"Was it really a matter of chance? It is commonly said that chance is blind; we say that chance peers out at us with a thousand eyes...[but] if he felt the thousand eyes fixed upon him, he could not understand their meaning." (Amos, "Where the Jackals Howl")

# # #

The shrieks of Cylas rippled in Megatron's audio receptors and the great mech turned away from the sound, not in pity, but in disgust. There would be no pity for the mangled life form that sullied what was left of Breakdown's Cybertronian frame. With a soft rasp, Knock Out rose from his crouch and moved to follow the Vehicon troopers as they proceeded to drag Cylas toward his inescapable fate.

"Doctor… a moment." Megatron's voice beckoned to Knock Out and, accordingly, he answered. The swell of the promise of the work ahead of him lightened the red mech's pedfalls, turning his approach to the Decepticon warlord into a saunter accentuated by the occasional twirl of his beloved prod.

"Yes, my master?" Honey enthusiasm dripped from Knock Out's response. He was eager, so eager, to avenge Breakdown's dissection upon the hapless and misguided human. Megatron allowed himself to drink such enthusiasm in, taking it in to the dregs, recognizing such a sentiment might become a rarity among the Decepticon ranks within the next few cycles. The once gladiator's frame heaved an exvent of air before addressing his medical officer.

"Cylas is yours to do with as you see fit, Doctor." Megatron's intonation resurrected Knock Out's venomous grin.

"My everlasting gratitude to you, my master." He purred back.

"Knock Out..." The Decepticon lord's intonation became thick, black with heavy emotions. The startling difference froze the grin right off Knock Out's face. "… When you have finished your experiments, I order you to dispose of what is left of Cylas. I want no trace left of that abomination."

"Oh… o-of course, Megatron. Not a trace left." His stride decidedly more sober, Knock Out began to retreat towards the safe haven of his medical bay.

But even as Knock Out departed, Megatron's voice haunted him. "Oh and, Knock Out? Do not linger overlong in your task. It would be unwise to try my patience in this matter."

When the doors sighed shut behind the red mech, Megatron was more than grateful for the quiet that descended upon the bridge. Alone now, except for his most faithful of followers. In a rare show of affection, Megatron approached the Decepticon spymaster, lifting one massive hand to rest, but for a fleeting moment, upon the other's shoulder plate. "Soundwave…" The Deception Warlord's timber was low and mournful. "My one true ally… most devoted follower… I wonder if you will continue to follow me in the days to come…?"

Resigned, Megatron stepped away toward the view screen, idly flicking it on to gaze upon the Earth suspended within the ocean of starlight beneath the Nemesis. Somewhere below them on such an unremarkable world, a planet who didn't hold a breath of beauty compared to the silver splendour of Cybertron, there were the Autobots. More than that, somewhere on that insignificant blue globe was Optimus Prime… his long lost brethren… age old nemesis…

Megatron couldn't help but grate his sharpened denta together, grinding the servos in his jaws together at the thought of the steady victories the Autobots had been attaining. One after another his warriors, his Decepticons, had been failing, had been pushed over the precipice of failure and down the slope of defeat. Of course, few of his Deceptions would see it that way; after all, to be a Decepticon was to be proud, stubborn and unyielding. But Megatron could see it… could see the end they were slowly spiralling down into.

The once champion of the gladiatorial pits of Kaon fisted his hands, bringing them down upon one of the many consoles that illuminated the bridge. He felt it fiercely then, the press of time, hemming him in, whispering doubt and darkness into his processors. Pride had led him to this path of destruction those many eons ago, stubbornness had kept him there, but now not even his gladiatorial instincts could force him to hold this course. Because beneath those urges to fight, to oppose, lurked an even fiercer desire to survive. If the long war-torn eons had taught Megatron anything, it was to survive.

That… that was why he would do this: to survive. Because if he didn't do something—this drastic something—he would condemn not just himself, but all Decepticon kind to damnation and deactivation at the hands of the Autobots. Long had the signs been written for him to see, the words carved into the shrapnel from countless fallen mechs, running in rivulets of energon spilled: this war would end, but it would be the Autobots who would end it.

Why? Because of Prime. It always came back to Prime. He was why the Autobots would never give up in the face of overwhelming odds, he was why there would always be another mech to answer the call to battle, and he was why all of them were ready to give their very sparks for the Autobot cause. Would it were Megatron could say as much for all of those under his command.

It was that devotion that doomed his followers to failure, why they had been loosing relic after relic to the Autobots. His Decepticons were fierce fighters, true, and they were numerous, but each had a breaking point, each their own agenda, each their limit of loyalty. Prime's followers had no such restrictions hemming in their efforts and endeavours.

Optimus Prime… Orion Pax… my once-brethren… ah, what I have done to make you hate me so… and what you have done to incur such self-same hate in me… The memory rose and nipped at him. Orion Pax… it taunted him with the name, the ghost rising to mock him with all that he had lost… or maybe not; no, perhaps not lost… merely forgotten.

