Kaon Citadel – Megatron POV
Kaon lives once more—the birthplace of the Decepticon cause, and now the epicenter of a vision reborn. My vision. Our world is no longer silent. It breathes through its foundries, its machinery crackling with purpose—just as it once did before the Exodus, before the Core shut down and severed the my planet's lifeblood. The flow of Energon was choked, starved out by neglect and war.
The war... yes, that didn't help either. The effort to sustain it drained us faster than we could replenish. And still, it was never enough—not for the Council.
Curse you, Optimus. If you had stayed out of my way, if you hadn't postured as their ideal saviour... You didn't see how they looked at me. Their decision was already made long before I ever raised my voice. They wanted you. Not me.
Flashback – Iacon High Council Tower | Observed POV
The chamber was high and circular, its arched ceiling lined with golden veins of circuitry and crystal. Twelve Councillors watched from their thrones, their helms polished, their expressions unreadable. They sat above, quite literally, as if the positioning of the dais was meant to reinforce the hierarchy—those who ruled above, and those who begged below.
Two figures stood before them.
Orion Pax—young, noble, uncertain only in his posture but not his words. He spoke of reform, not revolution. Of unity, not judgment. And he spoke well.
Beside him stood the one who now called himself Megatron. He had shed the name Megatronus—not out of disdain, but reverence. Of all the original Thirteen, Megatronus was the only one he truly respected. Yet to wear that name openly in the High Council's chambers would be to let them define his legend before it even began. And so, he forged a new one: Megatron, a name born in the pits of Kaon and spoken now with defiance.
His voice was iron—measured, charismatic, and undeniably powerful. A voice that could command armies or ignite riots. Forged in the brutal rhythm of the gladiator pits, it carried with it the weight of suffering and the sharp edge of conviction. His words were not just logical—they were transformative, delivered with such clarity and intensity that they stirred even the most jaded sparks. Yet to the Council, every syllable landed as a confrontation, not a comfort.
"The Senate has failed you," Megatron said, stepping forward with a gladiator's poise. "They have abandoned Cybertron's workers, its miners, its soldiers. They have betrayed the spirit of unity they pretend to uphold. But I remember. I speak for those below—Kaon, Tarn, Vos. I do not ask for power. I demand justice."
The chamber chilled. Several Councillors glanced at one another, their unease thinly veiled.
"And what form would this 'justice' take?" one of them asked coolly.
"A council of equals," Megatron replied. "No more golden towers, no more secrets. Let the workers vote. Let Cybertron rise from the bottom up, not be dictated from the top down."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. The idea was heresy.
Then Orion spoke.
"The Senate must reform, yes. But peace must come through consensus, not coercion. We need evolution, not upheaval."
He didn't mean to cut Megatron off—but the effect was sharp, final.
The Council leaned forward for Orion.
They leaned back from Megatron.
Orion's words were smooth, measured, palatable. Megatron's were too true, too raw. The chamber reacted not to ideals, but to comfort.
They smiled at Orion.
They tolerated Megatron.
One Councillor murmured, "He may yet be Prime."
Megatron stood silent. But his servos curled inward.
In that moment, something inside him solidified—not rage, but purpose.
His optics did not blaze. His voice did not rise. But deep in his spark, the fracture became a scar—a line he would never cross back over.
He turned his helm, just slightly, enough to see Orion still speaking—still being listened to. The Council, oblivious to what they had just created, continued to nod along with the archivist's words. As if nothing had changed.
Megatron said nothing. But something ancient in him shifted.
They would never choose him. Not while he spoke plainly. Not while he told truths they found uncomfortable.
He would not be chosen. He would have to take it.
There was a moment—brief, silent, where one could almost believe he might reach for his fusion cannon then and there.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, he lowered his head and turned away.
Let them think he accepted it.
Let them believe their decision had been final.
He would show them what final truly meant.
