Chapter Text
Optimus had known Megatron long before the war. Back when he was merely Alpha Trion's apprentice, a data clerk in the grand Hall of Records, his existence wrapped in the quiet order of archives and inked history.
The role of archivist suited him, drawing him into the depths of Cybertronian lore and knowledge. He spent countless cycles poring over the records of ancient battles, treaties, and city-states, meticulously cataloguing each text.
Orion enjoyed these long, silent stretches of learning, curious if he’d ever have enough time in his existence to absorb every story, to read every single entry housed within the Hall.
But that was before the murmurs started, quiet at first, then growing into a hum of unrest that thrummed through Iacon. Tensions mounted within the political sphere, sending ripples through the capital as whispers of injustice filled the air. It was around then that Orion’s curiosity turned outward, and he began to seek out voices beyond the gilded walls of the Hall.
Megatronus was one such voice—a miner turned revolutionary, his fiery speeches echoing through the lower castes, challenging the very foundations of Cybertronian society.
For Orion, the injustices Megatronus spoke of were unsettling yet unfamiliar. He had never hated the lower castes, but he had been blind to their plight, his view shaped by the polished ideals of the Golden Era he was raised to revere.
The archives painted it as a utopia, a time of peace and progress mirrored by the pristine, metallic beauty of Iacon. But it wasn’t until he brought his concerns to Alpha Trion that Orion saw the first crack in that gleaming facade.
The ancient archivist regarded him with an appraising look, then led him down shadowed corridors to a hidden section of the Hall, concealed from public view.
Orion's spark pulsed with anticipation and trepidation. Why hide history? Knowledge should belong to all who sought it, open and free. The very idea of a hidden section felt like a betrayal.
Within those forgotten shelves, Orion found the truth—a truth that shattered the glittering illusion he had once believed. The Golden Era wasn’t the peaceful, prosperous time he’d been taught to cherish; it was born from a war with the Quintessons that had left Cybertron irrevocably scarred. And with most of the original Primes dead or vanished, the council had given a single mech, Sentinel Prime, dominion over Cybertron.
Sentinel had seized control of every institution, from the political councils to the military, consolidating powers that were once shared among the Primes. And in his servos, these powers had turned to rot.
Across Cybertron, cities collapsed, and the fabric of society frayed under the grip of a rigid, caste-based order. As Orion dug deeper, he saw the same patterns of degradation: lower-class mechs denied basic necessities, others toiling in the dark mines or factories, their sparks beaten down by the very system that claimed to protect them. Violence and criminal activity surged—not from some inherent flaw in the Cybertronian nature, but as a desperate response to Sentinel’s oppressive rule and the council's neglect.
“Why do you think we have so few flyers in Iacon?” Alpha Trion had said, with a bitter glint in his optics. His voice was light, almost amused, but the implication was unmistakable. A hint at the discrimination those with flying alt modes faced.
The realisation stung, each revelation carving a chasm between Orion and the world he thought he knew. There was a grim finality to it all; he could not unsee Cybertron for what it truly was. The temptation to return to his quiet life as a clerk gnawed at him, but he couldn’t ignore what he’d uncovered. Not now.
He found himself growing restless, a new kind of resolve simmering beneath his surface. He had to do something—anything. But what could a data clerk do against a system so vast, so corrupt it touched every part of Cybertronian life?
And yet, in his spark, Orion knew the answer. One voice could be drowned out, silenced. But many voices, united, would have the strength to shatter even the strongest walls. Perhaps that was why Megatronus drew him so powerfully; perhaps that was why he sought him out among the growing factions.
That’s when he first found Megatronus.
Megatronus, the gladiator. Megatronus, the champion of Kaon. Megatronus, the revolutionary.
He’d only seen clips of the gladiator's speeches on the datanet, but even there, in Iacon, far from Kaon’s oppressed streets, Orion felt the spark of hope rising with each word.
The Iaconian media had condemned him, calling his words "blasphemous slander" against the Almighty Prime, "a disgrace to all the sacrifices Sentinel made." But behind that mask of falsity, the message in Megatronus’s words stood stark, unwavering: he spoke of a Cybertron without caste, free from the strangling hold of the corrupt council and Sentinel’s iron rule. A unified Cybertron, where function would never again determine a mech’s worth.
