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megatron looks into the mirror, but this time, it is not his own visage that meets him. the lines of his faceplate are too soft, mouth curving upwards into a gentle smile, optics blue and bright and oh so kind, so fragging kind, crinkling at the corners with an age he doesn't remember, old and world-weary and young and new and painful like a black hole eating itself from the inside out, destroying any other matter that comes too close in its violent, all-encompassing hunger.
orion pax looks at him through that wise, sad gaze, and then it ripples and shifts into optimus prime, then back again, drifting between them until he cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.
they are one and the same. are they? have they ever been and will they ever be?
who is this mech? which name does he go by? is it one he chose? when he wears it over his shoulders like a thick cloak, does it fit? settle comfortably over him? or is it heavy, stifling?
the mantle of ‘megatron’ is a complex one. it holds weight of some kind, power for himself and a filthy, selfish mark on the shining armour of the prime it came from, borrowed with sharp claws and deft fingers - is it borrowing if there is no intention of ever giving it back? it is his now, for better or worse. he wonders, fleetingly, if the thirteen gather to peer down at him like a dirty creature in the bottom of a small box, and being wretched as he is he holds their attention for just long enough for them to prod and poke and decide he is not worth their judgement; or if they gather to point and laugh, to ridicule him for his futile attempts at fixing something, and destroying everything else in his efforts. it's like rubbing engex stains into fine metalmesh rugs: trying to make it right, and by trying, making it worse.
primus, exhaustion settles into his very wires like poison, ingested willingly through every shaking in-vent. it is a poison of his own concoction - his is the servo that makes it, and his is the servo that administers to shaking lips. it is quiet, and aching, and sears at his insides and through his protoform, rapid bursts of agony that last forever and ever and not long at all, he does not remember the last time he was not tired, he does not know. he does not know. he does not know a lot of things. he barely recognises his own designation.
he does not want to look back into the mirror. he will not like what he finds.
so he lifts his servo, poison in his palm, spreading to the tips of his fingers as he curls it into a tight fist and strikes, all of his stolen power behind him, guiding him, and forcefully keeps his optics offline as the glass shatters. perhaps he should have kept them open, allowed the shrapnel to gouge deep scars across his being, blinding him in rage and in sight. perhaps. perhaps. perhaps.
he feels his way over to his berth, crashes on it. flips onto his side, then his front, and onto his back again. repeats. he is sick. in a lot of ways.
but the ghost does not confine itself to mirrors. it travels, as ghosts surely are want to do, between gaps in reality, in existence, drifting and swirling in and out of vision in wakefulness and through the lonely, scorching cold of recharge, pulsing through his processor, bright and painful flashes of almost-being.
he ignores it. tries to. he ignores and ignores and ignores but the ghost is beautifully patient. it has waited long enough and it will wait longer still.
megatron jolts the first time it actually speaks to him, of sorts, a whispered, silent voice rattling through his processor, though its mouthplates do not move, and it stares at him with that open, sweet expression, longing and regret written through every groove in textured metal. as time passes it becomes louder, garbled glyphs more intelligible but still just short of real words, until it brushes at the edge of his conscience and says, look at what you've done.
what, megatron says, into the silence, desperation rising into his throat like something awful he wants to purge from his tanks, what, what? what do you want from me? leave me alone!
the ghost brushes cold fingers along his pauldrons, barely-there and far too brief, though it still feels like a brand against his plating, and it hurts more than sentinel’s jagged carving ever could.
you killed me, it says.
you sided with that traitor. he growls it, and does not find himself shaking.
your hatred for him was stronger than your love for me. its touch brushes against his front, now, and the ghost flickers in the edge of his visuals, form melting and rebuilding itself through different phases and moments in time, orion pax, optimus prime, back again, somewhere in between, you made your choice. it was the wrong one. i love you.
he does not answer. maybe if he ignores it, the ghost will go away. they all do, when they tire of him. they all do, when they realise just how miserable of a creature he is at his core, small and too-big and oxymoronic and para-fragging-doxical by his nature, a little mech in a big frame that isn't even his, permanently borrowed from mechs who do not need it any more. when he goes - in violence and bloodshed, he knows he will not die peacefully in his berth with the rising of the sun - who will take his place, take his form? who will come to pluck the cog from his chassis the same way he had, and sentinel before him? the cycle will continue. it must. the narrative is doomed. he wants to know the answer. he does not want to think about it. he already knows. he will never know.
the ghost rattles and wheezes in darkened corners, bleeding dark spots into his vision, pinprick optics cycling, arm hanging on by one singular, thin wire, energon dripping against the ground in its horrid silence. it says nothing for a long, long while. megatron would like to pretend he cannot see it, is unaware of its presence. but he knows. he will know until his spark cracks into several useless little pieces and scatters to the cosmos. he will know, and he will know, and he will know.
d-16, it says, calling him by the wrong name in stolen tongues, stifling formality so unlike the mech it tries to imitate. d-16, d-16, d-16.
what? he roars at it, and blasts a hole through the wall. this time it goes right through and leaves a pile of rubble where there had once been a solid structure. this time he finds himself wishing the shot had actually found its intended mark. last time he hadn't. last time it had been the opposite.