Post-Council Confrontation – Megatron and Orion Pax | Observed POV
They met in the corridor beyond the Council chamber, alone but for the quiet hiss of vents and distant thrum of the tower's core. The air between them was sharp charged not with electricity, but betrayal.
Orion's voice was quiet. "Megatron... I didn't mean to undermine you. I only spoke what I believed."
Megatron turned, slowly. His optics locked with Orion's—disbelief and cold finality blooming in his gaze.
"You didn't need to mean it," he said. "You only needed to speak it. And they listened."
Orion stepped forward. "They listened to you, too. You gave them something to fear. That's not the path we—"
"Fear?" Megatron's tone cut across him. "You think I speak to frighten them? I speak because it is the truth. Because I have seen the underlayers, the scrapyards, the forgotten miners choking on dust while the towers of Iacon shine like altars."
"And I believe you," Orion said firmly. "But change must come without war. You said so yourself, once."
Megatron's mouth curled—not in a smile, but something colder.
"I believed once that words could forge peace. Today I learned who they choose when both voices speak."
He turned away, shoulders squared.
"Enjoy your elevation, Orion Pax. The Council has chosen its Prime."
Orion didn't respond.
Megatron did not wait for him to.
He walked into history.
Kaon Citadel – Megatron POV
Even now, cycles later, I sometimes forget.
Not entirely. I cleansed the noise, locked the memories where they could not interfere with my rule. But echoes still rise.
A flicker of the High Council chamber. A moment's heat in my spark when I hear Orion's name. A twitch in the cannon arm that I never raised that day.
Control is not the absence of memory. It is the command of it.
I move through the Citadel like a god of steel, yet sometimes the past brushes against me, unbidden.
"Prime..." I whisper aloud, but there is no one to hear it.
Just the weight of what I was.
Sometimes, even after all the cycles of war and rule, the memories claw their way back.
Not because I let them. I buried them for a reason. But memories are not obedient.
They seep in through cracks, triggered by stray words, ghosted names.
I see the council chamber again. Orion's face. Their judgment.
And though I am Lord Megatron—the architect of Cybertron's rebirth—sometimes... I remember what it was like to be cast aside in both of my lives.
Sometimes
I stand alone at the apex of the Citadel's war room, encased in silence except for the hum of the holo-displays. My optics narrow as strings of data cascade down the reinforced screens. I monitor troop deployments, resource consolidation, planetary shield diagnostics, and cross-sector Energon flow rates. All progressing as ordered.
Three Energon foundries hum like the arteries of a god, pumping liquid power across Kaon's metallic veins. Shockwave has claimed one of the reactivated spires near the Kaon perimeter, converting it into a sealed experimentation tower. It pulses with the viridian glow of synthetic creation—Synthetic Energon, refined and burning with promise.
The scars left by the War for Cybertron still mar the landscape. Many are now mere surface wounds, cosmetic memories of the devastation that once reigned. But I see something deeper.
What troubles me—if such a thing can be admitted—is how familiar the sequence of these battles, strategies, and outcomes appears. They play out in near-perfect alignment with things I once consumed obsessively. Back when I was still human, these events were interesting besides the designs of the characters; they are a one-to-one recreation.
I wonder where the Combaticons ended up after the battle on the Ark by Primus, that was a battle for the ages.
Slowly and surely, Cybertron is becoming mine—held not through fire and fury alone, but through the cold, calculated grip of my metal servo.
Soundwave enters. As always, silent and precise. I do not look up.
"Report."
His voice—clean, unmistakable, classic G1 in—rings out by Primus. I love that voice.
"Lord Megatron, Project Synthetic Energon has reached 98% stability. Mass production has commenced. Regular Energon will be phased out within the next orbital cycle."
I turn, just enough for my irritation to register.
"Ensure there are no side effects. I will not have my army reduced to unstable husks, raving and broken from flawed chemistry. We are not yet at the stage where that serves me."
