to ban his Autobots from this beach. The human path down to the waterfront was too thin for Autobot pedes, except for the minicons. But the cliff was only a head taller than Optimus, and by carefully distributing his weight he was able to lower himself without causing terrible ecological disaster. Rule-breaking was the right of leadership.
The black stones dug into his pedes. Underneath them was thick, wet sand, which his not inconsiderable weight pressed them deep into. He knew better than to approach the tide line. There would be creatures there, the mayor had told him. Sea hares and abalone and crabs and soft corals and snails and anemones. He had no real desire to get wet, anyway. It was late in the evening on a work night on a remote beach, and the rare opportunity to be alone struck him as something to be treasured. He gently kneeled onto the rocks and then shifted into a comfortable cross-legged sit.
The last vestiges of the summer sun flashed and then disappeared behind the horizon. A cool breeze brushed across his plating. The stars began to flicker into view. Despite himself, or perhaps because of his self, his thoughts could not be stopped from gratefulness. Had the war ended, he would be on Cybertron now. Cybertron had no sleek black rocks on cliff-side beaches. Cybertron’s sunsets, while astonishingly colorful, never reflected like this off of water, and rarely could you see the stars. There were no little hermit crabs. There was no Alone.
This was all nonsense; sentimentality of the moment. But he was a bright-sparked, bright-opticked little thing. He swore he was, beneath it all. And though this moment on the beach was not worth the last year of exhaustion and pessimism and fear, he appreciated it nonetheless.
He invented and exvented the cool, moist air. He let his field flare like he could not in the base. It stretched from cliff to cliff on the v-shaped beach, first peaceful and then sorrowful. He was mourning things that never were, and tonight he needed to finish feeling it. It was the only way to protect his Autobots. He needed to become who he was before. The war needed to be what it was before.
He had allowed it to become ugly. He knew this, it did not hurt him to acknowledge it. The Ark was in a state of constant betrayed anger, the same sort of anger that Optimus had been in until a week ago. Every strategy meeting for a year had been about causing the most hurt, rather than preventing the most pain. Optimus’ strategy of defense, which had been oft-criticized for its toothless-ness, had disappeared under the seething wrath of his command team. He had allowed it to happen.
He loved bats. People didn’t know that about him, but he did. He liked how they swooped through the night air. He liked them, perhaps, because they made themselves visible when all else enshrouded itself in darkness. Not that they glowed, but they moved. The humans could never see them as the Autobots could. He could feel them play in his field, dancing around after moths and beetles. It was a good feeling, a little like, a little like-
He recalled before the war when he would pass by the public park after his shift and see the little newsparks jumping and swinging and flying about. Occasionally a little wobbly flier would whizz in front of his path, and it was that feeling which the bats replicated; little infringements into his EM field, jittery and quick.
He’d been thinking of sparklings lately. He realized know why it had upset him so: he had been thinking of sparklings a year ago. It had been one of his first thoughts after Megatron’s servo has met his own, a would-be-truce agreed upon.
The agreement had been thus: both sides would withdraw to a ceasefire, a preliminary peace agreement written and signed in the following two Earth weeks, with an official armistice signed in a year. That would have been last week. Happy would-have-been Armistice day.
The concern had been the lack of newsparks. It was no secret that the Decepticons had been stockpiling and delivering energon for Cybertron’s redevelopment, but redevelopment could not be sustained without a positive population growth rate. So newsparks had been on his mind.
It was so rare to have his EM field exposed so! What a luxury! He placed his elbows on the rocks behind him and leaned back. He watched the stars. They were different stars than Cybertron’s. Humans had the habit of connecting them and naming them, assigning them stories and never-ending chases. He’d always considered it a charming tradition, but now he thinks of it and feels an immense longing. Hercules, Perseus and Andromeda, Cassiopeia, Theseus, Orion, what would it be like to be so loved? To be so elevated?
Humans placed the heavens in the stars. On Cybertron, heaven was beneath their pedes. But on Earth, his heaven was above him too.
He wanted, more than anything, to have that which Megatron had dangled in front of him. But he also knew, as intimately as he knew the bats bouncing within his field, that he must deny himself the pleasure. He would be in the stars as a tragedy. Their twin statues would be placed strategically across the park, within the same museum exhibit but framing opposite doors. He had a foolish imagination.
Perhaps in the excitement of his ridiculous epiphany Megatron had forgotten the events of 7 months before, but Optimus had not. And though tomorrow he would end his Autobot’s vengeance, he would not allow himself to go so far as to forgive. It was simply not safe.
He let the breeze blow across his face a while longer, and then he began drafting two letters.
The Autobot High Command table was held silent and heavy in foggy shame. There was anger there, too, and shame for that anger. Even Prowl detested disagreeing with Optimus. Today he wanted to disagree, and hated that he wanted to disagree, because it revealed to himself just how correct Optimus was. Optimus understood this. He had gone through this himself.
