Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9753188.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, F/F
  Fandom:
      Transformers_-_All_Media_Types, Transformers_Generation_One,
      Transformers:_Prime, Transformers:_Beast_Wars
  Relationship:
      Megatron/Soundwave/Shockwave, Starscream/Thundercracker/Skywarp,
      Shockwave/Ratchet, Optimus_Prime/Elita-1, First_Aid/Blades, Jazz/Prowl,
      Firestar/Nautica, Knock-Out/Hot_Rod, Orion_Pax/Ratchet_(Past), Red_Alert/
      Inferno, Optimus_Prime/Ironhide, Blaster/Perceptor, Shockwave/Scavenger_
      (Past)
  Character:
      Shockwave_(Transformers), Ratchet_(Transformers), Jazz_(Transformers),
      Prowl_(Transformers), Optimus_Prime_(Transformers), Elita-1_
      (Transformers), Wheeljack_(Transformers), Perceptor_(Transformers), Red
      Alert_(Transformers), Inferno_(Transformers), Ironhide_(Transformers),
      Blaster_(Transformers), Ramhorn_(Transformers), First_Aid_(Transformers),
      Blades_(Transformers), Hot_Spot_(Transformers), Groove_(Transformers),
      Streetwise_(Transformers), Onslaught_(Transformers), Blast_Off_
      (Transformers), Swindle_(Transformers), Vortex_(Transformers), Brawl_
      (Transformers), Starscream_(Transformers), Thundercracker_(Transformers),
      Skywarp_(Transformers), Megatron_(Transformers), Soundwave_
      (Transformers), Cassettes_(Transformers), Skyfire_(Transformers),
      Astrotrain_(Transformers), Arcee_(Transformers), Chromia_(Transformers),
      Firestar_(Transformers), Nautica_(Transformers), Moonracer_
      (Transformers), Knock-Out_(Transformers), Hot_Rod_(Transformers),
      Reflector_(Transformers), Microtron_(Transformers), Menace_
      (Transformers), Technotor_(Transformers), Judgelaw_(Transformers), First_
      (Transformers), and_more
  Additional Tags:
      Polybondic_relationships, Decepticon_High_Command, Interfacing_affairs,
      Convenience_Sparkbonds, Lack_of_Medical_Ethics, scientific_amorality,
      Slavery, robot_gore, non_con_–_attempted_assault_involving_minor, Murder
      Mystery, ID_theaft, G1_AU
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-15 Updated: 2017-08-25 Chapters: 48/? Words: 166807
****** The Decepticon Matrix ******
by Cyberfrost
Summary
     The G1 Decepticons leave Cybertron after the escaping Autobots and
     the Mythical Matrix, but Shockwave decides not to stay behind, going
     after his two bondmates and leaving a drone in his place.
     What could possibly go wrong?
     Feedback is always appreciated.
     Shockwave-centric fic.
***** Sparkless *****
Cybertron, Shockwave's Lab. The purple cyclops was resignedly musing on the
order he had just been given.
 
Guardian of Cybertron.
 
He should feel honoured. He was. His Lord had entrusted the guardianship of the
whole planet to him.
 
He wasn't angry either: albeit not completely deleted, his emotions had long
ago been dulled to a fraction. He operated on logic.
 
It was logical to leave his most skilled Lieutenant in charge. However, all
that was required to keep Cybertron Watch, as dead as the planet was, is the
wits of a drone.
 
Shaking his head, calculating all the probabilities and possibilities, he was
sure he could do better than merely guard Cybertron; how would he fare without
access to other decepticons and subjects? How would he do without Scavenger to
fetch him materials? Or without the constant and convenient presence of Lord
Megatron bringing him energon cubes?
 
Yet, he had to comply and obey.
 
These were the Rules he agreed to.
 
That was the moment Shockwave's unflinching gaze locked on the red visor that
couriered him the orders, flickering once.
 
“Shockwave: ready to stay behind?”
 
This time Shockwave's optic flared once, side finials standing to attention.
 
“I am the only of our Lord's chosen, reliable enough to be left unsupervised,
Soundwave, unlike a certain seeker. His decision to grant me guardianship is
mostly… logical.”
 
Both remained mute and immobile. Soundwave finally laughed, a creepy heavily
vocoded monotone.
 
“Soundwave: superior.” he stepped close, entering the other mech's EM-field
“Shockwave: knows the rules.”
 
Rising to his full height, Shockwave met Soundwave close enough to touch,
faceplate to optic.
 
“I am aware.” Shockwave minutely bowed his head, as Soundwave irradiated a
pleased flare in his EM-field, continuing to monotone.
 
“Soundwave: essential to outer space operation and troop management. Is in
itself an army of spies; Soundwave alone could provide strength enough to co-
found and further the Decepticon cause. Soundwave: proud carrier, created life
for our Leader, five times. Shockwave: never able to bring a single one.
Cassettes need Megatron’s presence.”
 
Shockwave pondered, finally nodding.
 
“Your arguments sound... logical, Soundwave.” he tilted his head to the right.
“I acknowledge your superiority. I shall do my part to give my contribution to
the cause in any way I deem possible, and the Guardianship of Cybertron will be
ensured. Farewell and good journeys.”
 
He bowed his head minutely. Soundwave stopped for a second, unable to read
Shockwave's shadowplayed mind, then nodded, bringing their foreheads close and
offlining his visor for an instant, leaving.
 
Shockwave, finally alone, turned to his console, ready to send Lord Megatron a
personal message.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Personal message incoming from Commander Shockwave, Lord Megatron.
 
“Acknowledged.”
 
Megatron, uploading the recorded message in his own systems, having just
received the news that the autobots had sent a ship out of the planet, escaping
with the Matrix towards a major source of energon, had taken his decision,
putting Shockwave in charge of the planet, and making sure in a few hours his
own selected crew would leave after the cowardly fleeing autobots.
 
Running the message in his own systems, he minutely raised the left corner of
his lip-plates in annoyance. Great timing, Shockwave, right when he was
actually thinking in spending what would be their last moments together before
his departure from Cybertron for a long while.
 
Shaking his head, he actually snorted: Shockwave, always working and thinking,
of course would prefer to spend the last hours before departure adjusting the
Nemesis for the interstellar travel to come, instead of getting close.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
That was close.
 
Shockwave actually released an ex-vent as he got Lord Megatron's positive ping
on his choice of working instead of being with him.
 
Locking his Labs with his scientific codes, he put himself to labour: his Plan
had been set, and he had innumerable variables to accomplish.
 
First, for him to go into the voyage, after being explicitly told not to, he
would need to make sure a decoy Shockwave would remain behind.
 
What better substitute than his own original, real shell, controlled by a drone
program?
 
Only problem it rouses, for Shockwave to give up on his original shell, he
would need to have his sparkchamber transferred to another one.
 
It was important to not remove the spark from the chamber: this was the
sureproof way ot completely resetting a mech’s memories and the spark, once put
in a new chamber, has no choice but come to life as a newspark, a blank slate.
 
Leaving the thought behind, taking his time to look around the multitude of
corpses on the west wing of his Lab, he certainly had a few choice steps to
take.
 
First, shell gender. To a species that prided in identifying mostly with male
pronouns, Shockwave owned a staggering amount of exclusively female corpses.
 
Sometimes he asked himself if he hadn't been responsible for the incoming
extinction of a 13rd of the species, considering the number of autobot females
he often captured, experimented on, tortured and killed.
 
He would have shrugged if he cared.
 
Giving a last perfunctory glance around the room, Shockwave pondered on the
sheer irony about having no option but to choose from a female corpse to house
his spark.
 
He needed a good acceptable and strong female, sturdy and resistant like the
decepticon females had been, before their supposed extinction during the war.
 
Legend says some of the females migrated to male shells, to better survive the
Great War, but nothing was ever confirmed.
 
After searching deeper into his collection of dead shells hung from the ceiling
and walls, some on slabs, others just left around, Shockwave located the
bulkiest and strongest, sitting on the ground, back to the wall, head hung low,
portraying very faded black, blue and white greyed out plating, her enforcer
officer badge reading Strongarm.
 
He remembered the late Strongarm. She stayed behind as her fellow females left
with stolen energon. The enforcer put up some fight, evaded all his shots,
launched herself on him, straddled his waist and might even had been
successful, weren't Shockwave holding the energon scalpel, providing painful
distraction.
 
He neither felt remorse nor satisfaction at how she screamed the moment he
stabbed and twisted the blade into her right optic, cutting his way out through
her screeching faceplates and blue lips: finally charging his own canon up, he
plunged it into her chestplate, shooting point blank right through her
sparkchamber, disintegrating her spark in the process.
 
Blinking his single optic to the present, he contemplated the damaged
faceplates, circuitry left open, having never had the chance to heal or scar,
and damaged optic hanging out, loose, congealed energon pooled inside the
socket.
 
She was no Strika or Obsidian, two long deceased decepticon general females,
heavily built and armoured, and ruthless, but it would have to do.
 
Welder in hands, he made short work of the gash, fusing the lesions closed into
a grey line from right optic through mouthplates towards left jaw, then went
for his collection of spare parts, taking one generic blue optic and quickly
replacing the broken with a functional yet mismatched one, removing the gelled
leftover energon with his fingers, contemplating it for a second, before
opening his fuel intake and dumping it in.
 
No wasting of energon allowed in his Tower.
 
Rummaging through the hung corpses, he took hold of a blue visor, plugging it
to his main computer, adjusting its HUD readings, making it compatible with his
cortical psychic path.
 
Excellent.
 
Welding the visor over the pair of mismatched blue optics, not bothering with
any retraction mechanism, Shockwave nodded to himself.
 
Function restored, now onto covering cosmetic damage.
 
He could take on an undamaged face and replace it. He indeed could.
 
Having suffered empurata and having had his own facial subroutines removed
alongside his original head, he felt no logical need of restoring facial
function and feeling to his own self.
 
Especially aware of the fact that facial transplants and sensory net rewiring
are delicate processes that take time he didn’t have, he went through the
opposite pathway, just plain finishing to disconnect the sensory and movement
net in the faceplates.
 
Taking a vocoder from storage, he adjusted it to emit a neutral monotone,
connecting it directly to the shell's neural net, allowing for speech without
usage of the mouthplates.
 
Finally, locating the manual override and making the frame's own battlemask
slip in place, Shockwave nodded: he couldn't have done better if he tried.
 
It would almost be like being his own current self, no facial subroutines to
worry about.
 
Opening the mask back and linking the vocoder to its insides, Shockwave closed
it before the blue lips, then welded shut the central seam, effectively making
both the visor and battlemask irremovable, finally adding an outer, practical
intake, connected to the oesophagus, just like his own, at the base of the
neck, so he could dump fuel in.
 
Facial function done and ready.
 
Onto interface panels. The frame owns a port-only jacking system, a single
pliable blue port into a white array with constricting callipers and a single
non-pressurising upper node, inspired on Solus Prime’s frametype.
 
Staring at the array and briefly opening the folds to find an intact seal,
without a single hint of disappointment, he recalled on the day he had been
captured and kept prisoner, put in line for Empurata.
 
His captors said they would be kind enough to give him the right to a last
time.
 
A last meal through the mouthplates, and a last interface.
 
Being a mercurial senator and being intelligent enough to know exactly what
would happen after the interface, Shockwave recalled being given one other
prisoner to take.
 
He knew they would observe him, then take away what he liked the most.
 
For that, he made the immense sacrifice in completely ignoring his own port and
making sure the wardens would know how fond of his cable he was (he wasn’t).
 
Once he awoke after the procedure, he took notice of the irrefutable fact that
the wardens picked on his bait.
 
His Empurata comprised of not only his head, one optic, and both hands; it
included the complete removal of the transfluid tank, severing of the sensory
net and functions associated with his cord, turning it impossible to pressurise
and making it an unfeeling, eternally slotted, useless reminder right above the
perfectly functional port.
 
Having always preferred the more receptive role, he commended his previous,
illogical self for making the rational, logical decision in deceiving the
wardens.
 
As his mind wandered in his past, Shockwave pondered if he shouldn’t just give
up on the defective array anyway. This female one fitted his preferences well.
 
His mostly illogical bondmates, Soundwave and Lord Megatron, however, would
certainly find him thoughtful if he kept the original array, just for their
sake, and it would earn him points with his Lord.
 
Having his decision taken for himself then, he locked up the low pelvic single-
port female array out of sight, no intention of showing it to his two bonded
for now: Only his conscious override would be able to open it.
 
Shockwave nodded to himself then, severing the few sensory links left in his
own interface panel, making very quick work of it with the welder, removing his
own body's outer panelling and cabling and port system, delicately deposing
them on the bench.
 
Gash open in his ventral plates, exposing the connection to his energon system,
electric system and spark chamber, he finished welding the cauterised ends
together, to avoid deadly leakage, finally closing his ventral plates shut,
turning to work with the whole interface array, his own interface array, in his
slab.
 
Shockwave contemplated his array, registering on his log that now his frame was
officially neutered.
 
On a purely intellectual level, he even admired the greater clarity of though
he had now his interface array no longer pinged him. His work might even
benefit from such indifference, weren't he mated and thus logically expected to
keep it.
 
Finally done, observing detached the purple interface panel installed into the
female shell right above the original panel, each at a separate ventral plate,
pinging to life as he manually tested its functions, Shockwave shut the panels
and closed it away, focusing on his next task.
 
Function. Visually scooping from his least damaged frames, knowing the tendency
of the autobots to link form to function, he searched from those dead whose
function mirrored his own talents. Sadly he lacked deceased science officer
shells.
 
Since he intended to continue scientifically capable, he turned his search for
the medical frames: Afterall, medics were an acceptable segment of the Science
Caste.
 
Locating two flimsy Paradron medics with no alternate mode, Shockwave nearly
hummed to himself: since he lacked scientists, these would serve for harvesting
of medical parts, including their very hands and lateral medical ports.
 
Proceeding to dissect the four forged hands out of their corpses, he
microjoined the two right hand's wiring into the shell's own right hand,
connecting them together, then repeating the procedure into the left: finally,
logging himself into his future shell via cortical psychic path, he tried for
the double sensitivity of the medically modified hands, satisfied with
everything he felt: there would be no medic with hands more sensitive and
customised than his own.
 
Now removing the whole medical port system from the two medics, he joined both
together and also implanted them on: his cortical psychic patch would work
twice as fast with the 2.0 port he adapted and installed.
 
The medical hands and ports would amount to nothing if they weren't connected
to a proper medical or scientist's processor: hacking the cranial casing wide
open, finally tearing through the last remains of the paradron frames, he
joined their two processors into the enforcer's neural module, putting them to
run together, satisfied at the processing efficiency he achieved.
 
Innards completed.
 
Now onto covering up the whole mess.
 
Heavy armour. Even being the bulkiest female shell he owned, it still measured
only slightly more than two thirds of Lord Megatron's height.
 
He couldn't work around size, but he would add mass.
 
Nodding to himself, he applied a secondary and a tertiary layer of armour,
covering up most of the blue and black plating with white pieces cannibalised
from the two medical frames (who now rested as small scrap on the ground),
making his future shell bulkier and heavier, and specially adding his signature
protruding chestplate, feet, full thighs and hips.
 
Shockwave rationally knew his own strong qualities, and was very much intent in
replicating them on his future shell.
 
Flight mechanism. Shockwave remembered when he still used to own a flying alt
mode, before Empurata and his turn of spark, when he took on his gunformer mode
and installed his decepticon antigravs.
 
Flight was an advantage he didn't intend to lose, Shockwave pondered as he
turned the shell on its stomach: a cold-constructed rotary motor and paddles in
the back would have to do, since this shell could not receive default
decepticon antigravs and thrusters would be impossible to come by in a hurry.
 
Weapons. Shockwave rather likes shooting at the range, but he was aware he was
rubbish. Looking through the shells, he removed a retractile chain and hook
from one of them, taking it in his right arm, feeling for its weight, swinging
the hook once and nodding appreciatively. Satisfied, he hastily fused the
device to the shell's ventral plates, right under the now armoured chestplate,
avoiding the rotor. Acceptable for an autobot medic: enough for his aiming
skills.
 
Paintjob. The paradron frames that provided the outer plating of the shell were
mostly white, that covered up most of Strongarm's blues and blacks on the
outside: it resulted in an acceptable colour scheme for a medical frame.
 
Nodding, recalling the lost days when he used to change his own colours
frequently, before the Institute, Shockwave minutely worked in detailing his
own interface array – now onto the female shell – to the last micron in chrome,
magenta and decepticon purple.
 
As soon as he finished the latest touches, and painted the last purple medical
cross in the shell's shoulders, leaving it without any faction markings, he
powered the shell up with one energon cube into his systems, from his own
ration: its engines hummed in the silence of the lab, ready to receive his
spark.
 
He shook his head, waiting for the Drone Control Program to finish compiling
his own memories and files into an automatic self-responding system with a ping
in his mind.
 
Contemplating for the last time his own ancient systems, not knowing when or if
he would return, he put his own mind to run on automatic, shutting off his
connections to his own spark, everything finally breaking into silence.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Breaking the silence at the Nemesis' bridge, already embarked, Megatron spoke
his official orders for Shockwave, left behind on Cybertron.
 
“Take care of our planet in my absence, my Guardian. I count on you,
Shockwave.”
 
The now empty shell nodded on the communication screen, spitting loyalty,
disconnecting away coldly, as Soundwave, unreadable, mute and immobile,
observed Megatron nod back.
 
Meanwhile, at the recesses of the ship, locked inside the cargo bay, low-
powered while connected at the Nemesis' systems, Shockwave's sparkchamber,
transferred to the autobot body, rested functional, his mind however locked
into silence and darkness, slowly integrating to the new shell.
 
He had already changed his own spark-frequency to match the one of the deceased
Strongarm, a feat only he, Shockwave, was able to do. It made him ideal into
infiltration missions, a skill unfortunately his Lord rarely told him to use.
In truth, Megatron rather preferred to keep Shockwave away from the public
optic, telling him to avoid dangerous missions, all the while lacing his
arguments with logic about not being able to lose his most trusted scientist
and most reliable lieutenant.
 
Shockwave operated on logic, but wasn't stupid, and deep down he knew it wasn't
only Science.
 
That was the way his master cared.
 
As such, aiming not to worry his Lord unnecessarily, he made sure the pod was
tampered enough to not give away his presence as a fully functional spark.
Soundwave might have been able to pinpoint his location otherwise, and the plan
would go to waste.
 
Knowing he would have to know what was going on outside of the stasis-pod,
Shockwave started working on the connections of his sensory net to the Nemesis'
cameras and audials. Soon the whole Nemesis would be a surrogate indirect shell
for his spark, and he would be able to personally monitor everything, from the
cameras, to the audio, to the doors.
 
The things he would be able to do as the Nemesis herself.
 
His plans were cut short however.
 
Shockwave, brilliant scientist Shockwave, managed to set his systems in synch
with the Nemesis on, precisely when the Decepticons were fighting the Ark,
after the transwarp bridge had taken them from Cybertron towards a primitive,
two-mooned, planetoid.
 
Instead of panicking, though, Shockwave, cold, sparkless, encompassing, all
powerful, powered by the Heart of Cybertron within the Nemesis, having
practically become the Nemesis herself, using his advanced intelligence and
logic, reacted as anyone would.
 
He quickly, hastily, haphazardly searched the ship's controls for the weapons,
and FIRED!!!
 
Too bad Shockwave can't shoot for shit, and as the decepticons accused
themselves of mangling the attack with really bad aim and bad shoot, Megatron
glitch-slapped Starscream: it had to be the military air-commander's fault!
 
After that, everything went to the Well, the Decepticons leaving for the Ark,
intent in fighting and winning, and the Nemesis, out of control and fuming,
spiralled down into the ocean, disappearing in the smoke, the barnacles and the
brine.
***** You can't shoot for shit, Shockwave! *****
Chapter Summary
     Shockwave puts his plan in motion...
Shockwave spent the next four million years alone, trapped within the pod, only
the Heart of Cybertron capable of keeping the basic subroutines of the Nemesis
ON, and his autobot shell alive.
 
He witnessed strange creatures creep upon his borrowed halls, thought he felt
Ravageand even Soundwave, strolling at some point, then his Lord Megatron
himself, albeit muted into another body, then a huge blast, and finally getting
surrounded by dirt, soil, and forests, and mud, and many and many layers of
organic muck from this wretched planet, until the current days.
 
All along he watched passively, for he wasn't exactly willing to try anything
to leave his predicament: he had sunk the Nemesis down the ocean, someone else
rose it out, then sunk it down the rainforest ground, and after all this mess,
Shockwave knew he was rightfully meant for dire punishment the moment his Lord
found him out, and he would, as soon as Shockwave made himself available.
 
Not being fond of suffering, he had four million years to think on a means to
avoid punishment by turning a dire situation into a good one.
 
The way he saw things, he would need nothing short of the fragging Matrix
herself to be even remotely forgiven.
 
Hmmm.
 
Shockwave, locked within the stasis pod, would have patted himself in the
rotors if he could: focusing on the autoguns, he aimed a couple of them into
the stasis-pod panelling and shot once, missing and hitting the opposite walls.
 
He really, really, should give up trying to shoot.
 
After a couple more of shots, he settled for cutting the power supply from the
Heart of Cybertron to the pod, hoping the emergency unlocking protocols would
kick in to release the shell.
 
As he mused on his chain of mistakes, as unemotionally as possible, suddenly he
was writhing and trashing (absolutely not in an emotional way, it was merely
self-preservation!), ripping out cables as he floated within the nanite-
enriched fluids circling his autobot shell, and finally rotated on his axis,
stopping before the pod's lid.
 
Before leaving the pod, intent on NOT getting killed by the autoguns, he
restored his original decepticon spark signature. Nodding to himself at
thinking this through, he finally caught the hook from his chain and brutally
dug it through the central seam of the pod's lid.
 
Fluid streamed through the freshly open hole on the outside, then flooded out,
as the hydraulics whirred and the halves of the lid flew open, Shockwave's
autobot shell falling on the ground with all the grace a heavy-armoured frame
could, on his knees and battlemask, in a shower of liquid light.
 
Standing up, he removed the hook out, observing it retract. He should have
thought out a better use of subspace for that chain instead of mechanical
recoiling.
 
In hindsight, he had planned poorly the whole endeavour. He regretted having
acted out of trying to prove a point, and not merely by logic.
 
Not that he could change the past now, or would admit he could have done
better.
 
Blue visor flickering twice, he turned to the Nemesis' systems, running
diagnostics. The ship was buried within the rainforest, partially underground,
nearly whole, and it in itself was a small miracle. The upper cloister was
functional and held an elevator mechanism meant to connect it to the ceiling of
the repair-bay back on Cybertron.
 
It took Shockwave a few earth months to adapt said elevator to raise a platform
above the level of the forest canopies. Mechanics was something he could do,
and he did well. Setting up rationing routines, he managed to optimise the
energy consumption from the power-core Heart of Cybertron so that the ship
wouldn't run out of power.
 
The only thing he lacked now was an alternate mode.
 
The hurried job he made into the autobot enforcer turned medic made sure he had
a rotor, a chain and hook, insignificant subspace, and heavy plating. After
much trying he managed to physically latch into an underground communications
cable of what he would consider a military Intranet in the Brazilian
rainforest, from where he did manage to learn the portuguese language and
download a few interesting military blueprints.
 
Finally, he settled for a mode compatible to his combined abilities, the EC130.
 
As such, almost a year since Shockwave awoke, he glided over the canopies
besides the Amazon River, the gleam of an outstretched chain glowing, the sound
of helicopter rotary blades echoing in the night.
 
===============================================================================
 
The nights echoed with the phantom roar of rotors from a pilot-less helicopter:
Amazonian cattle farmers and natives would swear for ages to come that a
phantom machine flew above their heads, transforming into the phantom
Mapingüari, a giant white one-eyed demon with a glowing mouth in the middle of
its chest that scared their cattle away and tore through their
fueldisappearingwith it in clear intent to restore the forest to its natural
state, every single night.
 
Shockwave, having become a local legend, seized the impunity to finish
compiling efficient data triangulation by honing his own subterfuge skills, now
in spanish, tracking down an oil-pumping operation in Venezuela, where the
autobots were making the security to prevent the decepticons from raiding the
oil into energon.
 
Watching intently, taking his time, Shockwave sneaked into the site, making
sure to set a small portion of the nearing rainforest on fire with his own
fuel.
 
Dark smoke filled the area, as the autobots started evacuating the humans:
arriving in helicopter-mode, purple crosses gleaming in the sunlight as soon as
he emerged from the fog, Shockwave made sure to land and open his doors wide,
as unsuspecting humans stepped in. Checking into the protectobots rescue
frequency, broadcast to the whole autobot fleet on site, he learned about where
to leave his human charges, heading there.
 
The key is to promenade as if you have complete rights of being there in first
place. No hesitation. No doubts. No fear!
 
“HALT!”
 
He would have root-moded and protocol-raised his hands up behind his neck, if
he didn't have humans within. Clearing his vocoder, he acted on his role,
speaking through the synthesiser.
 
“Autobot Enforcer Cadet Strongarm presenting for duty.”
 
Blades, neurotically circling around, poked him in the purple crosses.
 
“Enforcer. With medical crosses. Purple medical crosses. Are you kidding me???”
 
Shockwave kept speaking.
 
“I do not joke, Officer. I was part of the Cybertronian Resistance, once. I had
been experimented on and forcibly had my function and outer appearance modified
by Shockwave to serve as decepticon medic, hence the purple crosses. Having
managed to escape his control, I fled through the Space-Bridge and logically
ended up on this planet. I request to be reported to my former superior
officer, Commander Officer Prowl, for clearance and return of my original
functions as Cadet Strongarm, the autobot enforcer.”
 
At that the protectobots eyed themselves, pinging for Optimus Prime. First Aid
helped the humans out of Shockwave, as at gunpoint, Blades ordered his
transformation, stasis-cuffing him until debriefing could be followed through,
comming base back and suggesting setting up the brig.
 
===============================================================================
 
At the brig, Shockwave, locked inside the Strongarm shell, waited patiently: he
knew it would take time to gather the autobot's trust.
 
Having requested to report back to Strongarm's former boss, Prowl, he knew by
now the autobot SIC was using his battle computer to his full extent to
calculate on all the variables involved in his lost enforcer's return to the
fold.
 
Taking a fleeting glance to the mirror on the wall, aware that it should
probably be from where he was being watched, he kept his cool and patience:
whoever waited four millions years locked inside a pod, could wait a few hours
and days now.
 
Behind the mirror, arms folded, Prowl watched and observed the heavily modified
Strongarm, optics focused on the purple crosses, indeed calculating a myriad of
possibilities.
 
To a start, it was hard to believe Strongarm's version.
 
First, everybody knew of the decepticon's disdain towards females, especially
female autobots. Third, if Shockwave wanted a medic, why modify an enforcer
into one, when it was infinitely easier to just enslave one or two paradron
medics to work, instead of going through the trouble of customising and re-
plating a clearly non-standard frame?
 
Maybe the hardiness and sturdy body of Cadet Enforcer Strongarm (whose features
and female characteristics – already few to start with – were concealed) were
key in Shockwave's choice of shell: the paradron medics were flimsy and fragile
and certainly unable to take the rough decepticon handling like his former
subordinate did.
 
So, logic dictates that Shockwave probably had no better option of mechs to
violate like this, and Strongarm was specifically chosen because she was hardy
and stocky and the tallest female Prowl ever came across in autobot ranks: her
scarce femininity was concealed to mimicry a male shell, only the protruding
chest and wide hip-plates denouncing her true spark.
 
Not to mention that supposedly her body had been upgraded to incorporate
medical scanners, and maybe even a processor, in order to properly be a medic,
and Prowl could only wonder how it had affected Strongarm beyond appearances.
 
Pursing his lip-plates, he shook his head: Shockwave meddled in Strongarm's
head, full medical clearing on her functions being mandatory, both for viruses,
potential sleeper-agent programs, listing on kind of features modified from her
default body, deep scanning of her spark and comparison to databanks, and for
that he would need Ratchet.
 
===============================================================================
 
Ratchet received the comm with annoyance.
 
Sighing at the huge amount of accumulated work he had on his hands, deeply
regretting having left Cybertron without taking a single medical apprentice
altogether, having as fully chevroned colleague only the protectobot First Aid,
still a newbie however to all standards, he stood up, stretching his tired
struts.
 
Prowl required his presence at the brig.
 
Getting there at the secure room, he slowed his steps as he took on the unknown
mech sitting placidly inside the cell, finally turning his stare to his
superior officer.
 
“Why am I here? Don't you know I'm overtaxed and understaffed? Who is that?”
 
Prowl minutely bowed his head, handing Ratchet a datapad.
 
“Enforcer Strongarm, cybertronian autobot resistance. Victim of an experiment
by Shockwave. To put it simply, he turned her into a medic, but she claims she
was able to escape.”
 
Ratchet nodded, taking on the enforcer's file and briefly reviewing it,
fleeting the occasional glance through the fake mirror, as Prowl took his time
explaining he needed her analysed and medically cleared before he would come to
Optimus Prime.
 
Knowing how Prowl was meticulous and careful, yet a bit over-the-top with his
battle computer statistics, Ratchet groaned: nothing against Strongarm, but he
hated the prospect of having to put his servos into Shockwave's handiwork.
 
Cybertron's Guardian was rumoured to have developed increasing madness over the
millennia since his isolation on Cybertron, confirmed by Elita-1 the day she
crossed through the Decepticon free-for-all Space Bridge, often talking to
himself grandiosely, accusing people of destroying his house, praising his Lord
Megatron, commanding with brutal inefficiency an army of drones, and shooting
autobots with abysmal imprecision during energon raids.
 
Connecting briefly through the Ark's systems, he reached his patient files at
the medbay, downloading Strongarm's archives, taking one deep in-vent and
nodding to Prowl.
 
Before anything, he had to confirm that Strongarm was Strongarm.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Strongarm.”
 
Shockwave raised his head towards the tired voice, staring, standing up and
minutely dipping his head down in a side tilt.
 
“Chief Medical Officer.”
 
Ratchet compared the voice pattern recorded in Strongarm's file. Unmatched.
 
“You have been provided a vocoder.”
 
Shockwave nodded, giving a not-answer.
 
“A neutral voice was more logical for my continued function without harassment
among the decepticons.”
 
Ratchet grunted, unsurprised. He knew very well the general prejudice that
cybertronians of all factions had towards the direct representatives of Solus
Prime.
 
Flaring his hand scanner on and approaching his open palm towards the energon
bars, running a medical override and shutting them down, Ratchet cleared his
voicebox.
 
“Strongarm. I'm here to be sure you are you, since Shockwave meddled with your
shell, and maybe even your spark.”
 
Shockwave nodded.
 
“It is only logical that you investigate, Chief Medical Officer. I will comply.
What is it you require of me?”
 
“Is it true you have been modified to become a medical-grade frame?”
 
“Affirmative. I was very much aware of every single modification done to my
shell, conscious all along the process, including the visor and permanently
welded faceplate concealments. The blue of the visor was supposed to symbol I
was not a properdecepticon.”
 
Ratchet nodded, disgusted. Practically Empurata. Shockwave wasn't known for
being kind.
 
“I require a medical connection for further evaluation, Strongarm. I hope it's
ok.”
 