Soundwave nods once. Then turns and melts back into the Citadel's shadow, creepy how he does that, he's like Batman.
I exhale, a quiet vent of steam, and turn toward the simulation chamber. It is time to test myself again.
Simulation Chamber – Megatron POV
The landscape reforms around me: Earth. A city reduced to rubble and flame, lit by fires that no longer burn for warmth but for domination. Skyscrapers lie cleaved, husks of civilisation torn down by the weight of war. Wait a minute, is this Chicago? It looks horrible ah it's from Dark of the Moon, the last totally last movie in the Bay-verse and I dare you to tell me otherwise.
Across the cratered expanse, a familiar silhouette stands—Optimus Prime. But not the Prime I once called brother. This one is darker, brutal—his optics burning with primal fury, his steps heavy with the weight of violence barely restrained. This is Optimus Prime as he appeared during the final hours of the battle of Chicago, his frame dented and carbon-scorched from countless battles. The twin energon blades extend from his forearms, glowing like executioner's sabres. His armour is jagged and reinforced, painted in soot-stained red and cobalt blue, with war-worn battle marks running down his chest like tribal scars. He looks like a Prime who has long since abandoned diplomacy in favour of total annihilation—a beast in Autobot plating, forged in fire, this is my favourite simulation, reborn now in my arena.
He wastes no time.
"You die now, Megatron."
Blades ignite from his arms—blinding, searing. Then he charges.
He is faster than expected. No grace, only killing intent. Each swing is designed to maim, to break. This Prime doesn't hesitate. There is no offer of truce. No attempt at reason. Just raw, relentless execution.
But I've rebuilt myself for this very purpose. Sharper. Smarter. Stronger.
I watch his arc. My new frame calculates every microsecond of his movement. I pivot smoothly, and my fusion cannon discharges point-blank into his flank. The blast ignites his armour, shattering plating in a burst of molten sparks.
He retaliates. Slams into me with the full force of his charge. We crash through a support pillar. Stone and rebar scream in protest. The shock wave knocks a Vehicon silhouette off a holographic projection screen. But I rise first.
This reminds me of the good old days in the arena.
He roars—inhuman, almost primal. The kind of sound only a warrior completely consumed by war can make. His optics blaze, his mouth twisted into something that might once have been a command but is now only fury. He slashes wide, blade arcing through smoke and heat. I duck under the blow with precision, steel groaning around me, and drive my elbow into his throat.
He stumbles, clutching at his neckplate. It buys me a second—enough. I drop, transform fluidly, and the grinding roar of my treads becomes a war cry. The metal under me buckles from the force of my acceleration.
I hit him like a starship hull breach—sudden, overwhelming, catastrophic.
His frame crumples under my mass, sent tumbling across the cracked terrain. He smashes through a scorched vehicle chassis, metal and flame wrapping around him like the sealed tomb of a failed king. Debris rains down, sparks cascading like a firestorm.
He tries to rise, staggered, dragging one blade arm upward with fractured hydraulics. But I am already there, standing above him, cannon already humming with lethal charge.
His optics lock with mine. There is no fear in them. Only defiance, dimmed by the inevitability of death.
"You're so weak," I snarl, and fire.
The shot slams into his chest. The light vanishes from his optics.
Simulation ends.
The chamber lights return to baseline illumination. My internal systems immediately shift into cool down protocols. Excess heat is vented in timed hisses through my chestplate. Diagnostics stream across my vision.
There. The upper right shoulder servos—subtle lag. The impact recalibrated just slightly off-sync. It's a delay of milliseconds. But milliseconds matter.
Unacceptable.
I mark the discrepancy for Knock Out's attention. I do not allow decay.
Noted.
Observation Deck – Knock Out POV
"Still favouring that shoulder," Knock Out muttered, folding his arms as the simulation chamber cooled. "His frame's not syncing fully with the output. Upper servomotor cluster's half a cycle behind."
