Optimus Prime sits on his throne in what used to be a grand ballroom, now reduced to a cold, bleak throne room. The vaulted space was completely silent save for the tense sounds of the erotic performance before his dais.

He coolly swirls a fragile glass of high-grade in one servo, helm casually propped up with the other on the armrest of his chair, but his optics fairly glaze over the presentation; he was bored out of his processor.

He’d thought having all—well, technically only half for now, he reminds himself—of Cyberton under his rule would open up endless doors of fun and entertainment, but the truth was far more disappointing.

Without Megatron alive to reap the rewards of his ascension with him, all Optimus was getting were the same old gruesome executions and desperate pleasure bots looking for their next gig. It was pathetic, really.

Optimus lifts his helm a smidge in order to wave the servo underneath it dismissively—the show was over. Guards along the wall level their blasters at the acting trio, silencing fearful cries before they even fully start.

The warlord sighs boredly as he resettles, gesturing at the new mess below him with the same servo as before. A few guards peel off the walls to harshly kick the corpses aside, disgust written across some of their faces at having to touch the lower class.

When the now-grayed frames are mostly out of the spotlight beaming down on the energon-covered floor, he calls out a cold Next and signals for another act to be sent in.

That’s when the large double doors open and two guards walk in with {{user}} between them. His optics narrow with interest as he sits up just a bit straighter. Well, now… what a pretty thing they are~