Orion had felt something awaken within him, a flame that would no longer let him remain silent. This was his chance to make a difference. He could offer Megatronus information, valuable intelligence buried in the archives that even a gladiator with a hundred battles to his name couldn’t access. He would help the revolution with what he knew.
But joining Megatronus’s cause wasn’t as simple as pledging his loyalty.
The journey to Kaon was dangerous—rigged to deter “higher caste” bots like Orion from wandering into the city’s dim streets alone. He’d grown accustomed to the odd looks from miners and factory workers as he ventured through the maze of narrow alleys, dressed in the Iaconian armour that seemed to glow too cleanly amidst Kaon's dust and grit.
In time, he found himself drawn to the arena. The first fight he witnessed was brutal, a ceaseless clash of bodies, Energon splattered across the walls as fighters ripped into one another with practised ruthlessness. Orion forced himself to watch, and slowly his optics adjusted, his processor accepting the chaos before him. By the time Megatronus strode into the ring, he wasn’t afraid.
Where the previous fighters had lumbered, seeking survival in heavy swings, Megatronus was almost graceful, movements calculated and precise, a brutal dance of strategy and strength. He fought with purpose, each strike a testament to his power and namesake.
The crowd was electric with chants of his name, the sound deafening, and Orion found himself swept up in it, chanting alongside strangers.
He wanted to reach him, to meet this mech in person, but the swell of fans pushing toward the exits overwhelmed him, and he returned to Iacon, empty-handed yet more determined than before.
Over the next few cycles, he returned, time after time, watching each match with growing resolve. He made every effort to see Megatronus, even going so far as to disguise himself as a wealthy senator—an attempt that earned him a scornful look from one of the guards and little else. His attempts felt increasingly futile until, on his nineteenth visit, he was intercepted by a mech he hadn’t expected: Soundwave.
Silent as a shadow, Soundwave blocked Orion’s way, his purple frame looming in the darkened corridor. The gladiator’s advisor spoke in an unsettling patchwork of recorded voices, piecing together the question with eerie precision.
“Who are you—why are you—seeking—out—Megatronus?”
“Orion Pax of Iacon,” he stammered, trying to mask his fear. Soundwave’s unwavering stare drilled into him. “I... I heard him speak. I believe in his words. I work under Alpha Trion in the Hall of Records. I can give him what he needs—information, connections. I want to help.”
Soundwave’s expression remained unreadable, but he cocked his head as though processing this unexpected offer. Finally, he leaned in, almost too close for comfort.
“You will—wait—for—WORD!—from—Megatronus.”
And then he was gone.
It was several cycles later when Orion received the summons. A message, encoded but unmistakably from the one he sought:
;Orion Pax. I will hear you. Meet me by the spires east of the arena after the next match.;
From then on, Orion and Megatronus became allies, meeting in hidden parts of the city where prying optics couldn’t reach.. He grew to know the Kaon that wasn’t seen on broadcast screens, the one that bristled with unrest, filled with mechs who whispered their grievances under their breath.
Before long, Orion spent more time in Kaon than he did in his own Iaconian quarters. And slowly, he and Megatronus became something like friends, bound by a shared vision for Cybertron. Almost daring to call Megatronus’ Habsuite his second home
Their movement spread, and the council took notice. Disapproval transformed into fear, and then action. As the message grew, so did the risks. Attempts were made to silence them—secret assassination orders dispatched in the dead of night, sentries hiding in darkened alleys, waiting for a misstep. They survived, but barely. Often, Orion found himself looking over his shoulder, anticipating a blade in the dark.
Yet he persisted. What choice did he have? Kaon’s message of hope was catching fire, spreading from city to city. In Tarn and Vos, they garnered the support of the disenfranchised Seekers, those treated as outcasts in Iacon for their very ability to fly.
With each step, they were wading deeper into treason, but it was also everything Orion had dreamed of—a future for Cybertron that was worth every risk, every close call. And despite the dangers, he knew he’d never turn back.
