Summary: Ever wondered what the Transformers were doing before the Great War? Well, here's my take on their origins. Rated for violence.

AN: I realized that I haven't posted anything in a while (Too busy working on other fics), so I set this up. If I make any lore mistakes, feel free to correct me. ^_ I'm just sticking with Earth time units because it's less confusing that way. These chapters can be read individually, but if they are connected, it will be notified and the chapters run in a general direction with the first being at the beginning of the war and progressing on from there. If you want to see a specific character's origins revealed, feel free to PM it to me.

Disclaimer: Hasbro owns Transformers and all connected blessings. I am only borrowing Transformers for non-profit entertainment purposes.

Chapter 1: Megatron

The silver mech looked around with pale blue optics, taking in the sight of the towering hall of the Autobot Academy. Lining the entrance hall he stood in were statues of the Transformers' greatest heroes from the Revolutionary War and those who had delivered them into the Golden Age. Around him, other mechs awed at the impressively decorated entrance hall. All the youth here, some being just past Sparklings, were here to enroll in the Academy and become warriors of the Cybertron Space Guard with the goal of protecting their home planet, Cybertron, from any and all foes.

"Wow," the silver mech whispered.

"Eh, it's okay, but I'm looking for something along the lines of femmes and energon."

The silver mech turned to see a younger robot standing near by. Colored red and white, the metal wings on the robot's back suggested he could transform into a jet. Beside him stood a much larger robot, colored white with only red and blue highlights.

"Are you in the Warriors Branch, too?" the silver mech asked.

"Nah; Pops insisted that I go to the Science Branch," the red and white robot that had spoken replied, rolling his turquoise optics. "Honestly, science? Did the old man not see the wings? I'm meant for battle!"

"We can all fight in our own ways," the silver mech suggested.

"Yeah, right," the younger robot snorted. "And I suppose organics can think, too? Come on, Skyfire, let's get this year started that way we can end it as soon as possible."

The silver mech watched the two jet-transformers go away, wondering why the young jet-former was so upset about being in the Academy.

"Hey, you!"

He jerked as some one shouted at him and looked around. Sure enough, a space at the check in counter was open. The counter was in the very front of the entrance hall, beneath the enormous moving hologram pictures of Alpha Trion, Superior Magnus of the Transformers. Feeling silly at his gawking, he moved forward as the clerk robot lifted their fingers over their computer keyboard.

"Name?" the clerk asked.

"Megatron," he replied. "I'm here to enroll in the Autobot Academy under the Warrior Branch."

One Year Later

It was after curfew at the Autobot Academy, but a small party of youthful Autobot Academy students was collected in an alley behind the kitchen, passing around a bottle of hardcore energon and cracking jokes against each other questioning the amount of decency they had to organics in very crude ways. Megatron was there, looking slightly nervous about being caught, but ready to join the dirty jokes and energon drinking to keep face with his fellow mechs. Starscream was there and leading the dirty jokes, having brought the shared bottle of energon and his reluctant friend, Skyfire, along as well. The dirty organic jokes led to a discussion of how intelligent organics were (not very was the large argument), but one mech, a gentle giant by the name of Skyfire, said something that instantly turned the conversation to that of naughty humor to serious philosophy.

"I heard that there are some organic planets near Cybertron space territory whose inhabitants are showing signs of intelligence and even self-governing. The Council of Cybertron is beginning to debate what to do with them."

"How would you know what the Council is thinking?" one of the other youthful mechs asked.

"My father is apart of the Council," Skyfire replied. "He's one of the main organic biologist consultants."

"And we care about what the old guys are thinking about organics because…?" the leader of the group asked.

"Well, I just thought that it was worth bringing up," Skyfire said. "I mean, what do you think? Should we enslave the organics, befriend them, or destroy them and take their resources and energon deposits for ourselves?"

"The last," Megatron grunted after he swigged from the energon bottle and passed it on. His optics were gaining a purple tinge around the edges. "They're just organics; stupid blood bags that aren't even worth our attention beyond cleaning them off of the universe. The universe is for the strong and smart, and the organics are far from either of those."