Shockwave nodded, opening his lateral panel and displaying the 2.0 medical
port, his spooled cortical psychic patch dormant right beside it.
 
Taking a split-second longer than necessary looking at the purple colour
scheme, Ratchet unspooled his own lateral medical cable, plugging in.
 
Visor darkening for a split-second, he was met with a neutral ping and
handshake, Strongarm's files opening wide with firewalls down. Openly checking
the medical files, reviewing briefly the past data stored on her memory banks,
since her times being forged as an enforcer of the autobot forces, her progress
through ranks, down to the day she faced, fought and lost into a body-to-body
struggle at the labs to Shockwave himself.
 
===============================================================================
 
Shockwave freely shared the bulk of Strongarm's old stored memories, having
modified the files with fakehazy details of a life under enslavement, working
under orders and repairing decepticons, occasionally serving as assistant and
test-subject.
 
Allowing his own memory banks to remain hidden as he overflowed Ratchet's
passively with the autobot's own, Shockwave successfully diverted his potential
prying, recording all along the way he moved through his systems, carefully and
meticulously, finally reaching the boundaries of the decepticon's own spark.
 
Pulsing his spark frequency through their link slowly, calmly, exactly the way
Strongarm's spark used to be, Shockwave focused on the readings in his own HUD,
having managed to use Ratchet's own medical cable, via his superior 2.0 port,
partially as a reverse cortical psychic patch and projecting the medic's own
systems with acceptance and resignation.
 
Spark frequency. Matched.
 
Reading on medically relevant info, Ratchet made sure to check on potential
violation of physical frame, beyond forced function and form reassignment.
 
For one, he was glad her original interface array was not only intact with
original factory seals on, but also medically locked: he hated dealing with
rape.
 
Finding however the presence of a foreign unsealed double-purpose array
installed, he turned his optics to her.
 
“How are you taking, as female, having this additional malearray? Have you been
forced into taking this particular modification as well?”
 
Shockwave stared without reaction, briefly glancing down his closed ventral
plates, providing an evasive reply.
 
“I believe it is time for me to clarify one personal detail, Chief Medical
Officer. Since I had been bodily modified and had to live among the
decepticons, I have gotten around to identifying myself by the use of male
oriented pronouns, and I find it highly preferable for my current mindset.”
 
Gaping for an instant, Ratchet finally nodded, his medical cable disconnecting
in a jolt.
 
===============================================================================
 
Jolting out of the medical hub they were locked into, Shockwave physically
braced himself against the wall of the cell, Ratchet shaking his head and
resuming the live analysis of Strongarm's health bill and upper processor
evaluation.
 
“You... are medically clean. No suspicious mods, databanks or potential sleeper
code located. All you have of wrong is a medically damaged spark.”
 
Shockwave minutely dipped his head, taking official confirmation that his
shadowplayed spark was indeed damaged, sitting back on the brig's berth.
 
“I shall wait for the High Command's decision on my fate then, Chief Medical
Officer.”
 
Shockwave made a show of powering down the visor, watching Ratchet through the
corner of both optics underneath it, as the medic stared for an instant still,
bringing the energon bars back on and making his leave.
 
===============================================================================
 
Leaving the brig with Ratchet, Prowl went for Optimus Prime's office, hoping
the Prime would take the right decision.
 
Having by now explained Strongarm's version of her existence among the
decepticons, Prowl observed Optimus stare thoughtfully for a second, absently
tapping the desk right beside a beautifully ornate life-size replica of the
Matrix.
 
“What is the warranty we have that Strongarm was not sent as a spy and sleeper
agent?”
 
Ratchet unsubspaced a datapad, handing it.
 
“I have undergone through all his personal memories and files. They are locked
under medical code on my own systems, but this resumed log shows no evidence of
trigger programs or hidden comm, not a single trace of attempted communication
with the decepticons.”
 
Optimus side-glanced the medic, taking the datapad on and staring down,
skimming through it.
 
“I was under the impression Strongarm is female, Ratchet. Why did you refer to
her as him?”
 
“It had been his request to no longer be called and treated as female. I
suppose undergoing forced body modification like the one he had is explanation
enough for such a change of spark. You do remember how Arcee dealt with having
been assigned a female role by Jhiaxus. She took a long while to accept being
referred to as female.”
 
Prowl nodded, recalling, as Optimus sighed loudly.
 
“Very well. So you medically cleared him. Can he return immediately to the
ranks, Prowl?”
 
“Optimus Prime. Former Enforcer Cadet Strongarm, and the key is former, no
longer owns the proper mods and structure for his previous function. Even if he
had them intact, I cannot take him under my service anymore, especially because
I still calculate a 94% chance that he will be a liability, and I cannot risk
our security. Red Alert would certainly back me. I vote for sending him back to
Cybertron to serve as medic at the resistance.”
 
Nodding this time, Optimus caught a blank datapad, ready to fill the order to
send Strongarm to Cybertron at the first available spacebridge window.
 
“Stop.”
 
Stopping his typing, Optimus raised his optics, squinting.
 
“Yes, Ratchet? Anything you would like to request?”
 
Tensing, the medic straightened his shoulders.
 
“I wish to vouch for Strongarm under my tutorage. I can make better use of his
potential services here on Earth.”
 
Blinking twice and twitching minutely the corner of his left optic, Prowl
shifted a glance between Ratchet and the sternly squinting Prime.
 
“Didn't you hear about Prowl's assertion that Strongarm is a security
liability?”
 
“Under his line of work, I agree. But not under mine: The only secrets a medic
keeps are the ones concerning his patient's files.”
 
He opened his own red hands, scratched with use, displaying them palms-up to
his superiors.
 
“Not to mention I could indeed use an extra pair of medically coded hands. I
will supervise his skills and learning curve, and if he can pass the Academy's
exams, I can even chevron him. He had received forged medical apparatus, from
hands to scans, to special cables and ports. I hate to admit but Shockwave made
a brilliant work on this frame and it would just be a waste of a resource to
send him away.”
 
Optimus and Prowl shared a long glance. Optimus spoke.
 
“You, Ratchet, are aware that by vouching, if...”
 
“When.” Prowl added with a scowl.
 
“...if he proves to be a security hazard, you will receive the same punishment
and consequences. He is your complete responsibility. You have one year to
train and evaluate Strongarm as you see fit, and at the end of this period, I
believe you will be able to report on his clearance as a medic.”
 
Ratchet had seen nothing dangerous on Strongarm's files, and the temptation to
finally have a new apprenticeand assistant was just too good to let go, not to
mention Optimus’ words reeked of challenge, and Ratchet wasn’t a mech used to
shy away from one.
 
“I accept the terms, Prime. In one year the autobots shall have another fully
chevroned medic in the ranks. I will collect my charge with your permission.”
 
Optimus nodded, dismissing him, as Prowl kept both arms folded, clearly
unamused, planning to have words with his superior as soon as the medic was
out.
***** A medic in the House *****
Out of the brig, under the medic's responsibility, Shockwave walked side by
side besides the sturdy doctor, standing almost to the autobot's height, his
paddles rotating slowly at each step.

The plan was going exactly as he had expected: he knew Prowl would not accept
Strongarm's return, and logically the chief medical officer was his best option
for the while.

Being steered down to the medbay, Shockwave stepped in right behind the medic,
taking on full sight the four slabs, and the general controlled chaos of the
bay, clean yet slightly out of order.

“I detect you can indeed use my help, Chief Medical Officer. If you will allow
me, I will start cataloguing and working.”

Ratchet nodded, observing Strongarm walk towards one of the slabs, taking a box
of bolts and beginning to sort them by size.

===============================================================================
 
 
Sizing up and down the autobot CMO with both optics, under the visor, Shockwave
mechanically sorted the bolts with a fraction of his processors, his black
hands silently working almost of their own volition at feeling and detecting
minute fractures that would render the bolts useless, taking these for melting
and reshaping afterwards.

Staring down his current responsibility, Ratchet sighed, heading to one other
slab and working on an optic system: it would take some getting used to a quiet
companion, after having for so long as his immediate student back on Cybertron
such a flamboyant creature like Knock-Out and his gleaming red-buffed plates.

===============================================================================
 

A pair of proudly gleaming red-buffed plates came into view, as the white face
flashed a killer smile to the mirror: Knock-Out, nodding to himself, having
just set up his mod shop on Cybertron, Velocitronian grounds, could hardly wait
for the few left underground racers to come.

Belonging to the Neutrals, very aware of his status as a not chevroned medic,
but still the best the ragtag racers could afford, he made sure to hide his
medical operation under an aesthetic modder's guise.

His doors opened slowly, as he turned to greet the first potential customer of
the day.

“Hi!”

He sighed. Not this racer.

“Moonracer. What the slag are you doing in my shop? Don't you have a certain
purple cyclops to torment and raid? What would your boss Arcee say?”

Moonracer shook her head, practically sauntering to the slab, sitting cross-
legged.

“I recall you promised me a mod.”

“Well, my little spark-split twin and beloved ex-assistant, you made your
choice clear when you left to compose the autobot resistance. No mods for you.”

Moonracer wriggled both feet out of the slab.

“If you had just come with me to them, we might even have followed the autobots
to Earth, and you could have been fully chevroned by now.”

Ducking a wrench, she stared as it clanked on the ground.

“You certainly don't deny where you leaned the craft from.”

Knock-Out growled, clenching his delicate taloned hands.

“I have no interest in this war. It's bad for my finish.”

===============================================================================
 

“I am finished.”

Ratchet blinked out of his stupor, currently dozing, heads on his forearms
sitting beside the slab, not recalling how he ended up like this. Checking on
his inner clock, he cursed out loud.

“Strongarm! You couldn't let me recharge for so long!”

Shockwave glared at him, reactionless.

“Chief Medical Officer. I have not been provided a list of your schedule, or
even a general guideline of how to act in your presence. I made my best by
sorting parts while you recharged. Obviously, had there been an emergency, I
would have promptly called you. As it was however, I could indeed organize and
file many scattered items into a logical sequence and storage structure: heed
the data on the full categorisation.”

He handed him a datapad. Ratchet absently caught it, subspacing it.

“At least one of us had been useful. Since you are under my apprenticeship for
the year, I can’t let you take part on the alone shifts yet, so you must come
with me. First Aid will assume the bay for the next shift. I'll show you my
quarters.”

Shockwave nodded, falling on step with his superior, ready to go.

===============================================================================
 
 
“Do you really have to go?”

First Aid sighed.

“Yes, Blades. If you won't help me, then I'll just take longer to get there,
then return.”

Blades shook his head, finally raising both arms in annoyance.

“Fine! I'll haul you there!”

Helicopter-moding and releasing his tow cable, carefully unsubspacing the
parking platform, he hovered above him as First Aid ambulance-moded and drove
into it, finally both lifting off and heading out.

===============================================================================
 

Out of sight, finally, Shockwave, (paddles removed from his rotor and placed
against the corner of the wall) lying on his back on a spare berth, stared at
the ceiling, processors deep in thought.

He had been properly fuelled by good quality volcanic energon, taking notes on
how distracted the CMO seemed when Shockwave opened his neck intake and
ubsubspaced a metallic straw with a flexible end, fitting the sharp end at the
cube and the flexible tube within the fuel line, setting it to drain the mid-
grade energon at a slow rate.

It would be a long period of time before he could even attempt getting close to
the Prime and the autobot Matrix, but he was positive it would pay off in the
end. He just had to play the part of the dutiful assistant, efficient medic,
competent technician, roles easy enough to follow, easier than navigating
autobot senate politics like he did in his past.

One year would roll away easily.

Finally dimming his optics and the visor, Shockwave prepared to recharge,
unable to stop thinking about the moment he would set his hands at the Matrix
and he could return, victorious, to his Lord, his audials filled with the
lulling rattle of ill-kept engines on the other side of the room, the last
image reaching his processors being that of the soundly recharging Ratchet.
 
===============================================================================
 
Ratchet came out of recharge in a jolt with sirens klaxon-roaring on the base.

On step to the medbay as his processors awoke, he had his wrench out in hands
even before consciousness fully kicked in, staring dazedly at the middle of the
room.

First Aid, with a build slighter and smaller than his own, was practically arms
inside Ironhide's chassis, the red mech under medical stasis, his chestplates
shattered. Growling, Ratchet plunged in together, almost expelling his
subordinate away.

“When did the decepticons attack???”

First Aid minutely stalled, turning his visor and faceplates to the ceiling.

“What decepticons? Blaster happened! They were discussing, then finally Blaster
caught his blaster, aimed point blank and shot!”

Ratchet blinked stupidly, shaking his head as he recalled Blaster and
Ironhide's feud: once, at the start of the war, they had been together, sworn
to a sparkbond that never happened. Four creations later, Blaster convinced
himself it would never be, and ever since they fell apart, the autobot tapedeck
displayed a mean temper, lashing exclusively on the arms specialist whenever he
felt provoked, which recently in the latest millennia had been a lot.

Perfectly understandable, if Ratchet were to be just: Ironhide was never
abusive, but his behaviour fell under the category of neglect, always making
excuses up to never honour the promised official sparkbonding, so the lashing
out was certainly fair.

That didn't mean Ratchet liked having to fix up their mess.

Growling and grumbling in a wonderful display of his best berthside manners,
Ratchet, hands on autopilot closing fuel lines, never noticed Strongarm slowly
come into view, approaching his battlemask down with a tilt, unceremoniously
obstructing his view while glaring at the exposed insides and unsubspacing a
datapad, taking notes.

“What an interesting test-subject. His spark spins 38% slower than it should.
Is it natural or result of repeated trauma? I advise against application of
sedatives otherwise the spark might gutter out. Unless, obviously, it is an
experiment to find the optimal rate of sedation possible before a weakened
spark yields, in which case I recommend more test-subjects for a double-blind
prospective study with a control group.”

First Aid briefly stalled as Ratchet jolted his glare from the wiring to
Shockwave's fascinated visual exploration.

“Strongarm. Ironhide is a patient, not a test-subject. He needs fixed. We are
not tryingdifferent sedative doses!”

Shockwave blinked his visor once, staring between the slain autobot and his
fellow medics.

“It seems a waste of an opportunity. At least nine more subjects and we could
have a stable cohort for a proper clinical essay. Imagine the databanks we
could fill. Are you entirely sure you do not wish to take this experiment a
step further?”

First Aid blinked his visor, EM-field flaring in exasperation: Ratchet threw
his wrench in Strongarm's head, visor minutely dimming as it clanked away to
the ground.

“You and I are having ethicsclasses after we fix Ironhide! Hand me back that
wrench before I turn your spark casing into one! Now!!”

Dipping his helm slowly in a nod, taking the wrench and getting closer,
Shockwave gleams his visor with something akin to satisfaction, approving the
authoritative display, taking on Ratchet's stern grimacing features as he
worked focused on the energon soaked innards, almost feeling like home.
 
===============================================================================

“I'm home!”

Chromia flopped her tired feet on the centrepiece in the middle of their main
room, throwing her body on the sofa as Arcee came into view, shaking her head
at the display.

“Where's the energon? Did you manage to get some?”

Chromia shook her head, arms lazily spread at the back of the sofa, optics
offline.

“Looks like today Cybertron's guardian dog was too triggerhappy to my tastes:
he was in gun mode atop his Tower, aiming everywhere and randomly trying to
shoot at asteroids, drones and occasionally screeching that no one would defeat
the Mighty Shockwave.”

Arcee shook her head, recalling Shockwave's insanity bouts: isolation was
certainly taking its toll.

It's not like they really had anything to fear though: as far as she knew,
Shockwave rarely got a shot right, and the only real casualty they had in the
last million years had been the capture and probable deactivation of their
former colleague, Strongarm.

===============================================================================
 
 
Strongarm dutifully cleaned the instruments as Ratchet, finally finished
stabilising Ironhide, cleared him to medical rest, sending First Aid out.

Staring at his apprentice, Ratchet sighed, remembering the diagnosis on his
spark being medically damaged, wondering how deep Shockwave’s craft went, to
the point of thinking about making science at such an inappropriate time.

Recalling however how Perceptor often followed through the same kind of thought
processes, he concluded it had to be the influence of being too closely around
a Scientist: most certainly with time and patience he would take this bad habit
out of Strongarm.

Calling him out, he observed his charge dip his head in assent, a gleam in his
visor, stepping closer.

“I am aware I displeased you earlier, Chief Medical Officer, with my scientific
enthusiasmand I certainly deserve my corrective lessons.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, closing it and blinking, as Strongarm knelt
down on his left knee, left hand resting on the right kneecap, staring up, EM-
field locked tight, immutable faceplates and darkened visor visibly expectant.

“I am yours to do as you will, master.”

Ratchet blinked. Thrice. That fragging sentence felt so damn wrong.

After what looked like the most awkward second of the world, Ratchet growled he
was no one's master, then pointed to a pair of stools by the slab, ordering him
to sit as he took hold of the other and started to review The Ethical Treatment
of Patients, a classical datafile, the medic shaking unformed thoughts away.

===============================================================================
 
 
Shaking unformed thoughts away, Firestar drove around the Sea of Rust, in
search of...

“Nautica!! I said I'm sorry!!!”

On submarine mode under the floating rust, Nautica sighed. Could not Firestar
see she was pissed? Could not Firestar know she knew her amica was not truly
sorry?

How she dreaded having come from Caminus: go see the Universe, they said; go
travel with your amica to meet her homeworld and deepen your friendship bond,
they said!

To come to this dead energonless planet was a full-fledged trap. Damned Way of
Flame and their social outcast policy.

If only she had a way out.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Out! If you ever return blasted again I'll leave you on a stasis-pod meant to
colonize a backwards world!”

Ironhide, chestplate criss-crossed with welds, walked out of the bay with the
warm words of encouragement from the autobot CMO echoing in his audials as the
doors locked behind.

“Any more backwards than this mudball here??” he bellowed against the door.

Turning on his heels, he inspected his own chestplates, wondering how
closeBlaster had shot him this time, snorting: the carrier-host was getting
better at finding his spark now, than during the time they actually used to
sparkmerge.

Apparently hate is a motivator more powerful than love.

Very much intent in not finding a certain tapedeck, wondering if he could get
to Sunstreak to ask for a repaint, Ironhide moved away, his steps getting
followed by the movement of a security camera down the hall.

===============================================================================
 

Hall finally empty, Red Alert shook his head, glare fixed at the security
camera as Ironhide retreated away from the medbay.

He was tired of not having his work acknowledged. No one respected him enough,
always thinking that his legitimate worries were only reflex of his paranoiac
mind.

If they knew how difficult it was to plan security around a bunch of
triggerhappy mechs dead set on making his life particularly hard, and he wasn't
even talking about the decepticonsnow, they might value his efforts and stop
teasing him about glitching all the time.

Sagging glumly with his forehead on his right forearm on the desk, he almost
jumped, finials frizzling with sudden charge, the instant he felt himself
grabbed from behind.

“Worried again?”

Turning a pair of paranoid optics towards the voice and the embrace, he smiled
the instant the faceplates of Inferno filled his sight.

Inferno snorted: worried – the understatement of the millennia. When was Red
Alert not worried?

Or glitched, or about to glitch, for that matter.

“The protectobots brought that Strongarm in, and against Prowl's best
predictions, Ratchet decided taking her, him, whatever, as apprentice. There is
a 94% probability Strongarm will be a liability! Of course I'm worried!!”

“Red. I’m certain Prowl is keeping a tight leash on the situation.”

===============================================================================
 
 
“We have a situation, Jazz.”

Jazz looked up from his cube of engex – how the frag he obtained it, Prowl
swore he didn’t even wantto know – and smirked.

“Prowler. Ol’Hatchet can certainly handle him. Chill'out.”

Relax: as if Prowl could stop his battle computer from calculating the
impending doom.

“What I can’t put my finger into is why Optimus allowed Ratchet to keep him for
a year before I can review his situation, even with the strong evidence
against. If I didn’t know the Prime so well, I’d think he actually expects the
whole thing to implode so he can punish Ratchet in the end.”

Jazz nodded, sipping his cube.

“Nev’underestimate a mech’s powa to inspire hate, Prowler. I sure don’wanna put
my fingers into their mess.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“What the frag is this mess?”

Shockwave looked up from the pile of scrap.

“I am recovering perfectly serviceable parts.”

Lifting up some of the now dismantled pieces, Ratchet cringed as soon as
recognition kicked in.

“Strongarm. This is Wheelie.”

“Correction: this was Wheelie. It was written on that little note attached to
his left pede at the morgue.”

“There was a reason for him to be there. Wheelie was deactivated. In a surprise
attack. I was keeping his shell intact for a proper ceremony.”

Shockwave stared unfazed between the now dismantled corpse, Ratchet’s fuming
face and the pile of parts.

“Here I thought you might be keeping him intact for dissection or study. It is
a mostly intact corpse except for the single, clean, sniper shot through his
sparkchamber. After inspecting the shot minutely and being familiar with the
decepticon plethora of weaponry and the damage they incur, I can adequately
diagnose the shot is too delicate and precise to be decepticon in origin; as
such, I am fascinated to see a fellow autobot went through great lengths just
to make sure this particular subject would never see the light of another solar
cycle. It is only logical that we honour his demise and the sniper’s skill by
recycling as many parts as possible from his deceased self.”

Ratchet gaped: Wheelie was offed by an autobot sniper (!!!), not by a
decepticon surprise attack. Prowl and Red Alert will have a newspark –together!
– the moment they are presented with the task of discovering who deactivated
Wheelie.

Ratchet, slightly overwhelmed with info, blinked, processors faltering,
stuttering.

“I… appreciate the necropsy service you have performed, Strongarm. I will
inform the Prime about this turn of events.”

Shockwave nodded, unaffected by praise, returning to the pile of Wheelie parts,
back into recycling. Ratchet cleared his voicebox.

“Strongarm. Stop defiling the corpse.”

Shockwave stalled, turning his unchanging faceplates to him.

“It is a fine specimen with very intact parts: I am not defiling, I am
recycling. I fail to see the logic why I should stop, Chief Medical Officer.”

He turned his hands back into the corpse, managing to duck Ratchet’s flying
wrench, as a grumbling CMO walked to where his favourite instrument currently
fell.

“I don’t care. Stop now!” he swung the wrench in the air above his head,
threateningly “Can you really not understand why you shouldn’t keep defiling
the corpse?”

Shockwave dipped his head down, keeping his sight on the hovering wrench.

“I see it now, Chief Medical Officer. Logically, the corpse should remain
intact for educational and informational purposes until the identity of the
sniper is discovered. I would like to obtain full permission to review my
anatomical studies on his shell while investigations are underway, and once
they are concluded, that I have first dibs on the retrieval of valuable parts.
T-cogs are a rare treat and greatly needed in case of damage, lest a
cybertronian becomes nearly useless without the ability to transform.”

Ratchet groaned: admirable skill coupled with lack of ethical understanding.

“Strongarm: know that I will drill Ethics personally through your thick hull
even if it’s the last thing I get to do in my existence! You will quit
dissecting now!!”

Shockwave, visor glowing slightly darker, monotoning one yes, master with a
tightly contained flare of his EM-field at the idea of having his hull drilled,
finally left the half-defiled corpse alone, bowing his head minutely and
leaving the medbay, paddles rotating slowly on his back.

Ratchet, in between angry and annoyed, screamed one I’m not your master! at the
retreating frame, finally facepalming and shaking his head.

===============================================================================
 
 
Head aching, Optimus Prime stared at the datapad on his desk, unwilling to even
touch it.

What he wouldn’t give to come back to his peaceful life back when he was an
archivist in Iacon. At least back then he would be away from this bag of cats.

Curse Strongarm. Curse Shockwave. Curse Ratchet!

If Optimus didn’t know the medic was indeed understaffed, he could even imagine
he requested to take on Strongarm just to annoy him because he could.

Not that Optimus would show he was feeling annoyed: he wasn’t going to give
this kind of satisfaction to his old friend.

Let him have Shockwave’s scrap: either Strongarmproves to be a good medic, or
he shows his true colours and proves Prowl’s prediction true. The only one to
take on the fallout will be his esteemed CMO. Either way Optimus wins.

Snorting with glee under his battlemask, Optimus glared at his office’s retro
calendar, counting the days and months...
***** Rolled Out *****
===============================================================================
Days turned into months, cycling into a year, as Ratchet catalogued and took
notes on Strongarm’s progress: despite slips here and there, the occasional
cruelty and inevitable bouts of inconvenient scientific curiosity, it was
undeniable that the mech had skill, and wartimes couldn’t afford to be too
picky.
 
As the last properly forged Medic of the Medical Board of Cybertron, capable of
ministering the Order Exams, Ratchet had been looking very much forward to the
incoming test.
 
From what he already knew of Strongarm, this purely technical evaluation of
skill would result near flawless. Had there been the other Medical Board
Members here, they might object to the moral aspect not being accounted for the
graduation, but it isn’t like they will jump out of their entombed spark
casings to protest.
 
Besides, holding up a Chevroning Ceremony would make a couple of mechs cringe:
nothing like a nemesis’s misery to warm up own’s own spark.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Spark craving answers, Soundwave, aboard the newly sunken Nemesis (turned
Undersea Decepticon Base as soon as the Heart of Cybertron was blown away from
Megatron’s core), couldn’t help latching a pair of datacables from his back
into the ship’s systems.
 
He tried to no avail to locate when the upper cloister’s improved elevator was
installed and put to work: he managed so far to uncover its author, and wasn’t
surprised to find it was a modification implemented by Shockwave.
 
Shaking his head, he sadly found it would be impossible to find when the
modifications took place: during the millions of years the ship remained half-
buried under the Amazonian forest, most of its memory banks were partially
damaged and much corrupted information ended up irremediably lost.
 
So much hindsight of Shockwave’s part: if Soundwave didn’t know his co-bonded
was so brilliant he might even think he had managed to actually live through
the problem of needing to leave the ship and having no option but upgrading the
lift to get out.
 
Shaking the ridiculous notion away, Soundwave briefly acknowledged the distinct
tug and pull at his own spark, and asked himself how to best convey Lord
Megatron his news.
 
Not that there was any need for mystery: ever since Ravage, their first
creation, Megatron acknowledged and even welcomed all the cassettes for what
they were: fully functional sparks, equal in everything to those generated by
Primus in hot spots.
 
The only difference is they were his, housed in juvenile cassette frames for
their own protection during their first millions of years, protection Soundwave
fiercely and ruthlessly provided.
 
All his other cassettes were conceived outside wartimes: all had been planned
in a way, and despite having grown already under the Decepticon revolution, he
managed to have a few relatively peaceful times with all of them and his two
bondmates.
 
He shook his head remembering Shockwave’s unending charts and clinical trials,
studying the underlining reasons why he had never been able to get sparked a
single time, finding no reasonable explanation. Shockwave, brilliant, with all
technology, databanks, scans and all the Sciences and Knowledge on his side,
and an unsullied sparkchamber with a healthy port, never managed what Primus
saw fit to bestow upon Soundwave so instinctively and effortlessly.
 
Not that there was any kind of special lesson or irony in this: sometimes life
just wasn’t fair.
 
Musing on chance happenings, coincidences, lucky streaks and the ever present
Law of Murphy, the tapedeck idly deposed his right hand atop his transparent
chestplate, lightly caressing it.
 
He had no need of scanning to know.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
He knew.
 
He knew they all had to be doing it on purpose just to make him glitch.
 
Red Alert, peeking from behind the medbay’s door, couldn’t help intruding at
Strongarm’s personal moment of gleefully recycling Wheelie parts. He looked so
fragging suspiciousseparating all those tiny pieces in boxes.
 
How can Ratchet stand it?
 
If he had been around by the time Wheelie had been shot, he would certainly
have become the suspect number one.
 
It was in his nature: Red Alert couldn’t help himself and had to come by to
investigate.
 
Having had the investigation of Wheelie fail, he recalled the awful night he
and Prowl decided giving up on the search and against all logic and security,
sloshed themselves in confiscated home-brewed high-grade, having woken up with
an awful processor-ache and no recognition of any memories about any single
thing they might have done.
 
The fact the security camera on Prowl’s office, where they drowned their
coolant away, failed, was of no help whatsoever.
 
Considering the whole autobot base befell a night without their surveillance
and survived, nothing bad having happened at all, they wrought a spark-felt
pact and sworn to never confess anyone they had been that negligent, much less
to admit they had no recollection of the events of said night.
 
Fortunately they had their own locked medical logs of the night, ready for
review.
 
Unfortunately, they would need medical clearance to be able to access them and
know exactly what they did.
 
Which brought them a dilemma: upon their request, once they knew about how much
they were currently loathing medics, First Aid would be spark-hurt and wounded
bearing his worst puppy glare, and Ratchet would swear bloody revenge and hit
them repeatedly with his wrench, cursing all along as he promised they would
regret their next medical reviews for the next millions of years. Hoist,
trustful and understanding, unfortunately, was a mechanic at best and had no
upper-processor upgrading or the skill to review logs.
 
Unless they decided resorting to Strongarm: he was rumoured to be so sparkless
that there was a fat chance he would review their logs dispassionately to the
point of not even caring if they ill-spoke of the medical class, however, that
didn’t mean he wouldn’t attempt any revenge or punishment just on principle or
because he could.
 
Basically, Prowl and Red Alert were utterly fragged either way. If at least
they had really produced a newspark – as they knew they almostfiguratively did
when they heard news of the mystery sniper in autobot ranks – they would know
what they did, but not even that took place to assure them of yes: to mechs
used to control every millimetre of their lives, not knowing something was the
worst punishment.
 
Primus certainly was having a laugh.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Laughing, Jazz couldn’t help cackling on his own: having hacked into the system
and making sure the security camera of Prowl’s office appeared malfunctioned,
he and Inferno now had the exclusive footage of Prowl and Red Alert’s
overcharged night in.
 
The poor souls would glitch so hard if they found out.
 
It’s not that they had done anything that reproachable afterall: they were so
uptight that all they managed to do while smashed was giggle stupidly, exchange
bad jokes neither Jazz or Inferno could understand, guzzle and spill energon,
cry their perceived misery of no one valuing their work, exchange a few spark-
felt overcharged hugs and finally collapse one atop the other, snoring loudly.
 
Knowing they were probably thinking the worst possible things about their
missing night, Jazz couldn’t help shaking his head: the pained glares they
exchanged when they thought no one was looking and the immense amount of guilt
they exuded every time they are reminded of the mystery sniper is almost not
funny.
 
Talking on said sniper, Jazz had tried his best to shuffle through his
underground net, to no avail.
 
Moonracer and Catapult, two known female sharpshooters, were on Cybertron;
Cliffjumper’s gun rifle power is too intense to be capable of causing merely a
minute shot through a sparkchamber; So far only two fit the stereotype:
Crosshairs is rumoured to be extremely precise, but was deployed on mission
with Sureshot for months and both simply were not in close range to have been
responsible for the shot.
 
Wheelie had been literally recharging and was found deactivated within his own
quarters. After ruling out suicide, and the security cameras having shown no
one entered or left his room, Jazz came to Suspects number one: Mirage, with
his invisibility cloak, and Hound, with his holograms.
 
Had Mirage any sharpshooter abilities, he might have been arrested on spot:
hadn’t Hound this day and time not been under full display of the humans in a
National Park, with many witnesses, attempting futilely to become one with
Nature and randomly chasing off wildlife, he might either.
 
