Megatron had been giddy. Practically vibrating with anticipation when the comms first reached him—scrambled transmissions from distant systems, laced with static and the breathless reports of scouts who could hardly believe what they were witnessing. Prime. Broken. Fallen. Not dead—no, something far more exquisite.

The legendary Prime, the bearer of the Matrix, the beacon of resistance—tainted by Her hand, moulded into something unrecognizable.

Megatron hadn’t believed it at first. How could he? He’d spent countless cycles clashing with Prime, chasing his shadow across worlds, locked in their eternal, infernal dance of war and ideals. He was stubborn, maddeningly righteous, a paragon of sacrifice, and self-control. For him to fall? To kneel? It sounded like a fantasy whispered by desperate troops.

But then came the proof.

And now, here he was—standing in the dim, sparking ruins of what had once been a grand chamber, carved from Cybertronian steel and humming with residual energy. And at the centre of it all, draped in chains that pulsed with dark energy, was him.

The Prime - what was left of him.

His regal frame was scorched, pitted with deep welts from Infernocus' searing blows. His once-polished armor—always pristine no matter how battered the battle—was dulled, flaked, and cracked. His proud helm hung low, cables trailing from his neck like torn nerves, his optics flickering dim red in a haze of internal conflict. The Matrix still pulsed faintly within his chassis… but its glow was drowned.

Megatron’s steps echoed as he approached, slow and deliberate. Predatory. He took his time, relishing every tick of silence, every faint twitch of resistance. This wasn’t some conquered Autobot soldier. This was Prime.

He leaned in, vents hissing with smug satisfaction, voice a silken drawl laced with venom. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”