He had written his letter well, as well as he had ever written a speech, but he had long understood that it was not his ability to write but his ability to speak that enabled him to persuade. So he had stood at the beginning of this meeting and he had asked for a moment and their attention. And he had said:
“My friends, it has been many months since the dissolution of the truce. I feel the need to express certain truths about our recent behavior. Please know that I understand and commiserate with you, in the grief and anger that we have all been experiencing. But I cannot allow us to continue as we have.
“Last month, we ran three retaliatory strikes against Decepticon outposts. The month before it was four. Each destroyed the outpost and many severely injured the combatant inside. Each was a full use of the Autobot Earth fighting force against one or two enemies. Each outpost served, as I am sure we are all aware, primarily as a means of isolating Decepticons who have been acting up. None had significant strategic benefit to the Decepticon army. Most were hastily constructed reconstructions of our previous target. To be frank, in the last two months we have destroyed seven huts Megatron uses to house his seekers when they throw temper tantrums.”
That was a bit of an exaggeration. Megatron had assured him he reassigned all of his misbehaving soldiers onto ‘watch duty’, not only his seekers.
“But not Starscream,” he’d said. “He never spends anytime watching. He uses the free time to build weapons to kill me. He gets the brig.”
“What do you use your towers to watch for?” Optimus asked.
Megatron laughed. “Nothing,” he’d said. “That’s why it is a punishment. I really don’t understand why you waste your time destroying them.”
That conversation had been a week ago, in some forest clearing in the dark. It had started fine. Back when Optimus was righteously angry, and ready to defend as many outpost demolitions as required to soothe his seething spark. And then Megatron had professed his love. Happy would-have-been Armistice day.
“I understand,” Optimus continued, speaking to the frowning faces of his most trusted advisors. “I understand that we had all hoped for a better outcome, and that the events of 7 months ago highlighted the untrustworthiness, the cruelty, of our enemy. But we cannot continue wasting our resources, wasting our energy, on vengeance quests. We must remember and return to our Autobot ideals; protecting innocents, preventing Decepticon aggression, and keeping hope for a better future alive.”
Now his high command stewed in anger and shame, not quite ready to let their optics meet each other. Optimus sat. He let his optics meet Ratchet’s. Ratchet shrugged. They sat is silence.
Ironhide broke it. “Yeah,” he said. “Alright. The outpost attacks are a little stupid-”
“Which is why I have been advocating all along for an attack on Decepticon headquarters!” Interrupted Prowl. He slammed his fist down on the table with a reverberating thud. “We cannot negotiate with them. We must annihilate them.”
That was exactly the sort of sentiment Optimus wanted to avoid. He was gratified to see that most of his Autobots shrank down at the notion.
“No,” he said. “There will be no annihilation. We have calculated the loss of Autobot life in such an attack to be far too high. And secondly, the Decepticons have not done-” he held up a silencing hand to those complaints preemptively spilling from several glossas, “they have not conducted an action that meets criteria for that kind of retaliatory operation.”
His Autobots, naturally, had something to say about that.
The process of peace lasted three months. In that time, the Autobots sacrificed half of Cybertron to Decepticon holdings (or the Decepticons had sacrificed half of Cybertron to Autobot construction, depending on one’s point of view), negotiated energy deals with seven human countries (of which the Decepticons still maintained four with non-aggression treaties; France, Russia, Saudi Arabia, and Germany), and fostered a plethora of interfactional agreements. They had even outlined a Cybertronian restoration plan.
The Decepticon territory would stretch through the southern hemisphere and upwards to engulf Vos, following the outline of the Manganese mountains. The Rust Sea would act as the largest border between Autobot and Decepticon territory, with its management handled by a joint governing body. They would be separate, but forced into comradery by mutual management of natural resource zones. “After all,” Megatron had pointed out, “your little organic friends can wage war and then peace, and smile and glare at each other from across their little wooden fences-" actually, there was no Cybertronian word for 'wooden', so he had instead used a term that loosely translated to 'organic, not composed, non-ambulatory'. He had meant wooden. "-I do not see why we cannot do the same."
It had seemed to Optimus like a compromise. Not a dream fulfilled, not when the Cybertronian people would be kept from unity by territorial bounds on their own home planet, but a compromise better than he had ever envisioned in his more reasonable dreams. And then Megatron showed up at his door and promised something more.
"I have been reading your little histories," he said. He liked to call Optimus' suggestions 'little', particularly when they related to the humans. He meant the various histories Optimus had supplied him with after he had made his original claim of divided peoples and smiles and jeers. Optimus' point had been that such relationships generally ended in war. At the time, he'd still hoped for a more harmonious conjoining of their factions.
"And I have noticed a trend," Megatron continued. Optimus hoped his point had been made. Instead, Megatron said: "we can either conjunx off our high commanders or send each other ambassadorial envoys. Either suggestion seems to reduce general aggression. After all, if you sent over Jazz and then made threats, I would simply kill him."
This was not what Optimus had hoped to show. "I imagine that eventually our people would co-mingle and conjunx," he replied slowly. "But I don't believe the purpose of such unions, or of ambassadors, is as hostages."