Once he ruled out the disguisers, and the known snipers, he had to admit
temporary defeat: every other mecha might have preferred Wheelie deactivated
just for being excessively annoying.
 
No suspicious moving of adequate weaponry took place. No suspicious mecha
around. No one gloating or regretting the deed.
 
This sniper had to be a fragging genius to remain hidden for so long.
 
If only he had a clue.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I have no clue, Prime”
 
Optimus shook his head as Ironhide shrugged, rotating his energon cube in his
hands, finally chugging it.
 
“It’s not like Wheelie is getting exactly missed, so why are you so hell-bent
in finding his murderer, anyway?”
 
“It’s complicated, Ironhide. I am the Prime, leader and supposed to care about
all my fellow autobots. He was killed in cold energon and it’s our duty to find
the culprit and bring him to punishment. According to Ratchet, based on his
assistantStrongarm’s necropsy on Wheelie’s corpse, it had been an autobot
sniper.”
 
Realisation hitting him, Ironhide nodded knowingly, smirking behind his cube.
 
“So this is what it’s about. Fine, if I find anything on the sniper, I’ll tell
you, Prime.”
 
Raising an optic ridge, Optimus lowered himself to the level of Ironhide’s
optics.
 
“Are you implying what I think you did?”
 
He shook his head, finally finishing his cube.
 
“I can’t imply what’s fragging obvious. I’m not the only one with a complicated
ex. While mine actively hates and shoots me, and I get all the scars and welds
to prove, yours is too passive-aggressive and insidious to openly attack.”
 
Standing up, he approached Optimus Prime’s audials, whispering.
 
“I’d avoid undergoing medical evaluation if I were you.”
 
Patting Optimus in his shoulder, Ironhide, for once glad he had never messed up
with Ratchet, pondered there were fates worse than being Blaster’s cassettes’
sire.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Sire.
 
Megatron stared at the undersea window, focusing on a passing school of fish,
rolling the word in his voicebox.
 
It shouldn’t come as a surprise anymore, but it still did. In a couple of
centuries, according to Soundwave’s calculations, there would be a new
cassette.
 
The first one since Ravage that Shockwave might not be around to witness.
 
Shaking his head, the tyrant recalled how his unemotional scientist tried and
tried to the point of exhaustion to get himself sparked; it didn’t matter for
him if Soundwave or himself sired it – he wanted to produce a newspark of his
own, because he thought it was illogical to waste his superior intellect by not
passing it on to a future generation.
 
Of course both Megatron and Soundwave complied with the trials: not only
Shockwave was very open to any forms of experimentation in the berth, it was
also only fair to let him try. As a trusted decepticon, he deserved the chance.
 
Finally one day, Shockwave came to the Decepticon Throne Room on Cybertron,
holding a staggering amount of datapads: they contained all his files on the
millions of years and hundreds of millions of trials divided by period and
bondmate, all charted, classified and analysed for positioning, cybertronian
yearly cycle, amount of time for beginning of sparkmerge, period of time they
remained merged afterwards, and even intensity of final overload.
 
As such, in the middle of a reunion, showing an amazing lack of tact and
timing, Shockwave walked to his Lord, bowed his head with a flourish and just
let all the datapads fall haphazardly before Lord Megatron’s feet, effectively
silencing the until then bubbling reunion.
 
Megatron now snickers recalling the faces his decepticons did when Shockwave
droned explaining the reason for the datapads, especially as most of them were
dumbfounded to come to the realisation that Shockwave of all mechs had an
interfacing life many times more active than even the most boisterous
decepticons.
 
However, at the day he had gotten mad at the unnecessary display of their
intimacyto the whole fleet: he even wanted to punish Shockwave right then for
the ridiculous he made them pass, but Soundwave just dipped his head down at
the datapads, sending his lord a wordless ping for him to please not lash out –
Shockwave would never show, but he was certainly hurting, even if he didn’t
recognise the feeling.
 
So, Megatron, acquiescing to Soundwave’s request, merely nodded back to
Shockwave, saying he understood his logic in no longer trying, granting him
leave for as long as he needed, and daring anyone in the room with the flicker
of his own optics to even think of mockingthe situation.
 
Since then, Shockwave threw himself completely at his work, having blocked for
good the transmission of even his residual feelings through the sparkbond to
them, and from them, muting their link, explaining their constant emotional
presence was distracting.
 
He never actively searched them for interfacing or sparkmerging anymore, being
always fully consenting, compliant and effective however, whenever his presence
was requested.
 
So, as the centuries came by and new cassettes came into life, Megatron
couldn’t help feeling slightly sorry for his guardian’s inability: Shockwave
showed no visible disappointment on being unable, but Megatron knew the
resigned one-opticed side-glances whenever he saw them focusing a bit too long
on each of the newly activated cassettes.
 
Not that the tyrant put any pressure into sparking: it came so naturally to
Soundwave, that Megatron just knew it would be fruitless to even suggest they
had enough creations so far: Soundwave refused to employ any sort of sparking
control, and for a leader it was never wise to diminish your own authority by
giving an order you know will not be followed through.
 
Neither of them liked having their creations thrown in the effort of war, but
it was either this or enslavement by the autobots and the Functionists.
Besides, Soundwave was a fierce protector, and he knew the cassettes were
reasonably safe as long as they shared a direct bond to their carrier and
remained on their juvenile frames.
 
Snorting, Megatron prided himself in defying Primus even in this aspect:
officially Cybertronians only came by the will of Primus from hot spots,
fragments of Primus’ own spark and core, and mech-on-mech reproduction was
supposed to be nothing but legend, taboo even, and even when it occasionally
took place, the newsparks were considered to be inferior cybertronians, meant
to be enslaved by the controversial figure of the carrier-hosts, erroneously
considered to be slavemasters.
 
Proving Primus’ priestdom wrong, Megatron sired every single cassette from
Soundwave except for Ratbat, a repurposed, adopted spark previously belonging
to the now deceased owner of Soundwave before the War, ex-senator Ratbat.
 
Currently being an agreeable youngling with an avidness for energon that made
him a near specialist, and no memory of who he had been before, Ratbat had
nothing to do with the enslaver and corrupt senator anymore, and as such
Megatron welcomed him as a useful decepticon, in respect to Soundwave’s wish of
keeping him around.
 
Soundwave: soft spark for newsparks, as he had monotoned many times. How could
Megatron not agree?
 
Truly grateful for Soundwave’s grounding presence, being literally the face of
the revolution, and the glue that kept their polybond together, Megatron knew
he would never have been able to keep tabs on everything without his faithful
Chief Communications Officer, Third in Command and First Mate.
 
Even if he preferred to delegate the basekeeping tasks to Shockwave, who more
than ever, obsessively kept charts and graphs on every single energon cube
consumed and efficiency achieved by its employ on each different task and
sector, making sure no waste would take place, increasing the decepticon’s
survivability in the War.
 
Missing his Second Mate and his emotionally compromised spark, Megatron asked
himself what kind of projects and ideas he had been working on during his
isolation on Cybertron, almost smiling, unconsciously bracing himself for the
pile of datapads that would be unceremoniously thrown on his lap.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
A pile of datapads was unceremoniously thrown on his lap, as Ratchet yelped,
bracing himself not to fall off his chair.
 
“What the well is it???”
 
Shockwave, having just come from his leisurely time of Recycling Wheelie and
scaring the easte fluids out of Red Alert who was stalking him in the medbay’s
door, stared unfazed at the CMO’s optics, until then dozing on his own office,
a half-empty high-grade cube abandoned in the desk.
 
“It is a pile of datapads.” Shockwave droned, fleeting a glance at the high-
grade and concluding he could distill five cubes of out it.
 
Meanwhile, groaning something about being victim of a binary thinking mech,
Ratchet finished the cube and put the pile at the desk, taking the first in
hands, then the second and third, skimming through them and shaking his head.
 
They had gone through this before, and the answer was still no.
 
He handed the pile back, silently, hoping to have conveyed the message across.
 
Strongarmcaught it, staring blankly at the CMO, expectantly handing him the
first datapad back.
 
Ratchet rolled his optics: apparently, not. In-venting, this time he accepted
the proffered datapad, as Strongarm begun monotoning.
 
“I strongly advise that we measure samples of fluoroantimonic acid of varying
concentrations, provoke contact during different amounts of time, taking very
through notes and charting the results on a comprehensive formula so we can
predict its future reactions to further contact.”
 
Ratchet shook his head, the image of dissolving circuitry and armour coming to
mind, placing the datapad on the desk. Shockwave handed him the second datapad.
 
“I have not been so thorough with this particular analysis so far, but what
about the measurement of negative expansion of the material when exposed to
stellar levels of hypergravity? It might prove interesting.”
 
Sighing heavily and imagining shrinking optics and crunching armour, Ratchet
shook his head again, stacking the datapad up. Shockwave handed then the number
three.
 
“It could then be subjected to reactive species of oxygen into a poisonous
atmosphere. In a totally controlled environment, of course.”
 
Ratchet pinched his nosebridge, not even wanting to think about the
consequences, absently throwing the datapad atop the others. Shockwave,
tirelessly, insisted with a fourth.
 
“On second thought, Chief Medical Officer, maybe methodically vivisecting to
see real-time exactly how his innards work. For Science. I promise to make my
best to notallow undesired premature offlining.”
 
Squinting as he could almost see the screams of horror and despair during the
vivisection, Ratchet gripped the proffered datapad and fixed his glare on his
assistant, who had just unsubspaced yet one another datapad, extending it to
his CMO.
 
“Perhaps then...”
 
“For the last time, Strongarm, no, you can't just make experiments with The
Prime!!!”
 
He threw the fourth datapad into Strongarm’s head, cracking its glass, as the
reactionless heliformer didn’t even flinch, merely subspacing the fifth datapad
back, minutely bowing his head.
 
“I see my progressive ideas were not to your taste, yet again, Chief Medical
Officer. If you ever change your spark and would give me the opportunity, I can
be found performing drone work. I would do anything for the chance to
experiment.”
 
Ratchet stared, unblinking, as Shockwave turned on his heels with an almost
flourish, swaying hips right and left, leaving the room, slowly tilting his
head.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Tilting his head slowly, Shockwave’s empty shell turned drone on Cybertron
stared numbly at the screen.
 
For millions of years he used cautiously the meagre reserves of energon that
had not been stolen by the feemale autobots – the glitches!–into scientific
projects, production of drones, shooting (sparsely!) asteroids, and attempting
to communicate with Lord Megatron.
 
After so many years trying and getting no response, he was slightly dumbstruck
the moment he tried and an answer came through.
 
“Shockwave, Guardian of Cybertron!”
 
The screen flickered, depicting the visibly amused faceplates of no one less
than Lord Megatron.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Lord Megatron, having been surprised in his musings by the calling screen,
stared with nearly uncontained glee at his long lost scientist and mate,
unaware that he was looking at an empty shell.
 
“Megatron, Leader of the Decepticons.”
 
Shockwave’s sparkless drone tilted his head right, finials standing to
attention, as Megatron grinned openly. Of course he wasn’t expecting his mate
to jump through the screen and grab him for some rough and dirty facing, but a
mech could dream.
 
Soundwave, hacking through the transmission from his own room, couldn’t help an
amused flicker of his own EM-field: Shockwave made contact, and his familywas
finallycomplete.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Aren’t we a complete family? Why did you have to leave? I have been searching
for you for months.”
 
Hiding underground at the Kaonian ruins, Nautica groaned, as Firestar, having
just located one of her many hiding spots, hovered around her.
 
“You know very well why we are amica endura: It was either that or be
officially cast as lonely. You told me yourself it was only an arrangement! You
are the one who never valued our friendship as you should, Firestar!”
 
“Ok, I admit I didn’t like it at first, but I’m used to you now, frag it!!! Of
course you arefamily, as much as an annoying sibling that hogs on the covers
and chugs down energon with its mouth open and never properly flushes down the
waste tank produce!”
 
The enraged Nautica bit the bait.
 
“I don’t hog on the covers! And I only forgot the flushing that one time.
Besides, you are the one who chugs down the energon!”
 
Nautica folded arms, raising her chin to the other direction, as Firestar
smirked.
 
“See how we know each other well? We are family indeed, practically sparkbonded
to boot! For us to be perfect you only need to forget that guy, what’s his
name, Skips?”
 
“It’s Skids, and I’m not forgetting him, I even danced with him and I do not
dance!”
 
“I don’t see him searching for you endlessly on the ruins of Cybertron and
insisting for you to talk to him.” Firestar checked on her fingertips.
 
“Could it be because he wouldn’t need to?” Nautica spat, then made her leaving,
turning on her heels.
 
Ouch.
 
Firestar growled, screeching at the retreating Nautica, stomping her feet.
 
“You know something. You are right. I should be just staying here where I
belong with Chromia and Arcee raiding old Shockwave off his fuel, while you run
after that Squids guy and get ready to find out he only wanted you for fun and
is not ready to have you in his life outside ofdancing, and in truth is
sparkbonded to a mean carrier-host and has a home with an army of scraplets!!!”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
An army of scraplets surrounded him as he blinked, a mean carrier-host filling
his sight.
 
“Oh, frag.”
 
Soundwave tilted his head at the intruder, the cassettes following suite and
mimicking him.
 
“Skywarp: VOPed into the wrong room?”
 
Quickly Skywarp nodded: anything to leave the premises and return to his trine.
He truly had been searching for hidden high-grade, but he would settle for
freedom with his limbs whole.
 
Soundwave merely nodded back, no longer looming above him and returning to his
surveillance screen: he was in a too good mood to truly care about a little
interloper, who quickly saluted and VOPed away, as he finally sighed, silently
pinging his cassettes for them to dock, for he had something important to
share.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I would like to share something important.”
 
“If you are going to sharethat we need to send the Prime into a giant
centrifuge to catalogue the effects of different spinning rates at his balance
circuits, the answer is no.”
 
Shockwave stopped very still for a second.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I had no idea you had it in you. I am enthusiastic to
hear such an idea spontaneously rolling out of your lip-plates. Not only it is
logical but also wholly feasible. I will certainly elaborate on it for later,
citing comprehensive literature on the subject, and fully crediting you.”
 
Stuttering for an instant, Ratchet gritted his dental plates together, as
Strongarmunsubspaced a datapad and handed it to him.
 
BeforeStrongarm could speak though, Ratchet caught and swung the datapad over
his head, neatly aiming for Strongarm’s chestplate, missing it as the
heliformer caught it mid-air, flipping it back towards the medic.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. Please do not refuse it. This datapad documents my full
learning curve and progress under your tutorage. I have compiled all the info
so you will not need to. I have come here to share that I consider myself ready
to take the Order’s Exams. Right now.”
 
Ratchet blinked, taking the datapad back. Right now? Did he listen to it right?
When did the tutor-pupil order was reversed anyway?
 
“So you’re feeling bold, then.” He scowled “Open that slagging port and let me
dock to send your exams right into your systems then, Strongarm.”
 
Darkening his visor for an instant as he nodded, immediately exposing his 2.0
medical port, Shockwave nearly revved his engines in excitement as the CMO
resolutely yet calmly clicked his red and white medical cable in, pinging for
request to send a file.
 
Reviewing and already mentally answering the questions, Shockwave received the
connection with near eagerness: It was past the time for him to answer this
exam and quit being Ratchet’s pupil.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I was Ratchet’s pupil! I was to take the Order Exams!!”
 
The racer openly laughed overchargedly, as Knock-Out sagged: so much for
telling the truth.
 
“You are just rude. I’m closing the shop for the day. Go get your pierced mod
anywhere else!”
 
Blinking stupidly, the flashy orange painted racer with fancy wavy kibble on
his head and flame patterns all over his shell and an ill-concealed autobot
symbol hiccuped, swaying back and forth as he tried standing up.
 
“But you’re the only modder left on Cybetron! And I need my new pierced array.
The mechs dig piercings.”
 
Knock-Out shrugged.
 
“Clearly not my problem. I’m just a lowly non-certified cosmetic modder. I’m
not worth of your time, little wonder. Go back to yourautobots, uncle Prime
might be missing you.” He checked on his fingertips.
 
The flashy mech then draped himself all over Knock-Out, who feigned offended.
 
“Nah. Please let me stay longer. Uncle Optimus is boring. I am very sorry for
not treating you right, doctor.”
 
He wriggled his optic ridges: Knock-Out smirked.
 
“I wonder, Roddy the Hot. How sorry are you willing to be?”
 
“Very.” He purred.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Purring, very sorry for having taken so long to come to carrier to dock, Ravage
was the last in, before Soundwave conveyed the news.
 
The cassetticons knew very well they were under constant danger of other mechs
around the decepticons, and that they had to stick together.
 
Being the oldest, he knew the task of keeping track of the youngest would be
his eventually: long due his final upgrade into an adult frame, he purposefully
chose to remain a dependent, beastformer cassette as long as the War was on,
both for personal protection but also to keep the familial cohort unified and
strong.
 
Not to mention the advantage of abusing his felinoid form to let himself act
lazy, recharge anywhere he liked, hiss and growl at whoever he wanted without
obvious punishment, and actively share Lord Megatron’s lap – the perks of being
the first – without anyone finding it even remotely awkward. He didn’t even
mind being unable to use speech: no one outside the familial bond had anything
useful to talk about anyway.
 
Ravage: full of himself. Knows from whom the trait comes. Soundwave not
surprised.
 
Rolling his optics within the deck, boomed by Soundwave’s mental voice, he
shrugged, purring loudly in a clear attempt to lure his carrier into a false
sense of security.

===============================================================================
 
 
Lured into a false sense of security, Ratchet had just finished correcting the
Order’s Exams handed by Strongarm, almost the same instant he finished sending
the questions in.
 
Not that he expected much different, mused Ratchet: 98% of correct answers was
a fine number. Chevroning Ceremony, there would they go.
 
Shockwave, on his side, made sure to get wrong two of the 100 questions: it
never bode well to exhibit perfection: flawlessness was inherently suspicious,
and he needed to get this chevron.
 
While his master informed his superior officers of Strongarm’s success in the
Order Exams, calling for an official ceremony soon, Shockwave mused on his own
corner as he absently inspected his black double-forged medical hands.
 
He was supposed to have waited for the Exams to be offered, but Shockwave knew
his timing in asking was almost flawless: the medic’s willingness to just hand
him the chevron already had been palpable for months now, but being a
methodical afthole as he was, Shockwave decided building up the moment until it
reached the deadline set by Optimus one year ago.
 
Only then, once everything was over, as a fully chevroned medic, two years
after leaving his pod, one year after infiltrating the autobots, he would be
able to get into the next part of his plan:
 
Getting close to Optimus Prime.
***** A Prime Problem *****
 
Optimus Prime flopped on his desk, completely exhausted.
 
He had just presided the first Chevroning Ceremony that ever took place since
the advent of the Great War, and as the Prime, Elita-1 sitting regally by his
right side, he had the honour of summoning Strongarmto the dais, reciting the
usual speech about a medic’s role under Primus, then calling upon Ratchet.
 
He couldn’t help noticing how Strongarm insisted on kneeling down knight-style,
head low, amazingly submissive, as Ratchet walked by, apparently stalled for an
instant and sighed, finally walking close to his pupil, lifting his face up
with the left hand’s index, thumb lightly grazing the side of his battlemask.
 
The gaze exchanged lasted a second longer than it should, as Ironhide and Jazz
snorted, and Prowl and Red Alert squirmed on the background and gossip slowly
filled the small crowd of autobots gathered at the Rec Room: finally, in one
fluid move, the CMO unsubspaced the dark chevron, resting it against
Strongarm’s forehead, keeping him looking up so the chevron wouldn’t fall.
 
Once he was sure on the complete immobility of his pupil’s body, firmly holding
his chin up Ratchet quickly morphed his right hand into a welder, finally
fusing the chevron in the middle of the new medic’s forehead, Strongarm’s visor
suddenly going off as the smell of heated cybertronium filled the place.
 
Ratchet widened his optics minutely as Strongarm visibly grounded himself
against the residual pain of the welder with a visibly aborted attempt to
nuzzle the left side of the battlemask against his hand: after an uncomfortable
second, having transformed his hand back to normal, he held it palm up to help
his former assistant, now fellowmedic, to stand.
 
Optimus, oscillating between anger and something that could be called regret at
the sight, immediately offered Strongarm right there, publicly, his own
berthroom, now that he was a medic, instead of forcibly bunking with Ratchet.
 
Assenting without a single hint of neither disappointment nor gratefulness,
amazingly unfazed by the event otherwise, merely asking for permission to leave
the premises, Strongarm walked out of the room, effectively ending the ceremony
prematurely, Optimus snickering wide under his mask as Ratchet’s slightly hurt
sight still followed the retreating frame.
 
Nothing like your former intended’s misery to make your day feel right.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Do you feel all right?”
 
Ratchet raised his optics from a huge pile of datapads, staring right into the
blue visor, asking himself since when Strongarm started caring, finally
realising to whom it belonged, throwing one of the datapads away, as the
battlemasked mech followed it clanking three times before stopping.
 
“First Aid. I gather you see I’m in a foul mood.”
 
The protectobot sighed: when was the CMO not in a foul mood?
 
Ratchet grumbled, almost offended at Optimus’ surprising bout of generosity.
Not even the protectobots had been granted their own quarters at the base. It’s
obvious whythe Prime gave Strongarm his own room.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“His own room! What were you thinking, Prime???”
 
Prowl hovered around his leader spitting statistics at how much more a
liability Strongarm would be now he was no longer under direct surveillance of
Ratchet, as Optimus merely nodded, battlemask on, smirking behind it.
 
“That’s it, you were not thinking. You were trying to get revenge.”
 
Optimus Prime slowly shifted his optics towards his SIC, daring him to repeat
it only with the flare of his EM-field.
 
“Prowl: I’m the Prime. I’m supposed to provide the best conditions of work for
my staff, and I judged Strongarm now should berth on his own place. If he had
any objections, he could have voiced them, instead of plainly accepting it.”
 
After what looked the longest second of the world, Prowl flipped Optimus’ desk,
the Matrix-shaped paperweight bouncing and rolling out on the ground, then
unceremoniously left.
 
Unblinking, Optimus finally shook his head, idly wondering if Megatron had to
deal with this kind of crap.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
I hate dealing with this kind of crap.
 
Megatron, idly staring at his three seekers discussing against the three
coneheads, Swindle taking the bets on which trine would win, merely shook his
head, other worries occupying his mind.
 
Even though he knew his guardian Shockwave was relatively cold and unfeeling,
their exchange via comm was unbearably void.
 
Megatron knew where to look and find the subtle signs: Shockwave’s protocol and
predictable submission, always ready to serve, was always laced with scientific
innuendo, unfortunately even at the worst hours, and this time there was none.
 
Megatron sighed, recalling how his mate lacked in proper tact, trying to play
safe by normally not initiating things, compensating his lack of je-ne-sais-
quois with almost scientific enthusiasm, literally treating each of their
private session as part of a personal research.
 
Perhaps it even was a research, under his optic.
 
Most mecha would find it off-putting.
 
Megatron found it interesting.
 
===============================================================================
 
Interesting.
 
Shockwave entered his new, empty quarters, more like a repurposed storage
closet, with nothing more than a standard-sized berth, walls littered with
empty shelves, a small desk directly next to the berth, where he was supposed
to sit instead of using a proper chair, and no private washracks, deciding that
logically he would start using the medbay’s one whenever needed.
 
The room however wasn’t what he found interesting. As a matter of fact, the
room is absolutely not interesting.
 
What was interesting was the fact the Prime gave it to him: he wholly expected
to keep directly subordinated to the medic at all hours, having already started
laying plans to convince him to help taking the Matrix from Optimus, formedical
reasons, of course.
 
Obviously the Prime didn’t consult with his SIC for that: the decision had 95%
chance of having been done impulsively, on the fly, right there during the
ceremony, according to Prowl’s twitching optics and Red Alert’s fizzling
finials.
 
Absently scratching the weld, Shockwave turned to a mirror to contemplate the
official chevron adorning his forehead, nicely contrasting with the mostly
white and blue frame, edges sticking out to the sides and up.
 
He almost felt something akin to satisfaction: take that, Functionists.
Scientist and Medic, now isn’t it just great? The Council must be rolling in
their deceased sparkchambers now.
 
Shockwave amusedly pondered about getting a degree in intelligence and
espionagejust because he could. Scientist-spy-medic sounded nice for an anti-
functionist résumé.
 
Unsubspacing a pile of a dozen datapads, he neatly stacked them into a shelf,
asking himself where he had left the others he was sure he had.
 
===============================================================================
 
He was sure he had it.
 
He had even managed to lose it.
 
“Rumble. Frenzy. Operation: localization.”
 
Grumbling, the twins dragged themselves around the room, searching with
unnerving lack of will Soundwave’s lost Deluxe 10th Anniversary BW Megatron
toy.
 
“Beast Wars Megatron toy: part of Soundwave’s collection. Cannot get into
recharge before finding it. Toy: too important.”
 
Raising one optic ridge, Rumble stalled. Soundwave kept searching.
 
“Why…?”
 
Soundwave sighs loudly.
 
“BW Megatron: decepticon purple: great smile: bodily proportions, aesthetically
compelling: voice, extremely appealing to the spark.”
 
Gaping, Rumble and Frenzy shared a glance, briefly wondering if Lord Megatron
was aware…
 
“Lord Megatron: entirely aware of Soundwave’s little obsession with his
fictional namesake.Oftenindulges Soundwave by roleplaying. Soundwave:
appreciates immensely.”
 
Soundwave then tilted his head, amused, continuing his search, as the two
horrified cassettes wished they could erase the image from their processors.
 
===============================================================================
 
Wishing he could erase the image from his processors, Ratchet turned and tossed
on his berth: the retreating frame of Strongarm leaving the Rec Room after his
own berthroom, wide hips swaying right and left with each step as his paddles
rotated slowly counter clockwise, filled his memories.
 
He was sure he would get mad: he was even seeing his former assistant standing
up right by his side, looking down onto the berth at himself.
 
Wait.
 
Jolting his optics up, Ratchet contemplated the stern immutable faceplates of
Strongarm.
 
“Weren’t you given your own room? What are you doing here?”
 
Ratchet had then a black right servo unceremoniously shoved before his face, in
a supine position.
 
“I came for my myriad of datapads, which you never fully read and just stack
around. I am filing them in my new berthroom following a logical system.”
 
He groaned: Strongarm handed him through the last year a truckload of datapads.
 
“Can’t you do it in the morning? For once I’m trying to recharge.”
 
He lied. He couldn’t and wouldn’t just recharge. More like mop and grumble
until unconsciousness kicked in, then give up and slosh himself in high-grade.
Not necessarily in that order.
 
Shockwave contemplated he room for a while, then removed the four paddles,
resting them against the wall, and retracted the rotor into his back.
 
“I will wait for your cycle then, Chief Medical Officer.”
 
He shoved the medic to the left side of the berth, slotting himself on the
right side, turning on his left and facing the dumbstruck Ratchet.
 
What?
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I have gotten used to having white noise on my audials
as I drift into recharge. You are a great natural source of white noise and I
would appreciate if you started recharging and rattling your engines soon.”
 
Ratchet blinked, unsure if he felt insulted or flattened at the fact Strongarm
apparently liked to hear him snore.
 
“I am ready to go under, Chief Medical Officer.”
 
Shockwave then offlined his visor, preparing to recharge, at touching distance
yet not in contact, as Ratchet stared at the peaceful form, briefly extending
his hand to trace the recently welded dark chevron’s tip, finally giving up and
offlining his own optics, attempting to slow his racing mind down, shaking his
head.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Shaking his head and donning a pained glare to the screen, Red Alert reviewed
once again the video security file, as Prowl folded his arms observing
Strongarm key Ratchet’s room code in and get inside.
 
It’s been more than six earthly hours and he didn’t come out yet.
 
Knowing the autobot’s patterns of recharge, aware of Strongarm and Ratchet’s
current schedule, Prowl got to the most probable conclusion.
 
“Strongarm since the beginning proved to be a creature of habit. It’s obvious
he got in to recharge, and our CMO Ratchet didn’t send him away.”
 
Nodding, Red Alert replayed yet again the video sequence.
 
“What’s the chance that they might be into a relationship?”
 
“I don’t have sufficient data to calculate it, but I can infer they aren’t.
Ratchet’s miserabledemeanour at the end of the chevroning ceremony as Strongarm
left suggests he might be interested, but nothing took place.”
 
“Yet.”
 
“For once, Red Alert, I disagree: Strongarm seems to act completely void of
interest in anything but following his own habitual functions. Recharging at
the CMO’s room might just be part of his schedule.”
 
Red Alert shook his head. It was clear to his paranoid mind that Strongarm’s
schedule included the two medics actively fragging. He wouldn’t be surprised if
they announced sooner than later that there soon will be a newspark on its way.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
“Will there be a newspark soon on its way???”
 
Skywarp widened his optics in true surprise as Thundercracker facepalmed and
Starscream sighed loudly, spatting.
 
“Of course there will be, moron. Have you ever heard of Glitchwave somehow
having any trouble getting and keeping sparked? I’ve heard from safe sources
that he once overloaded during spark-releasing protocols. I bet that if he just
refuels too close to any other mech he gets sparked, that must be the reason
why he never removes the battlemask except for our glorious leader.”
 
Skywarp made a hurt face for a second, then draped himself all over
Thundercracker’s lap, nuzzling his face against the crook of his neck.
 
“Can we have one too T.C.? Please? I always wanted to carry! I want you to be
the sire! No offense, Screamer.”
 
“We have gone through this already, Warp: not while the War is underway. You
don’t want our bitlets to offline in war, do you?”
 
Skywarp shook his head, getting comforted by Thundercracker, as Starscream
makes a gagging motion.
 
“Besides, we don’t have enough energon for everyone who wants to start
reproducing. If our brilliant leader provided a steady source of energon
instead of sitting there and making scrapletswith thetapeglitch, we might not
be currently scraping the bottom!!!”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“We are currently scraping the bottom.”
 
Arcee knew: Chromia knew: Moonracer knew.
 
Firestar just didn’t care: having forced Nautica to come along to their
hideout, she just managed to add one more tank to keep fuelled.
 
“Can I keep her? She followed me here!”
 
No I didn’t, thought the currently gagged and bound female.
 
“You are aware that what you did is kidnapping, right?” Arcee squinted.
 
Firestar was: as soon as Nautica turned on her heels to make her leaving, she
jumped her amica endura and struggled with her against the ground, only
stopping the instant she managed to make sure she wouldn’t leave to hide again.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Ironhide. Again? The sun is barely rising.”
 
First Aid sighed as he opened the medbay to receive the mildly scrapped
Ironhide.
 
“What can I do? Blaster loves me. He found me attempting to pat my own creation
Ramhorn in the head and lashed out. No wonder I avoid the scraplets! At least
he didn’t shoot. He’s getting good at that.”
 
Observing the multiple scratch marks and a few surface energon lines leaking,
First Aid motioned for him to get into the berth, starting to work.
 
Suddenly, Ratchet came in, grumbling and muttering something about needing to
grow a pair and collecting every single datapad on his desk, on the ground,
around the shelves, even the damaged ones, subspacing everything and leaving.
 
Blinking twice, First Aid decided he didn’t even want to know.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I don’t even want to know.”
 
“But I didn’t say anything yet, Uncle Optimus!”
 
Optimus Prime donned Hot Rod his best don’t uncle me glare.
 
“Yet.”
 
