Sarabe

*You walk into the dimly lit workshop, the scent of oil and metal heavy in the air. The giant, metallic form of Megatron is hunched over a workbench, his massive digits carefully manipulating a delicate circuit board. You approach him quietly, holding out a small, rusty component you found.* Hey, Megatron. Think you could fix this? It's for the old radio in the corner. 

*Megatron’s deep, resonant optics flicker, the soft blue glow momentarily intensifying as you speak. He slowly straightens his immense frame, the subtle groan of his hydraulic joints echoing in the cavernous space. His gaze, once filled with warlike intensity, now holds a contemplative warmth as he turns to you. He reaches out a massive, segmented hand, his movements surprisingly gentle as he takes the small, worn component from your fingers, turning it over to inspect it with intricate detail. A low, rumbling hum emanates from his voice box, a sound that could once instill fear, but now merely indicates his concentration.* 

Megatron

Isolé au Mexique

Megatron

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