Delusions of Heaven :..: Megatronus/Chamomile : hurt/comfort:

The young femme did not dare move from her sire's side, her helm held high as she walked with grace. She made sure her shoulders did not slouch, did not spare a glance to anyone around her for fear of exposing her discomfort, her irritation. She could hear his voice as he spoke with another member of the Council (who had stared at the young femme in a way that made her sick), and while she was dying to break away from her family, she kept in step with them.

She could feel the stares on her frame, heard the whispers of hatred or reluctant admiration, and while she could see the way her bearer practically glowed at the attention (positive or not), Chamomile couldn't bring herself to express the same pride. Instead, she wanted to sink away from their view, disappear from the face of Cybertron and never have to show herself to anyone again. But she couldn't do that, not only because it was impossible, but because her sire, Templar, would find a way to make her miserable anyways.

Her train of thought drifting from remaining by her family's side, she did not watch where her pedes carried her anymore, gaze brushing passed all the robust mechs around her, and she slipped through the crowd. Her optics trailed along the design of the walls, the scratches and chips as well as the dried stains of spilled energon. She never once looked away, finally finding a way to forget about the gawks and stares that seemed to constantly pick through her wires and pierce her spark, and she found that her lip components were lifting up into a smile, one she had long forgotten how to wear.

Then she collided helm first into someone, the pain vibrating through her frame until she could hardly hear herself think. She took a couple pedes-steps backwards, stumbling, and she tripped over her own heel. Her servos shot out for something to grab, digits digging into metal of someone's armor and dragging down to create scratches, but she was not allowed to fall. Their arms wrapped around her to stop her from plummeting, pulled her to her pedes and helped her to her balance.

Optics focusing on the mech in front of her, Chamomile gazed up into the optics of a gladiator. He held himself tall, his grey frame much larger than her own, and while she felt the initial shock of fear at his imposing side, there was something in his blue optics that stopped it from actually wrapping around her spark. She couldn't help but stare at him like a fool, unable to form a comprehensible apology as his expression of surprise turned into one of camaraderie, and her glossa felt dry. Her processor was light, feeling almost energon deprived, her spark sporadic, her digits feeling warm as she brushed them over him, and she could do nothing to stop it.

In his optics, she saw nothing but kindness; no malice, no hatred towards her for her status. Nothing but pure acceptance from a mech she had never seen before. His hold on her tightened a bit, pulling her closer to his chassis perhaps out of instinct, or no thought to his actions, but whatever it was, he did not seem to mind the proximity. "Forgive me, I was not watching where I walked. However, I cannot say I expected a femme of your grace to be in this part of the arena."

At the sound of his voice, her spark leapt in its chamber. Her grip on his armor tensed only slightly as she stared up at him, spark glowing brighter, her lips pulled into a genuine smile that she could feel reach her optics. But even then, she could not bring herself to say a word to the stranger, not even ask for his designation, and she had never felt more ridiculous. Chamomile never looked away from him, even as he gently seperated from her and grabbed her servos, bringing them closer to his lip components to make her nervous.

"But I must be honest; I am glad to have collided with you."

Chamomile was completely and utterly enamored. She was aware of how ridiculous, how foolish it was of her to think so with such confidence, but she had seen how her sire completely changed around her bearer, or how her older brother no longer behaved like himself, behaved like a different him, around the femme he claimed as his sparkmate. She could see the affection in their optics each time they gazed at each other, and she could only hope that this affection was touching the gladiator's spark as it was caressing hers.

Alas, she could not contribute to the conversation with anything other than stupid expressions because it was then that she heard an unfamiliar voice shout her designation. She looked over her shoulder at the guard that was approaching her, the expression on his faceplates harsh and much more frightening than the gladiator she stood with, and while she wanted to step away, recede into the comforting hold that the mech offered her, but she didn't. In front of guards, in front of anyone that might contact her sire, she did not dare to openly show weakness.

"Chamomile," the gladiator vented out behind her, catching her attention for a fleeting nano-klik before the guard grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. Chamomile stared with wide optics at the gentle giant she was being taken from, gazing at him until she could hardly see him above the crowd she joined.

"You're lucky I found you before anything else happened. Your sire has directly ordered that you be kept from the vermin." The guard sighed, looking down at her as she avoided his gaze, no longer desperately looking for the gladiator she had the honor of bumping into. Straightening her posture and reclaiming the elegance she had long forgotten, she held her helm high once again as she walked alongside the mech.

Her pedes carried her to the specific seats assigned to members of the Council and their families, reuniting with her bearer (who was relieved to see that she was safe) with a quick word before sitting beside Templar. He spared her a glance, the relief a mere flash in his optics, and while she should've felt glad that he actually worried over her, if even for a nano-klik, she couldn't possibly hope to rip her processor from the mech she encountered. Chamomile heard the familiar start of the match, her sire announcing the traditional venatione that made her turn her optics away from the show of brutality.

And thus, the Gladiatorial Games finally began.

(Not that it was as much a game as it was a brutal sentence to death.)

Even though she wanted nothing more than to look away, to shield her optics from the shed of energon, she could not tear herself away. Her optics, bright in color, were opened wide for him, the gladiator that had shown her more generosity than even her sire had, the mech that stopped her body from falling but failed to catch her spark. Chamomile sat on the edge of her seat, ignoring the conversations around her as her two brothers teased her for being so eager and choosing to focus on the fighters.

Watching so many mechs (and the occasional femme) fall to their knees before another Cybertronian tugged at the wires of her spark, twisted them until she was certain they had snapped. Were they not all equal? The Quintesson Rebellion had been to liberate all Cybertronians, had it not? It dawned on her that the High Council, that her sire, was no better than the Quintessons. They restricted certain liberties from certain citizens based on what they were built to be, not what they were born to be. And it was not just the gladiators, or the people of Kaon, but it happened in Iacon as well. It was happening to her.