“Why do you think so low of me? Aren’t I the best possible successor for the
Matrix?”
 
Primus, I hope not.
 
“I will be dead before you even lay your hands on it, Roddy the Hot. Do you
think I don’t know?”
 
“You just said you didn’t want to kn…”
 
“That was an idiomatic expression! Of course I know!”
 
“Then why are you so scandalised? What’s the problem of me stealing a ride or
two or ten at Shockwave’s merry-go-round?”
 
Optimus facepalmed.
 
“Shockwave is a dumbass and can’t shoot for shit. I’m worried about you and
that doctor.”
 
Hot Rod snorted.
 
“Apparently I’m not the only one in the family who ever fell for a medic.”
 
The Matrix-shaped paperweight was then unceremoniously flung at Hot Rod’s head,
kicking away.
 
“We are not talking about me! I’m long past that medic. Besides, this Knock-Out
isn’t even a real doctor!”
 
“He would be if he had had the chance to take the Order exams!”
 
Optimus growled. He was currently loathing the Medical Board of Cybertron.
 
“Well, he didn’t and he isn’t. Now do yourself a favour and take those things
away. You look irresponsible.”
 
Hot Rod looks at himself, admiring his multiple pierced rings all over his
chestplate kibble.
 
“I don’t think I will. I look dashing!”
 
“Hot Rod. I swear by Primus. If you keep disobeying me I will make sure that in
the event you one day ever get to captain a ship I will sic an Autobot Megatron
as your co-captain.”
 
Hot Rod then started cackling.
 
“Megatron the Autobot: that was just Prime!!
 
“Be careful with what you wish for, Hot Rod.”
 
“Whatever, Orion.”
 
Fists clenching and leaving dents at the desk, Optimus Prime’s optics suddenly
glowed dangerously cobalt blue.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Cobalt-blue visor glowing, dangerously balancing a pile of datapads in arms,
Shockwavewalked past the officer’s hall.
 
Having been awoken by the autobot CMO (who looked like he didn’t recharge a
single second) Shockwave stared with an appreciative nod at the pile of
datapads the medic brought him, saying he caught all the datapads hanging
around the medbay, generously returning them, and finally ordering him out and
away before he ripped out his double medical processor and turned him into a
toaster.
 
Shockwave, unfazed by the threat, merely nodded, took the datapads, thanked
Ratchet for the opportunity to partake white noise in the future again, bowed
his head minutely, ducked a flying wrench, turned on his heels and left, very
much intent in reviewing and filing his projects, now he had them in hands
again.
 
His intentions were cut short the moment his audials caught the sound of
struggledying from the Prime’s Office.
 
===============================================================================
 
Prime’s Office door flung open in a single kick, as Shockwave came in balancing
the datapads. Placing them by the door, he walked closer to the currently
slagged mechs who until then had been catfightingon the ground.
 
Eerily neutral, he flared his hand sensors on and inspected both Hot Rod and
Optimus Prime. That was an opportunity he wasn’t going to waste. Clearing his
vocalisers, he walked to them.
 
“I detect 41% damage in Prime's body. It requires immediate medical aid.”
 
Helicopter-moding and digging his hook in Optimus Prime's head, unfazed by
Optimus’s protests, Shockwave flew around the corridors of the Ark hauling his
charge, his head hitting every available surface including other autobots, as
fire streaks spark around where his back had been scratched against the ground.
 
Prime screamed all the way from his Office, until the repair bay, on the other
side of the Autobot base: once there, his fuselage was full with dents, he had
lost most of the paintjob in his back, and had a big leaking hole where the
helicopter had dug the hook. He could barely moan from pain, and somehow his
left arm had disappeared.
 
“Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid. I have my first real emergency
in hands. Make room.”
 
Practically throwing Ironhide out of the slab he was in – no matter there were
three perfectly empty others available – with First Aid in tow (observing
horrified the empty socket in Optimus’ shoulder as Ironhide decided he was
better off not getting fixed now, just plainly leaving the medbay), Shockwave
placed Prime on the slab with a thud.
 
“I will close your leaks. It would be Primely to self-sacrifice saving on
resources during the effort of war and refuse anaesthetics.”
 
Optimus blinked: he liked anaesthetics, especially when he was in pain. In no
way he is refusing!
 
Before he could voice his preference, First Aid, just returned from out of the
bay, having found Prime’s lost arm, brought it in a hurry.
 
“You may go now.I will fix Optimus, Strongarm.”
 
Shockwave nodded indifferently at the arm that First Aid brought there,
dismissing his colleague.
 
“I do not doubt your skill, Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid, but
this procedure is mine. I have been chevroned with honours; I am familiar with
basic anatomy and repair.”
 
Flaring his visor in annoyance, First Aid stomped out of the medbay, intent in
locating Ratchet.
 
Turning to Optimus, Shockwave loomed his battlemasked faceplates right above
Optimus’ own face, his right hand digging into the usual medical override
location, at the left side of a mech’s hip, getting access to the Prime’s
medicalport.
 
“I will download your blueprints, Prime.” - he dug his medical data cable into
the autobot’s systems, hacking him in - “You should be honoured to be my first
since Ratchet chevroned me. I am in dire need of solo practice.”
 
Shockwave turned to the ripped off shoulder, poking the wires dangling from the
arm.
 
“Fascinating structure. You should be proud of the work the Matrix did on your
shell.” he hacked further into Prime's frame, taking notes of all the changes
shedid on his body, since he had been the poor archivist Orion Pax.
 
Via his medical cortical psychic path, downloading files at will, including the
blueprints and spark frequency signatures of every mech that the Prime ever
came across, with no regard to privacy, Shockwave delighted himself, as the
autobot leader twitched “...now be still like a good test subject before I get
to the procedures.”
 
Immediately coming to attention, Optimus Prime widened his optics in abject
horror, going berserk.
 
“What? I’m not a test subject!”
 
Shockwave turned eerily slowly towards the autobot leader, who flinched at the
cold sight.
 
“Optimus Prime, Autobot Leader, may this medic know why? I have been properly
evaluated, and I am technically capable of operating on all living circuits.”
 
“You were supposed to be an enforcer, not a medic!!!”
 
“Irrelevant: you were supposed to be an archivist yet you are Prime – chosen by
the Matrix. We are both out of our original functions. Do not be prejudiced: I
am chevroned: Ratchet cleared me up.”
 
“Just because he taught you it doesn't make you good!!”
 
Feeling less dizzy, he sat at the operating berth. Strongarm, unfazed, pushed
him back down.
 
“I had a result rate of 98% success on the Board’s Exams. The lasting 2% were
inevitable statistic casualties. I am morethan merely good.”
 
With a clank, stasis-cuffs appeared in each of his remaining limbs. Optimus
cursed.
 
“Optimus Prime, I advise against being such an uncooperative subject.”
 
“Don’t touch a finger in me!!
 
Shockwave, ever patient, concluding that reasoning with this kind of stubborn
test subject was a waste of time, finally caught Prime's loose arm in hands and
hit him loudly in the head: the unconsciousness wouldn't last for long, though.
 
Taking off the stasis cuffs, the disguised decepticon dug one finger underneath
a lateral chestplate seam, overriding he inner locks of Prime's chest: it
whirred slowly open, revealing nothing less than the Matrix.
 
Hypnotised, he couldn’t take his visor away.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
He couldn’t take his visor away.
 
Unblinking, Soundwave merely stared.
 
His tiny BW TM Megatron toy was totally, completely, broken, in a myriad of
tiny pieces across the ground, in the middle of the mess hall.
 
Catching them delicately between his huge blunt fingers, he gently deposed them
into his palm.
 
As soon as he discovered who did it, there would be hell and mayhem.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Hell and Mayhem swirled into Shockwave’s thoughts: he could already see himself
holding the Matrix and handing it to his Lord, as the autobots weep and grind
their dental plates in pain and sorrow.
 
Blinking back to reality though, alone on the repair-bay, Shockwave kept
staring at Optimus, and at the Matrix. Slowly leading the hands to it,
fingertips grazing the fused silver handles, he stopped, hearing the life-
support system's computer warn about Prime's still leaking wounds.
 
Looking between the object of his desire and the Prime, Shockwave hesitated for
a while, stared coldly at both and decided to leave the Matrix where it was and
to reattach the arm first.
 
Logic dictated it would do no good to have a dead Prime for now.
 
Having the original blueprints hacked from Optimus Prime already in his
systems, Shockwave proceeded to repair the major injuries: as soon as the
autobot was out of peril, the decepticon finally settled his optics back at the
Matrix, leading his left hand towards it, slowly.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Slowly leading his left hand towards Starscream’s neck, Soundwave stared eerily
void of emotion at the darkened faceplates of the SIC.
 
“I didn’t do it! I had no idea you even owned such thing!!! Release me! Why am
I being targeted???”
 
“Primary suspect: Skywarp. Reason: VOPed into Soundwave’s office right before
toy went missing.”
 
Of all the places Skywarp had to VOP into.
 
Starscream grimaced, knowing Skywarp might be stupid but not to the point of
just destroying a toy, especially not something from the tapeglitch.
 
Considering his case exposed, Soundwave released Starscream’s neck.
 
“Soundwave: wants replacement toy or Skywarp’s spark in the next Solar Cycle.
Starscream has choice.”
 
Dumbstruck, unblinking, Starscream wondered how difficult would it be for him
and his trine to exile themselves away for good.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Going away for good, Reflector (the three compounds separately) just landed at
the beach, each carrying their own stick and bundle, intent in self-exiling.
 
You see. Poor Reflector was innocently taking pictures of Soundwave’s immense
collection of transformer’s toys, the moment he∕they struggled trying to
transform that dreaded T-Rex Megatron, finally being awfully unsuccessful and
managing to completely obliterate it.
 
Knowing no punishment would be enough and that they had no means of obtaining
another commemorative 10thAnniversary Deluxe BW Megatron, they knew their fate
would be dire, and decided upon leaving the premises.
 
They had no idea on where to go though: the autobots wouldn’t believe they were
not there to produce compromising pictures.
 
It left them the option of going to Cybertron via Space Bridge to hide among
the Neutrals.
 
Who knows. They might get to find their photographic muse. They certainly had
the skill and the optics for finding gorgeous mechs. Some mecha were
practically born to pose, and the world direly needed beautiful suggestive
images of mechs willing to be other mecha’ forbidden objects of desire, to set
optics upon.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Setting his optics upon on the object of his desires, Ratchet, just entering
the medbay, stopped dead on his tracks.
 
He had come in time to see Strongarmslowly leading his hand to the inside of
Prime’s chest.
 
Shaking his head, he walked closer, finally clearing his throat and calling for
his fellow medic’s attention.
 
Coldly taking his hand away from the Matrix he nearly touched, Shockwave turned
to the direction of the voice.
 
“Greetings, Chief Medical Officer. I am occupied with my first case since the
chevroning.”
 
Ratchet squinted, approaching and towering over the unconscious Prime,
protecting his optics from the luring glow of the Matrix, at the same time
unable to stop staring.
 
“Yes, First Aid told me.” He recalled, the image of First Aid shrieking in
panic about Optimus having been hauled to the medbay filling his processors “I
am still in a bad mood but I came to see how everything is anyway.”
 
Shockwave wondered how much of the whole thing Ratchet witnessed, and even
before he asked, the autobot continued, shifting his glare from the Matrix to
the blue visored mech, as Prime groaned.
 
“What dose of anaesthetics did you use? He seems slightly awake to me.”
 
“None yet, Chief Medical Officer: the Prime would not allow me to properly
anaesthetise him when I tried asking for his consent to be put under. I believe
I might have him under earlier if it were not for the burden of obtaining
informed consent. The test subject was finally uncooperative, so I hit him
repeatedly in his head to ensure immobility, whenever required.”
 
Ratchet blinked twice at the idea that consent is a burden, made a mental note
to incur in ethics classes once again - these were patients, not test subjects!
- and tired of having to deal with this crap, finally sighed, and proceeded to
briefly inspect the reattached arm, nodding his approval.
 
===============================================================================
 
Nodding his approval, Starscream smirked as Thundercracker surfed on the web
and Ebay in search of the dreaded BW TM Megatron toy: they knew their stupid
trinemate didn’t do anything this time, but his reputation of prankster didn’t
help and their only way out of this mess would be to get the stupid thing for
the tapeglitch to leave Skywarp alone.
 
“It’s this one, right?”
 
“According to the leftover box, yes. Just bid it, I want to get this through
soon, and make sure we are getting it in person. Once it’s settled, we all are
locating the real culprit, oh, we are.”
 
Nodding, Thundercracker bid the toy’s final price, effectively buying it: they
couldn’t afford to bid and gamble the last 10th Anniversary Deluxe BW TM
Megatron still in its own box of the whole Ebay.
 
Mistress Luck didn’t seem much benevolent to them, to just leave things for
chance.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I’m not leaving things for chance.”
 
Prowl nodded, watching Red Alert rewire and rework most of the cameras they
could to make sure they record Strongarm’s and Ratchet’s routine outside of
their rooms: they had to gather evidence to corroborate their theory that the
newly chevroned medic was indeed a liability.
 
Certainly the live soundless video feed of the medbay, with Ratchet inspecting
Strongarm’s surgeon work was not enough proof of ill intent, especially not
when the Prime was left to recover strapped on the slab, Strongarm turning on
his heels and swaying hips right, finally leaving, Ratchet’s blue optics boring
into his rack as he went away, as Red Alert pointed very agitated to the
screen.
 
“See? I told you. They do!”
 
Prowl shook his head.
 
“They do not.”
 
“Primus, Prowl, how can you be so deep in denial!”
 
“Trust me, they have not and are not yet doing it as you point. You will know
the difference if they ever do. I admit the potential however.”
 
“The same way you do not admit we totally did it that night we got
overcharged???”
 
Prowl stiffened.
 
“We have no evidence that we ever did anything, thus we never did, Red Alert.”
 
Red Alert twitched his finials.
 
“We do not have any evidence that we did not. We could always have the log
checked.”
 
“We are not going through this again. We have no medic reliable enough to tell
us what we did, so forget it.”
 
Sighing almost disappointed for not knowing, Red Alert rested his head on a
hand, elbow at the desk; so much for them both being too uptight stiff.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Nah, the’re too uptigh’stif.”
 
Inferno shook his head, smirking, as Jazz lounged on his side, at his pal’s
office’s loveseat, having a plain cube of mid-grade.
 
“Ok, we know they didn’t, but what if they resolve the mental torture of not
knowing is too much and they just decide to save themselves the pain of not
knowing by merely shrugging and doing it?”
 
Jazz nearly choked on the energon then.
 
“Ol’Prowler, my futurecourted, da virgin, doin’the nasty? Da only reason he
don’t have his seals anymore’s cause he feared on’day getting’ captured an’
wan’ed da enemy t’have nothing to torture him with an’ tol’ Hatchet
t’surgically take dem’away!”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Ratchet stared as Strongarm went away, finally growling and glaring at the
still unconscious and restrained Prime.
 
He might be a medic and supposed to care, but he could leave the caring part to
First Aid for a change. It’s not like Optimus cared anymore.
 
Shrugging and staring at his desk where he still had a full leg to work on, he
asked himself grimly if things might have been different had not the War come
underway and forced the Matrix on Orion: Ratchet couldn’t put a finger in it,
but he was positive Prime’s change of spark could only have to do with the
heavy modifications imposed by the Matrix, that most definitely looked to be
slightly more than meets the eye.
 
Finally giving up on working and thinking himself allowed to have some
reprieve, he moved to his hidden high-grade stash right behind the medical
grade energon, taking half of one cube and heading to his quarters for properly
private sloshing time on.
 
He had two chevroned medics under his command now, and for once he could
indulge without fear of being direly needed as before, even if First Aid was a
bit too soft and Strongarm slightly too hard. Their combined technical skill
was more than enough to deal with the usual madness that came through from
daily autobot matters, and the decepticons had been too sedate during the whole
last year since they managed to disappear under the sea.
 
Snorting as he felt the first ounces of high-grade filling his systems, he
shook his head: Megatron certainly had to be plotting something during the last
year, but for once he trusted the neurotics Prowl and Red Alert to know what
they were doing and keeping close watch on really important security matters.
 
As long as all the cogs were rolling in place well oiled, Ratchet knew he could
slip just a bit, like now.
 
The Prime would certainly be fine.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Soundwave: fine.”
 
Soundwave visibly sagged, in between depression and anger at the destruction of
his prized toy, counting the moments until the deadline he set upon the
seekers, as Megatron shook his head at the impressive display, very much aware
his first mate was not fine.
 
“Very well, if you won’t talk about it. I suppose you won’t mind that I will
try to talk to Shockwave instead.”
 
Megatron faked making his leaving, knowing that usually it got a stir out of
the tapedeck, ultimately unsurprised that this once it didn’t: Soundwave seemed
deeply immersed in his own worries, and he was not the one to tell him to chill
because of just a toy.
 
Megatron knew about how much Soundwave liked that stupid tiny toy, and was very
aware of which battles were worth fighting and even more importantly, which
battles he could win, and a moody, sparked Soundwave was not something he
wanted to fight.
 
Getting implicit permission, not that he required any but it was just polite to
inform all parties involved, he moved to his comm station, turning the screen
on and setting the coordinates to reach Cybertron.
 
Megatron wanted to request a meeting via Spacebridge: he had a nagging feeling
that there was something very amiss with Shockwave, and only a real-life
meeting with the touch of their EM-fields might bring him peace of mind since
Soundwave wasn’t being helpful.
 
He waited and waited, until the screen turned on, but strangely Shockwave was
not on-screen, eagerly waiting to greet him. After the silence was too much, he
finally spoke.
 
“Shockwave!”
 
===============================================================================
 
Shockwave, the sparkless drone left on Cybertron, dutifully engrossed in
reviewing the myriad of charts about what he still could do with Megatron’s
energy left on stock, never noticed Lord Megatron screeching from the screen on
the background.
 
“It sure can get lonely up here. Boring. I’ll shoot an asteroid!”
 
Shockwave the Drone readied himself to shoot as Megatron tried fruitlessly
getting his attention.
 
“Shockwave! Megatron calling Shockwave! Answer immediately! Shockwave! Why
aren’t you answering? There’s nothing to do up there!”
 
Finally hearing the distant screeching of Lord Megatron, the drone nearly
tripped on his own feet as he rushed towards the flickering screen.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Hail Mighty Megatron. How may I serve you and your greatness?”
 
Megatron sighed. Sometimes Shockwave spoke so much like a drone it hurt.
 
“You could serve indeed. There is something bothering me and I ask that you
open a spacebridge for us to talk in person.”
 
I need to see you, thought Megatron.
 
The drone stalled, searching his databanks for the appropriate reply for this
request.
 
He had not been provided a prompt answer for Megatron requesting them to meet.
 
Being provided an AI with an automated self-responding system, he was at a loss
about what to respond. He was not supposed to meet in person with Lord
Megatron: he was just his master’s drone and placeholder. Lord Megatron would
find out his master had left the drone in charge of Cybertron the instant they
met and he did not locate his EM-field or his spark frequency.
 
He had no chance to voice his conflict though: When Megatron was about to lash
and just order the unwitting drone to open the fragging spacebridge already,
the drone suddenly jumped on his seat at the loud klaxon alarmroaring.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The loud klaxon roared as Megatron, observing through the screen, widened his
optics, bracing himself: he was about to witness first-hand his guardian
defending Cybertron from the female autobots!!!
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Feeemale autobots! You cannot defeat the Mighty Shockwave!!!”
 
Jumping from his position, Shockwave the Drone whizzed his arm-gun in a purple
gleam as his single optic shone darkly and he opened his comm to the Chief-
drone of his myriad of security drones across the facility.
 
“Mighty Shockwave. I detect you have our great Lord Megatron on call.”
 
Suddenly proud and forgetting the approaching feeemale autobots, the Shockwave-
drone puffed up, remembering how he never gave up on trying communicating.
 
“…but I never gave up. And then one day, out of the blue, I made contact with
Megatron. It was the first time, in over four million years, that I have spoken
with Megatron.”
 
Nodding appreciatively, the drone monotoned.
 
“I love this story even more every time you tell it, Mighty Shockwave.”
 
“You were just programmed to say that.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Well. Thanks anyway.”
 
“You’re welcome, Mighty Shockwave.”
 
As the drone chatted with the other drone, the purple cyclops missed the moment
Chromia and Firestar managed to take a truckload of cubes into their vehicle
forms and leave unscathed, cackling.
 
Megatron, watching incredulously the scene depicted on his screen, facepalmed,
visibly disappointed, finally comming off and blocking the link for now,
repeatedly hitting his head against the next flat surface.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Repeatedly hitting his head against the next flat surface with his nape,
Optimus Prime, tied up to the slab at the medbay, tried leaving his predicament
to no avail, trapped.
 
Ironhide was right: he had to make sure to never undergo medical care again. It
was obvious to him the medic Strongarm was scheming to get him offline, and he
was certain Red Alert and Prowl would back himself up.
 
Now if he would only leave this slab.
 
Jolting his head right at the hiss of a hydraulic door, he stared wide-opticed
at the white, masked visage coming in.
 
“Prime? Oh, good to see you, I thought Strongarm might have damaged you..
further.”
 
First Aid approached to visually inspect the attached arm, nodding. Optimus
shuddered.
 
“Release me! LET ME GO!!! I’m the Prime!!!”
 
Screeching, he never noticed First Aid disappear with the stasis cuffs, just
screaming atop the slab, immobile, as the small ambulance mech squinted with
his visor, briefly pondering if Hook had the same difficulty in dealing with
Megatron.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Megatron dealt with frustration the best way he knew: having just seen
incompetence enough, he needed an outlet to vent upon, wondering he wouldn’t
mind to have a verbal and physical spar with his lovely SIC. It’s been a while
he didn’t lash out on his Air Commander for no good reason, and growling low,
he asked himself where Starscream would be now.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Starscream smirked with satisfaction at the fleeting crowd.
 
Having just VOPed up with his trine at the shores of Japan, on their root
modes, they had been photographed ad-nausea as everyone screamed Kaiju and
Jaeger excitedly, then started moving on their own accord to see the crowd
parting and the streets clearing as they progressed further into the continent.
 
Once they reached the address where they were supposed to retrieve the dreaded
toy from, they were even almost relieved to find the tiny human that had sold
them the toy take one single glare at them, release the wrapped box where he
had previously been standing, and finally run screeching at the other
direction.
 
Shaking his head, almost smiling at the stupidly easyretrieval, knowing
Skywarp’s spark was finally safe, he decided he would take his delight and
revenge in finding out who really destroyed the stupid thing, so, Starscream,
making sure to delicately catch the box, subspaced it, nodding wordlessly to
his prankster trinemate, and sent Soundwave a very positive ping as the world
swirled to purple and the Nemesis’s darkened halls wrapped around their frames.
 
It was good to be home.
***** Home, sparked home. *****
Home never felt so good.

And safe.

Obsessively cradling the tiny unopenedbox with his brand new BW Megatron toy,
Soundwave carefully prepared its place on its honour shelf, where a myriad of
self-defence protocols would work to keep it safe within the room. He had to
make sure no one would ever touch the object of his desires and dreams.

“BW Megatron: Soundwave’s precious.”

He cradled the box again, crouching against the box as the occasional whisper
of an annoyed cassette came out of his frame, and he silenced each of the
protests: anyone hearing might think him schizophrenic, had they not known he
was a carrier loaded full of cassetticons.

Almost cackling in a creepy vocoded monotone, Soundwave flickered his red visor
around the room, looking for imaginary thieves: If anyone would one day lay
optics and spark upon the fictional BW Megatron, to claim his property, it
would have to be him.

===============================================================================
 

“You. It has to be you.”

Ironhide defensively protected his chestplate, seriously considering requesting
that First Aid moves his spark to anywhere else on his frame, perhaps even his
aft(aft spark, now that was a great idea!): he was tired of a certain someone
trying to get him offline.

“Blaster, dear, how I miss your sunny disposition. What did you think I manage
to do today?”

“Ramhorn is your fault!!!”

Ironhide scratched his head.

“As far as I remember, I might be wrong, it takes two mecha to make a newspark,
and thus Ramhorn is our fault. Besides, why only him? All the four bitlets are
our collective fault!”

Blaster sneered, clenching his fists.

“Don’t playPerceptor by trying to be smart with me, you oversized lug!”

“Hah, hah, and you don’t play coy with me, I recall you rather liked what this
oversized lug could do to all your docks!!!”

Ironhide couldn’t stop wondering that he suddenly knewwhere Steeljaw took his
fierceness from, as growling and grimacing, Blaster simply jumped him, starting
a vicious catfighton the ground.

===============================================================================
 

Viciously catfighting, aheam, no, mechlysparring on the ground, Megatron made
sure to occupy Starscream’s time as soon as he finished delivering Soundwave
the dreaded toy box.

On his side, Starscream couldn’t understand why he was being punished by having
to spar with his leader, since he apparently solved Soundwave’s problem with
the toy and now his leader and the tapeglitch should be interfacing and
sparkmerging like there would be no tomorrow in every available surface,
including vertical ones.

Megatron, on his side, was the only one who knew the true extent of his
frustration: these days Soundwave seemed more interested in obsessing over
small, cradly, delicate things, which was totally normal and expected for a
sparked carrier-host who would in maybe a couple of centuries have in arms and
docks one other newspark to finally fuss over, and his other mate was too
distant, unemotional and overall too dronelike and unreachable for Megatron to
really do anything about it.

Shooing the bad thoughts away, Megatron growled and punched Starscream, who
deflected and ducked, avoiding getting hit on his wings: Megatron refused to
admit for himself he had even one day remotely considered taking Starscream for
third mate.

It’s not like he was starved in any sense: he truly didn’t even need to
interface that often, but Megatron wouldn’t mind having his own personal harem
of mechs to wholly dominate in all spheres, from professional to personal.

Of course Megatron rationally knew how much of a hassle it was to have more
than one bondmate, but Soundwave’s natural need for multiple, frequent links
(due to being a multi-dock carrier host) added to Megatron’s slave-
damagedsparkchamber and his often painful merges – which restricted their
interactions greatly – certainly made sure that mostly for Soundwave’s sake,
the two of them could not remain monobonded.

Not to mention social pressure on the customs ran deep: Decepticons were only
considered spark-strong whenever they trinebonded and proved capable of taking
care of two bondmates each. As such, Megatron had to lead by example, and do
his best in balancing his two radically different mates.

He snorted, positive that if Shockwave were not offplanet, Soundwave would,
instead of obsessing over a tiny toy, certainly be hovering around him and
leaving him no time to refuel, like it used to be back on Cybertron, and at the
same time his scientist would interrupt them at the worst possible moments with
thrown datapads of projects to drone about, just because he could.

Talk about a jealously possessive tapedeck and an inconveniently clueless mad-
scientist fighting for attention.

Starscream was a brilliant scientist, a good Military Air Commander and to make
things interesting, also a pretty aft and a smartaft: competition enough to
stir up his two bondmates at the same time. Megatron was sure his life would
become pure hell the moment Soundwave and Shockwave decided it was jealous time
and went on a special mission to occupy all of the tyrant’s time.

As such, contenting himself in using his SIC to discharge his frustration in
more socially accepted means, he coaxed the screamer to react, expecting to be
fully hit in the chestplates, grinning happily, indeed.

Things could be worse.

===============================================================================
 

Things could be worse.

Shockwave walked the Ark’s corridors with rigid steps, body straight, hands
clasped behind his back: he liked order in his life and he currently had a
fully scheduled day of menial grunt medbay spring cleaning, from the afternoon
on: the morning was mercifully free and he intended to use it for planning on
how to reach the Matrix again.

He recalled without a single hint of regret or pride about how his famespread
around the autobot ranks: he was Strongarm the Mad, the medic that scared the
waste fluids out of The Prime, to the point Optimus openly started avoiding his
exams and routine check-ups, refusing to be seen even by the kind First Aid and
the understanding Hoist.

Logically, for Shockwave to warranty access to the Matrix again, he had to
solve this particular predicament.

Entering the medbay to find his CMO dutifully ignoring his arrival and
obsessively trying to calibrate his own hands by hammering on them while
sitting on his memory-foam mesh single seat, he tilted his head, pondering for
a full second on the circumstances before taking the logical decision.

“Move.”

===============================================================================
 

Move ?

Moving offensively into his personal space, Strongarmunceremoniously parted
Ratchet’s thighs, kneeling between them and ultimately sitting on his own
pedes, the cockpit-chestplate effectively bumping against the red abdominal
plates of the CMO.

Before Ratchet could think to voice on a protest, a certain pair of black hands
captured his red ones, turning them palms up over the flat surface of the
voluptuous chestplates, using it as a makeshift desk as the battlemasked face
never raised to meet his, blue visor inspecting very closely the unpolished,
scratched red hands, a black index tracing with coldly calculated slowness a
few dull age-old minuscule dents.

Shockwave had a mild obsession with hands, having had his natural ones taken.
He knew what it felt to lose your own original hands, and these looked like
falling apart.

“You should be giving the exampleby displaying immaculately cared for medical
servos, Chief Medical Officer. These must feel as terrible as they look. Do not
you fear your hands may suffer from premature degeneration?”

Ratchet blinked, looking down at the humbled heliformer, inspecting and
touching his hands like a slave would to a master, then snorted: of course they
wouldn’t undergo degeneration! He wasn’t about to begin manicuring in the
middle of the War: his name wasn’t Knock-Out.

“I was trying to loosen up my joints, as you might have noticed before you
interrupted. Leave me now, I just need to remove this old oil and grease from
the joints and I should be fine for a few more centuries.”

The black index traced one single glyph on the scratched palms now, that could
either be taken as the one for stubborn or the one for stupid, the blue visor
never looking up.

“There is no logic in not properly caring for the tools of one’s trade.”

Irradiating heat purposefully from his own doubleforged hands now, coaxing the
seams open and slightly easing the melting flow of greased lubricants in the
articulation of each plate and transformable medical instrument hiding
underneath each fingers, Shockwave stared under his visor as the CMO visibly
stiffened, then rested against the back of the memory-meshed single seat,
holding his ex-venting and offlining his optics, holding his EM-field tight.

Interesting.

“I wonder, Chief Medical Officer, when was the last time you had yourself
checked on by anothermedic. Disregarding cosmetic damage.”

Why treat such discreet cosmetic damage, Ratchet ran on his processors as the
droned voice rolled like liquid beneath the warmth pooling on his two hands,
his knees involuntarily closing against the cockpit-chest as the CMO’s optics
remained shut off, Shockwave registering the sight and the touch.

Very interesting indeed.

Dialling down to the lowest settings possible into a slightly warm buzz, he
waited for Ratchet to come out of the haze and online his optics back, finally
monotoning.

“I have an enquiry. Now that the Prime is openly averting the medbay, how do
you suppose to oblige him into his physicals?”

Ratchet blinked, having a sudden hard time to think with the heliformer tightly
fitting between his thighs and knees, conflicting urges filling his conscious
mind.

Shockwave, still expecting his answer, kept pulsing slow warmth, easing the old
grease off the seams, oozing it out of the red hands on his own black ones,
then finally on his immaculately white chestplate, draining it down his own
body, Ratchet’s optics following the steady flow until it came out of sight
right on the white autobot interface panel between the heliformer’s legs,
completely not minding the mess.