leave me be. it's wobbly, more than a little pathetic, but he is sick. he is sick of this, all of it. his fragile little spark flips and writhes and wails in his chassis. he wants to rip it out. crush it between his palms and watch the energy pour through his fingers like the sand of alpha trion’s visions as his systems shut down, one at a time. it will be painful and that is okay. it might even be good. it's what he deserves.
is it? what does he deserve? is it anything at all? maybe he ought to just be forgotten, to fade into insignificance, cold and aching. it would be better for those around him, and even those who are not, this he knows. he knows.
he knows far too much and far too little. it is tearing him apart from the inside out.
he wonders if this is his punishment. if that is true, he finds it especially cruel.
it refuses still to settle on a singular form, melting from orion pax to optimus prime to orion prime to optimus pax to orion optimus to pax prime to
i hate you, he tells it, and it smiles, a small, secret thing, and drags its scalding touch across his shoulders and chest, down his arms, stops just short of his wrists. stop it. leave me.
you cannot kill what is not alive.
despite himself, megatron frowns. i never said i wanted to kill you.
no, the ghost says. it is written in the glow of your optics, the lines of your faceplate. each ex-vent whispers of your violence, and of the love in it.
megatron balks, baring his dentae like he's been physically struck. in a way, he has. i don't love you.
you did.
he frowns. as much as he doesn't want it to be, it is true. i did. a long time ago. a lie, or perhaps a half-truth. these he is full of.
the ghost’s expression is painfully, disgustingly soft. understanding, calm, comforting, patronising. you did, yes. and you still do.
frustration twists within him like a jagged blade, tearing at his plating and carving its vile path through his wires and internal systems. you know nothing of me!
i know you, it insists, gently, reaching to take his servo for one awful moment. perhaps better than you know yourself.
you're fine, the medic tells him, and megatron tastes no lie in the words, maybe just a little low on battery.
are you sure? he presses, scowls at how weak it is, and forces the coldness back into his gaze. i am experiencing occasional… visual disturbances.
the medic, damned thing, quirks an optic ridge. oh yes? of what kind?
his lip curls. nevermind. there is no point talking to this mech - he has clearly lost interest already, pulling a tub of high-gloss polish from his subspace. there is not point at all. this is the way things are. i will leave you to your polishing.
i’m very grateful, is the answering drawl.
despite the medic's assurances that nothing is wrong, the ghost persists. in fact, it gets worse. more insistent. almost desperate. if megatron didn't know better, he'd think it was building up to something.
the things it's saying are changing, too, becoming more and more wild in its agony, clawing with metaphorical fingers at the edges of the decepticon’s being and yet not touching him at all.
you want to feel my being wrapped around you, pulling you close into myself? is that what you want? it howls, right into his audials, for our sparks to overlap at the edges, emotion and feeling spilling across blurring lines?
cease this idiocy immediately. something burns in the back of his intake. the poison is back. you are not real.
it throws its servo into a fist, and for a moment he imagines it twisting into that bright, painful axe, reading to rend and tear at his plating, cleave him from one to two, two to four, again and again and again until he exists only in his multitudes, a mirror smashed into too many pieces to count, each one with its own unique agony. i am as real as you made me!
he cannot take this. he cannot take it. he does not feel like himself. he does not feel whole. when was the last time he was?
when orion pax took his servo and smiled that bright, beautiful thing and said to him, “you and me, ‘til the end.” that's when.
hey, the ghost says, weakly. it is the wrong tone. megatron turns, surprised; never before has it followed him this far out from the relative comfort of high walls and rough floors. this is his spot, sitting with his pedes swinging over the edge and staring down into the drop, down, down, down. he wonders, not for the first time, what it's like to fall. orion would tell him, were he still alive.
why are you here, he says. it isn't quite a question. you have never followed me here before. i thought this was the one place i could find peace.
the ghost's optics shift as they turn towards him, but not within themselves. they stay as one being. this is new, and unusual enough to give megatron pause.
what? it asks, slowly, looking tired. it sits, and swings its pedes over the edge, and does not look down into the drop. what are you on about?
you know what i mean. he bares his fangs and squashes the urge to tip his helm away. this is time to face the ghost. i’m sick of you haunting me.
you started this war. it sounds sad.
you appeared to me first. i don't remember asking to have my every waking moment shadowed by a fragging ghost.
silence.
the voice is small. a ghost? it questions. of me?
i know what you are. don't try to fool me.
silence, again. longer this time. this time, this time.
you haunt me too.
he looks up, away from the fall. when his gaze had turned to it, he does not know.
i see you in the corners of my visuals. or, flickers of you. switching between dee and megatron.
this all sounds so familiar.
i just wish you'd pick a form and stick to it.
hmm, he finds himself saying. i know how it feels. i don't remember the last time i was— i don't remember.
yeah.
an unsteady, shaking in-vent shared between them.
which one are you? the ghost, or orion?
the thing blinks at him, considering. orion, is the answer, uncertainty wobbling underneath the glyphs. optimus. one or the other. maybe both.
hmm.
which are you?
it's a good question. which is he? d-16? megatron? the ghost?
he settles finally on, maybe both.
the ghost's servo finds his. this time, it is warm, solid, real. one of them shuffles sideways until their pauldrons bump, and the other leans to rest their helm against the touch.
once the silence has stretched long enough between them, once they both return to their respective bases, the ghosts must be satisfied. they do not follow.