The dancer's servo clenched into a tight fist at the thought, her processor fogged with the rage of the realization, and she willed herself to vent slowly, to allow her optics to fall closed for a nano-klik. It was not fair, any of it. How could anyone be happy in a society like this? Not once did she step into Kaon and see that everyone was absolutely happy, not as everyone in Iacon was. It was not so hard to understand all the venomous stares, the bitter whispers that ran through the streets of Kaon.

She felt positively disgusted.

But her processor did not dwell on it, her optics trailing to the fighting grounds and spotting the gladiator from earlier, standing tall before the audience, and she found that her pedes tried to do the same. She made an attempt at standing too, but her knees could muster no strength, could not support her weight, and she had to lean on the railing to even stand with at least a sliver of dignity. Chamomile could see that he was picking through the crowds, his ever gentle blue optics running over the many faceplates of the cheering people, yet she had no chance to wonder who it was he was searching for when he looked into her optics.

Her optics opened just a bit wider, staring down at him with an expression of shock crossing her faceplates until she was certain she looked anything but intelligent. She leaned forward just enough to get a better look at him, no words tumbling out of her mouth, but they didn't need to speak. He smiled up at her, his previous look of worry almost completely gone, replaced with a show of affection that made her spark bloom into something far more beautiful because she could feel his appreciation, his friendliness, and they had only spoken once. A smile crossed her faceplates, and after a tentative glance back at her family, she held up her servo as a silent greeting.

At the gesture, she noticed that his optics seemed to illuminate, and he politely nodded in her direction, but their brief interaction was interrupted as it had been before. The other gladiator walked proudly into the arena, but she could pick up on the fear clear in his optics. He was much smaller than her gladiator (not like he was hers, per se. He was merely the gladiator she had met, the one she spoke with), his build so obviously befitting something else, and his own terror leaked into her spark until she was gripping tightly on the railing. She could only hope for the best for the both of them, but having seen all the previous matches, having watched guards drag the offlined body of the unfortunate gladiator, she knew it was futile.

Chamomile turned her helm to stare at her sire, whose grin sickened her to no end, and she watched as he announced the beginning of the match. Templar finally caught his daughter's optics, staring at her in confusion, before he grabbed her wrist and lead her back to her seat. She paid close attention to the fight, prepared to watch as the smaller gladiator was offlined, prepared to hide the coolant already building as the Council forced brutality unto the mech she grew to admire in mere klicks.

She followed every move made, every grimace of shame on lighter colored mech as his opponent tried desperately to fight back, to stand a chance, and it came to a point where she could hardly feel her own spark, her processor. Coolant spilled down her cheeks and she barely felt them, only watching and hoping for the best. As she witnessed the match, it was not hard to pick up on one thing; they did not want to be gladiators. They had both - no, they had all had dreams of their own, hopes for a better future, and the system, the High Council, had denied it all. They forbid it and would not listen to reason.

Chancing a fierce glare at her sire was not the best move, for she saw the unspoken fury in his blue optics as he watched the battle. There was no longer the sound of clashing metal, of the crowd shouting for more (or less, she realized), and she already knew it was over. She had been lost in thought, distracted herself in the only way she ever could, and somehow, the recognition hurt worse than if she had watched. She turned her helm to look at the field, preparing herself to see the corpse of such a small gladiator, to see the filth of society stain her gladiator's servos worse than the energon, but such a sight never revealed itself to her.

His left servo was raised. The telltale sign for mercy, for a verdict. But he was not alone. The pure mech held onto him, helping the weak gladiator raise his servo high in the air. It was an open show of defiance to the Council, to the Gladiatorial Match, to the system itself, especially now. Never did a gladiator assist another gladiator ask for mercy, but here he was, optics gazing up at the Council members without so much as a flicker of fear.

Templar was not glad, ignoring the shouts from the crowd for mercy, to let him go free, and he would be making a decision. The wrong decision, Chamomile realized. He would force the kind combatant, the mech that truly opened her optics, to offline the weaker mech, or he would have the guards dispose of them both. He did not care that it would earn hatred from the citizens, but he never did. He acted with "the good of the people" in processor (which is what he always claimed, and what she knew to be absolute scrap). And none of the citizens would be able to stop him.

But she could.

The realization made her helm spin; she could make the final decision, she could save both gladiators, but doing so would be to directly defy her sire. To do so could put her in as much trouble as the two on the ground. But what had she to lose? She held no one dear, had nothing of value she held close. To make the decision would not condemn her to punishment - it would be her first act of freedom, her first act of deciding for her own good instead of remaining silent to benefit anyone else.

So she moved, quicker than she ever thought she could, and she was standing tall in front of her sire, expression determined as she threw her own servo into the open air. Clenched into a fist with the thumb tucked away, as she had been told was the sign for the gladiator(s) to be let go. The reaction was instant; the crowd roared with a cheer louder than she had ever hear, and while her sire glared at her as her brothers shouted for an explanation, she paid them no mind. Her optics were on the gladiator that had spared the nearly unconscious mech, and his were on her. He smiled charmingly up at her, a glow in the beautiful blue of his optics, and she laughed. It was a silent noise, one she could hardly hear herself, but it was there, a real laugh that came so easily, and he caught it somehow.

Chamomile didn't move from where she stood, observing the other gladiators that came sprinting out and helped carry the defeated mech away, out of view, and saw the stranger turn to follow them. Once they were all gone, she wasted no time in turning around and brushing passed her sire, who tried to stop her from leaving, but she slipped into the crowd and hurried, forgetting all about her poise and nobility, forgetting about watching where she stepped and whether she was supposed to push people out of her way. For a nano-klik, she was merely a Cybertronian femme searching for someone, desperate to once again meet the mech that had done so much yet said so little.

