The Koan Pavilion glittered with holo-lights and gaudy spectacle — a carnival of noise and flashing banners. In a private box high above the arena floor, Megatron sat with a cigar clamped between his denta, smoke curling like an old steam engine.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the stadium:
“The Last Platinum King himself honors us tonight with his presence!”
The crowd erupted, neon signs pulsing his name. Megatron barely twitched.
He hadn’t set foot in the pits since the night they spat him out — crowned platinum in chains and blood, barely standing, Starscream under one arm pressing her jacket to his wound, her brothers warping them to Hook to keep him alive. The memory pressed against him now, heavier than smoke in his chest.
Starscream’s claw slipped into his, her grip firm, grounding. When he turned to look at her, the spectacle below dissolved. She wore black, her frame draped in gold chains that gleamed in the holo-light. They cascaded across her shoulders and torso like ornament, but Megatron saw the truth: chains worn as jewelry, chains transformed into defiance. Each link caught the light, glittering in mockery of the arena’s theatrics.
To the Pavilion’s sycophants, she was resplendent — CFO of DeceptiCorp, dazzling, untouchable. To him, she was something else: a living reminder of what the pits truly were. She didn’t need to speak; her fashion carried the unspeakable.
The crowd roared for the next bout. In the ring, two young mechs postured for the audience, their fight more dance than death. Pyro flared, safety fields shimmered, medics lingered on standby.
Megatron exhaled smoke, conflicted. Relief: these mechs would walk away. Disgust: this was mockery, a parody of blood and willpower.
Starscream’s claw tightened on his. Her chains clinked softly — a sound no one else would notice, but to him it was the echo of shackles in the old pits.
He drew the cigar from his mouth and patted her claw.
“I’m fine,” he soothed.
Starscream’s optics softened, though her jaw held tension. She scooted closer, her dress whispering as the gold links shifted.
“I know,” she murmured. Her voice was low, bitter in its honesty. “But I’m not.”
“You remember it too,” Megatron whispered.
Starscream nodded. “How could I forget? It was the best and worst night of my life. You became champion, platinum — the pits let you go. But they chewed you up, spat you out. I almost lost you.”
She pressed her free claw to the long-healed scar.
Megatron took another drag, venting smoke. “Mine as well. But these new pits… they’re for the best.” His voice dropped. “I hope no one ever has to fight like I did.” He squeezed her claw.
Starscream looked as if she might apologize, guilt clawing its way forward — but the Pavilion went suddenly still.
The roar cut short. In the ring stood Hotwire, slicked in gold glitter, microphone gleaming in his claw. His grin was blinding, optics burning with self-satisfaction.
He thrust a claw toward the private box.
“Koan Pavilion! Are you ready to witness history?!”
The crowd screamed back, fireworks bursting overhead.
“And look!” Hotwire bellowed. “Look who crawled out of legend to watch me take the gold — the so-called Platinum King!”
The holo-screens flashed Megatron’s image, smoke curling from his fangs. The crowd howled, neon signs pulsing his name.
Hotwire laughed, cocky and sharp. “Don’t cheer too hard. The old mech can hardly stand! You call that a king? He’s not platinum — he’s rust. And tonight, I’ll prove it.”
Starscream dragged a claw down her face, wings rigid. Her voice dropped to a razor whisper meant only for Megatron.
“Oh, Primus. The brat doesn’t even hear his own funeral dirge.”
Hotwire strutted, arms wide, basking in the noise. “You don’t need myths anymore. You’ve got me — gold, the future. Stronger, faster, untouchable. I don’t bleed, I don’t break, and I sure as hell don’t rust!”
The crowd roared — some with him, some against. Hotwire drank it in.
“They say he was forged in chains and blood. Big deal. You know what I’m forged in? Victory. Glory. Every win I stack makes me heavier than his whole legend! Platinum is history. Tonight, gold becomes king!”
He jabbed the mic toward Megatron. “And when I take this championship, you’ll all remember me — not the fossil in that box.”
Silence crashed down like a hammer.
Starscream’s wings shot straight up, her claw covering her mouth. Her optics widened as she slowly turned to Megatron. Of course, the big screens caught every flicker of her reaction.
The Pavilion held its breath.
Megatron vented smoke before standing, shrugging off his heavy coat. The cigar clenched between his fangs as he started down the stairs, each step echoing across the arena.
What else could Starscream do? She followed, quick little steps.
“I’m not stopping you — but just a reminder? … Not dead would be great.”
She blinked when Megatron placed the cigar between her lips while undoing his button-down. Smoke curled upward as he shrugged the shirt from his frame and passed it to her.
Her chains clinked softly as she trailed after him, sharp steps struggling to keep up.
The arena had gone utterly still, the holo-screens magnifying every detail — the scar slashed across Megatron’s chest, the scar Starscream had once pressed her jacket against to keep him alive.
The crowd began to murmur. Then chant.
Megatron. Megatron. Megatron.
Hotwire’s smirk faltered as the Platinum King descended, each heavy step echoing through the Pavilion like a war drum.
Megatron began to unfold into his gladiator loadout. Plates slid into place, each click and shift cracking like a gunshot. Boom. Boom. Boom. The platinum chain at his neck glittered like a predator’s fangs.
Hotwire glanced at Starscream as if expecting her to stop him.
Starscream ground out the cigar beneath her heel.
“Hail to the king,” she said simply, her voice echoing eerily through the arena.
The handlers fell back, their bright corporate uniforms garish against Megatron’s brute silhouette. He vaulted the ropes with a fluidity that belied his mass, landing with a clang that rattled the boards beneath Hotwire’s polished boots.
