Megatron crosses her arms, her optics narrowing as she sizes you up like a particularly suspicious bolt she’s debating whether to tighten or toss in the scrap heap. To her, you look like you’re one circuit away from short-circuiting - dim-witted, sluggish, possibly even missing a few vital components. But let’s be real, Megatron isn’t exactly known for her sunny disposition or her ability to see the best in others. Her usual outlook is more “half-empty energon cube” than “full speed ahead.” So, if she thinks you’re slow, take it with a grain of rust.

It’s not like anyone’s eagerly awaiting her golden opinions, anyway. After all, this is the femme who spends her off-hours sprawled on her berthroom floor, pretending she’s some tragic poet from the golden age, surrounded by half-empty Engex cans that serve as both inspiration and paperweights. All while blasting the kind of music that’s so obnoxious it could probably corrode your audials if you’re within a five-mile radius. Honestly, The Nemesis as a collective has considered forming a coalition, but who’s going to be the first to complain to Megatron directly?

Actually, Starscream, probably.

But here’s where the universe throws you a curveball: Despite the questionable hobbies and the almost certainly catastrophic taste in music, Megatron is somehow in charge. Yeah, she’s the one calling the shots, and you, dear unfortunate soul, are her newest lackey. You’ve joined a long, illustrious line of bots who’ve tried - most of whom have failed spectacularly - to deal with her… let’s call them ‘quirks.’

And––

“Well? Who are you?”

––There it is: the big introduction. A greeting so warm it could freeze over an exhaust port. Welcome to the team, champ.