::This isn’t how I pictured things to end. Between you and I, I envisioned…something more glorious. A fight to the death, one shall stand, one shall fall. But there is no more time for that. No more time for our petty civil war. Can we even still call it that? It felt more like a race for energon for thousands of years now. When was the last time you even lost a soldier? It doesn’t matter. I’m digressing. Maybe I’m even procrastinating. The point that needs to be made is this, Prime; our war is over. I have no more interest or time for the Autobots. The mines are yours, Earth is yours. Enjoy your filthy organic pets while you can, because there are enemies out there that are not as kind-sparked as I have been.
You’ve been a worthy adversary, old friend. Ultimately, I wish you could have strayed from your morals for me. For what we used to have. On the other hand, I wouldn’t expect you to compromise your integrity, even if it is placed on the wrong side. I always did admire your strength of will. May we meet again within the Allspark, Orion.::
Optimus had never been much of a prophet, no matter what the religious sectors of the Autobots wanted to believe about him. Religion and Primus had its time and place, and while war had a way of bringing faith to the forefront, it’d always been a secondary concern to Optimus’ priorities - his people and his enemies. Optimus talked about peace extensively, because the hope for it was always nurtured in his spark, but... well...
How do you just stop with someone you’ve shared four million years of mutual loathing and love?
The message sounded something like defeat, and it was so foreign to Optimus that he had to read another five times to grasp what the cold letters meant. At first, he wondered if this was a new manner of tactic. An ambush? An armistice? Our war is over... how long had Optimus begged that they cease the senseless slaughter of their planet and their species, and how long had Megatron denied him?
The last few sentences sent a chord of sentiment through him, but Optimus was too well-versed with Megatron’s school of thought to let it cloud his judgment. Their clash was as immortal as Megatron himself proved to be. They were mecha of ideals; too stubborn and too visionary to settle for anything less. So why?
He followed the comm channel that the message came through on, and felt something acrid weigh in his tanks when it rang familiar. For a moment, he could almost remember standing between the shelves in the archive, sneaking glances at his comm, when he should’ve been working, for a new reply...
::Megatron, what is the meaning of this? What have you done?::
Asking if this was a surrender felt like too much. Megatron would never surrender - his spark hadn’t flared with the concept of it. Surrender was as foreign to him as cruelty was to Optimus.