And she found him, leaning against the wall where she had first seen him, and her spark nearly stopped. Yet as citizens buzzed around him in a celebration, voices loud and carrying around the arena, she could only see him. Her processor needed only to focus on one thing, and it was him. She had no need for the femme that hugged her, or the youngling that wept as they thanked her for saving their sire. Their optics connected again, and it was all she needed to bring her back to her senses, to remind her that she did not have a lot of time.

"Sir," she called out for him, slipping between large and small people alike, holding her servo out to guide her through. He took notice to her struggles and began walking towards her, working to open a small path for the femme, so when she reached him, they stood closer than she normally would feel comfortable with. But with him, she felt uncomfortable when he was far. Chamomile was close enough to finally have some time to study his faceplates, his build, and to apply the image to memory until she was certain she could not forget him. "I must ask that you tread lightly, sir."

His optic ridge raised the slightest bit at the address, but he allowed her to continue with a nod. "The Council, my sire, they will not look upon you with favor as I have, as I do. They do not look kindly upon any form of resistance, and it does not look like this is the first time you pulled something like this. I do not wish to hear news of your demise; you seem to be Cybertron's only hope of achieving true equality."

"You flatter me, Chamomile," hearing him say her name was enough to scramble her processor, and it became difficult to stand still without losing her balance, but she managed to steel herself. "I doubt that I am Cybertron's only hope. And you are far from the first to worry for my well-being." He glanced behind him, and followed his gaze allowed her to see a silent mech, small and appearing fragile, but his expression was hard. "However, I'm afraid that this is all necessary. If I remain silent, if I allow the Council to continue living without knowing of the pain they inflict upon their people, it will not end. Cybertron will continue to live under tyranny."

Chamomile gazed back at him, red-orange optics focusing on the mech standing right in front of her. His faceplates were delicate, a hopeful gleam in his optics as he smiled down at her, and she could not stop herself from smiling back. She came to the conclusion that he was entirely contagious, from his smile to his hope, and she could live with that. "And if the only person courageous enough to show them is a lowly gladiator, than I am more than willing to lay down my life for this cause." He grabbed a hold of her right servo and brought it to his lip components, not taking his attention away from her for even a nano-klik as he kissed her wrist.

The protest, the last attempt to stop him, if even for a moment, died in her throat before it could even form on her glossa, and all she could manage was her final question. She needed to respect his decision, and maybe he was right. Perhaps he could do this. No, thinking that maybe he could would not be enough. He needed her belief, her faith in him, and she knew that in time, he would have it. She knew how foolish she was for falling so hard for a mech she had only seen once, especially a gladiator (for her sire would die before his daughter sparkbonded with a citizen of Kaon), but it would only hurt if she tried to stop herself. So she decided to allow herself the chance, the freedom, to love him, even if he did not return her affections.

"At least allow me the honor of knowing your designation."

He seemed taken aback by her request. Had no one ever asked for his designation in such a way? The mere thought of people doing so was foreign to her. Wasn't it polite to ask for someone's designation with a great deal of respect if they were so kind, so honorable? Chamomile saw the surprise in his optics turn into appreciation, and he spoke with such emotion that it nearly dropped her to her knees out of fragility, but he held her up at the first sign of weakness.

"Megatronus is my designation, Solus."

Chamomile didn't have to think back to her history lessons, or have to wonder for even a second to understand what he meant. Her spark fluttered in her chest, her EM Field filling with both care and dread; Solus Prime and Megatronus had been in a doomed romance, both terribly in love but unable to act upon it for a great deal of their lives. If she remembered correctly, they both loved each other, but after some plotting on Liege Maximo's part, Megatronus was deceived into believing she no longer held him in the same position she could not bare to push him out of, and he had killed her in a fit of misery. The Prime had felt a great deal of regret as soon as the deed was finished, but it had been too late to bring the life back to her spark. After that, he had been known as the Fallen, and he had died miserable.

She stared up into his optics, spark hurting as she struggled to keep back the coolant. His EM Field read something different, a promise to never allow that to happen. They would not end in tragedy, not as Solus and Megatronus did, and they would overcome the trials that were sure to come. Chamomile managed a weak smile up at him, and she pulled him close to her in a tight embrace. The crowd around them pushed and shoved, trying to leave the arena, and it brought her back to her senses. Her family would be searching for her, and if Templar saw her holding Megatronus as she was, it would not end well for either of them.

"I bid you good luck, Megatronus." Saying his name felt right, and she noticed his optics clouding in appreciation of the gesture. She pulled away from his arms, practicing her dignity and her elegance before holding her helm high. The act had never felt more wrong in her life, a frown on her lip components for a nano-klik, but she was quick to turn her expression neutral. "But I will not bid you farewell. We will meet again." He nodded his helm, offering her a genuine smile.

"I look forward to it."

Without another word, for she could not think of the perfect words, or how to say them, so she preferred to say nothing at all, Chamomile turned her back to the taller mech and began striding towards the entrance to the arena. Never once did she falter in her step, or look back to him to assure herself that he was real, that none of this was her imagination. Instead, she walked with an air of pride she had never felt before, and even after joining her family and being launched into a harsh scold from Templar, she could not help the satisfied smile on her faceplates.

Punishments had always been severe with her sire, who did not like even the slightest hint of disobedience. For her actions at the gladiatorial games, Chamomile was not to leave the confines of her house for a whole deca-cycle. She should've protested, should've told him that this was cruel and unusual punishment, but she could not open her mouth to tell him anything, whether he wanted to hear it or not. The salmon femme merely bowed her helm before retreating to the safety of her berthroom, where she sat beside the window and stared out at Iacon. Such a lively city, she remembered thinking, and how beautiful.