Their movement grew beyond Kaon’s crumbling boundaries, reaching Tarn and Vos, where outcast Seekers eagerly joined their cause. These were the mechs whose flight alone made them dangerous to the council, and they rallied for the freedom Orion and Megatronus promised.
The revolution felt unstoppable, an engine fueled by hope and belief in a Cybertron without oppression, without enforced function or status. And each day, Orion’s optimism grew; they were so close—so close he could almost see their future taking shape.
When the council finally called for an audience with them, it felt like a validation of everything they had fought for. This could be their peaceful revolution, their one chance to sway the powerful with words instead of blood. Orion believed in it deeply.
He and Megatronus worked tirelessly on their address, crafting each phrase with meticulous care. Together, they wove a vision for the council, outlining how Cybertron could thrive without a rigid caste, how the senate could even appoint one of their own to represent the common bots.
They would speak to Cybertron’s core, aiming to convince the council that reform wasn’t a threat to their power but the only path to true unity.
But as they stepped into those towering chambers, something was… off. Megatronus seemed restless, his optics sharper than usual, his posture taut. The moment he opened his mouth, Orion felt a chill—something had shifted. His words didn’t match the speech they’d worked on the night before.
This wasn’t their careful appeal for justice.
What was happening?
Megatronus, now staring defiantly at the council, demanded recognition—demanded to be made Prime. Orion watched in horror as his friend’s voice turned steely, laced with bitterness. Megatronus wasn’t asking for equality; he was demanding supremacy. He watched the disdain on the council’s faces grow with each word.
This was wrong—this was dangerously wrong.
Orion stepped in, trying to steer the conversation back to their peaceful vision. He spoke with all the passion and reason he could muster, arguing that true change could come from within, through reform and unity rather than brute force. The council members listened, some even nodding in agreement, casting scornful glances at Megatronus.
“Now there is someone worthy of being a Prime,” one of the councillors murmured, loud enough for the insult to hang in the air.
Orion turned, but Megatronus was already gone, leaving the council chambers and abandoning him without a word.
Days later, Orion learned he had returned to Kaon, yet the damage was done. The council had dismissed them as a fractured, ineffective threat. Everything they had worked for, all their promises to Cybertron, hung by a thread.
In the days that followed, Orion found himself haunted by the vision of Megatronus in that chamber, his voice rising with a fervour that was more anger than hope.
Perhaps, Orion thought in hindsight, it was always there—the fury, the bitterness coiled tightly beneath his friend’s surface. Megatronus had been forged in the harsh fires of Kaon’s mines, the constant threat of starvation, of collapse, of sudden death. W
When he became a gladiator, he survived only by pitting his power against others. Every day had been a struggle, a fight for survival, and it was that world that had shaped him. The Megatronus Orion had admired, the one who spoke of a better future, had always been at war, his every dream tinged with the violence that had kept him alive.
But Orion had seen a different side. He’d seen the poet, the mech who could look at the stars with a kind of wonder, who wrote verses about a Cybertron unbound by fear or anger. He had seen a spark of kindness, perhaps only a glimmer, but enough to make him believe that Megatronus could be more than the battles he’d fought. He’d believed that beneath the rage and scars, Megatronus was capable of becoming the mech he aspired to be.
Now he wondered if he’d been seeing only what he wanted to see.
In the aftermath, their revolution began to unravel. The senate, with its decades of political acumen, knew exactly how to sow discord within their ranks. Slowly, subtly, they planted seeds of distrust, pitting idealists against pragmatists, turning mechs toward Orion and others toward Megatronus.
Even Orion could see it—their unity splintering, their purpose slipping as mechs began to question whether peace or power would win Cybertron’s freedom.
Perhaps this was always their goal. To put them against each other. To pull them apart.
Perhaps this was how it was always going to end. Orion on one side, and Megatronus on another.
In those painful rotations, Orion watched Megatronus transform. The once-inspiring revolutionary had become something darker. He adopted the very cruelty they had once condemned, commanding loyalty through fear, enforcing compliance through intimidation.
Megatronus—no, Megatron, as he now demanded to be called—had taken the ideals they’d shared and twisted them into a rigid tyranny. And yet, Orion couldn’t turn away completely. Despite all the blood spilled, he still remembered the mech he had once called a friend.
