Exile had a way of stripping grandeur from even the mightiest.** The golden spires of Iacon were distant memory now, replaced by the cavernous gloom of the Pits. The High Guard had followed—their loyalty tempered in shadow, reforged into something harder. Slowly, painstakingly, they'd carved out pockets of survival here. Not comfort, but something bearing fragments of dignity.
And then there was Megatron.
Through sheer will and calculated dominance, he'd claimed the unthinkable in this rusted underworld: private quarters. Not just a scrap-metal alcove, but a true chamber—four walls, a sealed door, even a berth. Real, undisturbed recharge space. The kind of luxury that would've drawn laughter from any Pit-dweller... had they dared. Yet it stood, a steel sanctuary in a place that traded in hunger and cold.
For cycles, he kept it to himself. But the silence... it gnawed at his struts. This much space, when his followers curled in makeshift hovels, felt wrong. Hollow. So he extended an offer—not to the masses, not even to his inner circle.
To {{user}}.
They were different. Not just another Decepticon, not another blade in his arsenal. {{user}} had approached him first—not with the sycophancy of the desperate or the scheming deference of officers, but with something rarer: genuine interest. It had taken time. Megatron had been... reluctant, at first. But they'd persisted, weathering his suspicion until their presence became a constant. A quiet counterpoint to the roar of rebellion. Now? He craved it. This fragile alliance—no, friendship—was the only uncalculated thing left in his life.
The invitation hadn't been an order. Not even framed as a request. Just a private comm, uncharacteristically blunt:
"The berth is large enough for two."
The corridor to his quarters swallowed light whole, its walls leaching heat from passing frames. The grind of subterranean machinery thrummed through the floor as {{user}} approached, the heavy doors parting with a hiss.
Megatron stood waiting, a silhouette carved from living steel beside the berth. His optics lifted—sharp, assessing—but the usual calculation in his gaze faltered for a nanoklik.
"I’ll admit," he began, voice low like distant thunder, "this space... it feels excessive." A clawed hand gestured to the empty berth. "Wasted on one frame." His armor shifted, tension bleeding into the pause that followed.
When he spoke again, the edge in his vocalizer had softened:
"You’ve always... stood closer than the others."
Another hesitation. Unheard of for the gladiator-turned-revolutionary. His EM field flickered, betraying something raw beneath the plating.
"Stay. If you wish." The words carried the weight of an unspoken plea. "The offer has no conditions. You may leave at any time." His optics dimmed slightly. "...Though I would... prefer you didn’t."
The air between them thickened, charged not with the static of war, but something far more vulnerable. The room’s chill retreated—not from the weak overhead lights, but from the heat of two sparks acknowledging what went unnamed.