One of the Vehicons beside him tilted its head. "Still impressive. Did you see that mid-transformation charge?"
"Oh, spectacular," Knock Out said, optics glinting with dry amusement. "Our glorious leader certainly knows how to make a statement—but all that style without proper synchronicity? That leads to system instability, and we don't need another catastrophic breakdown. No offence, Breakdown."
Breakdown grunted. "Wouldn't be a fight if he didn't shake the whole damn floor. Crushed that cool-looking Prime. Again."
Knock Out leaned against the railing as the chamber hissed open.
"Still—violent, though. He's taking this one personally."
Megatron emerged from the smoke, steam hissing off his shoulders.
"Knock Out."
"Lord Megatron," he answered, nodding sharply.
"Recalibrate the right servos. Lag noted."
"Already flagged it, my Lord."
"Full diagnostic. I want no weakness when Tarn arrives."
And with that, he walked past.
They followed without needing to be told.
Throne Room – Megatron POV
I step back into the command hall, the space still humming with residual heat from the simulation chamber. A trace of scorched carbon clings stubbornly to my plating, dissipating slowly into the cool, sterile air of the throne chamber. My servos flex—calibrated, precise, but not flawless. There's an odd tightness, not pain, but a stiffness like resistance in the plating. The best analogy I can summon—for what it's worth—is the feeling of slipping into a brand-new pair of leather shoes. Not painful, just unfamiliar. Awkward. Something that needs to be broken in.
Of course, it's not exactly like that. But... close enough.
As I ascend the dais to my throne, a server-drone approaches and offers a tall crystal vessel—my chalice. A thick stream of Synth-En mixed with trace combat-grade supplements swirls into the glass, glowing a deep viridian hue. I take it in my right servo—armoured and reinforced, a hybrid between my old TFP claws and the segmented servos of my animated incarnation. Each digit can collapse inward or extend into talon-like extensions with a mechanical hiss, useful for both precision and brutality, and it helps with drinking.
I curl the servo around the glass. The metal shifts slightly as my claws retract with a click.
The energon is bitter. Perfect, it just needs a few more adjustments, and I'll have alcohol.
Then the alerts sound in my HUD and Citadel.
[ALERT: MASSIVE DECEPTICON FLEET APPROACHING. IDENTIFICATION: DJD COMMAND FREQUENCY.]
Tarn.
I expected this. And Tarn, for all his excess, has done well. He has gathered up the scattered elements of my empire like a zealous archivist retrieving texts.
I set the glass aside and addressed the room.
"Raise Kaon's shields. Ready anti-orbital batteries—but hold fire."
A pause.
"Soundwave, initiate contingency Omega-Rho. If Tarn and the fleet don't follow orders, I will override command protocols myself. Virus Key 9—activate but hold in reserve."
Soundwave tilts his helm. "Understood."
I lean back slightly and rest one claw on the throne's armrest, optics locked on the tactical display.
Let them come.
Orbit Above Cybertron – Tarn POV
The Peaceful Tyranny drops from hyperspace like a blade driven by purpose. Behind it, a fleet follows—dozens of Decepticon warships reforged from scavenged wreckage and rearmed in my name. Discipline. Precision. Devotion for the Decepticon Cause.
And behind them all... the War World. Broken, but bound. A symbol. A weapon. A trophy and a threat. Its orbit is a promise: the Decepticon cause never died. It simply waited.
Below us, Cybertron breathes once more. Kaon gleams like a fortress reborn, its towers lit by order, not decadence.
Beside me, Vos clicks softly through filtered transmission bands. Kaon's planetary defences are online, expected. Kaon's pulse has grown stronger. Good.
Kaon's walls will bear witness.
Helex stands silent nearby, one servo resting on the hilt of his glaive. Tesarus looms behind us, a walking engine of judgment. Kaon's gravity reaches for us like an old oath being honoured. Nickel sits at a console, monitoring Spark rates—hers and ours alike.
I inhale through my vents. This is the moment.
