The worst of Megatron’s dreams isn’t a nightmare.
It isn’t a dream of Vos. It isn’t a dream of flames rising ever higher as the towers snap and topple and burn. It isn’t a dream Megatron wakes from with the smell of smoke pricking his olfactory receptors.
It isn’t a dream of Kaon overrun. It isn’t a dream of his city choked by its own smoke, the statue of Megatron at the city gates pulled down by mechs with the Autobot brand welded to their shoulders and chests.
It isn’t even a dream of the Council ascendant, of Megatron and his people battered and beaten and hauled off to the smelters, a failed insurrection crushed as a warning to any mech with dreams of rising above his station.
His worst dream is quiet and pleasant.
He lies on his berth, exhausted from a long day of battle. A young mech, red and blue plating scorched and scratched from the day’s fighting, nestles against him, optics bright.
He wakes still feeling the other’s warmth. He stirs and it fades, leaving him cold.
And he remembers everything.