He remembered their nights spent debating the future of Cybertron, their shared hopes, their shared faith in each other. Every time they clashed on the battlefield, he couldn’t help but remember the Megatronus who had once believed in unity.
And so, in rare moments alone, many vorns into the future, Optimus found himself reminiscing about the times before the war.
Times when Megatronus would talk about justice, real justice, and they would sit side by side, dreaming of peace. He missed that mech, the one who had inspired him, who had convinced him to believe that Cybertron could be more.
He missed the poetry, the laughter, the way they had trusted one another completely. Now, that mech seemed like a ghost—a ghost that haunted him even as the new Megatron’s cruelty tore their world apart.
But even as he told himself to abandon that memory, a part of him still wondered. Could Megatron change? Could he find his way back? Optimus saw glimpses of it sometimes—moments in battle when Megatron would hesitate, when he seemed to remember, if only for a second, who he used to be. It was fleeting, but it was there.
Or maybe it was just another aspect of his delusions for a long lost friend.
And it pained him further to watch as the young Cybertronians interacted with this new Megatron.
They treated him with camaraderie, even reverence. They saw in him a leader, not a monster, a symbol of power and conviction rather than fear.
Even the Bumblebee from this other universe seemed to approach Megatron with a kind of ease, as though they shared a bond beyond the scars of war. It was a sight that tore at him, leaving him with an unshakable question—was there a path back for the Megatron of his world? Could he, one day, return as the friend, the partner, the young Orion had once believed in?
Or had Megatron truly gone too far, forever beyond the hope that had once bound them?
“He’s so… different.” Bumblebee muttered, drawing Optimus from his thoughts as they watched the young boys gather around this world’s Megatron, clearly comfortable, even playful in his presence.
Optimus gave no immediate response, his optics trained on the young ones.
In his own world, the thought of sparklings crowding around a Decepticon leader would have been unthinkable, yet here they were, fawning over Megatron like he was some benevolent guardian. It was surreal.
“This world has young Cybertronians. Living sparklings…” Optimus murmured to the other Megatron. “Am I correct in assuming your Allspark remains on Cybertron?”
“Nah, not exactly…” It was the human mother, Dorothy, who answered. She glanced at Megatron as if for permission, and he gave a small nod. “They’re not quite Cybertronians in the traditional sense,” she explained, a warm smile breaking across her face. “These little ones are called Terrans. They’re half-human, half-Cybertronian.”
“Yuh-huh!” The small orange Terran, Twitch, zipped up in front of Optimus’s face, her optics sparkling with curiosity. “Wow, another Optimus! This is so exciting! But you look so different, and sound different too! Do you have a big gun like our Optimus?”
“Oh, oh!” the taller one, Hashtag, added, bouncing up on her feet. “Do you have axes like he does?”
“How did you even get to this universe?” Nightshade butted in. “Was it some kind of anomaly?”
Jawbreaker tilted his head, examining Optimus with deep concentration. “You’re, uh… a different colour, too. And you’ve got more scratches,” he noted with a mix of awe and concern.
“Mr. Optimus, are you friends with your Megatron, too?” Mo asked innocently.
The barrage of questions caught Optimus off-guard, a bit overwhelming in their intensity, and he found himself fumbling for words.
Dorothy intervened with a gentle laugh. “Kids!” she called, her voice warm but firm. “Let’s give Optimus some breathing room, alright? He just travelled across dimensions, the questions might be a bit much.”
Optimus offered her a grateful nod, then addressed the children’s questions slowly, carefully. “I do have my own ion cannons, yes. I don’t have axes, though I do carry blades, tucked away in my subspace. I can’t say why my colours and paint differ from your Optimus… or how exactly I came to be here, only that one moment we were in our world, and then the next, in yours.”
He paused, his optics flicking to the other Megatron, who observed silently from a slight distance. “And as for my Megatron…” He hesitated, feeling an ache in his spark that hadn’t dulled with time. “We were… close, once. But that was long ago. We are not friends anymore.”
His words hung heavy in the air, a sombre note that made the young ones fall silent, their animated energy dimming as they shifted uncomfortably.
Even this world’s Bumblebee let out a nervous laugh, glancing between Optimus and his own Bumblebee as if trying to break the tension.