The old searing ache filled Megatron's spark at the thought of the Prime, of the connection he had once shared, that bond of brotherhood he had lost, and just as it began to threaten to overwhelm him, he acted. "Soundwave… put the ship on lock-down, no one is to leave for any reason. Recall our mining troops to the Nemesis."

Closing his optics, Megatron then sent his voice, amplified through his ship, across every Decepticon communication channel. "Effective immediately, I am issuing lock-down protocols. No one may leave the ship for any reason. Furthermore, from this moment on, I am issuing a cease-fire. Any Decepticon who violates the cease-fire and who engages an Autobot in battle, will answer to me."

As words withered into silence, Soundwave's determined presence pulled at Megatron. The great silver mech spoke to the other without turning. "This… this is where it ends. On my terms, Soundwave; not theirs, not his. This is the way, the only way, our race survives; for the good of our kind." …Because if I do not stray from this path, we will battle ourselves into extinction, and we will rip ourselves into nothingness the same way these inept humans do.

Monolithic Soundwave regarded him as he navigated the ship into a lower atmospheric orbit.

"Keep them in order, until I return." How old Megatron felt then, how beaten, how eon-burdened he was traversing those dark corridors through the ship. Taking the shortest path to the upper deck where he could take to the skies, all was a blur, a diminished shadow to him. Was this how Optimus felt? Was this the darkness that always seemed to dim the other's optic, to sober and sombre any joy the other may have?

Mere cycles ago, Megatron could have punched down such feelings behind his wall of hatred, beneath his determination to see each and every Autobot deactivated, and his desire to rip Optimus' spark out with his bare hands. And now…?

What ill fate chance had dealt him in this moment, yet he had to take it, to risk whatever opportunity he could to ebb the flow of energon-shed. So it was, as Megatron soared high above the Earth, he turned his thoughts, his very spark, to a ground-bound mech, the one mech who mattered, the mech who could give him that glimpse of a chance.

During Cybertron's golden age, Megatronus had forged a bond of brotherhood with Orion Pax. When Optimus Prime had taken reign over Pax, and Megatronus had hardened into Megatron, that bond rapidly atrophied and then decayed, choked into silence by hatred.

Time marched ruthlessly down upon both titans until at long last, for those brief and glorious cycles, Orion Pax had been resurrected and once again Megatron remembered what it was to feel the overpowering need to defend and protect something… someone.

That bond of brotherhood was still there, ashen and cold, but lingering on still. Megatron turned to it now, focusing that need for his brethren upon on that bond, centring the feeling of what difference he called for through their all but tepid connection.

Hear me Orion, hear me Optimus, hear me my brother…

###

And hear him, the Prime did.

Miles away, beneath ancient rock and stone, amidst his Autobots, Optimus felt his once brother's call; he felt the ache, the desperation, and determination. The red and blue mech grew still, blue optics turned dull and distant as he focused upon the fragile connection.

"Optimus?" At first the concern was distant, hesitant. But as the Prime remained fixed, unmoving, Ratchet was quick to understand that something was wrong, very, very wrong. Their Prime would never cease to speak, to move, mid conversation unless something was amiss. "Optimus!" This time his voice carried over to the others within the silo, wresting their attention toward where Ratchet stood before Optimus.

Hear me Orion…

"Everything okay, Ratch?" Jack called from where he lingered beside Arcee.

"Something wrong?" Bulkhead echoed the human's concern as the group timidly shifted toward them.

Hear me, Optimus…

Unable to elucidate what was wrong, but only that something was, Ratchet kept his optics upon his leader, leaving their questions hanging in the sterile air. "Optimus." Ratchet's timber grew sharper in its insistence. "Optimus! Answer me!"

Hear me, my brother…

It was the quiet brush of Arcee's hand against his forearm that at last drew Optimus out of his impromptu and unintended stasis. He blinked slowly, refocusing his optics with great effort. The shock and forcefulness of the sudden communication from Megatron had played havoc with his systems and caught him completely by surprise. Lethargically, he willed his systems to resume normal function, shifting his servos. In doing so, he noticed for the first time how all of his Autobots had surrounded him.

There was another touch, this time at his opposite shoulder. Optimus looked over to find Ratchet beside him, ever attentive. "Optimus… can you hear me? Are you alright?"

"I am… forgive me if I startled you," Optimus answered slowly, still searching for equilibrium in the aftermath of Megatron's sudden communication.

"You froze… you wouldn't answer us… it was like you couldn't hear us…" Smokescreen attempted to explain.

"What happened?" Arcee pressed.

Recognizing the impact his words would have, Optimus chose them with great care. "I have received a message…"

"From the Primes?" Ratchet asked.

"From… Megatron."

Ratchet huffed. "Impossible. When you returned to us, when all of your memories were restored, you lost that ability to communicate with Megatron."

