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“So we meet again.”
“Yes, so we do,” Megatron murmured. Once again, the Prime and the warlord sat on opposing sides of a table, negotiating peace. Many tables such as this one had seen such discussions, most of which had ended in failures as neither could manage to lay down enough to satisfy the needs of the other. Disappointment was a common feeling that seemed to be the only result of these peace negotiations.
Both Autobot and Decepticon surrounded the table, maintaining a polite distance while still somehow leaning so far forward that any word spoken was swallowed by their bodies and wasn’t allowed to escape.
Optimus sighed, a rare show of irritation as he once again denied another demand for a frankly absurd amount of energon. “Megatron, none of us have the resources nor the time for collecting such a high amount of energon, of which I’m sure you are aware. So I must ask, what is it you seek to gain from such pointless demands?” Megatron adjusted in his seat, seemingly unbothered by the direct callout of actions.
“The longer you deny what I request, the longer this war continues, does it not?” Optimus resisted another sigh, instead carefully intaking air through his vents. “I am not the one drawing this war out, old friend,” he settled on saying, staring into Megatron’s gleaming optics. A smirk tugged up the corners of the mech’s mouth, making the Prime frown.
“But I disagree, Optimus. It would be exceedingly simple to end these troubling millenia. It would take simply a small sacrifice, though I’m sure a Prime such as yourself could easily do that.” Optimus didn’t know where Megatron was trying to steer this conversation, and he quite honestly didn’t have the energy enough to measure each word he said and weigh the outcomes of each.
“Do not patronize me, Megatron. This war was begun by you and so it can be ended by you. Do not dissolve its complications into a simple matter of sacrifices.” His voice held a sharp bite to it, sharper than he intended, but Megatron didn’t grow angry or end the negotiations. Instead, a small grin began to grow on his face.
“Yet you are doing much of the same. That is to say, simplifying the complications of this war into something entirely to blame on myself. You know as well as I that that is not the case. Besides, you have yet to accept any of my requests.” A low rumble of Optimus’s engines interrupted the silence, a sign that the Prime was growing weary of whatever game Megatron was playing. “That is because your requests are an extravagance and a surplus of resources that we cannot afford to simply give up in these times. Energon is of precious importance and my Autobots are in constant need to refuel. Could a lower amount not be discussed?” He pleaded, perhaps desperate to end this conversation, but seeing as that would mean forfeiting yet another opportunity for peace, Optimus stayed in his seat.
Megatron gave an infuriating shrug, lifting his hand to study his claws, for Primus’s sake. “Mm, no Optimus, I don’t think it can.” Optimus’s eyes narrowed. “Then what, praytell, do you seek from this adamant refusal of cooperation? Some sick play of power? Or some ulterior motive that I have yet to decipher?” The words were harsh from Optimus, a sign of a leader grown tired, but Megatron’s faceplate still held a hint of delight. “None of the above, my dear Optimus. No, I have no ulterior motive. May I draw attention to my former words. ‘The longer you deny my request, the longer this war continues.’ And by extent, these conversations,” Megatron finally allowed.
Optimus cycled his optics. His processor desperately tried to put some sense, some meaning into his statement. When no dawning conclusion arrived to him, he looked into Megatron’s optics and asked, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Could you shine some light on your meaning?” The silver mech’s smirk grew to a grin. “Why, of course! I simply meant that these ‘peace negotiations’ are the only opportunity I’m ever given of having a proper conversation with you and I so dearly look forward to them. Do you not feel the same, my Prime?” His voice was a rumble of thunder, a sign of incoming lightning, though Optimus couldn’t yet tell what shape the lightning would take.
Rustling came from the Autobots and Decepticons standing around them, a reminder of the audience whose attention they currently held. “I must agree that I do look forward to the possibility of peace, a topic which I fear we have strayed from.” He knew there was something Megatron was hinting at. Yet he also knew his former friend well enough to know that he in all likelihood wouldn’t know what that something was until it was laid out directly for him and the surrounding mechs to see, and Optimus wasn’t sure that he would be too fond of that. The realization that he was somehow worried about what Megatron was going to present to this conversation troubled him deeply. He couldn’t, for all the millions of years he had known him, recall a time when he was worried about what Megatron would say. Anxious, yes. Afraid, even more so. But worried? Worried that Megatron’s next words could be something that would be unpleasant for everyone present to hear in a way that didn’t appertain to the war was something new. Optimus wasn’t in suspense for a declaration of war or hatred or revolution, as he’d done in the past. No, he was helplessly waiting for Megatron to suggest something about Optimus himself, a conclusion that only someone who’d known him for millennia the way Megatron did could draw. And he unfortunately was entirely too sure that it would be something he didn’t want his gathered soldiers to hear.
“It wasn’t peace I was referring to, Optimus. I truly delight in talking with you, simply for the sake of talking to you. You are my oldest companion, my dearest compatriot. And once, I would even dare say we were something more.” Optimus’s optics flared. “Megatron…” he murmured. The silver mech continued his proclamations, as if Optimus hadn’t said anything.
