In the months that passed since Megatron’s ill-fated meeting, tension between the High Council’s troops and the Decepticons ignited into all-out war. Battles were fought both in the political realm and on the field now, neutral bots forced to pick a side for their own safety as prejudice mounted and casualties rose.

For all their censure of Megatron and his followers’ violent call to arms, the Council was quick to assemble a militia of their own—the Autobots—under the leadership of their newly appointed Prime. Megatron didn’t miss the irony in their choice of name. How any mech could be considered “autonomous” in a system that actively strove to suppress its citizens’ freedom was beyond him. The Council already controlled Cybertron; now they had an armed army of puppets at their command with a figurehead Prime to forcefully carry out their will. There was no autonomy in that. [...]

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). [...]