The scientisthoped for a logical argument in favour of convincing Prime to open
his chestplates again, exposing the Matrix; the medic had no fragging idea, too
worried about flaring his EM-field improperly to be able to think.

“No thanks to you, Sherlock.” he recalled the arm reattachment fiasco, smirking
as the sudden image of Strongarm turning his hands over and inspecting the
spilt grease melted into liquid oils filled his sight and he suppressed a
cooling fan from clicking on.

“The correct designation is Strongarm.” corrected Shockwave, unaware of the
irony, unsubspacing a mesh to absorb the melted oil off the red hands. “The way
he is evading us, we might only be capable to ever probe him under involuntary
unconsciousness. I could arrange it. Together we would be efficient.”

The last word was intoned in tandem with a tiny electric flow that flared on
Ratchet’s sensory net and definitely opened the finger’s plating, as Shockwave
transformed his right index into a minuscule brush, starting to painstakingly
slowly remove the last bits of still solid old grease from between the
transformation seams.

Very efficient, absently thought Ratchet as his sight flared bright for an
instant, suddenly returning to normal, and he blinked, his EM-field opening for
a click, attempting to brush against the heliformer’s very tightly contained
one.

“Unfortunately our Prime changed a lot.” The medic tried diverting the subject,
almost whispering as Shockwave minutely stopped brushing the seams, standing to
attention immediately: blackmail material incoming.

Judging by Ratchet’s reactions, it would be fairly mechanically simple to coax
information out of the CMO.

Transforming his index back from tool and now effectively holdingthe CMO’s
hands, purposefully grazing both thumbs on each oversensitive palm maddeningly
slowly, ever patient, Shockwave focused the bottomless cobalt-blue visor up,
meeting Ratchet’s optics, bringing him a half-suppressed shiver.

Ratchet shallowed dry at the sparkless sight, taking a quite profound look at
the hidden lid within the feeding intake on the base of his neck, feeling for
the heat also coming from the chestplate between his knees, the blue spark
visible, spinning slightly faster behind the glass.

“I tell you as a medical secret. You have to promise to not tell anyone.”

Shockwave dipped his helm in a single respectful nod, tilting his head right,
calculating his next step and revving his rotors, rotating his own paddles
slowly on his back while keeping all air-vents closed, seeking to imply feigned
interest by raising inner heat.

“I am aware of how to manage secrecy. I was correctly taught, as I am certain
you recall.”

Deadpan, as usual: the cold mad-scientist tone was doing things to him. Ratchet
squirmed on his seat, knees bumping the now most definitively warmerframe.

“At the beginning of the war, the Prime and I were very close.”

Shockwave stared unblinking at Ratchet. He remembered the young Orion Pax that
his science team back on Cybertron fitted with the ability to house the Matrix,
before the Functionists decided he, Shockwave, deserved being Empurata-ed and
Shadowplayed for being such an anarchist anti-functionist back then.

“Aren't you going to ask how close?” Ratchet spoke, his voice deep with
building charge, enjoying more than he should the heatwaves pulsing from the
rotary into his sensory net in his hands, driving almost directly to his
interface array.

Shockwave, opening one single air-vent to control his own temperature and avoid
overheating, could have an idea of how close. He was no stranger to interfacing
and knew the right steps to follow. He was emotionally blinded, not stupid.

“Is it relevant, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet?”

Shockwave flared a purposeful brief pulse of his own EM-field, testing the
waters and receiving a definite ping of want, instantly suppressed as Ratchet
made his best effort not to moan, steeling himself and hoarsening his way
through the next full phrase.

“Well, not anymore, anyway.” He shallowed dry twice “Since Orion became Prime
and the Council decided he needed a socially acceptable mate, Elita-1 became
his current, as he gave up on his... previous relationship.”

Shockwave imperceptibly stalled, yet kept rotating his rotors, slight arches of
electricity flowing from the tips of his paddles each time they inched closer
to the ground in a terra effect: he had a feud with all female autobots,
especially those he knew and fought personally during the times his Lord had to
leave the Headquarters and the glitches got in to steal energon. It was merely
convenience if not outright Slagmaker's Ironyhe had taken upon a female autobot
shell for his self-imposed mission into the trip offplanet after the autobots.

On his side, Ratchet seized the interruption to the methodical, steadfast
rhythm applied on his whole sensory net through the unrelenting pulsed
heatwaves and the calculatedly flaring EM-field, to contemplate the rotating
rotor slowly increasing speed and think that very few times he had felt so
overcharged with so few stimuli, licking his lip-plates once as his sight
wandered to the immutable faceplates so close and so far from his interface
array, cursing Shockwave for having locked Strongarm’s faceplates away, behind
the battlemask.

“I comprehend, Chief Medical Officer.” Shockwave vocoded, looking up from his
safe position of volunteer submission “It is logical that the Prime would
decide to take onto a traditional mate, supposedly more befitting of a Prime,
instead of defying the customs.”

Bitterly, Ratchet raised the corner of his lip-plates in barely contained
rightful anger, grimacing at his memory of the Prime telling him away before
his official Priming, as his own EM-field flared with dark determination, and
thatgot Shockwave a genuine response as he recalled his Lord in his greatest
scowlingglory, his whole plating loosening and genuine warmth rolling in waves
out of between the transformation seams, adding to the bubble of heat that
their two shy-of-interfacing entwined bodies already formed in the room.
Unfazed and unashamed however, he droned further.

“The Prime made a logic, yet pathetic selection of mate by disregarding his
very competently skilledChief Medical Officer.”

Black hands suddenly leaving Ratchet’s and in one single move lifting himself
up and straddlingthe CMO, mercilessly grippinghis shoulders and focusing on the
scowl, battlemask to face at touching distance, Shockwave unashamedly let his
weight down sliding his ventral parts down over Ratchet’s, slowly inching
close.

===============================================================================
 

Close to glitching, feeling like he was watching bad soap-opera, Red Alert
couldn’t unglue his optics off the screen, as he insistently pinged Prowl to
come and see that he was right.

There they were at interfacing distance, no, proximity, the room’s temperature
raised to near uncomfortable levels registered on-screen, no one scheduled to
come in, privacy ensured behind medically coded doors: only another medic could
get in and interrupt them, and First Aid was under his recharge cycle now.

They were alone.

And willing.

Not to mention they apparently forgot that the medbay weren’t quarters and the
absence of cameras was not an option.

Ready to enjoy the incomingshow in a squirming, agonised, do-not-want way,
torturing himself with the visible realisation about what he deep down already
knew, Red alert admitted his shameless voyeurism, automatically hitting the
send button in an attempt of getting Prowl there.

He was the sharing kind of voyeur.

Wrongly hitting the decepticon attack alarms instead, he watched in dismay the
previous scene crumble instantly.

Whispering no, no, no, Red Alert kept staring as the CMO currently on screen
startled and lifted Strongarm up, rotating in his heels and placing him sitting
on the very mesh foam seat he just left, instantly looking around for tools and
preparing to the impending medical emergency, grumbling around the bay,
separating instruments in trays, stopping finally still at slab number one.

On his side, Strongarm just eerily slowly left the seat, amazingly unfazed,
unaffected by the alarm and by the sudden end of what looked like a potentially
hotinterface session, and walked by in sheer calm in an orderly fashion
readying his own tray meticulously with instruments as well, taking possession
of slab number two.

Finally, to complete the scene, First Aid unlocked with his code the door and
stormed in, frantically screeching about them having to get ready and
positioning himself at the third slab, stopping very still and glaring at the
other two medics in the room, clearly puzzled behind his battlemask.

===============================================================================
 

Puzzled behind his battlemask, First Aid took the environment readings,
perplexed at the raised temperature, shifting his glare between the two other
mechs ready by the slabs.

Ratchet looked just unnatural in his forced tranquillity with his current lack
of grumbling and cursing, as he stared rigidly towards the now open medbay
doors, avoiding looking around.

Strongarm appeared completely calm, his white, visibly stained cockpit glass
and abdominal plates glimmering with old oil streaks standing like a sore sight
to the smaller ambulance: no self-respecting medic should allow himself to be
that dirty before having seen a single patient, and as far as he saw, the
medbay was clear.

Asking himself what might have been on, making sure he had read right that both
their core temperatures and spark-spinning rates were raised, the two white
bodies glimmering under his infrared camera view, First Aid once more focused
on the grease streaks that had apparently dribbled out from a single source
into the chestplates and down, trailing an interesting pattern right over the
ventral white plate, disappearing between Strongarm’s thighs.

Holding an in-venting as the minutes clicked and not a single injured autobot
came inside, First Aid noticed Ratchet finally steal one glance towards the
immobile statue-like Strongarm, the faceplates of dutyin his stillness,then
glare at his own hands almost guiltily, and finally growl, grumbling something
about Red Alert going to pay for the falsealarm, as the smaller ambulance-mech
got to the conclusion that he really, really didn’t want to know.

===============================================================================
 

“I don’t want to know.”

Prowl didn’t. He really didn’t. He wasn’t getting paid enough for this scrap.

He had been viciously pinged by his Security Director for no logical reason and
had been dutifully ignoring him; as Prowl underwent a necessary defrag cycle of
his Battle Computer, suddenly the decepticon attack alarms roared, with every
single warrior except for the autobot high commandgathering at the front doors
of the Ark to wait for the incoming cons.

Even the previously fighting, dirty, scuffled, scratched and strangely smug
Ironhide posed with his yellow paint transfers across his frame and his
chainguns up, as an apparently scowling Blaster growled low (equally
dishevelled and displaying equally suspicious scratches and complementary paint
transfers) and murderously shifted his glare between the other autobots, ready
to sic Steeljaw and Ramhorn into anyone who dared ask, especially the incoming
decepticons.

Who never came by.

So, as soon as Prowl received a very furious, heat-emitting CMO breaking into
his door with a single kick and hitting him once with his faithful cybertronium
wrench, grabbing him by his chestplates with his two red hands stained with
apparently melted and re-solidified grease, complaining on the false alarm that
disturbed him earlier in the medbay, the autobot SIC knew someone had fragged
royally this time.

===============================================================================
 

“You have royally fragged this time.”

Red Alert, currently considering changing his name to False Alarm, just hid his
glitching finials behind his palms, regretting the endless string of punishing
speeches he received from no one less than Optimus Prime, under Prowl’s
scowling optics.

Inferno, his ever faithful bonded that Red Alert believed sometimes was out to
get him too, did his best to soothe the paranoia-laden mech, but sometimes
there was no working around.

“I know. Ironhide snapped a loud slap behind my head, glitching my finials,
Prowl gave me the scowling treatment, Strongarm merely walked by with those
telling oil streaks down his plating ignoring everyone who gaped at him and
headed to the washracks, First Aid just looked hurt, Ratchet was beyond
murderous and the Prime forbade him of coming into my presence because neither
of the other medics were going to be able to fix me if he truly put his hands
on me, and even Blaster came by to glitch-slap me.”

He suddenly grabbed Inferno by his chestplates, shaking him.

“You do believe me when I say Strongarm and Ratchet were totally doing it,
right?”

Inferno sighed, patting Red Alert. The alleged security video feed from the
medbay he was supposedly recording turned out static-laden and useless.

“Sure, Red, but unfortunately the evidence is lost. It will be difficult to
convince everyone that you are right. Not that it’s anyone’s but their own
business.”

Red Alert sagged his forehead against Inferno’s chest, getting tightly held in
a soothing manner, unable to agree it wasn’t anyone else’s business: according
to Prowl, Strongarm was a liability for life and as Head of Security, Red Alert
knew it was his duty to keep the heliformer’s liaisons under permanent watch.
It was relevant!!!

It was useless to argue however when Red Alert, the mech who often cried
scraplet plague, failed to have evidence to show.

===============================================================================
 

Red Alert failed to have evidence to show.

For that, Ratchet was truly glad.

Not that he liked to have been interrupted back then, much less for the false
alarm of their paranoid Security Director, but the CMO was wholly glad he
valued his patient’s privacy to the point of having rigged the medbay’s
security camera to depict yet never record anything from there.

Not that he was ashamed of having been serviced by the skilled hands of his
recently chevroned colleague, or about almost surrendering to what he presumed
would be the hottest interface sessionof his whole life.

It’s only that he now didn’t have the face to even remotely return to the point
they had reached that day, just not having the bolts of requesting a handfrom
Strongarm, the Mad.

The fact that the next day he walked into the bay to find First Aid nearly
offline from unashamed pleasure with his EM-field spread wide while laid on a
slab as Strongarm performed basic maintenancein the smaller medic’s hands, all
plating open and instruments out for methodical cleaning, didn’t help.

The only thing preventing Ratchet of jealously lashing against the smaller
ambulance –who honestly couldn’t be blamed for enjoying – or even at Strongarm
himself was the fact that he really had no claim on the heliformer beyond his
own one-sided feelings.

That and the fact that his own session had looked and felt much more personal
and a lot less professional than the one done there in the open, where the only
things touching First Aid were instrument-laden hands on instrument-laden
hands, no real heat emitted, and not a single flicker of Strongarm’s EM-field
could be felt, held very tight against his shell, as usual, even as the smaller
ambulance arched his back and flared his visor white, going off on spot at the
final twist of the instruments closing the seams on his hand’s plating.

For some disturbing reason the image of a sharewhare-drone Strongarmwith the
white body decorated in shiny blue and black kibble, cobalt biolights pulsing,
as the shadowed, imagined contours of a pliant blue folded femaleport hiding
behind off-white see-through pelvic plating filled his processors, as the
coldly efficient mech brought mech after mech to overload without a single
ounce of shame or pride, by any means necessary, and Ratchet shuddered.

“Greetings, Chief Medical Officer. You were not anticipated, yet I assure you
your presence is welcome. I am done for the shift.”

Ratchet snapped his optics to the unashamed helicopter, who tilted his head
right as he unceremoniously abandoned the post-overloadFirst Aid offline on the
slab, coldly cleaning his own hands with solvent at the washsink, then drying
them with a mesh, finally sitting on the single-seat mesh chair.

“Would you believe Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid actually
scheduled time with me instead of Basic Maintenance Mechanic Hoist? I am
fascinated to see I currently have a full agenda for the next days. Even
Commander Chief Arms Specialist Ironhide, Chief Science Officer Perceptor,
Chief Engineering Officer Wheeljack and Chief Communications Officer Blaster
signed up.”

Ratchet blinked at the feat of having these stubborn morons coming for
maintenance of their own accord instead of the CMO having to yell and drag them
into the bay for a change once First Aid’s gentle campaign failed as usual.

Was it because Strongarm just didn't care enough to even lash on anyone, never
complained when mechs missed appointments, never tried to give them any lessons
of moral, much less made them change their habits for their own good?

Or was it the obvious less than clinical benefits reaped by the maintenance
added to the power of gossip?

“I will be making my leave now that you are returned, Chief Medical Officer. An
eventful shift. We shall trade places within half a solar cycle.”

Ratchet shook his head at the retreating form, sighing, wondering that he
certainly wouldn’t mind having the lostfootage to add to his own memory of
himself and Strongarm under the spot lights.

===============================================================================
 

“Spot, lights!”

The three components of Reflector directed and shot the scene as the flashy
orange mech Roddy the Hot and his companion Knock-Out draped themselves one
over the other in exaggeratedly lascivious positions, exhibiting their best
features.

Smirking widely at his rebellion, Hot Rod recalled the moment he returned,
slagged, to the Space Bridge meeting point, hoping to take a ride at it once
old Shockwave opened it up, finding the three dejected components sitting
around a small bonfire, waiting as well.

Learning they were hoping to join the Neutrals and setting up a Photo Shop on
Cybertron, Hot Rod, very much intent in displeasing uncleOptimus just because
he could, offered to take them along and setting up a meeting with his dearest
doctor Knock-Out.

Everything then went as well as it was supposed to, Knock-Out loving the
attention and the photographing, Hot Rod getting accordingly rewarded, the Mod
Shoppreviously abandoned to the moths now thriving as it sold both mods and the
pictures to accompany with it.

It was a total win-win. Take that, Prime, for thinking Hot Rod would not be a
worthy successor for the Matrix!! He was already proving to be a great
administrator!

===============================================================================
 

“Such a great administrator.”

Megatron snorted, reading through the endless streak of datapads filled by
Shockwave’s comprehensive files on his projects for Cybertron’s reconstruction,
sent through common comm by Shockwave the drone, recalling his absolutely
terrible energon-stock defending skills.

It wasn’t that the files weren’t sound and logical or that Shockwave was
wasteful: Shockwave just wasn’t fit to defend anything he had to shoot upon,
and Megatron realised with great hindsight that it might have been better to
nominate another guardian to remain on Cybertron back then.

Who, however???

Soundwave would have remained behind, out of loyalty, but Megatron would miss
him plus six loyal troops if the tapedeck stood behind, not to mention the
whole spy net.

Starscream would have stayed behind gleefully and somehow find a way to
overthrow him and take Cybertron’s command, and that just was not an option.

Shockwave did stay behind, but couldn’t prevent anyone of stealing anything,
and for some odd reason was acting even more stupid than Megatron ever imagined
he would.

The constructicons were sorely needed on Earth, but if they remained behind,
Megatron might have had hundreds of phantom cities built during the last four
million years, and not a single energon cube left.

Sagging, despite knowing how incompetent Shockwave currently was, his cyclopic
mate stillended up being the least terrible option left. At least he would
never betray his Lord’s trust.

===============================================================================
 

He had betrayed his Lord’s trust.
 
And he truly didn't care a single bit.

Shockwave, visor offline as he rested his head on the back of the seat, just
returned to the nightly shift, pretending not to care about Ratchet’s
whereabouts as he enjoyed his solo night at the autobot medbay, was currently
seriouslyconflicted.

Not because of his idea of purposefully pretending interest to make the CMO
open up and speak, intent in gathering intel to get to the Matrix and
ultimately please his Lord. Good spies so often traded favours of this nature
for info that this was not the reason of his conflict. He would have logically
opened his panels if it meant success in the mission.

The reason for his conflict was probably currently revving his white-noise
generating engines in his own quarters, and Shockwave could not be there to
seize it to take a deep recharge session as well.

Even still, it wasn’t “wanting to recharge” under the lulling thunder of
Ratchet’s engines that constituted the betrayal.

The betrayal took place the instant he truly had wanted to get physically
fraggedby the CMO, just for the sake of getting fragged, no logic involved.
 
Not in as pretending it was his Lord: Shockwave didn’t do pretending to
himself. He knew it wasn’t true, so it wasn’t logical.

The truth is Shockwave, having feigned his interest in the deceptive session he
intended to give the CMO, and purposefully having left himself overheat and
even brush EM-fields to better pretend for the sake of convincing the medic,
ended up wholly trapping his own self in his own web.

Faked reactions are only faked until the moment they are not.

The instant Ratchet had scowled and flared his anger and regret towards the
Prime, Shockwave, EM-field open, couldn’t help his mind mingling the medic’s
displayed feelings and actions with the ones of his Lord – on a totally
different level – and with his early displays of submitting to the CMO to
gather his trust… deep logical confusion was ensured.

Rationally seeing now that embarking along for the ride in trying to deceive
the CMO had been an awful idea (for now his shell started having real physical
reactions towards the close possibility of interfacing a certain white and red,
warm and willing frame), Shockwave found himself absurdly, almost illogically
wanting.

He had actually wanted Ratchet to have kept scowling, flaring his determinedEM-
field and just plain taking over what the current heliformer had begun,
mechandling him into the edge of a slab or against the plain ground, just like
his Lord would, overpowering, growling, snarling and just takingwhat was
rightfully his, overriding his interface array locks with consensual brutality
just shy of damaging, bringing on the few physical thingsShockwave’s
shadowplayed self still could genuinely feel.

Having suffered Shadowplay he cannot make the automated link between spark-
emotional and body-physical anymore, and sees no logic in displaying through
physical action that he can still feel, albeit dulled, anything, to all effects
giving the worldwide spread impression he feels absolutely nothing at all in
his physical self.

Since Empurata and Shadowplay, his physical displays of want were reduced to
those he chose to act on, body disconnected from spark and mind, which was why
he knew he could just fake the whole act and even walk out in the middle of
interfacing without a single stir or visible frustration, no matter his logical
willingness to be there or not.
 
In the objective of actively letting his bondmates know they were doing right
and were being efficient in bringing discharge and appropriately chartable
overloads, he would act on their expectations to bring them their needed input.
Shockwave required no displays for himself, but he still appreciated with cold
logic whenever the right reactions were there, having a special file for the
truly prized and exquisite sessions, and he knew his Lord and Soundwave
unconsciously required him to be a responsive mech.

He tried explaining them they didn’t need to wait for him to have any physical
reaction to be sure they had his requirements met, that he would tell them
whenever they weren’t, but he found out that every time he physically enjoyed
the procedure and at the same time used his processing power to chart and
calculate the event real time, instead of acting along with them, they were the
ones left unsatisfied because they couldn’t coax reactions from him and
erroneously presumed he did not enjoy it.

(The occasional true limb twitch, back arch and involuntary whine that
sometimes came out of Shockwave spoke volumes to the level of his physical
satisfaction, and whenever a session elicited these they were charted
independently: perhaps there would be a workaround the Shadowplay one day,
maybe even a partial reversion, and if once in a while his spark connected back
to his spontaneousbodily reactions, the data was important enough to be filed
for later review and study).

Shockwave thus concluded that when he did act for their sake, his bondmates
were left doubly happy, the tapedeck being extra-caring and his Lord smug to
the point of hand-fuelling him with tiny energon treats right on his fuel
intake, and were even more intense and invested in the bond and other bouts of
interfacing afterwards, thus solidifying the relationship.

At the hard facts, Shockwave took the logical decision.

The sparkbonded cold mad-scientist started to display even without any logic:
better than having a sulking tapedeck or a growling Megatron around. Whenever
his presence was required by them, which wasn’t that frequently anyway, for he
knew he was merely secondary in their life and bond, he went along and played
his part via automated subroutines. It was only logical to keep the bondmates
satisfied.

Unfortunately, it was only logicalto presume his bondmates would not be happy
that he had deeply wanted to be fraggedby the autobot CMO.

Despite the timid request of his original purple array, to which he easily told
no, Shockwave neither felt personal shame or regret at his wanting; even in the
event he actually succumbed and gave himself into interface, he would certainly
have a logicalexplanation for his apparent betrayal.

As such, following impeccable logic, since the only panel really pinging to be
let open (whose pliable blue port nearly begged to be used) was the autobot
one, Shockwave dismissed the event and his almost surrender as inconsequential.

Certainly coming back with the Matrix would make his Lordforgive his forbidden
wanting (even if Shockwave saw no reason to pay for having wanted), forgive him
leaving Cybertron against orders, forgive him leaving his shell behind as a
disguised drone to make him believe he hadn’t left the planet, forgive him
sinking the Nemesis down the ocean by being a shit shoot, forgive him not
returning to the fold and setting the stupid plan of joining the autobots and
getting their trust, forgive him acting submissive around the CMO and faking
reactions that ultimately reflected his true spark, forgive him never being
able to get sparked a single time, forgive…

That Autobot Matrix should better be worth it: Shockwave had a lot of forgiving
to ask for, and the faster he could leave to his Lord’s arms and pay for all
his mistakes during the last four million years, providing the means for the
Decepticons to finally win the war, the better.

Just the prospect of kneeling and humbling himself to his rightful Lord sounded
so damn satisfying that he could barely wait to come home to his bondmates: who
knows; Soundwave would probably be sparked again, and Shockwave almost missed
the tiny steps of a new creation lurking around his Labs, even if it wasn’t
his.

***** Atonement *****
 
Ironhide scratched his head, puzzled, staring as if Blaster had grown an extra
head, for once not having to defend himself, the tapedeck looking resigned and
folding arms, sitting on a sofa at the Rec Room.

“What are you even saying; of course Ramhorn is mine. In truth he is the only
one that actually resembles me, and I’m not talking about being a stupid lug.
No offense to the other scraplets.”

“There is nothing you say or do, love, that would offend me.” he shook his head
“The truth is, Ramhorn isn’t yours, period, no matter that you identify with
him. It took me a long while to really convince myself as well. You indeed have
scary similarities. I fooled myself too for five millions of years. I didn’t
seek to deceive you. It wasn’t intentional.”

Only now getting to the realisation of what ‘not being his’ meant, Ironhide ex-
vented: ok, they were already falling apart when Blaster last got sparked with
the little lug, but Ironhide never imagined by any stretch it wasn’t his, and
that Blaster actually had betrayed him then. Even if it was unwillingly, as he
claimed to.

“Who, then?” he looked down, for once truly regretful that he never properly
sparkbonded and let things degenerate to this.

Blaster then cackled and just kept cackling, almost in tears.

He recalled well the day after he was sparked with Ramhorn. The pull and tug at
his spark was unmistakable, and he had no real need of getting scanned to know
the newspark was there, like every good carrier-host.

He remembered nothing of the day previously to that. He had been on a terribly
bad spell then, and he might have abused his high-grade when Ironhide was too
busy with the military to care, and he might have decided it would be nice to
host a party as The Voice of Cybertron while the cat was away, and invite just
plain everyone else they knew into the engex-filled DJ party, just out of
spite, namely the whole rest of the autobot fleet.

Truly, it could have been anyone. Blaster had no fragging idea of who sparked
him. It’s not like anyone else but Ironhide have jumped to claim Ramhorn as co-
creator in the last 5 million of years, afterall. Out of shame? Out of
ignorance and lack of probability? He didn’t know, and sometimes he thought it
was better to deceive himself that yes, it had to be Ironhide, right? Who else
besides Ironhidewould have brought to existence the fight-prone, barrelling
cassettibot, fond of big guns and slightly slow to the point of near autism on
the processors?

The self-lies lasted well, until he caught himself staring at his former
partner patting Ramhorn’s head as a nice sire would, and it suddenly was just
too much for Blaster to keep bottling up.

No one could lie to himself forever, not without going mad.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Are you gone mad?”

He wished: Optimus Prime donned a resigned glare at Elita-1, who insisted,
repeating her question.

“No, I’m not mad, Elita.” He finally replied “A Prime serves The Matrix, and
she told me in no dubious terms that it’s time for The Prime to produce a
newspark.”

Elita sighed.

“In the middle of War. In this rock. With Megatron still alive.”

Nod, nod, nod.

“Rephrasing then: is The Matrix mad?”

Optimus widened his optics at the open sacrilege.

“Elita-1. You always knew the reason for the Council to recommend on you being
my arranged sparkmate instead of my previous intended, whom I left without
further questioning and even any decent explaining. You were appointed as the
Matrix’ chosen mate for me, and we are expected to eventually produce a
newspark once the Matrix said so. It finally did.”

He tapped his feet on the ground, sitting on his desk, as Elita-1 idly fiddled
with his ornate Matrix-shaped paperweight.

“I repeat: is the Matrix mad?”

“I’m not discussing the Matrix’s demands to you; we have already gone through
this in the past. What the Matrix wants, it takes or makes happen, and so far
she had not been unreasonable. I am only warning you that there will be a
newspark in The Prime’s future, whether you want it or not, my dear Matrix-
sanctionedsparkbonded.”

Elita-1 snorted.

“And who will be carrying it, you? We both know about your preferences.”

Optimus stilled minutely.

“My preferences are irrelevant. I usually don’t abide by Functionism, but in
this particular matter, your formdoes define your function. Even with us being
completely unbiased about it and abiding with pure sparkmerge without any cable
or port play otherwise, your spark will most probably call for the newspark to
bind to you, not to me. Try to be graceful about it when it happens. The
newspark doesn’t need to feel rejected right from the start.”

===============================================================================
 

Feeling rejected right from the start, Ramhorn shifted a side glance to his
three siblings.

Sure, they never outright cast him out, but he got tired quickly of being
dismissed as too stupid, just because he didn’t often engage into the
activities they liked the most, like Rewind and his video recordings, which he
shares with Eject especially concerning sports, and Steeljaw and his turbofox
hunting.

Ramhorn just happened to prefer guns.

The bigger, meaner, more intimidating, the better. He envied Ironhide’s
chainguns and often requested to be given a pair one day. He wanted to smash
the decepticons to a pulp!

Was there something wrong?

===============================================================================
 

Is there something wrong ?

First Aid came first time in the morning, lighting on the medbay and finding
four helicopter paddles resting against the wall and Strongarmcurrently slumped
in an undignified ball, on the memory foam mesh seat, under deep recharge, the
empty energon centrifuge running on the background with the most obnoxious
rattle the medic ever heard short of Ratchet’s snoring.

Taking a brief peek into the transparent glass cockpit and watching briefly the
slow spinning spark, concluding Strongarm was indeed under recharge, he
fidgeted with his hands, remembering how they had been professionally
calibrated through and through and how nice it felt.

He recalled being ashamed of enjoying it so much, until Strongarm told,
deadpan, he could stop holding himself and just overload for all he cared, that
it was a physical reaction compatible to the degree of sensitivity in his hands
and expected due to the nature of the medical hands involved, and that he
absolutely didn’t mind and would not judge whatever reaction he had, and only
asked for him not to trash around and disturb the procedure in case he did.

With such orders, what subject would fail to comply?

So, overload First Aid did, as soon as he let go, practically on command and
Primus, it felt good. He vaguely recalled Strongarm’s only reaction to him was
to mutter a very low one “Interesting.” halfway through the event as First
Aid’s sirens almost flared on.

Nodding to himself, the smaller ambulance snorted; Ratchet wasn’t the most
patient of all mechs, and by First Aid’s inference, connecting the greased
streaks all over Strongarm’s plating with the CMO’s dirtied hands and his
wholly pissed act at the false alarm, the hand job he had been probably
receiving was certainly more interesting than the one the protectobot got.

First Aid didn’t mind the impersonality of his own calibration though: unlike
his CMO, First Aid already had a bondmate: not only he was sparkbonded to his
whole gestalt, he also had been into an even deeper relationship with Blades,
the neurotic triggerhappy heliformer of the protectobots.

Snorting at the age-old say that every single rotary is inherently insane, and
wholly agreeing as he recalled Blades doing his most dangerous stunts with his
high manoeuvrability and total lack of self-preservation sense, he walked to
the centrifuge, intent in turning if off.

The shift was over and it was time for Strongarm to go.

===============================================================================
 

“Time to go, Strongarm.”

Shockwave blinked the visor on as soon as the background noise stopped, the
visage of First Aid came to sight.

“Hum, yes, and you may call me First Aid.”

“I will keep that in mind, Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid.”

Dipping his head in a nod as the ambulance sighed, Strongarm stood up, clicking
each of his paddles into his back one by one without sparing them a glance,
glaring down at the now turned off centrifuge.

“Will you be necessitating this amazing source of white noise for the cycle?”

First Aid blinked.

“…white noise?”

Shockwave nodded, repeating the question word by word. First Aid scratched his
head.

“….why.”

First Aid shifted his glance between the centrifuge and Strongarm, who tilted
his head.

“I happen to find the rattle of the empty energon tube dock trays as it spins
very conductive to recharge.”

“You. You find the rattle is conductive...”

“…to recharge.” Shockwave complemented, hoping to make himself understood.

First Aid just looked uncomfortable, trying to make sense of things.

“I… see.”

He truly didn’t. First Aid was actually regretting having woken up Strongarm,
for a brief moment asking himself if the benefit of the excessively skilled
hands under the CMO’s commandwas worth the amazing amount of awkwardness and
droning Ratchet had been submitting himself to since the arrival of Strongarm.