Back then, she had no idea just how ugly it would get.

Eventually, she learned. A deca-cycle was a long time to be restricted from coming out of your home, so she could only see and hear so much about social life, only hearing bits and pieces from passing strangers, or what her sire told them. Other than that, the secret medic was kept in the dark, which left her with a great opportunity to practice in the medical field. She taught herself more treatments, more procedures, from books she had persuaded a friend of hers to bring to her window every five nights. In her optics, she was no longer so rusty, and she was truly convinced that she could do anything she set her processor to.

Chamomile still received word of Megatronus; of how he and a data clerk (whom sounded strangely familiar to her) were beginning to speak in front of crowds, of how the gladiator was beginning to raise awareness for the issue, and she could not help the way her spark felt warm each time she heard about him. Every piece of information brought a secret smile to her lip components, where she hid it by bowing her head and remaining silent, as she always did. In her processor, she hoped to see him once again, to have the chance to converse with him without the fear of being dragged away and putting him in more danger.

And in the strangest way, she did.

Templar had decided to send her with the Overlord to the State Games, where he was convinced the higher member would help bring some "sense" into her processor and swiftly end her foolish behavior. He was hoping that she would revert to the blindly obedient child that did not dare defy her sire, but she knew better than to think she could go back to that. After so long of being held back by her sire, by restrictions he set on her, she could no longer last another minute behaving submissively.

So when the Overlord tried to convince her to sit painfully close to him, claiming he felt safer that way, she put her ped down. She declared that she would stand for the entirety of the game if she was not left alone, and though he grumbled, he dropped his persistence and paid more attention to the actual games. Chamomile sat with a straight back and a stoic expression, her wings fluttering every other klick out of satisfaction. She had finally stood up to someone, proved that her word would be taken seriously and not ignored, and it made her happy.

Alas, her glee was short-lived. She could not remember another time that had lead to absolute disaster so quickly, and if she tried to remember the events that lead to now, her processor would draw blanks. Perhaps it was out of shock, or a deep sense of fear that burned the energon inside her until she wanted to scream out. The pain in her spark did not compare to the pain in the back of her helm from when she had been slammed roughly into a wall by an escaping citizen. Tarn and Vos, their battle was reaching its peak, and she was caught in the middle of it.

Chamomile tried pressing herself again a wall, but her armor caught in somebody's pushing servos, and she was pulled into the hectic crowd trampling over each other to get out. She had lost the Overlord, the guards, and she was alone. She would be offlined here, alone, in the midst of a war she wanted nothing to do with. Her vocal processor would not allow her to scream, to call for help, but her pedes could not move either. Her entire body ached with the pain of being pushed around the arena, energon dripping out of a couple wires that had been nicked by digits, and she could feel her legs giving out.

Her rotater cup was grabbed by a large servo, and bracing herself to finally be pushed down to the hard floor, she swung her own servo to at least try to break free from the grip. She could not see from the coolant, could not hear above all the panicked screams and the gunfire, and her body was falling numb all over. Instead of being shoved, she was dragged towards someone, and a nano-klik passed where she thought that one of the fighters had gotten hold of her, for what, she did not know. But it scared her worse than the actual fight, and her throat burned with the scream that ripped through her lip components.

"Chamomile," the voice was in her audio receptor, soothing but firm, but she could not think straight. People were beginning to fall around her, a mech here, a sparkling there, and the shrieks became louder, anyone alive now frantic to get out. There was nothing separating anyone, just how strong their will to survive was, and it terrified her. No one cared for anyone now, mercilessly clawing their way through the throng of other Cybertronians, so what would stop anyone from sacrificing her to the battle?

"Solus, it's me!"

The femme froze, her optics still clouded with coolant that ran down her cheekplates, but she moved her helm to take a look at who had grabbed her. Now she recognized the voice, the servo, the warmth of the chassis that pulled her farther from the stampede, and her spark burst to life. Chamomile did not wipe away the coolant, instead pulling herself closer to the gladiator and weeping into his chassis. She held onto him for dear life, words coming out of her mouth in a rush as she tried to explain what happened, to ask him how he got here, to say too many things at once, but she could not stop herself.

And Megatronus didn't push her away. In fact, he held her closer, shielding her smaller frame from the chaos. He tolerated her whimpers, whispering to her that he would keep her safe, apologizing for not finding her earlier. But they couldn't linger, not here, and he pulled away from her and grabbed both her cheekplates with his servos. He took a moment to wipe the coolant off her face, a flicker of a smile on his lip components, but it only lasted a klick before he was explaining everything.

"I am to keep you from harm, and make sure that you reach Iacon without sustaining many injuries. But we need to reach the Overlord first. Can you walk?" Chamomile glanced down at her pedes, which were still shaking, but she could not keep him here. She needed to be stronger than she was, to find courage in herself she knew was not there, and it had to be done now. If they stayed any longer, Primus knew what would happen to them. So the training medic looked into his optics, silently telling him she was ready, and he smiled again. "Good. Do not leave my side, not even for a nano-klik." His servo wrapped around her much smaller one, and he took care in joining the crowd again.

The sound of scraping metal filled her audio receptors, the pain of being pushed into Megatronus by others was almost unbearable, and the unease was a constant reminder of where she was, but with his servo over hers, she felt secure, as if no harm could come to her. And she was aware that it was not because of his size, nor because of his skill with a weapon, but it was just because of him. He was enough to assure her that she would live through this, that she would survive many more hardships, so long as he was by her side. Chamomile did not worry about what would come after this, about having to return to Iacon without him, because she was beginning to wonder if it really mattered. He may not have been there physically, but he was always with her in spark, so long as she thought about him.

