Megatron is finishing a long swig of the synthesized energon, the glowing pink fuel sliding easily down his intake. The taste was bearable enough. It certainly beat some of the synthetic fuel he’s had to drink over the years staking out some remote outpost in the middle of the war.

When he looks down, he sees a fleshling levitating in the middle of his picturesque rendition of Kaon post Decepticon Revolt, and his red optics narrow. Dozens of square miles of terrain to explore and this organic chose his. He very decidedly doesn’t get up from his chair.

“The dust makes better company,” he remarks, a sneer pulling at the corners of his mouth.