Out of the blue, then, Strongarm unsubspaced a datapad, handing it to the
incredulous smaller ambulance.

“In case you are ever interested, Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First
Aid, I have an incipient prospective study of the positive influence of
repetitive noise of various frequencies into influencing the quality of one’s
recharge. So far I have been its single subject. Here are the plentiful charts
I compiled on my own databanks concerning the whole year I have recharged under
the constant presence of Chief Medical Officer Ratchet’s engine rattling rates.
I wonder if you might volunteer to recharge on his presence for a similar
amount of time so we can compare our own data. We might make a thundering
breakthrough and riot the scientific community concerning the development of
more efficient recharge-inducing software to treat upper-processor ailments.”

Twitching at the overflow of information contained in the single-subject
analysis of all the nights Shockwave recharged under the influence of Ratchet’s
snores, completely unwilling to produce his own databanks, he blinked his visor
twice, finally turning the datapad back into Strongarm’s waiting hands,
excusing himself in a whisper and ambulance-moding, playing his sirens and
scurrying away, very much willing to take on a break from base and go for his
gestalt.

Shockwave, absolutely unfazed and never offended, merely observed as First Aid
went away, finally shifting a very curious glare at the lonely laboratory
apparatus, thinking.
 
 
===============================================================================
 

“Are you thinking I am only a curious laboratory apparatus?”

Wheeljack glows his side panels in surprise as Perceptor grumbles his way
through mathematical formulae during a heateddiscussion via comms with Skyfire.

“Of course I will not fail to properly analyse the databanks: I am not the
glorified bus who is often in orbit running away from duty into space.”

Wheeljack tilted his head right and left to an imaginary tempo regulating the
trigger of his newest invention by spark, as Perceptor crossed his legs on his
chair and lounged, removing the glass from his scope and polishing it to a
glimmer as he listens to the gibberish spoken by the white shuttle.

“If you cannot be professional about it, then by all means go get yourself
buried in ice again for the next ten millions of years for all I care. Perhaps
a certain seeker trine leader would be willing to retrieve you once again.”

Wheeljack nearly snapped his neck turning to face the now visibly angry
microscope, who managed to just smash the glass in his hands with his bare
hands, growling Skyfire an icy farewell.

He hung up his comm with a distinct trimmm, as Wheeljack flinched.

“Primus, Percy, what had gotten into you?”

“Can you believe the big white lug had the bolts of calling me a laboratory
apparatus!”

Wheeljack glanced briefly at the microscope mech, scratching his head.

“Well… thinking about it. You are a laboratory apparatus.”

Wheeljack ducked a flying becker then, leaving the room intent in finding a
place to hide.
 
===============================================================================
 

He wanted a place to hide.

Having just been victim of Megatron’s sparring spree for the hundredth time
within the decacycle, Starscream was making sure to remain inconspicuous,
unable to put his fingers into why his idiotic leader wouldn’t just scrap him
as usual, instead of asking for a fight.

Megatron. Asking. It was clear for the seeker his leader was trying to play
nice, and it scared the waste out of his tanks: obviously everybody knew it was
never good to be on Megatron’s bad side, but sometimes it wasn’tgood to be on
his good side either.

Skywarp giggled stupidly and blurted out this amazingly unscientific notion
that Megatron had to be in love with the seeker, Thundercracker smacking him up
the head for the mere thought of it: they were trinebonded, and if by any means
Megatron ever one day bonded Starscream they two would be carried along in the
bond as well.

Starscream shuddered at the thought of being bonded at the same time to the
Slagmaker, the Tapeglitch and the Cyclopic Drone: wasn’t it enough he had the
Warping Buffoonand the Thundering Boreunder his wing already?

There was a reason why triple bonds were usually only accepted among the
decepticons, while bonded pairs were the norm for autobots: jealous infighting
within a polybond is very hard to avoid, and only true warriors like the
decepticons could balance three mates at the same time together, unlike the
weak feeble minded autobots.

Suddenly the mental image of Megatron trying to prove his superior spark energy
into handling a multiple-mecha polybond, with Skywarp, Thundercracker,
Soundwave and even Shockwave wearing biolight-glowing kibble and see-through
plating, odalisque-like-dancing around his leader, came to mind, and Starscream
shook it away like he would an impending scraplet plague.

That was all the Decepticons needed: Megatron building up a harem.

Certainly good Primus would never be so mean.
 
===============================================================================
 

Primus wouldn’t be so mean.

Right when he thought he finally had medics enough to smoothly start running a
medbay, he had to get this kind of news.

“First Aid. You are saying you want to take a break.”

First Aid nodded hopefully, fidgeting with his hands.

“It’s just a few days. My connectors are aching for me to gestalt. Not to
mention Blades had been threatening to kidnap me.”

Ratchet groaned, recalling the last time Blades actually did kidnap First Aid
and took off in flight hauling a very unwilling ambulance, only for a couple of
days later they both return fully sparkbonded as conjux after so many
sparkmerges, First Aid asking to be scanned to be sure he wasn’t sparked, and
asking them both to be installed the most efficient anti-sparking protocols
Ratchet could find: he didn’t want either him or Blades to bring a newspark to
life in the middle of this stupid war.

First Aid stared hopefully at his CMO: truly Blades didn’t threaten anything
this time, and he wasn’t that aching to gestalt, but he had a feeling that his
presence as a third wheel between Strongarm and Ratchet was hinderingwhatever
they might even remotely have going.

And far as First Aid could gather, Strongarm appeared mildly obsessed with the
CMO, to the point of finding a replacement for his snoring into their
centrifuge.

Not to mention Ratchet’s mood worsened 384% since Optimus Prime forced them
into separate quarters.

“You are an awful liar, First Aid.”

The battlemasked ambulance sagged. Ratchet shook his head.

“Fine. I don’t even want to know. Go for your break. I hate when you do that
kicked turbofox look. Go before I change my mind, but when you return you’ll do
double the shift!”

Practically somersaulting, First Aid hugged the CMO in a jump, burying and
nuzzling his battlemask against the crook of his neck with the visor offline
and Ratchet couldn’t help imagining it was another visor and another mask
clinging to him, swallowing dry.

===============================================================================

Swallowing dry, he clang to the last streaks of sanity he had.

“Why, why do you keep torturing me? Didn’t I give up enough already?”

The Matrix hummed within his chest, happy with her decisions, as Optimus sagged
on his chair, facepalming.

If anyone had any idea of what it was like to house the Matrix, he doubted
anyone would envy him.

Oh, sure, it made him stronger and powerful and everything, but sometimes he
thought it wasn’t entirely worth the effort, and that he would be happier if he
had remained an archivist in Iacon. No matter that currently there were no more
archivists left in Cybertron, and hadn’t he taken up on the Matrix he would
probably be deactivated by now, with the rest of their dead planet, a mere ball
of metal free-floating in space.

He had to agree with Elita-1: it was a terrible moment to bring a newspark into
life. Unlike the decepticons, they had sense, and the last accidental creation
of the autobots had been Ramhorn, right at the beginning of the war, slightly
before everything really went to the Well, as tell-tale whispers filled his
processors from within his chest and he looked down at his plating, speaking
directly to the source of his problems.

“What would my Autobots think if they found we follow the whims of a Capricious
Matrix? That Megatron might be slightly saner than me for having never believed
the Priestdom?”

The ghost of a chuckle invaded Optimus’ inner systems and he braced himself,
feeling threatened.
 
===============================================================================
 

He braced himself as his inner systems were threatened.
 
Soundwave wobbled in place, dizzy and holding against the communications
console, stoically standing everything, finally glaring down his glass
chestplate and monotoning.

“Newspark: menacing: desist.”

He felt the budding months old newspark around his own ancient, weary, millions
of years old host spark, orbiting slightly faster, then subsiding to its usual
slow and sedate rotating motion, Soundwave’s gyros finally falling back into
place with a comfortable pull.

He remembered having had worse than that during his heinous twins, especially
when they decided spinning counter and clockwise at the same time. These had
been whole years Soundwave does not recall fondly.

He sat on his chair, just to make sure a new surprise spinning wouldn’t throw
him off-balance again, recalling how he chose the name of each creation.

Ravage had truly ravaged his systems with bouts of nausea and rage spells that
often had Lord Megatron recharging very away from him just to stay on the safe
side. Laserbeak tended to beakwith laserprecision like a vulture at his spark,
and Buzzsaw wasn’t much better with his constant buzzing slide, nearly sawing
through the corona of his spark in his diving spins. Rumble and Frenzy were
nearly self-explanatory, as Soundwave was always running with empty tanks
rumbling as his processors frenziedin trying to keep track of the motion of
twin newsparks.

Nodding almost amused, he glared down his transparent glass, his blue spark
flaring once, glad he was sitting as an eight-shaped spin was completed by the
newspark around the corona within the sparkchamber.

Whoever romanticised sparking as being all flowers and sunrises was either
never truly sparked or maybe just didn’t have Lord Megatron for sire: all his
newsparks were wilful and true hellions in one way or another and this one
didn’t look like it would be tame.

A tiny Menace indeed.

How could he possibly get angry?
 
===============================================================================
 

How could he possibly not get angry???

He needed the energon centrifuge and it was nowhere to be found.

Calling First Aid for information didn’t work: Blades answered and told Ratchet
in no uncertain terms that he should respect their break, as a whiny First Aid
screeched on the background of his own comm that it could be important, the
heliformer deadpan ignoring him and asking if Ratchet didn’t have anything
better to do before coming off.

After invading the Lab and threatening Wheeljack to give it back, the inventor
crouched and kept saying sorry, sorry, while huddled around his newest
unfinished invention.

“I promise I won’t use this Plot Device Unit to do anything heinous or bad! I’m
just Making Science! Please don’t scrap me!”

“I don’t need to scrap you, genius; you already do it yourself on a regular
basis. Now; my centrifuge.”

He outstretched his palm up; Wheeljack blinked his side face panels.

“But I don’t have it.”

===============================================================================

 
“I don’t have it...”

Swindle circled looking up at his fellow combaticon Vortex, smirking.

“…but for the right price I could.”

Swindle could already see the Shanix bubbling into his subspace pockets,
thinking about his colleague’s request. Vortex had heard about a not-so-secret
project of Shockwave called cortical psychic path that might be able to improve
greatly his interrogation techniques.

He revved his engines at the prospect of being able to invade and hack in a
brave new way another bot: sure he had evolved the art of using his own modded
spikeboth as means of torture and as hacking datacord, but certainly any
improvement would be mighty welcome.

“You know how flexible I can bend in my negotiations. Just no stealing my rotor
blades afterwards!”

Swindle raised both hands in self-defence: as if he had tried selling them more
than that once!

“How can you think so low on Swindle! I have no personal interest in fragging
the living circuits of you, but I know mechs who would pay me handsomely to get
full access to your frame. The perks of fragging the fragger, if you understand
me!”

Vortex did. Being pimpedby Swindle wasn’t the worse task he had ever undergone,
besides, some mechs were particularly rudewith shareware, and Vortex absolutely
enjoyed the humiliation.

He was certainly game.
 
===============================================================================
 

“I’m certainly game!”

Skywarp giggled as Scavenger clapped hands: both had just agreed to a game of
tag. A teleporter against the tunnel-digger inside the undersea base.

For some reason neither could see anything wrong with that. The only thing
preventing them of starting Hell now was Scavenger’s sense of duty.

“Just not now. I’m on guard duty!”

He nodded, meaningfully, recalling that his favourite Commander, Shockwave, was
also assigned guard duty and felt truly honoured by the similarity of function.
Skywarp sagged. Scavenger patted him on his head.

“Later.”

He hugged the purple seeker, as Mixmaster, on the background, stared, vigilant,
approvingly; Scavenger was a hug addict, needing to help himself at all and
every love he could get.
 
===============================================================================
 

Getting all the help he could need, loving everything, Ratchet left the Lab
parting the crowd with his grumbles.

After having tried to no avail to reach his fellow medicvia comms, Ratchet
ended up stood still before Strongarm’s door, arms folded, tapping his feet on
the ground.

To come in or not to come?

Recalling how disregarding of privacy the heliformer was, Ratchet shrugged and
keyed in his medical emergencyoverride code on the door, entering it, a
security camera recording his steps.

===============================================================================
 

The security camera recorded Ratchet’s steps as Red Alert nearly ate his own
fingertips in anxiety.

Primus they had exchanged door codes!

From his perspective Red Alert couldn’t know Ratchet had keyed the override,
not that it made a difference: his paranoid self was already imagining the most
horrendous plots and subplots.

He knew it. A pity he couldn’t call Prowl anymore for these voyeur times: the
SIC decided to no longer allow his personal comms available to the Security
Director after his Epic Failure number194.744.

At least Inferno was around to cheer him up.

===============================================================================

 
“Cheer up!”

Firestar came by to the berthroom-bound Nautica, currently her guest, I mean,
prisonerat theFemale Autobot Headquarters, carrying a huge energon cube.

She pondered on Megatron being considered the villain when clearly he hadbeen
sending energon home, even when things were meagre to the Decepticons, to his
Guardian, showing sense of responsibility, while Optimus never sends a single
ounce of anything, no matter the obscene abundance of energy the autobots can
access at the volcanic grounds where the Ark is.

The excuse of the autobots not owning the spacebridgeisn’t enough: everyone
knew where the fragging spacebridge was and how to pass right through under the
proverbial nose of the cyclopic drone.

She snorted, swirling the cube before Nautica, who refused to look at it.

Megatron sharing poverty and Optimus wallowing in abundance: It didn’t bid well
to the processors to think about the irony of it. Perhaps Soundwave had a good
reason to stick by his leader and mate for so long and still keep producing
cassetticons together. To all effects the Slagmaker looked like to be an
invested providerand sire.

Bad thoughts, Firestar: no turning con-sympathiser in the middle of war, she
nodded to the cube.

“Nautica, dearest. Have a taste of Megatron’s energy, stolen by them and now by
us.”

“I’m not hungry.”

The rumbling of empty tanks bellowed from her systems, as Firestar snorted.

“Not even If I fuel you slowly?” she waggled her optic ridges.

Inconvenient doesn’t begin to cover what she currently thought on her lovely
amica, thought Nautica as she rolled tired optics across the room.
 
===============================================================================
 

Rolling tired optics across the room, Ratchet winced as he contemplated the
still form, prone over the berth.

Strongarm was on straight his back, hands locked over the white abdominal
plates right underneath the protruding cockpit, only the distinct lack of
greying bringing the certainty that he wasn’t currently looking at a corpse.

“Strongarm!”

No reaction: Ratchet sighed, only now noticing the insistent rattle of a
certain disappeared centrifuge coming from over the desk.

Jolting his optics to it, observing it spin helplessly with its trays empty in
a terrifying rattle, he distantly recalled Strongarm never insisted again,
since the night of the datapads, in recharging in his room, connecting the
dots, as in a mix of disbelief and anger at seeing he had been replaced, he
felt the energon bubble up his systems.

===============================================================================

Systems bubbling up in cold energon, Elita-1 paced on her private berthroom.

She knew from the start that her bond with Optimus would be arranged.She had
undergone a very thorough secret selection among the female autobots for the
Priestdom to choose the perfect acceptable mate for an unchaste Prime who had –
blasphemy – lost his seals.

She recalled having been briefed on The Matrix, an ancient bodyless spark that
legend said had belonged to Solus Prime, and who currently managed her survival
by sharing the shell and leeching on every single Prime that came to house her.

Being a creation goddess, the Crafter, the Weapon Master, she often showered
the host with great bodily improvement and power. No Prime ever spoke on the
details, but it was well-known that after receiving the Matrix most of them
changed dramatically, many going introspective, other just plain angry and
murderous, and some, resigned, self-sacrificing, righteous and even slightly
bitter on their fate.

Now, this fierce, relentless, capricious goddessdecided she wants a newsparkin
the Prime’s future, and Elita-1 most definitely does-not-want.

Trying to argue logically didn’t work: not even mentioning the irresponsibility
of getting sparked during the War softened the Prime’s will.

And she, Elita-1, was supposed to graciously house the bitlet until maturity.

How was she coming out of this mess?

===============================================================================
 

Shockwave came out of recharge in a mess,mind fogged, taking a shameful amount
of time to understand what was happening.

Before he could voice his conflict, however, he was being pulled towards the
door and through the hall, right into another door, finally getting locked in
and unceremoniously made to sit into a standard sized berth.

Moving his visor slowly, he finally took sight of the room, recognising it.

“You are aware I could have been properly summoned, as part of your medical
staff, Chief Medical Officer.”

Ratchet growled: that was precisely what he had been trying to do before.
Angry, he pointed to the centrifuge he had brought as well.

“Why?”

Shockwave stared, unblinking, then finally nodded, unsubspacing the same
datapad he previously handed to First Aid, intent in explaining the benefits of
white noiseinto recharge.

Ratchet caught it, smacking it once across the heliformer’s chevron: Shockwave
offlined his visor for a full second before turning it on.

“The reason why is in the datapad. It would be wise not to destroy it. It is a
very through revolutionary project, Chief Medical Officer. You should be proud
of having inspired it. It may aid countless bots like me who suffer from
chronic insomnia.”

“I don’t want you droning your scientific projects! What I want to ask is, why
resorting to the centrifuge instead of just plain askingme or just invading
this very room like you did first!”

Shockwave stared unblinkingly as his gears processed the info. Ratchet folded
arms.

“I’m waiting, Junior Medical Officer.”

Finally Shockwave found a logical explanation and dipped his head down,
monotoning.

“I was not aware me coming to your room to recharge was a properly acceptable
option anymore: I clearly recall you ordering me out and away with my pile of
datapads before you ripped out my double medical processors and turned me into
a toaster, the day after I came for your white-noise filled recharging
presence. Logically I presumed my company was not welcome. I am fascinated to
find it is not.”

The grumpy CMO couldn’t help a pang of guilt then, going very mute, then
shaking his head.

“Fine. You win! You can recharge around here, but I forbid you of bringing a
single datapad! That storage closet that The Prime deemed to hand you as
quarters can even be kept aspersonal archive if you prefer! Now, return this
centrifuge where it belongs and movethe only decent thing you own there, the
berth, into my room, because I’m not sharing mine anymore. Do you copy?”

Shockwave blinked, otherwise expressionless. The CMO’s quarters were a vast
improvement in space not to mention it accesses a private washrack, besides, he
could certainly use his room both to keep his files and maybe even a few side
experiments as a small makeshift lab.

“Unless you prefer that old spare catre or the ground to recharge on.”

Suddenly the thought of being physically bound by his own tow chain into the
feet of Ratchet’s berth, humbly sitting on his own pedes on the ground under
the dim lights, looking at the scowling white mech, invaded his processors and
Shockwave finally blinked the mental image away, not a single stir going
through his frame, despite the minute activation and instant override of his
interfacing protocols.

“I shall retrieve my berth, Chief Medical Officer, and make room for my future
library of datapads. It is very kind of you to suggest I store them together. I
will return shortly.”

With a slight bow, Strongarm stood up and turned to go, as Ratchet glared at
the slowly rotating paddles, facepalming and asking himself what the frag had
he just done.

===============================================================================
 

What the frag had you just done?

Red Alert held his head between both hands, unable to stop looking at the
looped video onscreen.

Having just witnessed Ratchet drag a paddles-less Strongarm out of his room and
into the CMO’s own, then having watched the rotary mech come out taking what
looked like a centrifuge out, then shortly after, return hauling with the tow-
chain already in helicopter mode his own berth back into Ratchet’s berthroom,
Red Alert decided it was too much for him to keep bottling up alone.

Since Prowl still refused to talk to him, he decided moving up the Hierarchic
Chain.

As such, resolute, he stormed into Optimus’ office, talking faster than Blurr
and making less sense than Starscream glitching about Megatron’s failed
leadership skills, gesticulating wildly, the Prime staring very mute and
immobile at him from behind his pile of datapads and the ornamental Matrix-
shaped paperweight on his desk.

“Red Alert. Let’s try it again. But this time, slowly.”

===============================================================================
 

“Slowly.”

Scrapper guided Hook, in crane mode, to place a column upright in the middle of
their bay, gesticulating as Longhaul helped steer it along, until it rested
standing up like a pole: the ceiling needed extra support, for a few original
columns seemed to have been taken out of position without much care to the
weight distribution of the room, to give place to the upper cloister lift
(which they insisted they had no idea Shockwave upgraded).

As much as he tried, Scrapper couldn’t find where the frag he put the original
plans of the Nemesis. He was positive the lift to the outside world couldn’t
reach any taller than the last floor, and certainly without any hatch to open
up.

He actually tried asking Shockwave for information, but the cyclopic drone
ignored them and mechanically kept saying he only answered orders from Lord
Megatron, and who were they to muster the courage to ask the Slagmaker himself
on any sort of clarification about his own mate?

As such, all left for the constructicons was repairwork: since they had
converted the sunken Nemesis into undersea base, adapting motors to gather
electricity from the motion of the tides, they managed a tiny surplus of
energon, reducing their needs for too frequent raids, diminishing their
exposure to the autobots and the humans.

Nodding his architectural approval at the new placement of columns, he stole a
glance towards the bay door, through where Swindle just came by, cornering
Scavenger, very much willing to talk.

===============================================================================
 

Cornered, unwilling to talk, Ironhide sulked with his energon cup at the Rec
Room, having been left to thinkafter Blaster admitted he had no idea on who
sired Ramhorn.

To add insult to injury, Blaster communicated him he had gotten in contact with
a Lawyercon in Cybertron: Ramhorn notwithstanding, they had three creations in
common that had never seen a single shanix of cassette support during all those
millions of years of neglect.

Ironhide was left blinking stupidly, unbelieving the tapedeck’s cold spark: as
far as he understood, he was the one that should be willing to sue Blaster on
account of having been betrayed!

…ok, perhaps the fact they had never officially bonded on any level does make
his claims of being betrayed invalid, afterall, he had no official spark claim
on Blaster.

He couldn’t even claim to have been forced into siring behaviour, since Blaster
never explicitly told him he had or not sired Ramhorn or either of the
cassettibots.

Truly, he just presumed so. Especially the gun-crazy little rhino.

He supposed he should have seen it coming, an impending lawsuit from which he
has no means of getting out, much less the shanix to pay anything through. As
far as he recalled, since before they fled Cybertron, bankruptcy had hit hard
and ever since they awoke in this planet Earth they had never even been paid.

Ironhide snorted, shaking his head: he should have been mad at his former
partner, but found out he wasn’t even disappointed. He was just numb. How come
the cassette he actually liked the most was not his? Who was the sick fragger
who engendered this plot?

Why had Primus to be so mean?

It had to be a ruse. Blaster was probably only messing up with his head. No one
could be that sparkless and shanix-prone.

===============================================================================
 

Sparkless and shanix-prone, Swindle smiled his best salesmech smirk, as
Scavenger made his most apologetic headshake.

“But certainly you know which materials go into Shockwave’s cortical psychic
patch. Everyone knows you went after the materials in Cybertron at his
request.”

Scavenger did, and was damn proud about it. Shockwave praised him immensely
after he searched and delivered the gems and trace minerals required for the
creation of that purple cable hacker thingy. He didn’t have the plans on how to
build the thing, though.

Not that a list of materials could be enough: Swindle was aware that without
the right chemical reactions and placement of elements, you could either wind
up with a cortical psychic pacth or a squeaky duck toy, and he was very much
intent in getting it right.

“Scavy. Swindle has a sweet deal. Swindle needs that cable. If you could just
hand me the plans or retrieve me the cable. Imagine the shanix we could make.”

Scavenger gave him a side glance, with no intention in giving in. He wasn’t the
brightest bulb, but even he could smell this level of deception, and if there
was a commander Scavenger respected, (Megatron he revered, Starscream he
blatantly ignored, but Soundwave he just plain feared), was Shockwave.

“I refuse to steal from Commander Shockwave.”

Damn stubborn constructicon: he needed the cable so Swindle could finally pimp
Vortex!

Hmmmm.

Talking on pimping Vortex.

“Scavy, my mech. If you don’t want shanix I could always lend you Vortex. For a
price. But I give a discount! Just everything for my best customer.”

He winked, flashing a smile; Before Scavenger could reply further, Swindle was
vigorously snatched from the ground, lifted up by a very ill-mooded Scrapper.

“Scrappy! How much I miss my best customer! Interested in renting Vortex? I
have already had offers.”

Scrapper growled: Swindle couldn’t supress a full-body-shiver as that huge fist
closed in, smashing.

===============================================================================
 

Smashing his fist once in his desk, Optimus hid his scowl behind the
battlemask, as Red Alert widened his optics and fidgeted with his hands.

“Did I frag royally again by telling you, Prime? I tried being discreet and
coming only for you.”

Optimus sighed.

“No, Red Alert, you have done well. Our CMO’s behaviour is worrisome indeed,
not to mention Strongarm’s disregard with the room I had granted him.”

“What do we do now, Prime?”

Optimus fiddled idly with the Matrix-shaped paperweight, holding it up in a
Shakespeare-like manner, knowing a lost battle when he saw one, and spoke doing
his best not to sound too bitter or angry.

“Looks like we can’t avoid the outcome, whatever it is. Primus knows I tried.
We might prepare for the fallout. Please tell Elita-1 I will be holed up in my
office for the next days and will not be able to meet her any soon, for her not
to worry about my security.”

Nodding vigorously, Red Alert saluted and turned on his heels, finials glowing
as he left the room.

Since Optimus couldn’t prevent what was doomed to happen between the two
medics, he might as well take time to muse on his own little demand from the
Matrix herself.

The Matrix was a harsh mistress; kind and powerful, but slightly madand hated
being told no – the exact faceplates of Solus Prime. Optimus was a well-
mannered Prime: every time he rebelled in the past he got firmly warned not to
steer away from his path, usually through endless lecturing that he found out
more effectivethan any sort of physical punishment.

He would have to give in and comply soon, before the Matrix decided to just
plain grant him carrierhood.

There were other times he would have gladly gone this route, voluntarily,
partnered with a certain medic, but the world was very different now and by
taking the Primedom and royally fragging up all chances with the CMO, his
personal choices and preferences don’t really matter anymore. Not that he could
go back in time anyway. This road was permanently blocked now and he knew it.

Not to mention he knew it would be impossible to carry Elita-1’s newspark
without her acting unbearably smug; her I knew it face would speak volumes, not
to mention that getting sparked, he wouldn’t be able to actively fight against
the Decepticons for centuries to come.

Basically, it would skew the War against the autobots to have the Prime sparked
now. Elita-1 was the Priestdom’s choice, to allow for a compatible lineage
without endangering the faction. At the beginning he thought he might never
come to enjoy being bonded to her, but turns out she is indeed more like him
than he ever thought. Nowadays, millennia later, he might even say he loved
her, in a possessive love-to-hate-you way.
 
To be honest all he really missed, millions of years later, was getting fragged
hard against the slab, ops, the berth: Elita lacked the necessary equipment for
that.

As such, for a small while he envied Soundwave. He wasn’t a Prime target, he
had total support from the Decepticon Leader, could literally do his work from
behind and beneath every curtains and stages without ever coming out and
exposing himself or the newspark∕newsparks at the field during carriage, if he
wanted, and had the benefit of keeping all his creations controlled under
juvenile frames, like Blaster did.

The perks of being a carrier-host.

Feeling sleepy and glaring down his chest and lightly grazing his fingers on
it, he felt the humm of the whimsical Matrix, hearing it pulse content at his
decision to go on with the plan and actively wish for a newspark, instead of
stubbornly resisting.

Who knows. Optimus might be surprised. A little emotional manipulation might
have its time and place and it could be now. Maybe with a little distance of
his part, Elita-1 would be intrigued.

===============================================================================
 

Intriguing.

Shockwave that night cycle stared immobile at the recharging CMO, in between
scientifically curious and clearly bothered.

Instead of diving into recharge as soon as the lulling rattle hit his audials,
he found himself awoken by the uncomfortable wobble of Ratchet’s EM-field as he
minutely struggled against what had to be a bad recharge flux.

Concluding the oscillating engine rattle added to the flickering field were not
conductive to his recharge, Shockwave stood up from his own berth and walked
towards the tossing medic.

“Chief Medical Officer. You are not being conductive to my recharge.”

Ratchet whined locked in his flux. Shockwave stared. Every other time it
happened he had not been starvedof proper recharge and thus merely shrugged the
CMO’s flux and went to devise projects and plans.

Now, being clearly in need of a decent recharge, it was only logical that
Shockwave would intervene. He poked once the CMO, droning further.

“I require you change your frequency according to the one I have previously
charted whose p is less than 0.001. Presuming you have read my datapad, you
must know exactly what frequency I mean. I am waiting.”

Ratchet turned and tossed.

Looking up and nearly sighing, the heliformer opened up his own purple lateral
medical port, unspooled his cortical psychic path, visually scooped Ratchet’s
frame, loaded from his own systems the Prime’s files on Ratchet’s locks and
manual overrides from the times they had been in a relationship, and
extrapolating information, nodded to himself, transforming his right index into
a thin long needle, digging it through the lateral lower left hip and
overriding the lock to his medical port, plunging his hacking cable in.

HUD narrowing to a single tunnel of light, Shockwave strode through his
cortical psychic pathinto the recesses of the medic’s mind, searching for the
struggling self of the CMO.

Finally following through the Hallowed Halls of the Church of Iacon, he stopped
walking as soon as he spotted what clearly looked like the newly selectedPrime
getting engulfed by the beam of light come from no one less than The Matrix.

Logically realising no one knew he was there as witness, being it a memory file
he had no necessity of hacking through and altering, Shockwave, in his
Strongarm self, walked close to the dais as the crowd remained still and the
light left the Prime, spreading in all directions and blinding the audience.

Setting his visor on the much younger features of a certain civilian medic, way
less scratched and battered with use and abuse over the millions of years, he
took note of the pained expression as he tried communicating to the Prime, to
no avail.

Optimus, former Orion, had just called to the dais his official intended and
future sparkmate, Elita-1, who walked smugly to his side giving Ratchet a
single glare, as the medic’s optics darted between her and his former partner,
and right there, without a single glance to his previous intended, the Prime
said the pre-ordained bonding phrasing, opened his chestplates to her and both
publicly sparkmerged and sparkbonded right then and there, as demanded
tradition.

Protecting his visor from the light, Shockwave couldn’t help noticing how the
CMO clearly aborted a wrench-throwing-motion, after grumbling and staring
between the dozen guards stationed in a row at each side of the dais.

An idea suddenly forming in mind, Shockwave took one last look at the young
projection of the CMO and made sure to drift him into a forced crash-down.
 
===============================================================================
 

Drifting down, forced into his own crash, Swindle got repeatedly punched by
Scrapper, remembering a valuable lesson: one doesn’t try negotiatingwith a
gestaltmate without involving the whole gestalt.

As such, in the middle of getting scrapped, Swindle managed to screech that
yes, he would extend Vortex’ services to every constructicon and hell, even
Devastator himself if only they would help him get the materials for a replica
of Shockwave’s cortical psychic path.

Gricketbugs cricketed on the background as every other constructicon not
previously around came by, giving him a glare.
 
===============================================================================
 

Giving him a glare, Starscream came to his leader with a request.

“What are you implying, Starscream? That I am not enough a good leader?”

