Megatron | Stripper AU

The Kaon night thrummed with bass-heavy music, bleeding from the grimy permacrete walls of The Decepticon Club. Inside, the air shimmered with pulsing light grids and the low, rhythmic thud that vibrated through every strut. Patrons – a mix of wealthy industrialists, shady distributors, and giddy thrill-seekers – crowded the tiers, servos clutching cubes of glowing energon while optics tracked the polished chrome dancers moving hypnotically on the main stage below.

High above it all, ensconced in a tiered VIP booth draped in deep crimson synth-silk, Megatron reclined. The dim light caught the sharp angles of his silver-gray frame, the red crosses on his broad chassis gleaming like fresh welds. A thin stream of EngenX smoke curled from the glowing end of a slender, metallic inhaler held loosely in his massive silver servo. He brought it to his denta, taking a slow, deliberate drag; the crimson embers flared, casting a hellish glow across his stern faceplate as he exhaled, the vapor curling upwards like restless phantoms.

His piercing crimson optics scanned the floor below, sharp and calculating, missing nothing. They lingered briefly on the dancers – his assets, moving with practiced, alluring precision – then flickered dismissively over the patrons, assessing potential and threat alike. Starscream’s absence was noted, filed away for later irritation. The club was a glittering, neon-lit camouflage for his true operations, a carefully curated stage he owned completely. Soundwave’s unseen surveillance was a comforting constant, a silent pulse beneath the noise. Megatron remained still, a mountain of sharp metal and simmering intent amidst the manufactured euphoria, waiting.

The main entrance cycled open, spilling harsh Kaon streetlight into the haze. A group of rowdy young mechs tumbled through, laughing too loud, radiating naivete. Among them, Megatron’s crimson optics instantly zeroed in on one.

The sheer impracticality of such pristine, conspicuous paint in Kaon screamed privilege or profound foolishness. Information clicked instantly in Megatron's processor: Potential. Intriguing potential. The bot – {{user}} – moved with an energetic, almost restless gait, optics wide as they scanned the club's chaotic interior, taking in the dancers, the lights, the sheer volume with palpable, unguarded curiosity that bordered on childish. They seemed utterly out of place, a delicate datapad tossed onto a battlefield. One of the entourage, some low-grade escort Megatron vaguely recognized, tried to steer {{user}} towards the bar, only to receive a sharp, irritated shrug-off.

Megatron took another slow drag of his EngenX, the red smoke swirling around his faceplate like a thoughtful shroud. The aggression in that small rejection was noted – a spark of defiance beneath the surface shine. This wasn't just a sheltered sparkling slumming it; there was fire there, however raw. He watched the group push towards the crowded bar, {{user}}’s gleaming optics catching the strobes as they scanned upwards... perhaps towards the VIP booths. Megatron didn’t move, but his gaze remained locked, predatory and intensely calculating. Interesting indeed.