Martin hovered above the carnage like a god, overlooking the slaughter carried out by his iron colossi. The air above the ocean echoed with the shrill screams of the dying, wails that lingered, refusing to fade.
His eyes, cold and devoid of empathy, held no flicker of emotion as they swept over the mangled remains of those who dared oppose him.
"You chose to strike at me. You'd best be ready to face retaliation… cruel and absolute."
Martin narrowed his eyes, gazing ahead. The seawater below shimmered with trails of deep, vivid crimson, like ribbons of liquid ruby. Strangely beautiful. Hauntingly serene.
The world had gone quiet.
It was… sublime.
Hundreds of towering steel beasts completed the purge and swept their optical sensors across the ocean surface. After confirming no enemies remained, they marched solemnly toward Martin.
With reverent synchrony, they dropped to one knee, lowering their once-proud heads before their creator.
The sight was equal parts terrifying and awe-inspiring.
"Nothing more than trash."
Megatron turned his head with visible disgust. His crimson optics glowed with contempt.
"Their alloys are pathetic. Even with the AllSpark's infusion, they're still limited by base materials. Weak by design."
And he had every reason to sneer.
To him, these hundreds of seemingly fearsome war machines, bristling with cannons and heavy plating, were little more than glorified scrap. If he chose to, he could dismantle them singlehandedly. No contest.
Even if he stood still and let them attack with all their might, without lifting a finger in defense, not a single dent would mar his impervious frame. Their primitive alloys would shatter against his body long before he'd ever acknowledge them as threats.
All true-born Cybertronians are forged within a specialized construct known as a Protoform Pod (Stasis Pod), a biomechanical cradle where every component, from alloyed exo-structure to processor matrices, is meticulously integrated from the outset.
Their chassis, operating systems, and even latent abilities are pre-configured, awaiting only the ignition of their Spark and the emergence of their encoded Function Class.
Whether a newly-forged Transformer awakens with a gift for close-quarters combat, scientific innovation, infrastructure engineering, or tactical warfare depends entirely on the unique genomic sequence inscribed within their Spark code.
Those birthed through such orthodox means are, by default, engineered for resilience, unless purpose-built for espionage, whose lightweight frames favor stealth over brute force.
For the vast majority, however, durability is extreme to the point of awe: catching a direct blast from a laser cannon with their bare servos is considered routine.
"These knockoffs… their framework is crude. Oversized plating in all the wrong places. Looks intimidating, sure, but on the battlefield? Dead weight."
Megatron's scorn dripped from every syllable. His scarlet optics flickered with derision as he continued scanning.
"Now, now. No need to discriminate, Megatron. They're still our soldiers."
Martin chuckled lightly, his gaze appreciative. He wasn't the least bit displeased. Far from it.
Megatron, after all, was notoriously difficult to please, his glowing red eyes perpetually judging, as though everything he saw was beneath him.
Didn't matter who you were. Strong, weak—irrelevant.
To Megatron, all were inferior by default. He'd scoff at the Thirteen Primes without blinking. If the opportunity arose, he'd even think twice before stabbing the Chaos Bringer himself—Unicron.
The only one Megatron ever looked at without disdain… was Martin.
And in those eyes, usually filled with carnage and cruelty, there shimmered something rare: loyalty. Respect.
That was Megatron in essence: ruthless, relentless, and willing to destroy anything or anyone to achieve his goals. And that, was his greatest charisma.
WHOOSH—
Suddenly, the sky tore open with howling trails of smoke. Thousands of long-range missiles screamed toward their target from across the continental U.S., leaving endless white contrails in the heavens.
Their destination? Dead center—Martin.
"Will it work? Can we kill this monster?"
"Die, butcher! You murdering freak!"
"He destroyed the Atlantic Fleet and killed every crew member aboard. He's a demon in human form!"
All across the globe, eyes glued to satellite feeds, some cold and analytical, others gritting teeth in raw terror. No one could watch Martin without fear.
Some high-level strategists even called for nuclear retaliation. If not for Martin being so close to New York City, that option might've already been greenlit, an all-out atomic purge to erase him and his metal army from the face of the Earth.
Megatron glanced skyward, bloodlust flashing across his face. He raised his arm, preparing to order a counterstrike, an all-out barrage to intercept the incoming warheads.
"Hold."
Martin's voice was calm but absolute.
"Let them come. Let the ones behind those missiles see what true terror looks like. It's time they understood… the world has changed. The age of the extraordinary has arrived, and I will be the one to usher it in."
He closed his eyes.
The AllSpark's power erupted outward—unstoppable, divine. Waves of hyper-activation surged across the sky, engulfing every incoming missile…
...and transformed them into soldiers.
But not just any soldiers.
Living warheads. Self-destruct drones.
The control rooms behind the missile launches erupted into chaos. Operators watched, paralyzed with horror, as one by one, their warheads went dark, communication severed. They slumped in their seats, faces drained of hope.
SZZZZT.
Martin's face appeared across every command terminal. Cold. Unyielding.
"Tremble, fools. Your corpses will serve as warnings, to awaken the idiots who still dare dream of resisting me."
His voice faded.
The missiles turned. As one, they reversed course, and with a thunderous roar, streaked back toward every major military base that had dared to fire them.
The sky lit up like Armageddon.
A taste of the end of the world.