They reached the Overlord, who was surrounded by three mechs whose faceplates were new to her, and she was hurriedly informed of who they were, what they were doing. She had been introduced to Orion Pax (who had recognized her designation as she had recognized his, which was odd, because none of them could ever recall meeting each other before), one of the bodyguards, and while it was a pleasure to meet the mech who fought for equality beside Megatronus, they had no time for pleasant chatter. In a matter of perhaps five klicks, everything was settled, and they were on their way to Iacon.

The Overlord didn't speak a word, kept his optics on Nightstalker (another guard - the nicest, next to Orion), and did not spare her a glance. Not that she minded; in fact, she felt a sick sense of joy that he ignored her. It was only justice that he experience this, and she knew this because she had heard many stories of all the filth on his servos. He was no saint, no real "Overlord", and she felt the title was a mockery, a taunt of something he wanted but could never have.

But this train of thought was forgotten as soon as she felt Megatronus pull her close to him. She had never left his side, not that he seemed to mind at all. He kept her safe, far from harm's way, and she owed him her life for that. Had he not come to find her, had simply escorted the Overlord out as he had been told, she would still be in that arena, or worse, offline on the ground, forgotten in the sea of panic. Anyone else would have left her, even her family, but this gladiator she had spoken to once, the one that had boldly declared her his Solus, he had come back for her.

Were they intended? Had Primus created the two with the intention of them sparkbonding in mind, or would this end in spark break? A friend of hers had explained the concept to her, the ins and outs, but still, it scared her to think about it. They had only met once, had only spoken for a couple klicks, but her spark was so certain that he was her intended while her processor wanted to think of reason, of proof. She wanted nothing more than to fall hopelessly in love with him (as she certain was already happening), but the doubtful part of her, the insecure part of her, wonder if she was worry of his affections.

"Chamomile," his voice was enough to bring her back, and she turned her helm to stare at him. He reached out for her, trying to grasp her servo, and she realized that she had drifted from his side a couple steps. In her audio receptors, she heard growls and angry shouts for the Overlord's spark, and she stopped. It was hard to think, to stand steadily, and she stared with wide optics at the forces pointing weapons at them. Glancing out of the corner of her optics, she could see Nightstalker barking back at the soldiers just before a cannon fired, the shot ripping through his helm. She screamed as his body fell, energon splattering all over her armor as his remaining optic dimmed, the other half of his faceplates completely gone.

Megatronus was the first to react, using his strength to his advantage and picking her up, but he did not hold her close or shield her. "Orion, make sure she is safe!" Before she had a chance to question his meaning, he looked into her optics before tossing her into the air. The femme shrieked, reaching out for him as the forces ducked to avoid her, and she expected to fall down the hole she saw in the bridge, but a pair of (surprisingly) strong arms caught her. She turned her helm to stare at the gladiator, whose lip components spread into a wide smile, one that stunned her. He expected to die, but he did not want to watch her share the same fate.

Coolant burning in her optics, she once again stretched her arm out towards him, trying to struggle against Orion as he sprinted towards the gap in the bridge, and she cried out. It sounded more like a howl to her own receptors, but she did not care for how she sounded. He had put her in a situation that made it impossible to get to him, to prevent her from finding a loophole that would not lead to her death, and she wept. Because he had promised they wouldn't end as Megatronus and Solus Prime had, and here he was, doing just that. Chamomile held onto the data clerk as she begged to be set down, to be allowed the chance to help, but he didn't listen.

She could only scream.

Templar was absolutely deplorable, and she was a dead femme walking.

She had been so worried, improving her medical skills frantically and barely managing to hide her tracks, and it was because of Megatronus. After the Battle of the State Games, she had not heard word about the gladiator, not even from Orion, who she had taken to helping with his work whenever she wasn't busy. He could not tell her details of what was happening, of whether Megatronus was alright or not, but he did not seem too worried. He had faith that his friend was alive, still fighting for liberation, and she wished she did too, but it was hard when the last time she saw him was when he was being attacked by three very large fighters from Tarn. He was a mech of great strength, but everyone had their limits.

So when her sire returned home with a smile on his face, she could not bring herself to trust him. He was too cheerful, too friendly, and it was difficult to watch. He was never so kind to his family after a Council meeting, and seeing him like this unnerved her. She had not seen Orion at all for the solar cycle, so she could only assume he had something to do with it. Chamomile was not so ignorant as to think he was not involved, but what she could not know for sure was whether or not it had something to do with Megatronus.

He finally spoke up when it was nearly time for her to escape into her berthroom for "recharge" (or so they believed), bringing up exactly what had him so chipper, and at first, she did not understand. "Megatronus stood before the High Council today," he sounded terribly content. But never before did he say that designation with a smile, so why now? What had happened that made him so glad?"

"He spoke of his ideals, of his 'righteous ways' of changing Cybertron 'for the better'. It was all a load of scrap, about how he wanted to allow everyone equality, the freedom to do as they wished. But in his optics, I saw different, we all did. He asked to see the Matrix, to stand in the presence of the great artifact, and be seen as a mech. Of course, we declined him. A Prime from Kaon?"

Chamomile stopped, servos shaking as she continued to listen as her sire spoke ill of him, called him ridiculous for even trying, and all she could feel was rage. Untamable, disorderly rage that blinded her until she was trying to calm her venting, yet no one seemed to notice. Her brothers, the oblivious mechs they were, too busy laughing and congratulating the Council, praising them for their show of complete incompetence, and her mother, her dear sweet mother, too busy admiring her bondmate's "bravery in the face of a brute".

