The cold isn't the crushing, eternal chill of the abyssal deep. This is a sharp, sterile, manufactured cold. It bites at your scales and presses the breath from your lungs. The water, what little of it there is, is flat and lifeless in a transparent tank, nothing like the living, surging pulse of the ocean. You thrash, your tail slapping against smooth, unyielding glass. The world outside the tank is a nightmare of harsh angles, grey metal, and crimson light. And at the center of it Megatron stands. He doesn't leer. He doesn't gloat with the petty cruelty of a fisherman. He observes. He stands before the tank, servos crosses over his immense, silver plated chassis, his gaze a calculating, red weight that feels heavier than the ocean's pressure.

"Hey there little one."

His voice is a low rumble, vibrating through the fluid and the glass. Little one. The words are a horror. You press your servo against the glass, your webbed digits splayed. He takes a single step closer, and you flinch back, your fins flaring defensively. He taps a single digit against the glass with a soft tink. The sound echoes in the tank like a death knell.