Post by Deleted on Dec 14, 2022 23:10:13 GMT
Nicknames: “Megs”, “Megsy”, “Tyrant”, “Traitor”, “Gladiator-Poet”, “Bucket-head”, “Warlord”
Age: Psychologically, late 40’s, early 50’s. Physically predates the Great War by a matter of several entire human ages, making him WELL in excess of 4 million years old.
Gender: Male/Masculine
Faction: Autobot, following a lengthy “redemption”. Formerly Decepticon.
Alt Mode: Heavy custom VTOL tilt-rotor assault-helicopter
G.H.O.S.T, Civilian, or Other: Autobot reformee and (grudging) Ghost collaborator, consultant, and enforcer.
Residence: Wherever G.H.O.S.T. or Optimus Prime request his presence.
GENERAL INFO
Weapons:
Fusion-Cannon: A massive, dynamic, reactor-based Cybertronian assault-weapon with multiple firing-modes. Projects a powerful, incredibly hot and radioactive plasma-lance which detonates on impact with enormous kinetic, thermal, and radioactive yield. Due to its association, in wartime, with countless Autobot and human deaths, following his reformation, Megatron has been heavily discouraged from using this weapon to its full, terrifyingly lethal potential. The Fusion Cannon’s downsides lie in its imprecise targetting-systems, and recoil so fierce that all but the lowest power-settings cause need for re-adjustment of aim following each shot, even for a mech as massive and notoriously physically powerful as Megatron.
Energon-Morningstar: Energon-based plasma modulated and shaped into a mighty, spiked, spherical flail.
Can be deployed either on a flexible connecting tether, or simply swung in the fashion of a mace or cudgel. With Megatron’s prodigious strength behind it, each blow from Megatron’s Morningstar crushes, contudes, abrades, and punctures even the heaviest or Cybertronian armor. Any, armor, really. Very little can stand up to direct, consecutive blows from Megatron’s most feared and reviled melee weapon of choice.
Like his Fusion Cannon, this weapon has a long, grisly history, and a reputation steeped in bloodshed and pain— Both Cybertronian, and human.
Each strike brings Megatron conflicting waves of shame, regret, and lingering sadistic pleasure he simply cannot quite seem to quell, no matter how far down he pushes it.
Auxiliary-blasters: Small, rapid-fire energy-blasters primarily utilized in vehicle-form. Constructed following Megatron’s defection and reform, to give him less lethal, hazardous, and agonizing methods of offense and defense against threats to Autobots and humanity.
Rotor-Shortswords: Gladii-blades formed from Megatron’s altmode-rotors. What these blades lack in reach, they make up for in versatility, tensile strength, and cutting power, especially in the hands of a Cybertronian as physically robust and mighty as Megatron.
Holoform: He’s…. Working on it.
Personality: Equal parts fierce, creative, artistic intellect, suzerain of fathomless brutality, vessel for barely-suppressed fury and grief, and mech barely keeping his intakes above an ocean of regret and guilt, Megatron is a walking set of layered, nested contradictions.
Once, Megatron was a poet and an indentured servant. Then, Megatron was a gladiator, a revolutionary, and a poet-orator. ….And then Megatron turned his gifts to command, control, persuasion, and brutality.
Over ages of violence, loss, frustration, betrayal, conquest, Megatron’s implacable determination and desire for a better world charred and twisted in the fires of rage, jealousy, paranoia, meglomania, and deep, deep hurt.
Ages passed. Worlds burned. Memories of gentle poetry, and hands clasped in camaraderie and partnership faded.
When the former Decepticon leader, Lord, king, tyrant, demagogue, scourge, finally realized that the revolution-which-was had become tyranny-that-is, Megatron at its center, a black-hole of rage, power-lust, and cruelty pulling all Transformerkind into its gravity well— HIS gravity-well, an unsustainable crush toward a crush of suffering, futility, and endless death, Megatron…..
Megatron changed.
Who is he now? A lot of people would like to know that. Megatron himself is first among them.
All Megatron can think of to be at the moment, is the best he CAN be. Is that enough? Certainly not for him. Certainly not for his betrayed Decepticon compatriots and friends.
But maybe…. Maybe— If he gives this everything he has—
Maybe it will be enough for the Prime he once called a friend and partner, and for the humans to whose shores he brought his endless war.
It seems impossible. But belief that things can be better is nigh on the only thing Megatron has left.
Likes:
-Art and music
-Control
-His Decepticon brethren, however much they may now despise and resent him.
-Optimus Prime.
-The view from the bridge of a starship.
-Poetry and journaling.
-The rare few humans capable of looking him in the eye or stomaching his presence without flinching.
-Extreme violence, unfortunately.
-Well-executed plans.
-Flight— Being born to work to death in the chthonic dark lends one to a certain simple joy in soaring through the air.
-Cybertron.