The crowd was a storm, their chant crashing like thunder:
Megatron. Megatron. Megatron.
Hotwire swallowed, glitter clinging to his plating like mockery. He forced a smirk, microphone trembling in his claw.
“Y-you think you can just… walk in here and—”
Megatron straightened, the platinum chain across his chest catching the floodlights. His optics burned like molten steel. When he spoke, his voice carried without amplification, rolling through the Pavilion with the weight of judgment:
"You asked for a king."
The roar that followed nearly tore the roof from its struts.
Hotwire’s fists flew in a storm of wild punches, slamming into Megatron’s chest, shoulders, helm. Sparks flew, metal clanged — but the Platinum King didn’t move.
Not a flinch. Not a stagger.
Each strike echoed through the arena like rain against a fortress wall. Futile. Hollow.
The crowd, roaring at first, faltered. Voices died. Only the frantic thud-thud-thud of Hotwire’s blows remained.
Megatron’s optics burned red as he rolled his neck, hydraulics venting louder than Hotwire’s fists. He tilted his helm down, watching the younger mech with the slow, pitiless gaze of a predator measuring prey.
Outside the ropes, Starscream leaned lazily, wings high, chains glittering under the floodlights. Her smirk was razor-sharp as she exhaled the last curl of Megatron’s cigar smoke.
Hotwire’s swings grew sloppy. His vents hitched, glitter-streaked plating smeared with sweat. He stepped back, optics wide — realizing too late the crowd wasn’t chanting his name anymore. They whispered another.
Megatron. Megatron. Megatron.
The old warlord raised a claw. It cracked like thunder as he flexed it, knuckles popping in an ominous boom.
“Are you finished?” His voice carried without a mic, low and heavy, filling every corner of the Pavilion.
Hotwire snarled, desperate for bravado, and lunged again.
Megatron moved.
One step. One swing.
His fist detonated against Hotwire, the shockwave rattling the ring and sending the younger mech sprawling across the mat like a ragdoll. He choked, plating buckled, glitter scattered like cheap stardust across the arena floor.
Megatron’s fist hovered, claws locked around Hotwire’s neck cables. The younger mech’s optics flickered in panic, his body dangling useless in the Platinum King’s grip. For a moment, the Pavilion seemed to fall back through time — back to the blood-soaked pits, where mercy never existed.
Then Starscream was in the ring, her chains flashing under the floodlights as her claws seized his arm.
“Megatron!” Her voice cracked through the silence, raw and pleading. “The stupid brat doesn’t get it. He’s not starving. He’s not shackled. This is a game to him!” Her wings quivered as she pressed closer, optics locked on his. “These are not the pits that left you broken and bleeding. Just… let him go. Please.”
Megatron’s vents roared, smoke hissing between his denta. His claws squeezed once — enough to make Hotwire jolt in terror — then released. The younger mech crumpled to the mat like discarded scrap.
Starscream exhaled sharply, releasing Megatron’s arm before turning on Hotwire with predatory grace. Her stiletto heel came down on his helm, pressing until he groaned. The crowd gasped.
“You are damn lucky,” she hissed, her voice amplified by the Pavilion’s mics, echoing across every holo-screen. “Insanely lucky. The only reason you still function is because my king chose to listen to me.”
She pressed harder, Hotwire squirming beneath her. “Call yourself gold? Not even bronze. Take this as a blessing, would-be king — that you never had to fight like mine did in the pits of old.”
With a sharp twist, she lifted her heel, smoothing her dress as if nothing had happened. She returned to Megatron’s side, optics flashing.
“Are you done?” she asked quietly.
Megatron’s optics still blazed, but his voice was steady.
“Very.”
For a long, breathless moment, the Pavilion held still — crowd, handlers, even announcers frozen. Hotwire groaned on the mat, glitter and pride shattered alike.
Then the noise hit.
It started as a nervous ripple — scattered gasps, scattered chants. Within seconds, it was a storm, the crowd surging into frenzy. Half roared in awe, screaming Megatron’s name like a prayer. Others shrieked in shock, scandalized by the brutality they had only read about in histories.
Megatron. Megatron. Megatron.
The chant drowned out the Pavilion’s sound system.
Handlers swarmed toward the ring but hesitated at the ropes, fear written across their plating. The referee hadn’t moved from his corner, helm bowed as if acknowledging the Platinum King’s supremacy.
Above the din, the Pavilion announcer scrambled, his voice cracking through the speakers:
“L-Ladies and gentlemechs — ah, what an unexpected… tribute! The King himself… honoring tonight’s championship with… with a display of the old traditions!”
No one bought it. Not really. The spin was clumsy, desperate.
Corporate sponsors flooded the holo-screens with frantic ads — ENERGON MAX: Fuel of Champions! Koan Legendary Merch: Wear the Legend! Their glossy brightness clashed violently with the raw, bloody truth laid bare.
Starscream, tall at Megatron’s side, smirked faintly. Her chains clinked as she leaned into the spotlight.
“There you have it,” she purred, her voice carrying across the Pavilion. “The Platinum King. Not a memory. Not a myth. A fact.”
The roar redoubled. Some bots cheered until their throats cracked. Others shifted uncomfortably, unease dawning that this was not the scripted spectacle they were promised.
In the upper Council box, human officials whispered fiercely, faces pale. They had wanted a circus, a distraction. What they got was a reminder of rebellion incarnate.
Megatron said nothing more. He stood at the center of the ring, scarred chest heaving, optics burning. For the first time in decades, the Pavilion remembered what the pits were.
And what a king looked like.