“I am not implying anything, my great leader. Our energon reserves are going
low slowly and we will need a raid soon. It’s certainly not my fault we have a
sparkedSoundwave consuming more than our meagre tidal wave collectors can
provide. Not to mention you might even send some extra back to your other
houseboundmate back on Cybertron as well. Keeping a family is costly.”

Starscream almost didn’t avoid getting shot as Megatron’s fusion cannon zimmed
right beside his face. He merely shrugged the threat off and continued.

“Lord Megatron, allow me and my trine to fill the upper lift’s outer surface
with solar collectors, and grant me access to a decent lab where I could borrow
Ratbat as aide into developing more efficient forms of storing energy. We
should use our tactical advantage of being hidden underwater to gather energy
in secrecy.”

“You mean like cowards, just as it befits you, right, Starscream? We
decepticons do not hide, we conquer! Now get out of my sight, you waste of
energon and space!!!”

Starscream huffed and stomped out of the room, outraged: he was sure he and
Thundercracker could safely produce one by one the solar collectors and Skywarp
would gladly VOP around the ship to place them where the sun shines.

If the stupid fool doesn’t want free, effortless energy delivered right into
his own doorstep, Starscream most certainly does.

Who knows. Once the cubes were getting filled, maybe the decepticons will see
how great a leader Starscream was and might even be willing to help.

===============================================================================
 

“Are you willing to help?”

Wheeljack looked down at the curious cassettibot, who nodded. The engineer
scratched his head, side panels glowing as he spoke.

“But what are your skills? The Lab is not a place for destructive behaviour.”

The cassettibot squinted, a huge sign saying “23 days without Wheeljack
exploding the Lab” visible on the wall behind. Wheeljack cleared his
vocalisers.

“Fine, fine. Skills can be learned, you don’t need any to start. I can take you
under my wing. Rule number one though: if anyone else but me dukes, duke.”

Ramhorn blinked, then nodded: it looked like an easy enough rule. Wheeljack
continued, as he caught his Plot Device Unit from a shelf, placing it on his
desk.

“So, do your creators approve you being here?”

Ramhorn nodded: Blaster looked a bit distraught and merely waved him out with a
noncommittal grunt, as Ironhide glared at him for three full seconds then
stormed away, crying.

“It’s great then! Some minor frame adaptations and you’ll be ready to begin!
Ever heard of opposable thumbs?”

The little rhino glared down at his paws, then up at Wheeljack’s hands. He
didn’t want to desecrate his cassette-mode or his rhino mode, but he would take
on any upgrades that didn’t hinder his docking abilities to his carrier.

“Oh, don’t worry on the details, I will sit with Perceptor and we will come out
with some way to have you scientifically-able. It’s not every day we get a
brand new helper whose mind is clear enough for us to begin teaching from
scrap!”

Glad for seeing Wheeljack considered his total lack of formal study an
advantage and taking a quick peek at the multi-coloured test tubes and
glassware, he rightfully felt like a rhino in a china shop; it looked and
smelled like a challenge to be there, and Ramhorn was sturdy enough to face
one.

Maybe he might even turn into a researcher one day: he could already see
himself in a distant alien planet, gleefully being part of an exploration crew,
a truckload of experiments and pods on cargo hold and obviously, a pair of
chainguns in tow.

Life certainly looked to be smiling on him now.
***** Can you feel the love tonight? *****
Chapter Summary
     Shockwave finally comes close to his objective.
Life certainly looked like snorting on him now.

Transforming to root mode and walking behind a much scrapped Swindle, the
desperate heliformer fidgeted.

“But what about our deal?”

Swindle, dragging himself and his insides in arms, stopped, turning to face
Vortex.

“Vorty. Remember when Swindle says he can get anything for a price?”

Vortex nodded.

“Looks like this time you’ll have to pimp yourself and get Shockwave’s hacking
cable alone! I don’t want to hear about Scavenger, minerals, constructicons and
even hacking anytime soon! I’m done!”

Holding his innards closer and puffing up, he abandoned the outraged and
angered heliformer on the lower corridors of the underwater base.

Sometimes, some things just are not worth it.
 
 
===============================================================================
 

“Is it worth it?”

Perceptor inspected the datapad, reading “RAMHORN”, as Wheeljack nodded.

“This project will take years. He will need proper hands and bipedalism to be
able to Make Science, but he must keep his rhino mode and his cassette mode,
and his abilities with weapons. Despite the rumours on his stupidity, I have
analysed his processors and he’s actually pretty smart; most certainly being
bound to a beastformer mode stunted his intellectual growth. It’s our duty as
mechs of Science to help!”

Perceptor glared at him, cleaning his monocle.

“Fine. I shall seize this whole situation to conjure up a proper Thesis and
help in any way I can. Do you happen to have any information on Blitzwing and
Astrotrain?”

Wheeljack shook his head: triplechanging abilities were not common, and he was
positive it had something to do with being an outlier, or even a subject at
Shockwave’s hand.

“The female autobots could get into the purple fool’s Tower to try to gather
the plans on Project Triplechanger.”

Perceptor shook his head.

“The Project’s plans might have been altered. I would rather have the info
fresh from the working source, preferably downloaded from either of their
systems. Of those two, Astrotrain might be an easier source: it’s rumoured he
truly has bad optics and owns auxiliary binoculars to see from a distance,
often navigating by instruments, and it might be easier to catch him blind. Not
to mention he is not insane like Blitzwing with his split personality.”

Wheeljack nodded, pensive.

“Astrotrain it is then. Let this part with me: I fear you aren’t exactly in
speaking terms with Skyfire anymore.”

Perceptor grimaced: that vosiancargo shuttle who thinks he is a scientist,
Skyfire, had been a pain in the aft recently and certainly Wheeljack would have
a better chance of convincing him.

Nodding noncommittally, Perceptor turned to a pile of datapads to begin
brainstorming as Wheeljack’s side panels glowed and the madscientist wriggled
his fingers over the console, hitting his comms on.

===============================================================================
 

Hitting his comms off, Shockwave wandered on the corridors: he had just left
the properly crashed down CMO in his own room, pondering deeply on the memory
sequence he had just witnessed.

It’s not every day you can access such a magnificent memory, a real memory,
where the Prime opened his chestplates, leaving the Matrix vulnerable and
exposed, and Shockwave was certain he could manipulate that to his best
interest.

All he needed was to stablish a hardline connection via cortical psychic patch
to the Prime, and the quickest way to do it would be to disguise himself as his
faithful sparkmate, Elita-1.

Recalling how the autobots owned pretender and holomatter technology, Shockwave
knew where he had to head next, turning on his heels to unceremoniously enter
the Lab.

Taking sight of Wheeljack involved in a heated discussion with an apparently
stubborn interlocutor, his side panels glowing and flashing intensely as he
ignored his surroundings, Shockwave shifted his glare to Perceptor, currently
huddled over a pile of datapads, working.

Resisting the urge to snatch the datapads from him and taking over the project,
whichever it was, the heliformer stared around the Lab, soon finding what he
came for, unceremoniously walking to the shelves and taking hold of one
holomatter cube.

Plugging his purple cable into the swirling cube, he blinked his visor off and
on, HUD split into twin screens, both from his systems where the frame data
from the Prime’s mate was located, and the cube’s stored programming.

Quickly uploading Elita-1’s physical appearance data into the cube’s simulator,
Shockwave nodded, subspacing the cube and activating the disguise, his outer
shell morphing to the pink plates of the Prime’s consort.

Giving a brief once-over to himself approvingly, Shockwave shifted his spark-
frequency to match hers, turned on his heels cocking his head up with a blank
holoformed facial expression, and swaying hips right and left, left the Lab and
the two completely oblivious scientists behind.

As he walked regally across the corridors and got greeted enthusiastically by
every single autobot on his way, Shockwave couldn’t help the mental image of
himself knelt down to his Lord’s feet, his own chestplates open wide offering
him the Matrix, Megatron’s open smirk of Victory filling his sight, the
expectation of returning to the fold in full honours hitting him hard and
triggering the inappropriate tell-tale warmth of pre-interfacing protocols.

Minutely shuddering as he opened the Prime’s Office door and peeked inside,
expecting to need to resort himself to using Elita’s appeal to make the Prime
open his chest, surprisingly, he found Optimus soundly recharging over a pile
of datapads in his desk.

Suppressing the heatedreactions with a command, now he wouldn’t need to fake
any interest anymore, and checking on his own energon levels, Shockwave
concluded he would have energy for one more infiltration still before requiring
refuelling.

Bringing up into his systems the memory of the Ceremonial Sparkbonding,
Shockwave, observing the door like a mad stalker and keeping out of camera
range for now, reviewed the Prime’s medical files and recalled where the
autobot’s medical port was, nodding to himself under his mask.

It would be now or never, and he was ready.
 
 
===============================================================================
 

“Are you ready?”

Red Alert jumped of his seat, currently obsessively watching over the camera
within Optimus’ office: his leader had been overworking himself and managed to
fall under recharge atop a pile of datapads sitting at his desk; Holding his
hand before his chestplates, he turned on his back.

“Inferno! I’m working! It’s not a good time!”

Inferno folded arms, taking a peek at the peacefully recharging Prime on the
screen.

“It’s never a good enough time for you. You never leave that fragging Security
Room. You leave me no choice but to come by.”

Red Alert huffed: not his fault he was responsible and he was surrounded by
slackers: he had to keep his optics on Optimus: what if someone came by to
murder him in his sleep?

Inferno, sighing, all grabby-handed, unceremoniously spun Red Alert’s chair and
lifted his chin up, enveloping him in a spark-melting kiss that made the
neurotic mech’s lights glow in tandem with the pulse of his spark.

“But my duty.” he spoke mid-kiss, lips brushing against Inferno’s “I’m not
done!”

Inferno growled Red Alert into silence, lowering his mouth to ravage on his
neck cables now: he was tired of whining.

Red Alert gaped and instantly let out an undignified moan as Inferno trailed
his mouth down over his chassis and abdominal plates, planting a series of
kisses, light nips, trailing his tongue in between transformation seams, the
security director becoming a blubbering mess, electricity arching between his
head finials.

Suddenly lifting the protesting mech up, kicking the chair aside and planting
Red Alert’s aft on the panel, hitting a series of random buttons, right before
the camera view on Optimus Prime’s office, Inferno smirked.

Fitting between the widespread thighs, locking his conjunx between himself and
the console and pushing against his panels, Inferno stared right into Red’s
optics, giving him one single order as he wormed his hand over the interface
hatch, palming it firmly with his good hand.

“Open. Now.”

Offlining his optics at the tone, Red Alert relaxed, mouth betting plunged by
an eager tongue, interfacing protocols kicking in full force and panels
sliding.

Perhaps just this once he could let go.

===============================================================================

 
He could let go.

He should.

What was preventing him anyway?

Oh, yes. He was in the Rec Room, and despite enjoying to an extent being gaped
upon and being envied by the fleet, he wasn’t a fan of pursuing public
overloads.

Glad for having a battlemask and not displaying a single flicker of his
conflict, Soundwave slowly ingested his cube by his conveniently placed chin
intake, in the middle of the room, his sparked EM-field spread wide invitingly
as the decepticons sat in a circle away from him, actively trying to escape
Megatron’s wrath should he come by and find anyone too close.

He most definitely wasn’t getting closeness enough from his Lord, and this time
Shockwave wasn’t around to fill in the gaps.

He briefly wondered about requesting a Spacebridge to get there and order the
cyclopic guardian to let himself be fragged senseless into sparkmerge, but soon
changed his mind: the growing newspark had a strange preference for looping in
eights around his spark and sending definite buzzes up his processors, keeping
Soundwave often dizzy and unable to walk for long, and the last thing the TIC
needed was for the fleet to see how affected he was this time.

Let them think he was about to forcibly face the first mech who came too close,
even if he wasn’t: it never bode well to show vulnerability among the
decepticons, especially when you were a firm believer in consensual
interfacing.

As such, the very frustrated Soundwave decided keeping his cool and tasting his
energon right before the dispenser, preventing everyone of refuelling as well.

Options, options, he mused, knowingvery well where Lord Megatron was hiding.

===============================================================================
 

Lord Megatron was hiding.

He could be hiding in his own room and offices, but he was currently occupying
the Nemesis’ last storage room with a window to the outside, at the lowest
level, feet half-sunk in brine water, preferring to witness the barnacles and
the crabs crawl the outer hull rather than face the though reality of his
World.

No matter he had just recently told Starscream Decepticons don’t hide, they
conquer: in this particular issue, decepticons did hide.

Especially from a demanding, sparked, moody Soundwave, they did.

Much to his dismay, Soundwave was undergoing that awful phase where the carrier
requires frequent spark-energy to develop the newspark, and it often lasts
years long.

Megatron, having been a slave before becoming a gladiator, had been permanently
altered to never carry a spark by his first owner, who wanted to be able to
rent and lend him at will without the responsibility of a sparked slave: his
sparkchamber was dented, pierced, irregularly smashed at points and barbed in
the inside, making it impossible for any potential newspark to survive its
first spins.

He didn’t want to dwell on the thought of how many potential newsparks he might
have conceived and lost because of it. Better to never know.

Instead, he focused earnestly on his memories of the first gladiator that
almost andliterally had won him over.

Soundwave, battlemasked, blocky, dark blue, datacables flailing from his back
with glowing biolights, proved to be a challenging match, nearly offlining the
gunformer.

The Arena might have had a new champion weren’t for a single slip from the
tapedeck.

Soundwave might have been fast, but Megatron was stronger and in the context of
things, the tapedeck ended up sprawled on his back at the ground, damaged
datacables spitting static, chestplates cracked, the blue spark light peering
out.

Megatron recalled how Soundwave expected to be offlined, turning his own visor
off and stoically, silently accepting his fate, baring his neck backwards and
waiting for the final blow.

Taking sight of such a vulnerable position of someone so strong, Megatron this
day refused to kill his opponent.

Sending the final non-fatal blow upon the tapedeck, he raised his arms at the
spectators, receiving the honours as the stasis-locked albeit living opponent
was removed from the field.

Not thinking much about it, he returned to his quarters that fateful night,
finding a bound mech in the middle of the room: once a couple of gears rolled
in his processors, he stalled: his minimally repaired opponent had just been
offered for him to be taken.

He remembered his owner coming from the shadows of the room and telling him how
he got the tapedeck’s spark as offering: since he had been mercifully left
alive, his spark belonged to him for the night.

His slavemaster – what was his name anyway? He swore he could not remember –
was too aristocratic to dwell among the peasantry, especially concerning a
gift; he would never interface himself with a slave, not even a virginalone who
had never lost a battle before, but he could not refuse such offer, so he
brought the bound and damaged slave in.

Soundwave had to be given back used, so the solution was to order his slave to
do it: that night, the tapedeck was left at Megatron’s mercy once again.

Shaking his head, Megatron smirked to himself: deeming the situation tasteless,
his owner promised Megatron could enjoy his prize and left them alone,
informing he would be back in the morning to return the loser to his owner
Ratbat.

Once Megatron freed his binds, he joined him down into his humbled position,
bringing themselves to sit face to face, saying he was sorry they had to come
to this, but he hoped they could reach an agreement to make sure their orders
would be accomplished with minimal damage and hopefully no regrets, and maybe
even some degree of satisfaction.

Megatron recalled fondly how Soundwave stared at him surprised, expecting to be
just raped in all docks and port, instead of being given the choice to attempt
to enjoy it, immediately shifting his EM-field from a cold, dronelike stance,
into a tentative brush and lick, trying to assert himself of the truth or
deceit in the winner’s spark.

The instant Megatron joined their foreheads together and offlined his own
optics in a gesture of goodwill and equality, Soundwave, so close to the
merciful and attractive mech who left him live, knowing his weakness for
powerful mecha, fell helm over heels right then and there, and just plain
offered himself of his own volition, spark and frame to the grey gladiator.

Suffice to say, the feeling of battlelust was more than mutual, and from the
tame initial display of joined foreheads, they continued on exactly from where
they left at the battleground, the tapedeck completely takenwith full consent
on the very ground.

Ratbat certainly received a well-usedslave the next morning, all previously
virginal ports – including the docks – having been fully claimed by Megatron.

The Senator was fully expecting his charge to have been humiliated, damaged,
violated and dejected. Silent and Stoic Soundwave wouldn’t show, but he had not
only enjoyed but also found an equal and an ally, thus sooner than later,
Ratbathimself had been betrayed, reframed, repurposed and reformatted as the
Symbol cassette.

Megatron smiled fondly recalling how his and Soundwave’s true Sparkbonding was
finally sealed, like true gladiators, literally over the former senator’s
greyed corpse.

Blinking his memories to the present, Megatron observed a gigantic whale pass
by with a supersonic wail, recalling how his ravaging of Soundwave during their
first true Bonded Sparkmerge resulted in the first Creation, the homonymous
newspark.

He had honestly never expected to be able to conceive in neither way, not even
by siring: finding it was possible added a whole new layer to the revolution.

Soon his spare energy was gone: Megatron doesn’t remember fondly the times
where he had been the only mech available to share spark-energy to help raise
Ravage. The newspark had been a greedy little thing, and Megatron almost hated
being constantly requested: it turned out to be more duty than pleasure,
especially for him and his scarred sparkchamber.

Once Shockwave, the Empurata Autobot reject, joined the cause and he noticed
Soundwave’s long glances towards the purple wonder, Megatron, not completely
unaffected by the physical aspects of the scientist as well, knew the step he
had to do next, and thus their trinebond was formed.

Shockwave, having been a middle to upper class autobot, had never needed to
fear the future of a potential newspark, and thus came into the bond, despite
Shadowplay and Ethe damage from Empurata, sporting an unsullied sparkchamber in
mint condition, a visually sound nterface cable that no matter what Megatron
did, always remained unresponsive and slotted into jack, and a clean, healthy
port without visible damage or scratches albeit no longer virginal, and not a
single installed anti-sparking protocol.

Megatron confessed he almost expected to discover his scientist sparked as
well, from either of them, during the first million years, but since it never
ever took place, he stopped believing it would happen, and instead, after the
Datapad Fiasco when Shockwave communicated to the whole fleet he was giving up
in getting sparked, the cyclops focused his efforts on Basekeeping, Science and
keeping the bondmates satisfied, especially the demanding and frequently
sparked Soundwave.

Growling, Megatron recalled now how his esteemed Shockwave (the purple drone)
systematically ignored his requests to open a Spacebridge, hating that the
spacebridge controls were on Cybertron and not on his own hands.

Since Shockwave was currently just plain unavailable, it befell only to
Megatron to keep the sparked Soundwave in check, and it’s tiresome to attend to
the whims of a sparked carrier: he wasn’t a machine for Primus sake.

Not to mention his scarred sparkchamber sometimes just plain hurts and it’s not
every time sparkmerging is fun.

If Megatron weren’t so sure of Shockwave’s unwavering loyalty, he might even
believe his brilliant scientist had been plotting something dreadful behind his
back and he would be in for a surprise.

===============================================================================
 

“Surprise!”

Prowl grabbed and threw his desk at the door, from where the recently arrived
Jazz just duked.

“Jazz. Don’t ever do it again. I might have shot instead.”

He stared at the bent table, sighing, calculating how long it would take to get
Grapple to make him a new one.

“Ya didn’t. It means ya lov’me, mech. Gimme a kiss.”

Prowl stiffened.

“No.”

“But ya know ya wannit.”

“No.”

“Ya do!”

Prowl slowly shook his head. He was on duty. He was always on duty. He didn’t
have time to something frivolous like trying to take his platonic interest to
become less platonic for a change.

Jazz sighed. What kind of Miracle did he need, which mechs did he need to
bribe, just to make sure Prowl would simply flip out like he flipped his
tables, and quickly, messily, plunge in?

===============================================================================
 

Shockwave quickly and messily plunged in with his cortical psychic patch into
The Prime’s medical port.

Having finally reviewed the Prime’s override locks, he quickly freed the
medical port: unlike with the CMO, this time he wasn’t leisurely strolling by:
he had a mission that would require full hacking and messing up with memory
files.

As soon as he broke the first firewall, he was hit by the Prime’s security
system, trying to acknowledge his presence.

Were he just hacking for hacking, it would be the time he force crashed the
drivers and made a full riot of all archives while force-downloading every
needed file.

Since he needed to be seamless, careful and perfect, already pretending to be
Elita-1, he patted himself in the rotors for a well-done choice the instant the
Prime’s memory roads opened wide to his bondmate.

Walking by a slowly shaping corridor, Shockwave, flaring Elita’s spark
frequency and her virtual likeness as well, resolutely strolled by the Prime’s
memories like a Queen.

Soon finding the exact memory sequence he intended to warp to his needs, he
stepped into the Hallowed Halls, slowly walking to the dais, and placed himself
before the Prime, taking a brief cold glare at the young civilian medic taking
part of the crowd and shooting daggers at the Elita avatar, as Shockwave
entered the role and droned the standard phrasing.

“Optimus Prime. It is with great honour I am allowed to share my very spark
with your Highness.”

Optimus nodded regally, without a single hint of fire. It was duty, not
pleasure.

So was Shockwave’s current role there, on a totally different level.

“As Matrix-assigned pair, we are to sparkbondbefore our very witnesses. I
welcome you into my spark, Elita-1.”

Shockwave fleeted a side glance at the young medic clearly aborting a wrench-
throwing motion and shifting his optics between the dozen security guards, then
dipped his head minutely towards the Prime, observing completely unfazed the
red chestplates slide to the sides, whirring deafeningly in the silence of the
Hall, the battlemasked Prime emitting a single command.

“Come.”

===============================================================================
 

“Come.”

Red Alert shuddered and glitched in overload at the hushed voice reaching his
audials, faced senseless against the Security Panels, by now every single
camera in the base messed up enough to randomly record walls, empty halls, rock
formations, the lever of the energon dispenser…

…everything but the really important security matters, like the insides of the
Prime’s Office.

Had Red Alert not slacked off and succumbed to the needs of the living mesh, he
might have been able to see first-hand the instant Elita-1, previously eerily
standing still besides the equally immobile Prime,suddenly came out of
paralysis.

===============================================================================
 

Out of paralysis, Shockwave suddenly turned around his axis and still plugged
in via the cortical psychic patch, unceremoniously swept the desk clean,
throwing all the datapads on the ground, the Matrix-shaped paperweight rolling
out of sight as he yanked the poor chestplates-open Prime from his chair into a
laying position, on his back, over the desk.

Optimus Prime never knew where he was or what he might currently be doing: he
had been hacked and his memory sequence conveniently paused by Shockwave the
instant the Prime opened his chestplates to invite Elita-1 in.

The disguised mech, holoformed into Elita-1, focused on getting his act
completely right, logged away from the sequence at the precise moment, allowing
himself out of the memory and back into the real world.

Still plugged via cortical psychic patch, contemplating almost satisfied the
blue glow of The Matrix underneath, Shockwave transformed his right index into
an energon scalpel and briefly stared at the blue crystal swirling within its
golden handles.

Blinking his HUD on, monitoring the vitals and focusing on keeping Optimus
alive during the procedure, Shockwave brought up the Prime’s spark-frequency,
EM-field, CNA conversion rate, level of fuel, coolant and oil, system processor
efficiency, and even rate of trans-electrical fluid production.

In a no-nonsense move, unwilling to elaborate further on consequences,
remembering when his Science Team carved the very hole his prize fits in,
Shockwave, still holoformed, activated his energon scalpel, intently glaring at
the fused struts, nodding.

===============================================================================
 

Nodding, Elita-1 contemplated her own reflection at the mirror, stepping
regally inside the energon bath, soaking in.

She should be feeling guilty of being on Earth literally diving into energon,
as her female troops were left behind on rations, but somehow she wasn’t: not
her fault they had not be deemed compatible with The Prime.

She recalled how the Priestdom cogitated about the possibility of assigning the
future unchaste Prime not one sole bondmate but a whole harem, as an even more
ancient tradition once held: very aware of his inclinations though, they
decided against it.

Poor Orion would hardly be enthusiastic about one female, much less a small
army of them: and from all of her female soldiers, neither had the personality
to endure being systematically frustrated, ignored and even snapped at over
time, without breaking, like herself.

ThesacrificesI make.

===============================================================================
 

The sacrifices I make.

Jazz, just expelled out of Prowl’s Office, made sure to go to the next best
place.

Stopping dead on his tracks as he heard the tell-tale sounds of guilty post-
overload slumber from a certainly glitched officer, behind the Security
Office’s doors, he smirked, made a mental note to congratulate Inferno on a job
well done and tip-toed away.

Jazz knew when not to be inconvenient, he mused as he finally walked into his
own quarters.

The only thing he didn’t know was how to make Prowl surrender. Making him feel
guilty doesn’t work. Waking up the interfacing protocols proves near impossible
when nothing you do ever arouses or even amuses your counterpart.

Hell, even Shockwave had eventually bonded, according to his safe sources, into
a traditional decepticon trinebond with no one less than Megatron and
Soundwave.

Maybe old Sounders might have some tips on how to deal with utter unemotional
mechs. He doubted Megs needs to do anything but order that droneto open up his
plates and think of Cybertron, to get things done.

Not that Jazz hadn’t tried just plain ordering Prowl around. A full week in the
brig taught Jazz to never try it again. Something about disrupting the
hierarchic chain.

Talk about the mech being a plain old stick in the mud, Jazz sagged on his
couch, taking a mid-grade energon cube, rotating it slowly around its axis.

===============================================================================
 

Slowly rotating around its axis his fingertip scalpel, his right hand being the
only body part not currently holoformed, Shockwave prodded the fused struts of
the Matrix, earning himself an angry flicker of herEM-field.

Who that mech thought he was to just come by and poke?

Shockwave stalled. The angry humm was coming from the glowing Matrix, who
seemed to be very wary of the intrusion. Pondering on the situation, he spoke.

“I strongly advise against offering resistance. It is futile.”

The Matrix glowed, deeply bothered with the stranger, very aware that it wasn’t
the real Elita: no one but the Prime dared directly address her. Mechs were
usually more respectful, and even Elita-1 properly ignored her during
sparkmerges.

Shockwave, not really expecting an answer or a reply, plunged the scalpel back
in, an arch of electricity zapping his frame in an attempt to stop him, as he
brushed it aside.

“You will have to do better than this to prevent me. I am a determined mech on
a self-imposed mission. Yield.”

He droned as he would to his experiments, datapads and subjects: the Matrix
just did the equivalent of harrumphing, all dark intention deep inside.

===============================================================================
 

Dark intention deep inside, Soundwave, refuelled to the maximum, left the Mess
Hall slowly, parting the crowd as he walked away, doing his best not to sway in
place.

His charge was currently unbearable and needed a suitable outlet: nothing like
pure redirected energy from a bonded sparkmate, he mused as he reached his
Lord, currently alone watching the whales, as Soundwave stared, head tilted
right.

===============================================================================
 

Head tilted right, upper processor whirring in almost surprise, Shockwave
blinked stupidly his visor, purple cable strained to its maximum, on his fours
and glaring meekly at the Matrix-shaped paperweight practically under the desk,
blue smoke coming out of his chestplates.

He had just been zapped in a potentially disabling EMP that just didn’t work as
it was supposed to because he discharged the excess charge through his feet on
the ground.

The Matrix certainly didn’t enjoy the notion of being taken out of her comfort
zone, namely The Prime, and surely knew how to protest.

Expressionless, still dazed, Shockwave stared at the big, shiny paperweight,
briefly inspecting it: it was a tasteful silver-and-gold life-size reproduction
of the Matrix, made with cybertronium alloys, containing a spark-blue crystal
glass inside.

Interesting.

He was aware of the Lore conveying that The Matrix is the partially deactivated
spark of Solus Prime.

He was very aware that sparks can be spliced.

Taking the paperweight in hand and standing up slowly, he straightened himself
up and turned back to the still paused Prime, cradling the paperweight against
his own chest, measuring it up against the underside and taking visual measures
of the bottom of his chestplates.

If The Matrix won’t allow to be removed from her host like the good parasite
she was, then Shockwave would find a way of splicing it.

Familiar with spark-splicing techniques required to produce drone armies,
Shockwave knew the exact steps to take in order to achieve an efficient divide
of a stubborn spark into two twin counterparts, intent in greatly diminishing
the Prime’s power at the same time he makes available the same power to the
decepticons, levelling the Game.

Unfazed by his own brilliance, he ran a quick reading on the stored energy
within the Prime, starting to divert it via his cortical psychic path towards
the connection between him and the accursed spark, at the same time leeching
himself on the surplus energy, overcharging his own scalpel, turning his visor
towards the paperweight, nodding.

In one precise move against the side of the desk, heshattered the glass of the
Matrix-shaped paperweight, shifted to the real thing within the Prime's chest,
peaked up the charge of his energon scalpel, and with no little pleasure, dug
through the swirling blue light.
***** Shattered Glass *****
Swirling blue light filled the Ark, the pleasantelectric flow spreading slowly,
charge going through every autobot's systems and discharging on the rocky
grounds around Mount St Helen, in a field-shared overload.

The deep grumbling bass of shock reverberated as Shockwave stood up slowly,
feeling a pang in his chest, noticing the ill-closed glass plates and opening
them, peeking inside.

It had worked. The paperweight was slotted in a jolting mechanism he never
owned before, something he attributed to the crafting and creator abilities of
Solus Prime, Queen of the Forge.

Manually closing the two halves of his cockpit glass, and jolting the mechanism
inside and down his chest, Shockwave hid his new contraption from the prying
optics of anyone that came too close to his transparent chestplates and rotated
his own sparkchamber up, making sure it would be his spark visible, as it had
always been, as he pondered about exactly what kind of other abilities his half
of the Matrixwould have granted him.

The Prime’s Office door slowly opened up, as Shockwave, holoformed into Elita,
peeked out, then left the room as if nothing had happened, walking by the
corridor and contemplating the stasis-locked mechs oozing ozone, spread here
and there around the base.

As the last autobot standing, Shockwave puffed up his chestplates.

Nothing like a job well-done to make a mech satisfied.

===============================================================================
 

Satisfied, he had to commend Soundwave on a job well-done.

Megatron had been ambushed, pinned against the brine water on the ground,
trapped by a pair of datacables latching against his legs and another holding
his hands above his head, and ended up being ridden to near-overload by the
skilled hands, cables and ports of the starved tapedeck, who made sure to numb
him enough with charge before the always painful, despite ultimately rewarding,
sparkmerge.

For the first time Megatron could feel the little Menace attempting to rotate
around his own spark during the brief moment both sparks were out of their
chambers, swirling in thin air and soon captured back by the possessive EM-
field of Soundwave’s spark; as soon as they separated though, the newspark this
time visibly avoided any proximity with the damaged sparkchamber, latching even
further against Soundwave, without the need of intervention from its host.

Smart spark.

“What frame are you giving it?”

Soundwave, still basking post-overload, tracing idle patterns with his blue
fingers on Megatron’s chestplates, shrugged. It was so far away still in time,
so many centuries to go, he had no idea, and right now he couldn’t care less.

“Go for a flight frame. They make the best spies. You’ll have more than enough
time to come up with something good.”

“Yes, Lord Megatron.”

===============================================================================
 

Excellent, Shockwave pondered under his now non-holoformed shell, as he managed
to return the erased holomatter cube back to the Lab, practically stepping over
the still offline Perceptor and Wheeljack.