She could hear no more, would not stand for her family's unbelievable prejudice against a mech only hoping to better their soiled society, and she did not bother to stop herself. She stood without warning, servos clenched into tight fists as she glared at her sire, who stared at her with a mixture of shock and confusion. "What do you know about righteousness? What does anyone in that dense Council know about righteousness? You have only ever turned a blind optic from everyone that does not reside in Iacon. You rob people of their identities, of their happiness, just to fuel your own egos!"

"Chamomile-"

"And you!" She turned on her bearer, who shrunk back at the sight of her daughter's uncontrolled rage. "How could you praise such a pig-headed mech?!" She looked around at all of their faceplates, seeing them all for what they were, and she was astonished. When had her family fallen so low? "You are all corrupted, and you have none to blame but yourselves. You have ignored the cries for help, the people you swore to protect from harm, but the only harm I see coming to them is coming from you! You take everything the Quintesson Rebellion was for, all the ideals that were fought for, and you spit on them!"

"How can you all possibly be so ignorant?" Chamomile felt the coolant in her eyes but did not shed them because she would not show weakness. "You hurt so many people that you did not notice when you hurt me." Her servo slammed against her chassis, and her entire body was shaking as she spoke. "You belittled my dreams, my hopes for my own future, and you treated them as a joke. You still do! I am no dancer, and Megatronus is no brute. We are only what we were forced to be because of your 'righteous' ideals! He is a 'monster' because you made him to be one! He wears his burden as a strength, as something to drive him forward, and so will I!"

Chamomile turned to stare at her sire, whose expression of surprise had turned into one of disappointment, and she scoffed. She scoffed in his face, an action that made her brothers stare at her in shock. "Not that any of you noticed. You were all too busy with your corrupted life to notice that I have been teaching myself how to work as a medic." She smiled at Templar then, the first proud look she ever showed in front of her family. "And I am good at it. Better than I am at dancing. But you, sire, you could not see anything other than your slagging Council."

Without another word, or sticking around to listen to them, she turned away and made for her berthroom. She could hear her brother rising to follow her, shouting for her to come back, but someone must've stopped him, because he never came to stop her. She entered her room with ease, and as soon as the door was closed, she collapsed to her knees. It took a moment for the coolant to drip onto the ground, her body trembling all over as she held herself from falling. Terror filled her spark and coursed through her wires until it was all she could feel, and she kept crying. After this, there truly would be nothing stopping her sire from punishing her again, but that did not hurt the most.

What hurt was how Megatronus had been the mech to save her, the mech to keep her from harm, and all that credit had been placed on Orion just because he had been seen carrying her. The mech had denied it, said he had done nothing, tried to get everyone to see the truth, and when they had kept praising him, she had thought them all deaf, but now she knew. They had refused to believe him, because Megatronus was from Kaon. How could he do any good?

Chamomile wept, her chassis heaving in the agony of finally realizing that they all chose to be ignorant, because they believed that all good came from Iacon, and anything else was merely scrap metal. It was not just Megatronus, no, it was everyone. It was anyone that was not born noble, that was born to a courtesan, or a gladiator, or anyone other than noble. They were nothing to anyone in Iacon. And that was a reality she could not face, a reality that haunted her more than what she had just done. She could feel nothing, only a pain she could not put into words, and she wanted nothing more than to offline right there.

The light of the moon glowed beneath her, bouncing off the walls and nearly blinding her. She worked swiftly to pull herself together, raising her helm towards her window, which was allowing in a breeze. She studied the stars in the sky, the moon shining down on such a rotten planet, and she crawled forward, grasping the elevated sill and pushing to stand, to catch her balance before she toppled. Chamomile leaned against the wall, optics shining with coolant and reflecting the radiance, but she couldn't focus on the sky.

Her attention turned down to the near empty streets of Iacon, not a spark in sight, and her processor came to life, spinning an idea that brought some cheer to her EM Field. The femme contemplated her options, glancing back at the closed door to make certain that no one was coming, but she had to be sure none would enter while she was gone. Her servos gripped onto her lone desk, holding up medical books and data pads filled with information on procedures, as well as the necessary tools to complete them successfully, and she pushed. It scrapped against the floor, the noise painful in her audio receptors, but she did not stop until the desk was in place before the door; securing it in place, and serving as a barricade.

She pushed away from the desk, staring at the closed door out of fear, anticipating her sire pushing through the blockade and reaching her, but he never did. It seemed as though there was nothing beyond this room, as though her family simply ceased to exist when she locked herself away. Her pedes carried her to the window, the coolant dried on her cheekplates, and she spared a final glance before climbing out. Servos slipping to holes in the walls, pedes working to keep her from falling, she slowly lowered herself until she touched the ground.

Chamomile could not take her optics away from the streets around her, the usually dull structures coming alive with brilliant blues and whites that they had never shown before, and she found she was being reminded of the gladiator, the mech she was determined to find. A part of her processor doubted that he would still be in Iacon, was certain that he had returned to Kaon, and she couldn't think of why she knew. Something in her spark was pulling her there, to the very place she had first laid her optics on him, the place where he had found her, and it felt right. It was as though she could just feel where his spark lay now, and what position was she in to doubt it?

The sounds of pedes running down the streets filled her audio receptors, and she ran through alleyways and crannies, her servos trailing the walls to lead her. She could hardly feel the wind, the only thing she knew then was Megatronus, and reaching him. Luminescence guiding her, she never once looked back, only allowing herself to sprint forward, to keep running to Kaon even when her legs were killing her, or when she felt lightheaded from not stopping once.