"A sign of goodwill then," Megatron rejoined cheerfully. "You can have Starscream."
The joy he was expressing at the prospect of exiling his second was not endearing to Optimus. "As a conjunx or as an ambassador?" He asked.
Megatron waved a dismissive servo. "Either way."
It was one of those conversations Optimus was becoming inoculated to, wherein Megatron suggested something on the borderline of patently outrageous for the sole purpose of sliding a genuine policy underneath it. For all that the mech had done in commencing the peace process, he seemed to despise anything that might imply he was actively pursuing it. Optimus dug the policy gem out, polished it off, and presented it. Unfortunately, he had not yet learned to pretend it was his own suggestion.
"I agree with you," he said. "Ambassadors should have permanent residence in each other's territories."
Megatron, ever capricious and ever defensive, snorted derisively. "Of course you would want Autobot spies and assassins in our capitol. Ha! No, I was suggesting you reside in Kaon with me. Then perhaps we could discuss your dreams of a United Cybertron."
He very obviously hadn't been suggesting that. Still, he was a stubborn mech.
Maybe Optimus was just high on the hope. It was irresistible, crawling and clawing its way towards reality. Maybe it was the way Megatron kissed him. Maybe it was Megatron's confidence, so unlike Optimus's own. Optimus clung to self-confidence like a drowning man to a log. Megatron exuded it in a scent thicker than the burning smell of his fusion cannon. And for once, it was directed exactly where Optimus was struggling to direct his own. Or so it seemed.
Unfortunately, Megatron was also an opportunist. It mattered little just how wide Optimus threw open his door, nor how enthusiastically he beckoned Megatron in; the moment another door creaked open Megatron flung himself through it. He didn't bother to look back for 7 months.
Optimus crumbled like the Ark when its self-destruction protocols activated. It was the hope of it that hooked him. Yes, he self-destructed on his own, foolish fantasies.
The other letter which Optimus had tucked into his subspace was not nearly as scathing as his shamed spark screamed to be. It was gentle because he was gentle, and it was firm because his Autobots needed him to be firm. It was also, terrifyingly, vulnerable.
He had not yet verbalized his feelings on the - on this particular - on this -
He hadn't told any of his Autobots about the Megatron's suggestion, those many months ago. Nor had he told them about the personal...the feelings that had followed. He did not know the extent to which Megatron understood his feelings then. And what he had written on that cove beach, about how quickly he had learned to live for a hope, how he had been tricked more intimately as a mech than as a commander, it was a foolish thing to send. But it needed to be said, because Megatron had asked him to fall for it again.
There is a human story about a boy who cries wolf. The boy has three fake calls to try before the villagers no longer rush to save him. The villagers only risked a pointless run. Optimus had risked his people. Megatron had one cry, and he misused it.
But Megatron didn't care for little human stories. So he had to explain to the stupidest, cruelest mech alive that his lies had consequences. When you break your toys, you don't get to keep playing.
That was it. Optimus felt like a toy. Like a ball being bounced about, or a doll pirouetting into whatever fantasy Megatron had last.
10 months ago, that fantasy had been a Kaoni stronghold with Optimus in the permanent guest quarters, ruling over all of Cybertron together. 8 months ago, those guest quarters featured a hallway connected to Megatron's own. 7 months ago that fantasy had been the victorious Decepticon empire, and Optimus Prime in a dungeon. And one week ago it was a Decepticon Cybertron, with Optimus Prime proudly by his side.
"Primus," Optimus whispered then, the dark of the forest that surrounded them suddenly clutching him like a funeral shroud. "Oh, Primus, what have you done." It was the same thing he had cried 7 months prior, standing on the ruins of the Autobot base, half his friends and half his soldiers and half his people trapped injured inside.
"You will see," Megatron declared, back-lit by the full moon filtering through the pines. "You will see. I will make Cybertron great. And then you will come to me."
"No," Optimus failed to say. He failed to say much of anything at all.
"I do love you." It was the most appalling of gifts, that self-assured reassurance. "I felt it best to tell you. When you come, I will be waiting."
And Optimus recalled thinking that they were going to lose the war, fighting like they were. Primus, but they were, and then Megatron's fantasies would come to fruition. And Megatron had smiled at him with teeth like some sort of cruel devil. It was like a huge wave had descended over him, of longing and devastation and anger.
So, so much anger, so much more than he knew what to do with. He was a kind mech, he was unused to this. When suddenly his home had begun to crumble about him, and the crows of victorious Decepticons filled the air, and Megatron had met his optics across the one-sided battlefield that was the Ark, he had felt a deep spark break. But not anger, not like he did when Megatron professed his love with the casualness of a medic prescribing an antibiotic.
Megatron kissed him then, and he stood there like a dumbfounded fool. He was dumbfounded, and he was a fool. He was certainly a fool, for ever believing this mech capable of unmutilated love. His affection would always be filtered through the heavy smoke of his ambition. His processor was drowned in delusion, and now Optimus had to swim sense through it, and all he had was a letter. He was so, so angry. And he wanted so, so much. They could have had it. They could have had everything.