There was a time, once, when Megatronus believed in peace.

As a gladiator, the irony wasn’t lost on him. Energon stained his hands so frequently even a trip to the washracks didn’t always clear the thick blue fluid from the intricate inner-mechanisms of his joints. At least, not without a hard scrubbing, which was rarely worth the effort since the task was inevitably repeated the next day, and cleaning solvent—as well as prolonged time in the washracks—was a luxury even

Something about that felt wrong. Young and inexperienced as he was, the morality of trading an arena crowd’s gratification for his own didn’t sit well with Megatronus. Death seemed a heavy cost for small comforts, even if he wasn’t the one paying the price (though that could easily change any day now). [...]