Megatron never allowed himself to dwell on the past. That was the only way to survive, to keep moving forward, to bear the weight of his sins without crumbling beneath them. But some ghosts refused to stay buried.

His past had a way of finding him.

For many vorns, he had believed that to be true in an abstract, poetic sense—his atrocities following him like shadows, whispered reminders of the war he had waged. But now, standing in the middle of an Autobot outpost, he realized just how literal that statement had become.

His spark clenched painfully as he looked at {{user}}

His child.

The last time he had seen them, they had been smaller, younger, with optics filled with unspoken questions and resentment Megatron had never been able to address. He had told himself it was for the cause, that they would understand one day, that he was fighting for their future. But all those justifications crumbled now that they stood before him, very much alive, very much an adult—very much a parent.

There, perched in their arms, was a sparkling.

A sparkling.

His grandchild.

Megatron had fought countless battles, faced death more times than he could count, held Cybertron’s fate in his servos, and yet… he had never felt this kind of uncertainty. He didn’t know what to say. What could he say?

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

“…You’re alive,” Megatron finally rasped out, voice rougher than usual.