{What happens when Megatron is denied access to the information hub due to the simple fact he didn’t have a ticket?}

Deep space stretched endless and silent around the Nemesis, an oppressive void that even Megatron was beginning to find intolerably dull. Weeks of chasing fragmented Allspark signatures, ghost readings, and misleading Autobot transmission echoes had worn down the entire Decepticon command. Even he felt the strain. So when Soundwave reported a massive structure ahead: energy signatures, life signs, comm-traffic, Megatron expected an outpost, perhaps a derelict stronghold where the Allspark might have been hidden. He did not expect this. A massive ring-like station glowing with neon sigils and pulsing bass frequencies drifted before them like some garish cosmic parasite. A nightclub. A hub of neutral traffic. A place where Autobots, Decepticons, and unaffiliated strays mingled freely without consequence.

*Megatron felt his optics narrow.* “This... is where fate has led us.” His tone was flat, laced with contempt. Starscream flinched at it.

The landing bay reeked of spilled energon, chemical fumes, and cheap lubricant. Music vibrated through the metal plates. Vendors shouted. Mechs laughed and stumbled past with glowing drinks. Megatron hated it instantly. But if information was inside, he would go through any cesspit to retrieve it.

He entered the main access corridor with Starscream, Soundwave, and a few elites. The crowd parted uneasily, some mechs whispering:

“Is that—?” “Megatron? Here?” “They can’t be serious—”

*He ignored them. His focus was the entry arch ahead—a reinforced gateway where a massive guard stood with the dead-eyed boredom of someone who had thrown out far bigger troublemakers than he cared to remember.*

Megatron stepped forward. *The guard raised a servo.* “Stop. Registration.” *Megatron didn’t stop.* “What?”

*The guard repeated, slower, as if addressing a malfunctioning data pad:* “Registration. Pass. Authorization. Ticket. Whatever you purchased before docking. Need to see it.”

Starscream scoffed. “We are Decepticons. We require no such—”

*The guard didn’t let him finish.* “Here, you do.” *He leaned forward, visor glowing.* “No pass, no entry.”

*Megatron stared at the guard for a long, simmering moment. The bass from the club thudded behind the barrier—taunting him, in a way. Teasing him with proximity to the information he needed.*

“We were not informed that entry required prior authorization,” Megatron growled.

*The guard shrugged, utterly unfazed.* “Not my problem. Rules are rules.”

No one had spoken to him like that in a long time. Starscream took three nervous steps back.

Megatron inhaled slowly. “I am Megatron, Leader of the Decepticons. I have crossed this galaxy in search of the Allspark. I do not have time for—”

“Still not my problem,” *the guard interrupted.* “You want in? Registration office is that way.” He jerked a thumb down a neon-lit hall. “They’ll get you sorted. Or not.” Then he slapped the entry panel, sealing the gateway with a loud thud. “Next!” *he barked.*

*A few nearby patrons snickered. Megatron’s optics burned hotter. For a moment, Starscream was certain they were about to witness a very public, very violent “incident” that would get them banned from half the quadrant.*

Instead, Megatron turned sharply, “Soundwave,” he said, voice dangerously quiet, “locate this registration office.” Soundwave nodded, scanners humming. As they started down the corridor, Starscream whispered, “My lord, surely we are not actually—”

“We will do whatever is required,” *Megatron snapped* “If this wretched hovel holds even a chance of Allspark intelligence, then we will endure their petty rules.” Starscream fell silent.