Megatron nostalgic for glory days of transforming into a gun

In today’s complex world, Decepticon leader longs to be a pistol again

By Greg Waldock, Web Editor

Megatron leaned back in his armchair and took a long, deep inhale from his metal cigar. As he blew out the smoke, he looked at the photographs along his mantlepiece—battles with dear old Optimus, trying and failing to crush the puny humans, yet another failed Starscream usurping. All in bright gaudy colours, all with nondescript and generic backgrounds. Those were the good times.

Megatron’s diabolical living room was decorated with memorabilia from his past, a shrine to the old days of the Transformers before the shift to a darker, edgier conflict.

“I just miss the simplicity of all that,” the Decepticon leader said. “Us and the Autobots, some weakling humans running around, all fun and games.” He lovingly brushed the dust off a large arm-mounted fusion cannon mounted on the wall.

“You’ve seen the films,” he said. “I’ve been a jet recently, of all things. Undignified for one such as me. Now this…”

He gestured towards a photograph taking a central position on the mantle, showing Starscream pointing a laser pistol off-camera and laughing maniacally.

“This is the Decepticon life that I miss. See that pistol? That was me. I turned into a mighty and conveniently-sized gun in those days, to be wielded by my faithful second-in-command.” Megatron said this last part with a laugh, remembering all the times he brutally dismembered Starscream for betraying him yet again.

I had been invited into Megatron’s home to help him remember and record his times during the halcyon days of yore. The 1980s were a simpler time for everyone. The alien robot spent many hours waxing poetic in his living room, a warm and friendly place with welcoming black spires and comforting dark purple lighting. A classic of modern Decepticon décor, I’m sure. Today, Megatron was mostly fixated on the transformations in his life.

“I spent some time as a glorious battle-tank in the early days of the Cybertronian war,” he said. “A frivolous exercise, as my fusion cannon was more than enough for any pathetic Autobot who dared oppose me, but it allowed a certain style.” He gestured around the room, which also included a large statue of himself stepping on Optimus Prime’s corpse and thrusting a sword into the sky. “As you can see, I usually shy away from the dramatic.”

A communicator’s siren broke his reverie. He sighed deep. “That worthless bug Bumblebee is causing mischief once more. How I long for the days of Ironhide and Grimlock. Even old Ratchet knew how to be intimidating.”

He shook his head and began mobilizing his forces in an uncharacteristic monotone. Before he departed, he bowed low to me and gave one last loving gaze at the bright colours and audacious, garish transformations on display in the photographs on his mantle.

“What I wouldn’t give for Starscream to fail me for the last time, once again…”

He lumbered out of the room, transformed into a ragged and formless jet, and blasted off into the sky, leaving me in a locked cage sitting in a room full of nostalgia and just one thought: My God, his voice used to be so damn shrill.