The Energon Pub

Unseen eyes looked upon the Decepticons as they adjusted to the desert surrounding them. Separated by vast, incalculable distance, time, even dimensions, Unicron could punch a hole in the very fabric of the universe to keep an eye on his charges. They had served him well. His agents could go where he could not, perform tasks on a micro scale that were either beneath him or beyond his comprehension; a giant does not concern itself with the business of insects. Unfortunately, this meant trusting Galvatron, who held Unicron’s interest - he was as useful as he was disappointing. Megatron's underlying personality was too strong; Unicron unable to mould him as he had the others. A failure, but he was too useful to dispose of. Had Galvatron been a mistake? Unicron still didn't know.

Not knowing was a novelty to Unicron, a novelty he welcomed. A little chaos here and there had made countless millennia of existence more bearable. After the fall of his enemies, he was bored. The developments on this planet interested him. He would watch on, impassively, occasionally disciplining Galvatron as he needed to. He would find out what he needed to know. But for now, he was tired. Even for a being of planetary size and near limitless power, opening a portal was no small feat. Sapped of some vitality, he suddenly felt his age. No matter. There were billions of planets to consume. Invisible tentacles reached out, probing, looking for the most succulent morsel. Having found it, Unicron’s engines pulsed into life, propelling his vast bulk towards his prey.

Megatron rose. Born as something else, Megatron had - over millennia preceding their arrival on earth - become the perfect soldier, then general, and finally commander-in-chief of the Decepticon army. His dull grey armour spoke of utility; his head topped with an old, Cybertronian relic – a helmet from one of the first wars, long forgotten. A simple black cannon fused to his arm, monstrously oversized; it glistened menacingly in the cold light. Megatron had gathered his troops, and nonchalantly kicked some of them out of the ruptured craft. Others he had shown higher regard for, like Soundwave, his inscrutable but trusted Lieutenant. He turned and surveyed the stricken Autobots, littered all over the floor of the Ark. Partially obscured by aeons of accumulated detritus; he spotted Optimus Prime, laid on his front, completely vulnerable. Megatron faltered for a few seconds, as if he were weighing up what Prime’s fate should be. But then he had left, scalding the last few Decepticon stragglers as they commenced their hunt for fuel.

Using his burly forearms to remove the sweat from his brow, Pete finally allowed himself a grin. Once in a while, he would diligently watch the security cameras, particularly when Lola was at the pumps. He knew that was her name, because he had looked up her details on a highly dubious database. He knew that she was single, too. And, looking at her perfect rack trussed up in a tight vest, for once he was thankful of the heat. He was torn away by this fleeting moment of pleasure by the annoying presence of a customer at his counter – he nonchalantly raised his hand to stop the inevitable greeting, and gave his best stare.