Rebirth 1/2
Characters/Pairing: Megatron, no pairings in this part, eventual Megatron/Starscream
Verse: TF: Prime
Wordcount: 1,300
Rating: T for this part
Warnings: A bit dark, references to death, dying, etc.
Summary: Sequel to Cold. After the events of Darkness Rising, Megatron awakens thanks to the dark energon he ingested. But its restorative power comes with a price.
Thanks to
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meaisin_caoin for beta reading.He was cold.
He shouldn't have been. He was built to fly through space, so nothing in space should freeze him.
And yet the feeling persisted, deep in the core of him, a sharp emptiness. Something had pierced him, a shard of some terrible ice, potent enough to chill his very spark.
He should have felt heat and light, there in his chest, the warmth of the energy that gave him life. Instead, he felt only this, only brittle frost at the core of him, as if the ice had pierced his spark itself, feeding on its heat until nothing remained but its own chill.
He wondered, drifting, whether there was anything left of him at all, or if his spark had guttered out completely and he'd somehow forgotten to notice he was dead.
There was an explosion, he thought. It killed me.
Was that what had speared him? He remembered bright light, the blue of a space bridge, debris flying as it burst apart, and himself, caught in the blast and unable to fly free. Had a piece of the space bridge come loose and pierced him through the spark?
He looked down, staring at his chest. The plating there was whole, barely even dented. He could see no sign of his wound. Optics flaring, he reached down with his claws and scraped them over the metal, looking for any sign of damage.
Finding none, he snarled and retracted his chest plates. It unnerved him to do that, even here, floating in the far reaches of space. Opening made him vulnerable. If any enemy found him, it would be a simple matter to destroy whatever was left of his already injured spark.
Still, he had to know. He had to see what had become of it. Of himself.
What he saw looked nothing like any spark he recognized. Where he should have seen a bright orb of red light, whirling with energy as he moved, he saw only a glowing, purple void. It drew his optics to it, seizing and holding his gaze as though it would pull what was left of him into its depths and consume him.
He roared, rage racing through his systems like fuel. What had happened? He didn't know, and on the heels of that lack of knowledge came envy of anything that still burned warm. He would hunt them, the ones who remained whole. He would tear them apart, ripping the sparks from their chests and crushing them in his bare claws. Their dying sparks would warm him, for a time.
No, he thought, suddenly resolute. That is not enough.
Thinking it, he felt something, a tiny strand of heat, a filigree of flame laced through the hollow at the center of him. It burned, its flickering painful.
He didn't like the pain. Pain was for others. Not for him.
I will kill. The energy of the dying will fuel me.
Confused, he looked down. A tendril of red light, glowing like hot metal, wove in and out of the purple hollow in his chest.
Red, he remembered suddenly. My spark burned red.
He bellowed, tossing his head, and the wisp of light brightened. Lavender lightning chased it, tightening around it, threatening to suffocate it.
With that, a wisp of memory: that lightning, whirling in concert with his spark, a cold and merciless power that had danced through his circuitry.
He had commanded it. Had used it. Legions of the dead had arisen to its call. And he had led them, bidding them destroy his enemies.
This void in me, he thought, remembering his claws clutched tight around an icicle of purple crystal. I created it.
Dark energon. That had been its name. The legends had said - had said it was the blood of a demon, the crystallized lifeforce of the Chaos Bringer himself.
He had plunged it into his own chest eagerly, piercing his very spark, impatient to claim its power for himself.
And it had bent to his will, granting him the power to raise and command the dead. Until he himself had died, died in the blast, and arisen.
He had stolen his crystal from the deeps of space. The things there drove difficult bargains. And the Chaos Bringer would drive the hardest bargains of all.
What price would such a being demand of him? Was he now supposed to be its slave, its mindless undead warrior-king, risen anew with all the strength of the mightiest of all Cybertronian war machines?
War. He'd led an army, once. An army of living machines, long before he'd raised the dead ones. They had served him. They'd belonged to him. They'd razed worlds in his name.
Or would, once he returned to command them.
Someone else would try, in his absence. Someone he knew. He could not remember clearly who that was. But he remembered the other's spark, a spark he had claimed for his own many times, searing it with his own heat and forcing it to his will, over and over again.
He remembered all he'd found in it: ambition, and cunning, and lies upon lies.
But what belonged to me did not belong to you, he thought, remembering. And you, yourself, were mine.
His lip plates curled back in a determined smile as he stared down at the wispy red light that remained of his spark. His teeth glittered sharp and bright and his optics flared with light.
He had returned. He was no sparkless drone, given only a mockery of life by the power of dark energon. His spark still flared, however weakly.
"I am not yours," he thundered, his own voice ringing in his audio receptors. "I belong to no one but myself!"
Agony shot through his chest, the empty chamber suddenly flaring red-hot as his spark re-ignited. The chilling lightning wheeled and danced, spearing through it, winding around it, seeking to puncture it or smother it or both.
His fists clenched, his claws digging into his own fingers, pricking discomfort through his freezing hands. He welcomed it, because it was real.
I am, he thought, watching the crimson orb of light blaze, crackling, tendrils of its heat reaching for the lightning smothering them and feeding on the freezing burn. He was ice, all ice and fire, and it would rend him to pieces to be both at once.
And that might kill him. But he had already died, and death held no terror for him any longer.
I had a name, he thought, watching his spark as both void and substance fed it. It burned, and shone, and consumed.
And then his name returned to him: a name pulled from legend, just as the Chaos Bringer's name itself had been. A name he'd taken from the strongest of the gods, as his kind knew them. He'd shortened it. Sharpened it and made it his own, a glittering weapon, a name for the new age he would lead and himself as its leader, all at once.
"I am Megatron," he roared, the mingled energy of the dark energon and of his own spark seething through his chest, its freezing heat so intense the plating around it burned red-hot one moment and shone white with frost the next.
I am Megatron, he thought again, bellowing in rage and might and desire.
And I am going home.
no subject
I like the internal monologue in this, and (don't kill me!) it reminds me of Galvatron's internal struggle in TFTM. But that Megatron in here has the self-awareness, even to know just a small amount of what he did was caused by himself. It may be fuzzy, but the fact that he remembers and is physically controlling the Dark Energon's desires. On the other hand, he's not fully in control.
I am wondering on the next part and if, should he meet with Starscream, just what would be involved and how the reactions would change. Would the haze of memories be sharper—clearer? Or not?
no subject
And yes, he's about to meet with Starscream, actually. He... won't be too impressed with mister All Hail Me, but then you probably could have guessed that.
no subject
Wonderful work 8D
no subject