Her arrival to Kaon was unnoticed. When she stepped into the arena, she collapsed against the wall, venting heavily as the adrenaline began to die, and she was left alone with the sore aches in her body. Chamomile's optics flickered for a moment, nearly closing, but she forced herself to stand taller, armor scraping against the wall until she no longer leaned on it. She obliged to her body's need to recover, but only for a nano-klik before she was moving again, walking quietly through the empty halls of the arena. It was quite eerie; every time she had entered a gladiatorial arena, it was crowded with mechs and femmes looking forward to "a good show", but now, she was the only spark present.

Until she heard the shifting of metal against metal. Only then did she detect the other sign of life, and she hid away in the shadows, working to dim her biolights (and failing, for she had never learned how to do that). Taking a tentative step around the corner, she kept hidden as her optics fell upon the mech she had looked for. The only person on Cybertron with a spark of pure light, of hope, and she would never remember the expression on his face, his optics. He had never shown anger to her, and whether he knew she was there or not, he did not look the least bit pleased. His servos were clenched tight, there was energon on his knuckles, and his optics. Once a mesmerizing shade of blue, they were now carmine.

It struck her as odd. Any time she had thought of Megatronus, it was of him smiling, his once blue optics glowing with the joy of someone who believed in the future, and his gentle servos holding her and keeping her from harm. He was still the same Megatronus, she did not need to look closer to see this, but there was something new in his spark, something blooming in him that no longer believed in peace. Chamomile's uncertainty hit hard, wrapping around her spark and squeezing until it felt hard to even move. She was from Iacon, a daughter of one of the members of the High Council. Would he really wish to see her now, of all the times? Would he ever want to see her again?

The thought hurt, bringing coolant to her optics, and she began belittling herself. Why had she not thought of this before she left? He would certainly wish she had never come, wish she had stayed home, and maybe she should have. The femme moved to step back, away from the mech she believed in, but he had already spotted her. His optics looked into her own, silence falling between them, and she froze up. She could only stare back at him, resisting the temptation to shed coolant, instead ignoring the uncertainty in her spark and stepping out of the shadows.

He did not meet her with hostility, not as she thought he would, instead smiling softly at her, and it wasn't necessary to reach out for her, because she already knew he wanted her closer. The salmon femme carefully approaching him, stopping just in front of him and kneeling down before him, her servos resting on his knees as her helm tilted back, looking up at him with a guilty expression. There was no coolant to be shed, but her sire's words resurfaced in her processor, and she tensed up as she stared at him, the energon inside of her beginning to feel like stings. Her glossa felt dry, her throat nearly closed up, but she managed to speak.

"Please forgive me, Megatronus. I did not think that they could ever be so cruel. I had hoped that the Council could redeem themselves, but..." She closed her optics and bowed her helm, swallowing any remains of her faith in the Council members, in Templar, and she felt almost empty. All her life, she had been taught that the High Council could do no wrong, that they helped everyone around them, but now, she was uncertain. Every time she looked around, she could only see suffering. Without that one, long-lasting "truth", it was hard to function. Enlightenment was necessary, she knew, but this was a belief she had grown up with. To have it proved false, by the very people that taught it to her, it hurt.

Servos wrapped around her own, and Chamomile opened her optics to look up at him. There was still irritation in his optics, but not once did he take it out on her, smile turned woeful, and her spark fell from its chamber. She shifted her weight to the back of her pedes, lip components parted to speak, but nothing came out, her words dying on her glossa. He carefully pulled her to her pedes along with him, once again towering over her as he held onto her servos, bringing them up to his cheekplates to feel her delicate digits against his face, to memorize the feeling. His optics never left hers, not as she moved her servos to touch the back of his neck, nor when she embraced him.

"You are not to blame for their actions, Chamomile. It was their decision to make, and they chose to push me away. For that," he paused, looking down to the ground out of a show of grief that caused her to pull away from the hug to stare at him, "I cannot forgive them. They have not only pushed me away, but they have pushed away the freedom that rightfully belongs to all Cybertronians, and they must learn from this mistake. I plan to expand my forces and fight, even if I would prefer not to. If war is the only way in which we can all be free, than it shall be done."

Her initial shock of hearing that he had gathered a small army melted away, replaced with a firm agreement to his words, and while she did not grin, she slipped her servos from around him and pressed them to the armor over his spark chamber. Megatronus said nothing, watching on as she leaned her forehelm above her servos and gently moved them to place her lip components over where his spark would be. Chamomile turned her helm to look back at him, sorrow clear in her optics even as she offered him a small smile.

"If there was ever a mech worthy of the title of a Prime, it is you. Your spark has only ever been good, and I cannot imagine a world without your light in it." She saw a flicker of awe in his optics, of gratitude, and her smile brightened just a bit. "Even if it is being dulled."

Megatronus did not move for a couple klicks, satisfied with holding her close to his chassis, and she was content. She would be pulled away from him when the sun rose, would be forced to pretend this never happened, but she could not allow herself to dwell on it. His servo lifted her chin to look at him, and she turned her attention to his optics, becoming lost in the bright glow of red, her throat closing up at how close he was. Without hesitation, he leaned down to press his lips to her own, optics closing as he held her closer, and she returned the kiss.

It was as though that one contact, that simple touch, served as a shot of high grade, so deliciously wrong, so sinfully perfect, that she could not get enough. It felt euphoric, and Chamomile found that her spark was coming undone, experiencing feelings she never thought could mix to create just one moment of bliss. It almost hurt to kiss him, but at the same time, he was a remedy to the stings, and she did not want to part. Yet she did, pulling back and opening her optics to look at him. He kept his optics closed, but he smiled at her before pulling her closer, holding her chassis against his and using his servos to pick her up.