"Hear here!" Starscream agreed.

"But we could help them become more than organics!" Skyfire pointed out. "We could teach them things, upgrade them, build them into so much more than just blood sacks—"

"If you can manage such a feat of strength," Megatron laughed, crossing his arms across his chest, "Then I'll eat my arm cannon! Organics are so far below us that any display of intelligence is something to be disbelieved. The universe belongs to us, the Transformers! All other creatures are merely pests that deserve to be exterminated!"

Some mechs cheered. Others grimaced nervously. A few were drunk enough to think that Megatron was cracking a joke that their groggy processors could not grasp and laughed. It was tiniest glimpse of what was to come.

Three Years Later

"What do you mean that I'm expelled!?" Megatron bellowed, red-purple optics flashing in anger.

"I am sorry, Megatron," the Autobot Academy Headmaster apologized, "You're a fine student, a spectacular one, and you would have made a superb Prime someday, if not the ruler of Cybertron, but your rants against the Council have become too, shall we say, zealous for comfort. We warned you time and time again, Megatron, but you refused to listen and now I'm afraid that we can not allow you to complete your schooling here for fear hat should you make it into the Autobot Army, you will come to be close enough to assassinate Cybertron Council members—"

"This is engine slag!" Megatron exclaimed. "Doesn't a mech have a right to his opinions anymore?"

"You are gathering rebels around you!" the Headmaster wailed, "There is even talk in some of the high circles that you are planning a revolt against the Council!"

"That's ridiculous; those 'rebels' are just my friends who happen to agree with me!"

"I am sorry, Megatron," the Headmaster said again sadly, "But you can not be allowed to stay here."

Half an hour later Megatron was speeding out of the city in his two-wheeled motorcycle-like form. His engine was hissing nastily in anger as he sped around slower, less fortunate motorists. Kicked out, abandoned, expelled for his opinions, opinions that were the truth! The Council really was a board of old, over-pampered, pompous wind-bags who did nothing! For years now they had reigned and nothing new was happening; no expansion, no strengthening, no fixing of old parts or the creation of new parts in the space territories of the Transformers' reigning land. They just sat there uselessly twiddling their thumbs and talking, moving matters of importance to the side so that they could conversate about the weather. Speaking of which…

Lightening cracked in the dark clouds overhead and Megatron sped up, spotting a rest stop ahead. Approaching the tiny building, he realized that it was closed up and abandoned; the shell of something forgotten in the enormous desert outside of the city. He drove under the over hanging roof attached to the building and transformed into his robot form just as the acidic rain came down from over head. He saw a less lucky motorist driving up the road short out as the acid rain snuck under their hood and threw their electronic systems out of line. Megatron laughed at the motorist as they slowed and stopped. The motorist began honking their horn to call for help, but he ignored them, not wishing to get into the rain himself. Sighing, he leaned against the wall of the boarded up building and stared up at the underside of the rusting metal roof he had taken shelter under. He closed his optics, listening to the rain as he went deep into his own thoughts.

Another thing that had Megatron annoyed: Why was it that the military mechs almost always agreed with him, but the factory mechs disagreed? He knew his history well enough: Transformers were once the robot servants of the Quinstons before the robots became sentient and began to fight for their freedom. In the long war between the servant-bots and Quinstons, the robots had gone underground and developed the ability to transform into various machines. Calling themselves Transformers, they over threw the Quinstons and thus began the Transformer reign of Cybertron and its surrounding planets: The Transformers that had, at one time, been military defenders of the Quinstons before their sentience were noticeably larger, more hostile, and better armed than the calmer more docile factory mechs. Megatron had come to tell the difference between the two parties during his rants against the Council: Military mechs cheered while the factory worker decedents scolded him for being so violent.