Optimus tipped his helm downward in agreement. "So I thought."

"What did he want?" Arcee's words had a harsher, unforgiving edge now.

"It is unclear," Optimus shook his head once. "There were no words… only an exchange of feelings, of intent…"

"Well, what did he seem to want then?" Jack's voice sounded far closer to his audio receptor than he would have expected. Optimus' optics flitted over to see the human youth perched on the platform beside Ratchet's work station; he hadn't seen Jack move up there. Then again, it appeared there were many things he had missed within the last few moments.

"That, too, I am afraid, is uncertain."

Querulously, Ratchet's voice rose again. "Well, what in the name of Primus did you answer back?"

"I have not yet."

"So you, what, just left him hanging? Wait… can he hear us now, through you?" There was no disguising the note of alarm in Smokescreen's voice.

"That's not how that works," Miko shot back, she tapped the top of her head with a closed fist. "Optimus can only hear Megatron in here. In his head, it's like a comm. channel thingy, but only different. They can talk that way because they were brothers."

Smokescreen's optics shifted to become large and round. "They're what?!"

Acree ignored them and stepped directly before her Prime, her leader, her friend. "Optimus… are you going to answer him?"

Movements steady and certain, Optimus started toward the far side of the room, toward the tunnel that would yield to the open roads beyond their base. Pausing before the arch of the passage, he turned to regard his Autobots. "If my suspicions are correct… then I find I must answer Megatron's call. Something has irrevocably changed for him to attempt to communicate with me in this manner, and for good or for ill, I must find out what it is."

"Optimus…" Arcee called to him, her delicate features were shaded in worry and doubt. "It could be a trap."

"Yes, such had occurred to me. Nevertheless, I must answer him. I must give him that chance."

And so she, along with the rest of the Autobots, had watched Optimus transform and then depart into the evening waiting beyond the confines of their base. Arcee couldn't describe why, but a sudden wave of despair filled her when he turned the corner and was lost from view. Instinct told her it was a trap, that this so called desperate communication from Megatron must be yet another machination of the Decepticon Warlord.

Around her, the others' voices murmured in hushed conversations, speculating what Megatron could possibly want—Miko and Jack were endeavouring to explain the connection between the two faction leaders to a still astonished Smokescreen—but Arcee heard little of it. Instead, her processor held a vice like grip onto the fact that she had just let her leader, her friend, walk right into a potential trap.

Logically, rationally she knew that Optimus could hold his own in any battle, how well she knew there were few who could ever hope to outmatch the Prime in battle. But such knowledge did little to abate her fears.

Just a handful of cycles ago they had come so very close to losing Optimus forever. When he had lost his memories, Arcee knew how near Megatron had been to swaying Optimus over to the Decepticons' forever. Few were the chinks in Optimus' armour; the Prime's connection to Megatron—Orion's connection to Megatronus—was one of them. Forever bound to his code of honour, his unwillingness to turn a deaf audio receptor upon the whisper of hope that Megatron could be redeemed, could be saved, Optimus would always, always give the Decepticon Warlord that chance.

Not for the first time, Arcee feared such would be Optimus' undoing, his downfall. And if it was… well, she would be damned if she was going to sit idly by. Decided, Arcee crossed the wide-open room with brisk and terse ped-falls. Just as she was about to slide into her terrestrial guise, Ratchet's voice reached out to her.

"Arcee, where are you going?" The older medic kept his tones soft and subdued, as if he did not want the others to hear.

Grimly she turned to face the red and white bot as he approached her. "I am going to defend my friend. If it is a trap, then I'm not going to let Optimus face it alone."

For a moment, she believed Ratchet was going to object, to order her to remain at base, to let Optimus handle the situation. Instead, he set his jaw and nodded his helm once, tersely. "Optimus did not order any of us to remain here…" It was as much of a blessing from Ratchet as she was going to get. "Arcee… if something should happen… I can have the ground bridge up faster than you can transform." Which meant that he would be tracking her signal, though he doubtlessly was monitoring Optimus' position as well.

It was a comforting thought. "Thanks, Ratch."

A shade of relief coursed through her aching spark as she completed her transformation and her front tyre hit the ground. Engines reverberating off of the halls, it took her but moments to reach the open road, smooth military grade concrete yielding to pavement. The sun had already set, the stars emerging to yawn above her when Arcee at last found them. Far out, among the rocky desert expanse, it was hard to miss them. In the skeletal moonlight, Megatron's silver frame shone harsh and cutting, while Optimus' colourful hues were cooled under the liquid starlight.

So strange it was to see these two ancient titans walking side by side; the former clearly the product of an ageless existence of war, while the other a testament of strength and endurance. Quietly now, Arcee drew closer into audio receptor range, wondering as she moved in the shadows, if the glaring differences between the two had been this way during Cybertron's golden age.