"Open a channel," I command. My voice is modulated, clear, and reverent.
The air tightens. Even the War World seems to wait.
"Lord Megatron. We have returned. The Decepticon Empire stands faithful and ready. We live to serve you."
Silence.
Behind me, no one speaks. Even Kaon holds its breath.
We are here.
Let him answer.
Kaon Command Deck – Megatron POV
"Approach and dock," I reply, voice level, cold and absolute. "Tarn will descend alone. The fleet remains in orbit until commanded. Overlord will be delivered into Shockwave's care for processing."
I sever the transmission before a reply can form. There is no need for confirmation. He will obey.
I rise from the throne. The metal groans beneath me.
"Prepare the Citadel," I command, my voice echoing across the chamber. "Let us welcome back our lost breathe for we are reunited."
All across Kaon, systems stir. Barricades retract. Banners unfurl. Surveillances made by Soundwave atop the tallest spires surveying all, broadcasting my will to every screen in the city.
I descend the steps slowly, each movement deliberate. As I pass the holographic tactical readouts, the flicker of Tarn's vessel nearing our perimeter catches my optic. It burns like a comet. Like a herald returning home.
Let them kneel before my will.
Kaon Landing Zone – Tarn POV
The descent is calculated, the tremor of engines harmonised with the stillness of my posture. The dropship vibrates beneath my feet, but I remain unmoved. Around me, the cadre of Decepticons I led and recruited across hundreds of systems and dead worlds stand in silence.
Through the forward viewport, Kaon spreads before us—not a city, but a monument. Its skyline is littered with debris, but I also notice shipyards and old defense platforms being repaired the engineer power and industrial fortitude of the capital astonishes me . What was once a ruin is now reforged: defensive batteries integrated into towers, pylons glowing with a green hue curious, and transmission spires that speak only in command protocols.
The Peaceful Tyranny arcs into holding formation overhead, its silhouette eclipsed only by the ruin-forged bulk of the War World, tethered in high orbit. A weapon once unwieldy, now leashed—a totem of what we conquer, and what we repurpose.
Vos stands at my left, attuned to Kaon's radio waves, already decrypting transmissions and repurposing surveillance networks. Helex and Tesarus are silent, unmoving, the sheer mass of judgment. Nickel, ever precise, completes Spark-cycle diagnostics in sequence, her presence a necessary constant.
"Touchdown in thirty klikks," Vos intones.
I do not reply.
As we breach the lower atmosphere, the hangar doors retract and Kaon greets us—not with cheers, but with alignment. Rows of Vehicons and elite Seekers form geometric formations, their optics bright and unwavering. Torches of violet flame bracket the descent path, not for ritual, but for clarity.
At the head of it all stands him.
Megatron.
The figure who awaits us is no longer merely a warlord. His frame reflects refinement and culmination—a synthesis of historical forms. The bulk and brutality of his earliest warform remains at his core, encased in architecture redesigned for precision command. Reinforced plating lines his limbs like sculpted armour. His cannon rests inert but charged. His servo claws shift with purpose, engineered for both dissection and declaration. His crimson optics are not ablaze—they burn.
He does not speak.
The ramp lowers with gravitas.
I descend.
I kneel.
And with me, every Decepticon behind me follows. Not from hesitation. Not from a command. But because this is alignment, and this is truth.
The sound of metal striking metal reverberates across the platform. Sparks flutter from the ground like rising embers. It is not a ceremony—it is reaffirmation.
Service to Lord Megatron is not a belief.
It is the axis upon which Cybertron turns.
And we have returned to orbit.
The procession that followed was efficient, unspoken, and meticulously coordinated.
A heavy transport flanked by Kaon enforcers and an honour guard wheeled forward with Overlord sealed in a stasis sarcophagus, its reinforced containment casing humming with layered failsafes. No one touched the weaponised tomb without instruction. Two Vehicons moved in synch with Shockwave, who approached in silence, optics dimmed beneath the brim of his armoured helm.