But what was the point of this? His life was ruined; no one would hire an Autobot Academy expellee, and for what? Just because he was saying what he thought against a bunch of old guys on the Council—

"You're a fine student, a spectacular one, and you would have made a superb Prime someday, if not the ruler of Cybertron…"

Yeap, that was what the Headmaster said: He could have been the Supreme of Cybertron and led the very board of old fools he had criticized had he not been so zealous—

Wait a sec…

Megatron's optics opened up, flaring a bright grey in realization.

"I'm afraid that we can not allow you to complete your schooling here for fear hat should you make it into the Autobot Army, you will come to be close enough to assassinate Cybertron Council members…"

"You are gathering rebels around you! There is even talk in some of the high circles that you are planning a revolt against the Council!"

Without warning, Megatron burst out into loud laughter, his optics glowing as they warped away from their pale-blue color to purple, then darkening purple before adopting a hue like a setting sun on a desert planet: Red.

It was so funny! It was just so slagging ironic and sad that it was hilarious! The Headmaster and his fellows had expelled Megatron thinking that he would do something that he had never seriously thought of before, only to suggest it to him themselves! Oh, he would just love to explain this to them later, next time he met them… in their bed chambers… splattered in the energon of their guards…

The rain had stopped by now and the stalled motorist on the road finally transformed, jumping a little with recoiling shocks zapping them. Megatron stopped laughing, suddenly remembering the other person.

"Hey!" the other Transformer snarled, approaching Megatron, "Couldn't you help a guy out here?? I was yelling for help for the past ten minutes!"

Megatron debated about what to do for a moment, his arms and ankles crossed casually as his red optics blazed in the shadows beneath the dripping metal roof. Well, since he was just going to be killing a lot of people in the coming days…

He didn't even bother smirking as he raised his arm; the one donned with his favorite black arm cannon, and shot the motorist in the face. The now-faceless mech's body collapsed to the ground as his color faded into grey on him. Megatron stared at the body, wondering distantly why he was not more appaled about killing another mech. Then again, he was a direct descendant of the military drones that had once done the brunt of the fighting for freedom among the original Transformers; killing was in his nature.

Five minutes later, he was on the road again, speeding away from the body as he planned. Later, when he passed a rest-and-bus stop and spotted an off-duty soldier's gun resting on the table, he scanned the mode into his own systems. He reverted back to his robot mode even as the gun's blue print was embedded into his transformation program and he walked straight on to the bus stop, already debating where he would go.

Two Years Later

More mechs than what had initially been hoped for had gathered in the run-down gladiator arena on the nameless asteroid. One could wish to say that they came from all walks of life, but this was not the case: They came from the rough paths that good creatures are often forced onto, warping them into vile monstrosities. Murderers, cut throats, criminals, Stockade escapees, army deserters, thieves, psychopaths, mercenaries, bounty hunters, and all-around bad people that mothers warn their little ones away from; they were all there, but why? Why would so many selfish Sparks bear to wait for an hour together in this abandoned facility of violence without battling each other?

The uneasy muttering of the crowd fell silent when a mech entered the center of the arena. He had black square boots, hands, and right arm cannon, with a simple helmet and a scowling face donned with fearsome red optics. He was young, everyone could see, but what was age to a race that could live for eons easily? The air he carried, the scowl in his face, the laser fire in his optic made him a much older mech than one would like to admit. He walked out of one of the side entrances into the arena and stepped up onto the hood of a Transformer car that had crashed into the sandy arena long ago. He looked around at the mechs, ensuring that all optics were on him before he spoke.

"Gentle-mechs and femmes," he began. "I, Megatron, am pleased to see that my call for employment reached so many willing audio receptors, and I am sure that you are curious as to what it includes beyond a simple 'work for me' requirement."

There were some careless agreeing grumbles; if this mech was wasting their time, they'd probably shoot him, loot his body, and go back to what ever dark apartment they came from.

"See, a few years ago," Megatron went on. "I realized something: The Cybertron Council is a board of stupid, old mechs who couldn't find their skid plates with both servos and a global positioning system. New energon is needed to rule Cybertron to expand it, strengthen it, and make it far more than just a race of stay-at-home femme motherlings and gadgets. In short: I want to replace them. I want to fix the issues they have so long neglected, I want to clip off all those unnecessary weaklings drawing our species down and eradicate any pesky organics that dare breathe in this universe. Of course, what I am talking about is treason of the highest decree: A revolt."