“These many years of fighting have been so tiresome, as necessary as they were. My purpose had never been to begin this war, but our opposing views seemed to destine us for this path, of a constant pull of losses and victories. At some point, one must ask if it was worth it. Was it, Optimus?” Megatron’s optics were locked onto Optimus’s own, thoughtful and cunning. “Of course. Cybertron is worth sacrifices, for the possibility of a just future for us all.” He spoke slowly, thinking over each word and how Megatron might take it.
“I often feel like the war is the only thing keeping me moving forward, the only thing that allows me to continue fighting with the same passion I once infused into my writing back on Cybertron. Every day a slow march towards a goal that once seemed only one fight away. It’s been thousands of fights now, and my dream of a transformed Cybertron doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. What about you, Optimus? What keeps you fighting?” His tone had grown nostalgic, reminiscent of a younger Megatron, a more impulsive Megatron, a more impassioned Megatron.
Optimus opened his mouth, then paused. What did keep him fighting? His instinct was to say a brighter future for Cybertron, as it had been the spark of the war for so long. But these days, it was the feeling that it was his responsibility to keep fighting. He couldn’t take a vacation from being a leader, and he certainly couldn’t stop. No matter how he thought about it, half of the war was his fault. And to honor the Primes of the past and to honor Orion Pax, the optimistic young archivist who so dearly wanted to better his world, he wouldn’t stop fighting for Cybertron. “I suppose what keeps me fighting is Cybertron, and the ones who lived on it and the ones who will live on it,” Optimus said thoughtfully.
Megatron tilted his head, turning these words around in his head. “Of course. Your optimism never seems to fail you. I’ve made a discovery recently. One that I think would interest you to some amount. My passion that I used to so freely utilize for my purposes has waned. It no longer comes from an endless well in my spark, and it no longer draws from the war as it had for so long. Yet I still fight with the same fervor, still hope that my efforts won’t be in vain as I picture what awaits me when this is over. My discovery, Optimus, is that what I hope awaits me has morphed from ruling Cybertron into a better future alongside you to simply standing at your side. And how I long to stand by your side, instead of sitting on opposite battlefields or opposite sides of a table. You think of these as negotiations for peace and steps towards our reconciliation, yet to me, the divide between us has never been clearer. We negotiate as two separate powers instead of standing as one, with our soldiers flocking us as two separate armies. My Prime, I yearn to stand together once again, as we did as Megatronus and Orion Pax. You will get what you wish, a united Cybertron, and I will once again have my place by your side. But I suspect being together again is a wish we both share, however ‘improper’ some would claim that to be. A divine Prime and a gladiator from the pits of Kaon. These long years, only two things have kept me going, it seems. The savagery of war, and the gentleness of you, my two constants of life.”
Megatron stopped speaking, studying Optimus. His optics ran over every inch of him that he could see, the battlemask that was still in place over his faceplate, his wide optics, his flicking finials. Optimus tried to speak, only a faint sound of static escaping him. He reset his vocalizer, then reset it again. “Megatron- “ He retracted his battlemask. The sound of the sheathing metal was startingling loud in the silent space, only the whirring of fans over the pressing silence. “Megatron, I… You truly feel that way? After all this time?” He said, stunned.
Megatron leaned forward in his seat. “I always have. Are you accepting of what I’ve said to you? Or do you only see me as a conquering warlord and not the champion you once knew so well?”
The words were meant to be neutral but an unmistakable vulnerability laced the words. “Oh Megatron, you have always been a champion to me, and there is very little you could do to make me stop seeing you as such. I’ve thought of what we used to be cycle after cycle, what we could be again if we gave each other a chance. For the possibility of ending this war and regaining Cybertron, and for the possibility of having you back, my champion, I think I’m willing to give you a second chance. Only time will tell, I suppose.” Optimus let out a breathy chuckle. “I’ve dreamed of something like this for so long, and to think I have you to thank,” he murmured, letting a smile climb its way onto his face.
Megatron’s fans whirred, a sparkbeat passing as he took in what Optimus’s words meant. “A second chance. What a gift, my Prime. That is thanks enough, though if you were to kindly order all of your Autobots, and me my Decepticons, to vacate the room I am positive we would get a lot more ‘thanking’ done,” he said coyly, delighting in the choked sound Optimus made.
Someone coughed, another reminder of their presence, and Optimus reset his vocalizer. “Though I wouldn’t phrase it in the same way, we do have many more arrangements to be made if we truly are going to make substantial steps towards the ending of this war and our return to Cybertron. If you would, I request the Autobots take your leave.” This, he aimed towards the Autobots, who hesitated for a few moments, before they devolved into motion towards the exit.
The Decepticons followed and a buzz of chatter started up and followed the retreating bots as they left. Jazz leaned over to Optimus. “If you ‘thank’ Megatron at this table, I will personally hand you over to Primus,” he whispered and then winked, turning to leave. “Thank you, Jazz, for the warning,” Optimus grumbled, staring after his retreating form. He caught Starscream’s eye accidentally, who scoffed and rolled his optics, strutting away, and Bumblebee’s, who shot him an energetic thumbs-up.
After the room was emptied except for the two of them and the door had been closed, Megatron stood out of his seat and strode over. Optimus watched as he set a clawed servo on the table and one on the back of Optimus’s chair, leaning in closely.
“So, my Optimus,” he crooned. “How do you propose we spend this graciously offered time?”