"The subject is stable," Nickel reported, stepping aside without breaking stride. "Spark rate is minimal. No anomalous fluctuations."
Shockwave gave no audible reply, only a nod.
Megatron remained at the platform's edge, gaze unmoving.
"I want his restraints integrated into your primary vault," he said, voice devoid of flourish. "If he awakens—contain, not kill. I may yet have use for him, but you may use him for your experiments."
Shockwave inclined his head a fraction. "That is most logical, my Lord."
The sarcophagus lifted, guided by mag-clamps and interlocked grav-struts. It hovered above the path as the procession moved into the inner gates of the Citadel, flanked by a dozen armed sentries. Overlord passed beneath the Decepticon banners without incident. No motion. No flicker of life.
Tarn remained kneeling even after the others rose.
Only when the stasis seal vanished behind the Citadel's inner doors did he stand.
His optics locked on Megatron.
Not with a question.
But with a purpose.
Kaon Citadel – Lord Megatron's Inner Sanctum | Tarn POV
The room evokes a precision colder than mere environmental regulation. Its austerity is not the product of sterility but of calibrated intentionality. The obsidian-panelled walls serve not only as physical barriers but as conduits for the flow of data, their ambient illumination pulsing in rhythm with Cybertron's logistical heartbeat. Each surface bears the quiet testament of optimisation—this is not a space for ceremony, but for command.
It is not a throne room. It is a tactical cortex—a locus where imperial will is refined into executable doctrine.
I approach with my helm lowered, not out of affectation, but out of discipline. Each step echoes like a metronome of obedience within a chamber that once reverberated with chaos. Now, its acoustics carry only order. At the terminus of my approach, I raise my helm.
Lord Megatron stands resolute at the central hololithic command array, which displays a complex interplay of strategic overlays: armada distributions, resource requisition flowcharts, sectoral compliance indices. He does not turn. He does not need to.
I kneel.
This is not performance. It is praxis. Within this sanctified space—Kaon reborn in ideological purity—I kneel not to posture, but to reaffirm alignment.
"You've done well, Tarn," he states, gaze still affixed to the console. His tone carries no ornamentation, yet it reshapes the room's gravity.
I incline my helm further. "I have executed your will, my Lord."
He pivots.
His optics—searing, discerning—scrutinize not with suspicion, but with intellectual audit. As if measuring potential applications of an already-proven instrument.
Then, without preamble:
"The war we once waged has ended. The Decepticon cause must now evolve. Do you comprehend this necessity?"
"I do," I answer, with a steady cadence. "Conviction must be embedded institutionally. Judgment must be architected as infrastructure. Strength alone no longer suffices—we require perpetuity. I propose to inaugurate and lead an administrative organ of internal regulation. A framework for omnipresent vigilance—preventative suppression, ideological reinforcement, systemic oversight."
He considers this.
"A thought police," he muses. "An apparatus to curate the parameters of the Decepticon belief."
I do not flinch.
"No, my Lord. I would not curate—I would preserve. I would inoculate us against dilution."
Kaon Citadel – Megatron POV
Tarn kneels with engineered exactitude, his composure indistinguishable from a precision-built automaton. Yet his words carry initiative. Design.
He does not disturb me.
He unnerves me.
Not due to doubt—his loyalty is axiomatic—but because his fidelity manifests in dangerous clarity. He represents a devotion distilled to policy, an orthodoxy capable of institutional permanence.
He would raze a city to excise a whisper. He would replace confession with programming.
And I shall permit it.
No—I shall commission it.
I return my attention to the console, allowing a calculated pause.
"Then rise, Commander Tarn administrator of Kaon, if you preform well in this new position, you might become administrator of Cybertron it self," I decree.
He rises. Wordless, already engaged with the role I have conferred.
I do not meet his gaze.
But I permit a fractional smile.
All as planned.