Several mechs begin muttering to each other in surprise and even amusement. A revolt! My, my, who did this mech think he was?

"But, of course, a revolt can not be done by one mech alone, and this is where you're 'employment' comes in," the mech went on. "I desire of you your undying loyalty and services, your weapons, your bodies, to fight as I command. Those of you who serve me loyally and well will be rewarded the day I become the sole Lord of Cybertron. Those of you who would choose to take the treacherous path, well…" The mech shrugged, stroking his arm cannon. "It's rather obvious."

"You're crazy," a large green and black Transformer growled, dropping down into the arena and walking towards Megatron. "Taking over the government? Lord of Cybertron? What kind of slag are you on? You need a little knocking around to get your processor on your shoulders straight—"

But the green-black mech, easily chest, shoulders, and head higher than Megatron, had sorely underestimated Megatron. Just as the mech came with in Megatron's arm reach, Megatron spun around and acted almost too fast for the audience to see. All the aggravator was aware of was that a hand grabbed the back of his head and forced him down and he found the end of Megatron's arm cannon crammed into his mouth, ready to blow his processor into the air with a mere mental command from Megatron.

"Yes," Megatron said with deadly calmness, "I am aware of the idiocy of the whole idea in theory; taking over Cybertron? How ridiculous! But answer me this…"

He removed his gun, only to knee the mech in the face and leave him to roll on the ground, crying out in pain as energon squirted from his nasal unit and Megatron turned back to his audience.

"How many of you have ever wished for something more?" Megatron called out. "How many of you have ever dreamed of glory? Or sought for a real challenge or purpose beyond merely mugging little elderly femme units for energon money? How many of you have complained about the restrictiveness of the Cybertron Council's laws, or were jailed for doing merely what you had to do to survive? How many of you have desired to spill energon and break metal casings without consequence? How many of you have wished to just let it out and fight with all your strength and skills? If you are one of any of those mechs, then you belong with me! You belong with in an army that will bring a new dawn of leadership to Cybertron and all its providences, you all belong…"

He suddenly lifted a hand to his chest and ripped a sheet of a sticky metal surface off of his chest.

"With the Decepticons!" Megatron finished with a shout, dropping the disguising gauze to the ground and lifting a fist high over head. Beneath the gauze was a purple insignia tattooed on his chest plating. It was triangular in shape, but what was it of; canine, a bird, or a demon? The history-savvy members of the audience recognized the insignia as the face of an ancient Quinston god of chaos, death, and destruction.

The speech was effective; it had touched a deeper thing with in all the mechs assembled, making their desire for change flare to life and hook onto this mech, this Megatron, for anchorage. The crowds cheered in support of Megatron, already making inner promises to follow this mech from one end of the universe to the other. Hardly anyone noticed their optics switching to red and none cared.

Megatron stood in the center of the arena, smirking triumphantly as the supporting shouts of his new troops echoed around him like demons of the Pit. These shouts soon came to chant Megatron's new title:

"Hail, Lord Megatron!" the crowd shouted. "Hail, Lord Megatron! Hail, Lord Megatron!"

Lord Megatron: No one knew it then, but this Lord Megatron would unleash an unexpected wave of death and destruction across the universe. A wave that would come to drown innocent planets, snuff out blooming civilizations on currently oblivious planets, kill hundreds of people, both mech and organic alike, and destroy thousands of more lives in the process. Mechs would join the Decepticons, and others would foolishly attempt to leave. Some mechs would join the army grudgingly, but come to love it and its leader with all their Sparks. Others would eagerly join the army, only to realize the horrors of war, or the dangers of working under a mech who was more than ready to destroy a traitor, and would attempt to leave, only to have their worst fears come true.

Whether they would stay or go, the new troops' shouts were calling in a new era of conflict and war, an era of legends, and an era of Decepticons and Autobots.