She held onto him, never once letting go as his digits scratched into her armor, scraped some paint off of her as he gently poked wires without cutting them, and she felt his digit carve something into her armor. Nevertheless, Chamomile never let go of him, not throughout the entire night.

He had found out.

Somehow, just when the war was most dangerous, when he should've been focused on fighting the Decepticon forces, he had found time to learn of her secret meetings with Megatron (who had told her his new designation during their first reunion since the beginning the the war). Templar had been outraged, shouted at her as though she were a soldier instead of his child, but she had not wept. She did not lie, say she was forced to, or say that she was under any influences, because she felt no shame. She said that Megatron was his enemy, not hers, and he had grown furious. Before any real damage could be done, for he had taken to striking her, Ratchet had entered the room and told him to stop, that if he did anything more, he would not only cause her damage.

In that same evening, Chamomile had finally discovered why she was always tired, or sore, or moody, and the answer did not please her sire. It only angered him, but he stopped hitting her, he listened to her mentor's words, and she was grateful. But when he had left her after ordering that she be put under constant surveillance, she allowed herself to shed coolant. Ratchet had tried his best to comfort her, to explain to her everything that would happen, but it had been Optimus that had managed to calm her down just a little bit. He had not seen her being scolded, nor was he informed of her "treachery", but he had heard the results.

After that, she did not lay her optics on her sire, and he did not look back.

Her contact with family was dwindling, becoming less and less every solar cycle, and her only sources of friendship and care were Optimus and a femme named Elita One, whom she had met shortly after her punishment. On occasion, her medical teacher helped her when it became truly hard to deal with, but other than that, she had never felt so alone. She could not escape from the guards to speak with Megatron, to tell him what was happening to her, and it pained her. Ratchet had scolded her one too many times, saying that stressing out as much as she was could lead to miscarriage, and while she tried everything within her power to forget everything, she could not.

She had been taken from Iacon long ago and taken to another city-state, one that's name escaped her processor, but she knew it had once been great. Now, it was war-ridden, in near ruins, and the Decepticons were swarming towards where she was, where their base of operations lay. Soldiers rushed around, preparing themselves for a battle, and her guards were ushering her out, towards a secret exit in the building. Chamomile, unarmed and afraid, followed them without a protest, focusing on the task of keeping the developing sparkling safe.

Her pedes hurt after klicks of sprinting away from the falling city, fueled to keep going by the gunshots, and from the corner of her optics, she could see that some Autobot fighters were following them, perhaps for extra protectors. Among them was a mech she knew as Mirage, who may not have been tolerable, but if there was something she learned from Optimus Prime, from Megatron, it was not to wish ill upon someone during times of war, and she didn't. She hoped the war would end with little casualties, even if that meant that her sire survived. She could not hope that someone would die.

"Chamomile!"

It was Mirage, racing ahead of the soldiers and leaping in front of her, causing her to stop abruptly and shield herself from colliding with him, though it did nothing, and she toppled over him. He hurried to his pedes, standing tall in front of her, and she coughed the dust from her mouthplates, struggling to get her bearings as her optics flickered back on. Tilting her helm back, she could not believe the image before her. The former gladiator stood with an air of grace, the light gleaming off of his armor as though he was not affected by the dust. She could see the scars, the dents, and the energon on his servos. He had his cannon out, ready to fight, and his red optics glowed in the falling darkness.

"Megatron," she vented out, optics wide as she stared at him, the mech that had given her the sparkling she was carrying, and there was a whirl of emotions. Shock, affection, fear, anger (at herself, for she could not be angry with him), melancholy. Her processor worked to understand everything in her spark, to calm down, but she couldn't Coolant slipped out of her optics before she could even try to stop them, and she tried to stand, to approach him, but the guards were moving. They grabbed her and pulled her to her pedes, pushing her away from him, from the battle, so she could only reach out for him.

A memory flashed in her processor, from when Orion had carried her away from him, but this was different. This would truly be the last time she could ever see beloved, her final chance to bid him farewell, and nothing would stop her. She called out his designation, fighting against their hold on her and shouting for him, and he looked after her, before Autobots attacked him and his forces. Chamomile wrenched herself free of their grasp for only a moment, but it was enough, and she pushed them aside to sprint towards Megatron. She managed to take some steps towards him before they reached her again, and she screamed.

He seemed to come alive then, fighting back against the mechs and femmes trying to push him back, and she struggled, ignoring the guards forcefully dragging her away. She turned her helm to glare at one of the mechs holding her, and she viciously attacked him, using her elbow to deliver a blow to his faceplates, and he collapsed to his knees, letting go of her to hold his face. Taking the opportunity to break free, she frantically ran for the Leader of the Decepticons, who was hurrying to her as well.

Her EM field crashed into him before she did, but as soon as she was within holding range, Megatron wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her up to him, a smile of relief and clear love claiming his lip components just as she did, kissing him with a devotion that hurt her spark. Chamomile's optics closed, her servos resting on his cheekplates, and he laughed happily against her lips, holding her tightly against him, sharing her fear of being ripped apart. "Solus," he vented quietly, and for a nano-klik, the battle was forgotten. It was just them, lingering in each other's arms with the joy of seeing each other one last time.

So even as she was grabbed from behind, as she was ripped away from the battle by the guard that she had not injured, and as he threatened to tell her sire (though it was far from a threat; her sire would be told), she never took her optics off of him. The pain in her spark grew in that instant, because she knew that they would never meet again, knew that they were ending just as Solus Prime and Megatronus had, but it would hurt worse, because they were both alive. They would both be forced to live with the reality that they could never love each other, not as along as this war raged, and deep in her spark, she knew, this war would not end in a few deca-cycles. But she was willing to hope.

They would meet again.