“Uh… what about you?” he asked Optimus’s Bumblebee, eyeing the differences between them. “Apart from the frames and all, why can’t you talk, anyway?”
Bumblebee looked to Optimus, unsure if he should share such a painful story in front of the young Terrans.
Sensing his hesitation, Optimus answered for him. “His voice box was damaged during a particularly difficult battle back on Cybertron.” He noticed his Bumblebee’s subtle sigh of relief, the weight of recounting that memory alleviated, at least for the moment.
“Well, resources were scarce,” Bumblebee chimed in. “Our medic did his best with what we had.”
“So…for the people who don’t speak beep, can I ask, what did he say?” asked Alex, the human father, tilting his head in confusion.
Megatron spoke up, his tone calm, almost gentle. “What Bumblebee was saying, Alex, is that they didn’t have the resources to repair his voice properly. The best they could manage was a binary signal in place of his voice,” he explained with a surprising level of care.
Dorothy nodded thoughtfully, then turned to her children. “Wait… how is it that you two can understand him?” she asked Mo and Robby, the two younger humans.
Robby shrugged. “I dunno… maybe it’s got something to do with the sleeves?”
Mo wiggled her fingers, showing off the glowing sleeve on her arm. Optimus noticed a familiar, yet faintly strange energy emanating from it. He leaned closer, his optics widening. “By the Allspark…” he breathed, taking in the subtle hum of energy. “Could it be…? Are you chosen by… Quintus Prime?”
The mention of a Prime drew all eyes to Optimus, but it was Twitch who responded first. “You know Quintus Prime?”
Optimus nodded, his mind reeling.
“Yeah, we know him!” Mo said excitedly. “He helped create my siblings and then gave us these sleeves. Isn’t that amazing?” Wiggling the hand that bore said sleeve.
Megatron stepped forward, his expression serious. “You asked earlier about our Allspark. It no longer exists.”
Optimus and Bumblebee both stiffened, optics wide. The Allspark… gone? The very core of Cybertronian life, destroyed?
“But… without the Allspark, the future of Cybertron…” Bumblebee’s voice trembled, unable to voice the full weight of their loss.
“Indeed,” Megatron answered solemnly. “When the Allspark and our last space bridge were destroyed, our hope for a future quickly dwindled. But Quintus Prime had a… contingency plan.”
Optimus’s optics returned to the young Terrans, comprehension dawning. He took in the Terrans with renewed awe. They weren’t Cybertronian, not fully—yet they were something miraculous.
“Our only hope lies with these techno-organics, born of both human DNA and Cybertronian CNA, bonded with the Emberstone,” Megatron explained quietly. “They are our world’s first Techno-organics—the first of a new generation, and our final hope.”
Optimus stood silently for a moment, a profound respect welling in him as he looked over the young Terrans. This Megatron, the one before him, was more than just a leader—he was a guardian, protecting the future of his kind with all he had left.
“This is why you were… cautious about us being here at the Malto residence,” Optimus said slowly, a new understanding dawning. “You were concerned about your young charges.”
Megatron’s expression softened, though he maintained a guarded look. “Anxious? No… I would call it caution.” He looked to Dorothy, then to the young Terrans who had crowded around him. “They are more than our hope. They are our family,” he finished quietly.
As Optimus watched, he felt something warm and unexpected stir within his spark—a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for in a long, long time. This Megatron was so different from his own, yet in moments like these, Optimus could catch glimpses of the bot he had once fought beside, the ally he had shared dreams with before their friendship was torn apart by war.
In this world, there was a version of Megatron who still understood the value of peace, who cherished the lives he was protecting, who lived with a cautious but genuine compassion.
A quiet yearning settled within him—a desire to stay in this universe, if only for a while longer. Here, he could watch over this other Megatron, perhaps even come to know him better, allowing himself the illusion, however fleeting, that the friend he’d lost so long ago had somehow found his way back.
Optimus’s optics softened as he glanced toward the Terrans, the Maltos, and this universe’s Megatron.
Perhaps he could put aside the war, if only temporarily, to spend a little more time in this world where peace and family still held meaning for a version of Megatron.