Chapter Text
It happens on a spark-snuffingly cold day. The kind of cold that makes plating chatter, the kind of cold that sets any bot on edge. It’s fitting, for a day like this. The weight of defeat is heavy on the Decepticons’ shoulders, for they watch on as Megatron, their leader, kneels before the Prime and asks to put an end to the war. It was the moment that every child of Cybertron had been waiting on the tips of their pedes for. Nothing but a stunned silence could meet Megatron’s proclamation. There was nothing but the sound of venting. Each vent out could be seen in the frigid air. Most of the attending bots had to kick up their internal heating systems to compensate for the temperature.
Megatron had called the meeting himself, had stated his intentions clearly. But no one had truly expected what would occur; not the Autobots, nor Megatron’s own troops. Optimus Prime had engaged in heavy debate with his high command about even going; they’d all figured it a trap. But when they’d arrived, armed to the dentae, it was evident that the Decepticons hadn’t even brought weapons. Megatron’s followers wore grim expressions. They thought he’d marched them out to die a cold, bitter death at the servos of the Autobots.
Even so, wherever their leader went, they followed. If they were to die, they would die with pride.
No one really understands why Megatron chose to end the war. His commanding officers, presumably the closest bots to him, had not a clue; one day they were desperately fighting for their lives, and the next, Megatron announced that they were just… done. Speculation ran wild; there were what seemed like a million potential reasons as to why he agreed to it. Most obvious was the fact that the Decepticons were losing. It was a gradual but no less damning development. While they far outmatched the Autobots in military expertise, weaponry, and, really, the amount of time on their servos, they lacked the resources and troops their opponents had. It made all the difference.
What most bots assumed was that Megatron had ended the war for a large number of reasons. That it was a strategic choice, carefully made after considering all of the possibilities and all of the pros and cons. To the imposing leader, it had felt like fighting a losing battle from the beginning, but that was not why he had chosen to surrender. There was one reason. Because of one bot. B-127.
Bee.
Well, Bumblebee, now.
The end of the war started at the beginning. It started on the battlefield. It wasn’t uncommon for Megatron to see former friends in the midst of battle, but Bee was the exception. He knew the small bot had been fighting, but by chance they hadn’t encountered each other even a cycle into the war. He assumed that Optimus was trying his best to keep from sending Bee into the field. After that, not seeing Bee continued to be the case by intention. He figured that he didn’t have to acknowledge his old friend if he didn’t ever see him. It made it easier to cope with the grief. For that reason, he consistently avoided initiating fights with scouting crews if he knew Bee was on them. It was easy for him to come up with one excuse or another, it didn’t matter what he said. His followers did whatever he said, really. Sometimes it was enough to tell them to frag off, but in the back of his processor he knew it would be suspicious if he didn’t explain himself at least once in a while. However, it was fairly obvious to his commanding officers, considering he always requested reports on whether a particular bot was with any encountered Autobots.
Unfortunately, one took this to mean that he had wanted the bot dead. An unfortunate miscommunication.
When Starscream had showed up in his control room, smiling that serpentine, self-assured grin, Megatron had known down to his struts that something bad had happened. That sinking pit in his fuel tank only deepened when the Seeker tossed a voicebox onto the panel, spitting out warbling static that he could just barely recognize. There was a gut wrenching silence only broken by the confused crackling of his former friend’s vocal component, searching for commands that it didn’t receive, just churning out sound at random.
In one moment he was perched upon his throne, staring down at Starscream with that unreadable mask of emotion, and the next he was flying into him with a roar that nearly ripped his intake apart with how hard it tore out, so visceral that it only came out as a ear-shrieking screech. He can still remember the sickening crunch of metal as he brought his fists down onto the screaming bot’s chest again and again. He remembers the pleading, the scratching digits tearing gouges into his chassis, the coolant rolling down Starscream’s face plates in heavy drops. He had beaten the bot until his servos ached down to the struts, until nearly his entire chassis had been caved in.
When he finally stopped, Starscream’s pleading had slowed to scratchy whispers, and he barely moved with each vent. Megatron eyed the beads of coolant he knew weren’t the other’s. Eventually, he turned his back and sluggishly took one heavy step after another before he eventually reseated himself. He tapped at a few things on a nearby data pad, clearing his voicebox with a burst of static. “Soundwave… send a medic to the control room. Starscream had an accident.”
They had hardly been able to salvage the bot’s frame, working at him well after most of the Decepticons went to recharge. It took nearly a decacycle before Starscream could stay conscious for more than a servoful of kliks. Megatron very decisively felt no guilt for it. It was much easier to direct that regret into the rage that often made his processor go completely blank. Once his unlucky victim had fully recovered, several more decacycles had passed. It was noticeable how Starscream never looked near his leader’s face after that incident, never letting his optics stray upwards farther than Megatron’s chassis.
He did not feel guilty.
And he did not have the voicebox repaired. He didn’t keep it safely stored inside him everywhere he went. He didn’t bring it out sometimes to prod at it and send commands into it to procure the sound of the bubbly voice that made his spark burn just that little bit warmer.
He didn’t miss his friend. His friends. They were dead to him.
All of this was bottled up in his head and burning him from the inside out. The hatred he felt. If he didn’t use those feelings to despise his former friends, those who had betrayed him, it would all reach its natural conclusion. He hates himself. Loathes every horrible, evil thing he does. Despises the monster he’s become.
All of the thoughts flashing through his processor spills out when he catches a glimpse of bright yellow plating tussling with the dull grey and purple of one of his fellow Decepticons. He froze up just long enough for his audials to pick up the glitching shriek of a voicebox that didn’t quite fit its slot, before he was swept back up into battle. He thought about it every single moment left in that battle. He thought about it as he drove alongside his followers to retreat to their base and lick their wounds. He thought about it as he sat at the war table and debated a treaty with his bickering high command.
He thought about it as he scribbled the pen against the data pad containing the treaty. He couldn’t help but wonder what Bee’s facial expression would be when he handed him the repaired vocal component he’d been missing for nearly an entire solar cycle.
It had been five cycles since the beginning of the war. And all for nothing.
Yet he wasn’t thinking about his tremendous failure.
He was thinking about seeing his friend again.