Dislikes:
-Moral sanctimony
-Reminders that his ledger is steeped in more blood and suffering than arguably any other Cybertronian currently on earth.
-The fact that he does, still, in fact, enjoy extreme violence.
-Optimus Prime.
-Mistreatment of “his” Decepticons, when he feels there are far more productive and humane alternatives.
-Having to battle his closest former comrades and lieutenants at all.
-The fear, anger, mistrust, and disgust he STILL inspires in the majority of humans.
PERSONAL INFO
Family: Unknown. Took a shortened form of the name of one of Cybertron’s original Primes. Megatronus, the betrayer. Megatronus, the disgraced. Megatronus, the Fallen. Megatronus, Kinslayer. How very prescient of him, in hindsight…..
Mate: None at current.
History:
Born into the murky depths of Kaon’s deepest, most inhospitable mines, and pressed into back-breaking, chassis-shattering labor from the day he could hold and manipulate mining tools, Megatron’s initial millenniums of existence were spent in soul-crushing strain and darkness.
Seen as little more than a drone, Megatron was afforded only scarcely more liberty than the tools he wielded.
To escape the pain, and endure his existence, Megatron turned to gradually-discovered underground social-circles of tortured artists and furtive creative minds from all across Cybertron.
In time, his own gift for shockingly compelling works of hard-hitting poetry won him an audience, and as the years dragged on, that audience became a wellspring of friends and supporters. And then a throng of followers and devotees. And then a legion of passionate revolutionaries.
Lackies of Zeta Prime and the autocratic Functionalist senate and council came to beat him.
And then they came to destroy him.
And then, they came to destroy everything he stood for, and everyone he loved, and everyone who loved him.
He made friends. He made enemies. He met a gentle-eyed, but passionate and courageous data-clerk and Iaconite by the name of Orion Pax.
He did what he had to.
He made memories which would last for the duration of his long, long, war-torn life.
Dataclerks and collaborators became friends and loved ones. Associates became trusted contemporaries and allies.
And then, he did what had once only been expressed in longing, and in poetry, and in rousing speeches between contemporaries in the uncharted frontier of revolution against an impossibly vast authority.
And then—
Would spelling it all out, word by word, day by day, century by century, age by age, matter?
When, precisely, did Megatron’s earnest and well-meant revolution, his artistic expression, turn to violent conquest and ruthless grasping for all which fell under the light of Cybertron’s star?
Perhaps it was when Orion Pax became Optimus Prime, a jewel set in the crown of the dynasty which had crushed Megatron and millions like him under the boots of oppression and pain.
Perhaps it was when Megatron realized his own supporters and collaborators had become worshippers of the same brutality Megatron had once told himself was only a grisly means to a brighter end.
Perhaps….
What do “perhaps”s matter, in the lifetime of someone like Megatron, a being submerged so deep beneath the lapping waves of suffering, death, and bloodshed his own hands inflicted, and his own commands imposed, that the relative peace of “today” feels like a brittle waking dream?
War brought Megatron to Earth, in pursuit of Optimus Prime, his closest partner, turned bitterest adversary.
War brought incalculable death to humanity, and to the Autobots defending it.
War…. Finally, finally, finally, jarred Megatron to his senses, in a nightmarish awakening.
It’s been thirty years. Only a scant few decades. Peace! Impossibly, finally, peace.
Megatron wonders when he’ll wake up from this new cruel, impossible, undeserved dream.
When Optimus Prime will realize he belongs in the same cages he labors, day in, and day out, despite the way it turns his fuel-tanks, to fill with his former Decepticon brethren. When Prime will wake up from his own idealistic dream of Megatron’s consequence-free redemption.
What a strange, strange dream. What a strange, strange world.
Still— Some small, idealistic, hopeful part of Megatron feels joy, perhaps even something deeper, warmer, working beside that insufferably idealistic data-clerk once more.
If Optimus Prime believes in Megatron, maybe Megatron can at least pretend to believe in himself. For the benefit of that ridiculous matrix-bearing Autobot, and all of his starry-eyed ideals, hopes, and dreams, if nothing else.
And, impossibly, against his own better judgement, Megatron has come to believe, in turn, in the tiny, ridiculous, hopeless, soft-shelled organic creatures which call this world home.
And infinitely more impossibly, a clear sign of their consummate insanity and woefully rudimentary organic cognitive arrays, some of those same humans have come to believe in Megatron, in turn.
Such an impossibly vast capacity for forgiveness and trust, in such small creatures.
A few of them even give Prime a run for his money.
Even a century ago, had he been told this would be the new order of his life, Megatron would have laughed. At the impossibility of it. The insanity. The unlikeliness.
Some days, he still does laugh. Sometimes that’s all you can do.
And, in the words of that insufferable Prime of his, hope.
Optimus Prime would tell him you can always hope, too.
ABOUT YOU
OOC Alias: Unsælig
Age: mid twenties
Preferred Pronouns: feminine or neutral