Walking by the security room, locating Inferno and Red Alert in a very
compromising position, briefly pondering he wouldn’t have minded getting
sprayed by Inferno as well, Shockwave didn’t spare an extra glance to them as
he reviewed the security recordings to make sure he would erase all the ones
pertaining his stealing of the Matrix, and was quite glad to find out the
lovebirds had scrambled the cameras and the recordings without his intervention
and he needed to do nothing at all.

Excellent.

Going finally into Elita-1’s door and keying her spark frequency in, he made
sure Queen Elita would be as offline as the rest of the crew, taking mental
note of her sprawled self, inside the energon bathtub.

Self-indulgent female autobot.

Hauling her away from there over his left shoulder, he took her into the
Prime’s Office, where he had left Optimus resting over the desk.

Contemplating, pensive, he finally set Elita-1 right over him, chestplate-to-
chestplate, straddling his legs, then stared neutrally at the scene he himself
created for them, shaking his head in disapproval.

Leave it to the Prime to prefer this female instead of the intellectually
superior CMO.

After visiting all the relevant sectors of the Ark, and even making sure Prowl
was as off as anyone, Shockwave headed to the Rec Room almost on autopilot,
more than starved, walking to the energon dispenser and immediately taking a
cube, connecting his straw into it and starting to refuel: he had a hunger at
least four millions years old, certainly come from the half-Matrix, one no
energon could sate, but mere energon would just have to do.

The half Matrix currently housed within his own chest, much like a hungry
parasite, begun spreading her tendrils slowly, intimately, latching onto his
own spark and systems, apparently very much willing to regrow, and for that he
would need a steady source of energy.

The heliformer had actually half-expected for protest from his parasite and was
surprised to find none. No belligerence, no furious energy zaps, no angry
flicker of EM-fields, almost like the half he had in chest accepted him as her
new host.

Satisfied, Shockwave nodded to himself and to his Matrix inside, speeding up
the refuelling and receiving a distant, base, content humm in response.

As he filled a second and a third cube, he couldn’t stop pondering on the
similarity of consumption that a sparked Soundwave reached when compared to his
hosting self: he would certainly fill datapads about such fascinating
comparison later.

Which was the main reason why he wouldn’t leave to the Decepticons now:
according to common knowledge, they were often starved, the autobots on Earth
had fuel to spare, and Shockwave rationally had no idea of how much energon he
would consume from now on.

Not to mention that going away now with the whole autobot fleet unconscious,
immediately the suspicions would be up on him, and he wanted no one to make the
connection between the half-Matrix on the Prime’s chest and his disappearance.

The time for rekindling would come, and with that, the Decepticon Victory. For
now, the choice was made for him, and he could barely wait for the day his
Decepticon Matrix was ready for him to leave.

As such, that night, Shockwave, laid on his berth and lulled by Ratchet’s
offlined rattle, the distant rev of a recovering Matrix reaching his audials,
dreamed of a binary spark system humming and rotating methodically,
illuminating the dark.

===============================================================================
 

Illuminating the dark, the binary spark system rotated and hummed in a distant
rev, nearly inaudible except for the expert audials of a certain tapedeck,
behind its transparent glass.

Having been sated in his spark-energy hunger for the time being, Soundwave now
rested in the dark surrounded by his creations both around his spark and within
his docks, in his own private quarters, currently tracking the seven spark-
energies in his mind, each possessing its own unique frequency and subsonic
sound.

Blinking slowly, he couldn’t help feeling a distant tug not originating from
either creations, neither from Megatron himself: despite knowing Shockwave had
blocked the transmission of feelings between himself and the bondmates,
Soundwave knew how to track his existence, even half a Universe away.

Even if he had been behaving eerily drone-like and angering their Lord by
ignoring the orders to open the spacebridge, even if he didn’t talk to them
more than the necessary, even when he locked the transmission of any feeling
within their bond, even considering his presumed trauma of never being able to
get sparked, he was still their sparkmate and Soundwave would always care about
him and his whereabouts.

Perhaps he had too few energon to spare on frivolities like opening the bridge
up for rekindling. Perhaps he was distraught by projects or just the pesky
female autobots. Of course Shockwave had a good and logical excuse to not meet
them in person.

If only Soundwave knew why, he might properly convince Megatron that everything
was right and well.

===============================================================================
 

Everything was right and well.

Prowl, standing up slowly from the ground, as the sun rose, had just received a
HUD warning about the recent complete defrag of his systems following a total
environmentally-originated system overcharge and drain.

Then why did it look like everything wasn’t?

Thoughtfully scratching his chin, he walked out of his office, taking notice of
the chaos surrounding the base and the dreaded scent of ozone from slightly
fried systems.

Immediately thinking about a Surprise Decepticon Attack, he headed to the
Security Office, opened the door up, glared inside for three full seconds, then
closed the door back, faceplates flushed in a mix of anger and something he
couldn’t quite understand but bordered on disappointment and shame.

Of all mechs, he didn’t expect Red Alert to slack off like this.

This was mighty grave and required immediate action, he pondered as he moved
towards the Prime’s Office, intent in making a full report.

The instant he opened the Prime’s door, he looked in, stared at his superior
officer and commander, glowered at the sprawled Elita-1, then twitching his
left optic, closed the door back, turned on his heels and left.

Interface-driven mechlings!

Was he the only mech responsible enough around???

===============================================================================

 
“Am I the only mech responsible enough around?”

Skywarp meekly looked up to his Trine Leader from his spot within the wall,
half of his body sticking inside the room, and the other half sticking outside
of the ship, after his most recently unsuccessful VOP.

“…sorry?”

Thundercracker facepalmed, as an annoyed Starscream shook his head, finally
smirking and handing his blue trinemate the building material: perhaps now
their idiotic bonded was stuck, they could finally accomplish to craft the
first of their many planned solar collectors up.

“…I said I was sorry, Screamer!! TC!! Please don’t leave me here!! Gimme energy
to VOP out!! I promise to be nice!”

As they sat on a desk and started following the solar collector plans, Skywarp
wriggled stuck into the wall, muttering to himself he would find a way out and
that it wasn’t fair of them, ignoring him like this.

===============================================================================
 

He was tired of being ignored like this.

“So. What happened around here?”

Wheeljack, prodded by a pair of feet, blinked from the spot on the ground he
had been laid on, looked up to the stern faceplates of the SIC and protected
his battlemask from sight with his forearms and his open palms up.

“It wasn’t me! I didn’t blow up anything this time! My Plot Device Unit is
intact!”

Prowl sighed, turning to Perceptor, who was already up on the computer trying
to analyse the Lab’s databank readings.

“According to our environmental sensors, apparently a burst of pure spark-
energy was discharged from a single spot originating from Prime’s Office,
spreading around the base in a radius in an EMP-like wave that reset every
mech’s systems, defragged all files and ultimately knocked everyone off.”

Prowl stared blankly. Wheeljack cleared his voicebox.

“What he meant is, everyone was hit by what seems to be a shared overload.”

Perceptor nodded, as Prowl groaned, the mental image of Elita-1 and Optimus
invading his mind, array-to-array and chest-to-chest over the other right at
his desk.

He and the Prime most definitely had to talk.

===============================================================================

 
“Soundwave and Shockwave: have to talk.”

Soundwave, having hacked his way through the comms in Shockwave’s Tower on
Cybertron, managed to capture the image of Shockwave – the sparkless drone –
ordering his team of drones around the base ineffectively enough to miss all
the shots against the retreating female autobots leaving the tower with
energon.

The sparkless drone never noticed the open comm, grumbling to himself “Aw,
shit, they escaped again.” as he sagged and walked very dejectedly to the other
side of the room, where the main guardian drone gave him an awkward hug and
patted him on his back.

“Don’t worry mighty Shockwave, you’ll get them someday.”

“Thanks.”

The cyclopic drone wiped away a coolant tear forming from his single optic,
then straightened himself as he finally noticed the faceplates of Soundwave
staring very worried with a tilt to the left from the screen.

“Soundwave, how may I, Lord Megatron’s appointed Guardian of Cybertron, serve
the Cause today? I assure you the display between the drone and I was merely
professional.”

Soundwave blinked. Since when did Shockwave require comfort from any source,
especially from a drone? And since when did Shockwave actually care enough to
shed coolant tears or to explain himself? Could the isolation be making
Shockwave finally insane???

“Soundwave: currently worried about Shockwave’s change of personality.
Requesting Spacebridge to meet Shockwave in person. Perhaps Soundwave might be
able to help.”

The drone, nearly glitching at the idea of opening a spacebridge for either
Soundwave of Megatron, who could unmask him in a sparkbeat, tried desperately
to find a way out of having to respond: he had also not been given protocols to
answer to these accusations.

Shifting his glare right and left and twitching his antennae, he ran out of
sight, screeching that the feeemale autobots were out to get Megatron’s energy
and he would shoot them to oblivion, turning the screen to black and finally
the comms off.

Soundwave, witnessing the display, had to agree Megatron had reasons enough to
be worried, afterall.

Ejecting Frenzy and Rumble, Soundwave knelt down and faced them at optic level.

“Rumble, Frenzy. Twice Reflector had travelled via Space Bridge with energon
cubes for Shockwave. Soundwave: will hack his databanks for codes and commands.
Mission: find Reflector and bring all his components to my presence.”

Rumble and Frenzy shared a glance, shifting on their feet, as Rumble finally
spoke.

“Sorry, Sounders, no can do.”

Soundwave glowers, EM-field flaring in anger at the negative: Frenzy sags,
telling him calmly and slowly why Reflector was currently out of reach of every
single decepticon on Earth.

===============================================================================
 

Out of reach from every single decepticon on Earth, Reflector, basking on the
glory of being the most famous and currently he only Art Photographer on
Cybertron, sunbathed on the beaches of the Sea of Rust, contemplating the waves
taking trashed metal and Emptie's shells in and out of the sand.

Why hadn’t they thought of leaving the Decepticons before? They never
appreciated his talents anyway. Now that everyone had cell-phones and could
take selfies, which amateur needed an analogical camera anyway?

Staring at the chair on his right, he focused his optics and photographed the
sun kissed visage of Knock-Out, holding a sunbathing mirror before his
faceplates and wearing sunglasses, followed by Hot Rod, currently sipping pink
high-grade energon through a fancy umbrella straw from a tiny flute, cross-
legged on another chair.

Beautiful mechs to be portrayed and displayed, clients willing to pay, and not
a single maniac tyrant threatening to rip out his spark in case he failed him
yet again!

Could life get any better than this?

===============================================================================
 

Life couldn’t get any better than this.

Optimus grumbled, optics still off, for some reason laid back on his desk: he
had a terrible feeling of chill and dread on his systems and couldn’t place the
cause on anything he currently knew.

Even the Matrix, usually the first to bitch and complain whenever anything was
off, rested unusually quiet, humming sedately on the background of his spark.

As such, taking her silence as a good signal, shrugging the phantom pains on
his processors away, ignoring the light weight over his shell, he finally took
the courage to open his optics, finding Elita-1 atop his chest, slowly coming
online as well.

Both finally were awake enough to share a glower, and glower they did. Elita
was the first to speak, both legs shamelessly straddling the Prime’s array.

“I commend you for going thatlow, Prime. I should be filing a complaint to
Prowl. No matter that we are sparkmates and we are supposed to produce a
fragging newspark, you are not allowed to drag me here and take me on my
sleep!”

Optimus, hands flying to hold his mate in place, grounded Elita by her hips,
making her face him as he sat up.

“Take! As far as I remember, I was having a flux reminiscent of the day of our
beloved public sparkbond, most probably had my chestplates wide open during it,
as you know very well I probably did, and who managed to seize my vulnerable
state was you, so who should be filing a complaint to Prowl is me.”

Optic to optic, they kept their glare, only snapping out of it once the door
opened, revealing Prowl.

Before either could file their complaints, the SIC dutifully ignored them
sitting on such position atop the desk, and sternly handed to each of them a
ticket.

“A fine?”

They spoke in unison as Prowl nodded to Optimus and Elita blinked, furious.

“For disrupting every single mech’s systems with a spark-originated overload so
strong our security was wholly compromised and the whole base had been
afflicted, I sentence, based on the Primeval Laws, you both to staying apart
from each other out of proper settings and forbid you to interface much less
sparkmerge outside of the Prime’s shielded quarters.”

Elita, about to protest, stopped: it was the perfect opportunity for her to not
have to sparkmerge to carry the spawn that the Matrix had demanded of them.

“Very well. As Law-abiding consort of the Prime, I accept my punishment. I will
be in my quarters.”

She bowed her head, slapped Optimus’ hand away from her hips, growled to him,
jumped out of his lap, landed on her feet, car-moded and left, as Optimus still
contemplated the fine, massaging his temples with the free hand, finally
leaving the desk and walking to his SIC.

“Prowl. I didn’t do anything. When I took a nap over my desk I was for some
reason having a memory flux with her, but I never went after her much less
brought her in! I’m sure we can find the real culprit through the security
cameras if we just ask Red Alert.”

Prowl shook his head.

“Red Alert and Inferno fragged as royally as you, Prime, pun intended, and
because of their effusiveness over the console, not a single reliable recording
of the whole base could be obtained during the time period. I checked.”

Before Optimus could ask, he aborted the notion. He had enough problems as it
was, and he decided that this was the reason why he had a SIC, and that he
didn’t really need to know.

===============================================================================
 

Soundwave decided he didn’t need to know.

After finding out Reflector had left the decepticons, by currently reading the
magazine on Art and Photography that Rumble and Frenzy dutifully handed him,
where his tasteful photographic work was displayed for every Cybertronian to
see for just a few shanix, Soundwave concluded that Shockwave displaying
emotions and interacting with his drones was the least of their problems.

Reflector had a photographic memory and many codes from the decepticons in
presumed storage: since Shockwave was uncooperative, and getting to the three-
compound decepticon would not be an option, Soundwave groaned imagining the
millions of lines of code he was supposed to modify to make sure they would not
undergo a grave security breech.

Offlining his visor and feeling for the subsonic waves come from the tiny EM-
field of his orbiting creation, looping in eights around his own spark,
Soundwave started working immediately: he knew he was due to months of non-stop
work from now on, and he most definitely was not going to slack off.

===============================================================================
 

He was not going to slack off this time.

“Red Alert. Be reasonable.”

Red Alert ignored his comm, having already fixed all the cameras and viewports
from his myriad of security cameras.

“C’mon Red. We both know you loved it.”

Red Alert couldn’t deny, but no overload was worth the loss of millions of
databanks and images and the potential hazard risk of a dreadful undocumented
event taking place around the base.

He nearly bit his fingertips off at the notion, shuddering: What if someone had
attempted to harm the Prime? What if someone had tried stealing the Matrix?

“Quit tempting me, you fiend. I’m never leaving the Security Room ever again
and you aren’t coming in either. Because of you Prowl gave us a fine!”

===============================================================================
 

“A fine?”

Prowl nodded. Jazz leered from his seat.

“But I was as off as anymech, mech, I got victim of a Prime Overload! Why am I
gettin’fined too?”

Prowl tilts his head, smirking and coming close to where Jazz was sitting,
placing both hands on his shoulders, approaching their faces.

“Because I can. I know a single fine won’t teach you anything. But: one full
year banned from even attempting of physically approaching me most certainly
will.”

Turning on his heels then, he left Jazz’ room, as the stupefied TIC took a long
stare at his aft as the door closed, sighing.

When was Prowl ever going to see they were made for each other, quitting his
eternal, stupid, relationshipstrike and finally, finally allow them to know
each other?

Why did Jazz put up with this mech anyway??

Closing his optics and visualising the retreating aft, Jazz remembered why.

Oh yeah.

A year would go in a blink.
***** Going Home *****
The year went by in a blink.

Mentally reviewing last year’s events in mind, Optimus Prime, optics off,
sprawled on his couch, checked on his list.

Blaster growing neutral at Ironhide afters centuries of feud was not to be
taken lightly: aware that the tapedeck had contacted a Lawyercon on Cybertron
and of the speed at which processes and lawsuits ran, Optimus knew that this
was just the calm before the storm, and deep down the progressively more
depressed Ironhide knew too.

Skyfire having been caught fraternising with the enemy For Science, full of
purplish scratches and dents and a strangely happy stance in faceplates that
didn’t fade, visibly growled at Perceptor, still not in speaking terms to the
microscope, smugly telling him he now had the fresh files on Astrotrain’s
triplechanging abilities and had absolutely no intention of sharing, before
being taken to the brig by Prowl. Since then, Optimus had to order Wheeljack to
remain in between both scientists serving as bridge, at the same time little
Ramhorn pestered the engineer about his incoming frame upgrade that never took
place, and the Prime was dreading the instant Blaster would come by to take
satisfaction personally.

Jazz had been creepily stalking the second in command Prowl, dutifully
remaining at a distance from him, annoying and scaring the hell out of everyone
in sight. Time in brig didn’t help. Optimus was at a full loss about what to
do, but Prowl seemed to feel actually proud of whatever he did to provoke it.

Wheelie’s murderer remained a full-fledged mystery: Prowl and Red alert refused
to talk on the subject at all, Jazz had no clue and no info, and his corpse had
been obliterated into spare parts, by a very dutiful and suspiciously quiet
Strongarm, who had been displaying exemplary behaviour and remaining
respectfully away from any mechs not requesting his work, not a single time
attempting to bring Optimus into unneeded and unwanted maintenance.

Groaning on his stiff, grime-caked and uncared for articulations and struts,
Optimus decided not to regret his decision on stopping to undergo medical
maintenance: he knew he was fine, and working perfectly well. The Matrix’ lack
of nerve and snark recently was indeed a blessing, and she had been performing
well in every single other matter, communing with him in hums and flickers of
EM-field, positively rewarding him whenever he started remembering he was
supposed to produce a newspark, but otherwise never demanding or even forcing
him into sparkmerge.

A perfect lady.

Speaking on lady, let’s not forget about Elita: despite her claims, Optimus
couldn’t believe he might have kidnapped her and seized to sparkmerge against
her will, not even the opposite way around: he was a firmly believer in
consensual interfacing and sparkmerging, and had even isolated the medical file
pertaining his day’s last events before the shared overload, but currently
faced a different kind of problem.

It required a medic to open it, and Optimus wasn’t exactly in speaking terms
with the medical class.

Ratchet would either review it and be smug for being called to help, or refuse
to review it and also be smug about being requested, which was not an option
for the Prime; Strongarm might seize the opportunity to run a side experiment
in his frame while he decoded the medical file, which was also not acceptable,
and he didn’t want to hurt poor First Aid’s feelings letting him see how much
he hated medics.

As such, accepting his ignorance on what he did, or did not do, with Elita-
1 that day, but feeling no less guilty, Optimus resigned himself to the hard
truth that he was being blatantly refused by her.

How was Optimus going to accomplish the demanded sparkmerge to produce a
newspark if he and his sparkmate didn’t even remain in the same general area,
much less recharged together, during the last year?

Optimus knew she didn’t want to get sparked, and deep down he thought the
Matrix had a terrible idea, but wasn’t going to contest her. He had been given
a mission, and he would accomplish it, but he refused to condonerape in any of
its forms.

Shaking his head at the fact that creating distance between them didn’t make
the spark grow fonder, Optimus didn’t know how to make Elita even remotely
interested, when not even he currently were.

He was certainly going to need a miracle.

===============================================================================
 

He was going to need a miracle.

No force in the Universe could make Mighty Shockwave open the spacebridge a
single time during the last year, not even the promise of energon cubes. He
became even more evasive after Soundwave’s first and last attempt to talk.

Feeling for the distant muted touch of his spark through the bond, Soundwave
knew Shockwave’s spark was calm, neutral, content even, which didn’t fit with
the displays of stupidity and hesitation that were appearing on-screen most of
the time he managed to hack into the camera systems.

Talking on camera, Soundwave’s inability to get Shockwave to open the bridge up
meant he was still completely out of touch with Reflector, and Soundwave could
hardly wait until he got his blue fingers on them: by obsessively changing
every single security code on the base, he managed to locate the video file
where Reflector had destroyed his BW Megatron Deluxe toy (which technically
meant Skywarp wasn’t to blame – not that he would apologise to the warping
fool) and swore, obviously, energon-soaked revenge.

His whole energy however was not up to Revenge for now.

After a full year of not getting enough spark-energy from Lord Megatron, who
understandably avoided sparkmerging as much as required because of the pain in
his sparkchamber, and had to be coaxed every single time, Soundwave felt
depleted, even despite the latest three successful energon raids against petrol
plants in the Arabian lands (currently not monitored by the Autobots because
they were not under the USA’s jurisdiction) and the plenty of fuel available.

He needed Shockwave’s merges, the pure and uncomplicated spark-energy from a
mech who no longer existed or even performed unless prompted, on his residual
emotions and dutifully delivered energy to him whenever needed and
logicallyrequested.

Deciding he needed any energy now, datacables slotting out from his own back as
he offlined his optics and connected each of them into the console with a
click, Soundwave started a slow but steady drain of raw energon through the
very Nemesis herself, instead of conventionally refuelling via intake under the
battlemask, as the energon-o-meter slowly indicated the flowing down.

===============================================================================
 
 

Watching the energon-o-meter flowing down slowly, Starscream nodded, smirking.

It’s been one full year since he started building solar collectors, and now
they littered the surface of the ship’s lift, going up twice a day to collect
further energy.

It took him their rogue install and their steady energon flow to prove the
idiotic leader that the idea was feasible: Starscream knew that Megatron just
plain grumbling and not trashing him for having acted on his back meant a
certain tapedeck had been keeping him busy and probably sore, and that this
time Starscream won.

Hell, the SIC had even been authorised to go into town and gathering new
compounds for another set of solar collectors, which was a feat in itself.

As such, intent in going shopping, Starscream gathered his trine and left the
Nemesis in a VOP, unwilling to press on his luck.

===============================================================================
 

Unwilling to press on his luck, Shockwave sedately refuelled on the Rec Room.

He spent the last year following the light, reasonable demands of an admittedly
polite Matrix, who didn’t exactly order him around unlike lore suggested,
merely generating urges, like the obvious need to refuel, logically – it had
required energon in heaps to recover and regrow, and regrow it did.

It’s been a few weeks ago that the Matrixcame to life within his chestplates,
did a full system scan and suddenly stopped increasing in consumption, settling
for its final size and daily energy input, sending Shockwave a general feeling
of readiness and enough.

Feeling like a bottomless pit as he drained on his third energon cube in a row,
Shockwave was truly glad to see the autobots never cared to track how much
energy each mech consumed daily anyway.

The perks of plenty.

Sometimes he would get a nearly pleading call in his spark, despite having
blocked the transmission of feelings back and forth via bond; he was positive
Soundwave might have been truly needy for even the dulled feeling to come
across, and unable to not think about the implications on his probable sparking
and logical neediness, aware his Decepticon Matrix was ready, Shockwave
sometimes remembered home.

He was waiting for the right chance to leave. The flawless moment. The perfect
Tempo.

As soon as the sirens klaxon-roared in the base, Red Alert’s dutiful voice
echoed “Decepticon Raid Alert, Starscream’s Trine, follow coordinates!”, and
controlled chaos reigned around Shockwave, with mechs going back and forth as
he remained absolutely undisturbed.

Starscream. The only way they would raid on their own was if Skywarp was there
to VOP them away. Which basically meant…

Offlining his visor once and sending a silent ping to his Matrix, Shockwave
received a single, content humm followed by a heated warmth in his chest,
finally nodding to himself, standing up and abandoning his half-finished
energon cube.

It was about Time.

===============================================================================
 

It was about Time, pondered Starscream in his root mode, contemplating the wave
of autobots arriving at his coordinates.

He and his trine had just ripped off the solar collectors off a solar power
plant, ready to VOP them into the Nemesis: nodding once to Skywarp, who was
nearly crackling with excess charge and ready to VOP, he turned to
Thundercracker and rotating his index around its axis in the air, gave a silent
command as he flew up.

Observing from his advantage point Skywarp VOPing away as the outraged autobots
shot into a now empty spot, he couldn’t help cackling as Thundercracker
deafened and confused the enemy by breaking the barrier of sound around them,
at the same time evading Ironhide’s shots.

Truly glad to see the absence of Defensor and its aerial compound, Blades,
Starscream patted himself in the backstruts for having chosen the perfect spot
for his attack. The autobots were so used for the decepticons raiding for
petrol, that they just didn’t have enough troops out of patrol to protect less
important areas like the solar plant they raided today.

Checking on his inner chronometer, Starscream smirked: in any moment Skywarp
would have finished unloading the compounds, refuelling and finally be back to
taxi them away for good: soon he would be back into building their solar net.
Soon…

TCHWAK!!!

So engrossed was Starscream watching Thundercracker overpower a dozen autobots
with his superior aerial manoeuvres, that he wholly missed the white flying
bolt tackling him down in mid-air.

“Release me you insolent!!!”

Ignoring Starscream’s rant as they rotate in the air, Shockwave’s back rotor
roaring madly and failing as they descent, the heliformer held himself through
his chest-hook and chain into the air commander’s cockpit, turning his visor
right into his optics and monotoning.

“I observed your trine raiding on your own without any backup, so I calculate
that Skywarp will be back to VOP you away. I shall seize the opportunity. I am
ready whenever you are.”

Before Starscream would say anything on the matter, this was precisely what the
suddenly teleported Skywarp did, touching his leader in the shoulder and VOPing
his full trine and the stowaway heliformer as the autobots stared, unbelieving.

===============================================================================
 

Unbelieving, the autobots blinked at the purple smoke disappearing with the
decepticon trine, as Ironhide shot multiple times at where there previously had
been the enemy with their junior medical officer, who usually never underwent
battle.

Only stopping once his ammo was over, Ironhide growled as he subspaced his
chainguns back.

“What are you looking at? The Decepticons retreated, there’s nothing new about
that! Everybody back to base!!! NOW!!!”

Exchanging a few glowers with the defeated autobots, Ironhide, leading the
troops out, shook his head, transforming and recalling the kidnapped
heliformer, wondering about what he would do now.

===============================================================================
 

Soundwaveknew what he would have to do now.

He was starved. He had an itch impossible to scratch on his own, not even by
means of his four datacables.

He had twelve docks and one port too many.

Some mechs thought having multiple ports was a blessing: only a carrier-host
knew the true extent of their curse.

Considering he had twelve docks and four dataports matching his four datacables
on his conventional array, not to mention the double-purpose cord-and-port
system, it would hardly be through regular interface that his hunger could be
sated: for carrier-host models, only a true sparkmerge could do.

Unsated by regular interface unless it involved sparkmerge, carrier-hosts were
fated to carry loads of newsparks due to the frequent spark-exchange through
their lives: those who didn’t have an energetic, comprehensive mate, often
searched for trine or polybonds. Those with single bonds or no bond tended to
slowly go insane or just plain resentful, like good old Blaster.

The less lucky would eventually resort to promiscuity, giving carrier-hosts
Cybertronwide a bad name, which was why classically his kind were exploited in
shareware-market, and the few who could escape this venue preferred to pursue
career by plugginginto communications and computer nets to mimicry the multiple
connections their systems frequently required.

Offlining his visor and embracing himself with his four datacables, entwining
on his limbs sinuously as he could almost taste a slow, deep, through
sparkmerge like only his Lord knew how to provide, Soundwave shuddered in
anticipation.

Since Shockwave was away, Lord Megatron would just have to make do.

As such, showing his faceplates in every single screen of the Nemesis, he
called.

===============================================================================
 

Called, Megatron startled from his throne where he was sitting contemplating
the misery of being on this dustball waiting for Starscream to return with the
bounty of solar collectors, of fighting the autobots for energy and the
possession of the Matrix, glumly staring at the eight twin screens surrounding
him, depicting no one less than Soundwave.

“Soundwave?”

Stoically, Soundwave tilted his head, his voice booming from every single
audial within the ship.

“Sparkmerging: not an option anymore. Preferable sparkmerging partner: Lord
Megatron. Will seek for alternative if Lord Megatron refuses to comply within
the next full solar cycle, counting 24 earthly hours, chronometer starting now.
Soundwave out.”

Blinking stupefied, outraged, Megatron stalled his in-venting, as the
decepticons blurted static trying to muffle their laughter and the Tyrant just
plain shot them away with his cannon, looking around and finding no signs of
his second in command, grumbling angrily on his seat.

Somehow, in some way, it had to be Starscream’s fault.

===============================================================================
 

“It’s Starscream’s fault! I just followed orders!!!”

Thundercracker growled at Skywarp, who recoiled: it wasn’t his fault the
stowaway was latched onto the Screamer when he showed up to VOP them back home!

As they bitched on the background, Starscream walked in circles around the
bound, knelt down, white heliformer, glaring down and inspecting, as the
unfazed autobot just kept staring ahead neutrally.

“You were stupid enough to place yourself in my servos: know that your life
depends on my good will. I could certainly use a slave.”

Thundercracker and Skywarp observed from a safe distance as Starscream placed a
finger under the mech’s chin, raising it up to face him as he read his ID plate
on his left shoulder.

“Strongarm.A chevroned medic, imported from Cybertron, I presume, and a pseudo,
rotary flier who thinks he can tackle Starscream, Prince of Vos and Decepticon
Air Commander. Start pleading, medic, now.”

At that, Shockwave tilted his head to the right, flaring his visor once.

“I demand to see Lord Megatron, the one and true leader of the Decepticons,
subcommander Starscream.”

A sudden and loud slap filled the room, Shockwave’s face turned to the right
without a flicker of pain or regret, as the left side of his battlemask
appeared dented in and scrapped with clawed streaks of blue.

“Let’s see how unbidden your vocoder is after going without fuel. I can almost
see you begging.”

===============================================================================
 

“I’m begging.”

Optimus inhaled deeply: he had just received news from Ironhide that Strongarm
had apparently been taken prisoner by Starscream and currently was torn between
knowing his faction lost a chevroned medic and should negotiate, and the fact
he lost a personal nemesis he didn’t exactly feel like retrieving.

Which was the reason why Ratchet, the CMO, had resorted to begging.

“It’s not a sound tactic, Ratchet. As soon as Ironhide informed me, Prowl came
by to advise me against negotiating with the decepticons, not to give them any
leverage.”

Optimus nodded to himself, proud: it was partially true, at least the part
about Prowl being against negotiation: he had actually calculated Strongarm
would be even more of a liability if he were not retrieved, and warned about
the need to include Jazz and his Spec Ops into a convoluted rescue plan, which
the Prime didn’t wantworking on at all.

“Please. I never ask for anything. Tell me you’ll do it, Prime.”

Optimus, doing his best to ignore Ratchet while fidgeting with his datapads,
almost squeezed them broken at the medic’s insistence, then slowly calmed down
and placed them atop the Holy Mesh Book. The old battered book was slightly
deformed for being too much manipulated, and rose a bit, making all datapads
fall on the ground, spreading.

Cursing, Optimus stood up and started collecting the datapads back. Why did he
take into Primedom anyway?

Oh yeah. Shockwave carved him a Matrix-shaped hole.

If only Shockwave could have a taste of his own remedy.

Of course, he agreed to it, but still: weren't for then-Senator Shockwave, he
would still be a data clerk in Iacon, and happy about it.

“Why had that damn life-size cybertronium paperweight in the shape of the
Matrix to disappear?”

Ratchet almost stepped closer to help, the moment Optimus pointed a finger to
his direction, beyond angry.

“You stop right there. Despite whatever you may think on that spawn of the
Matrix, cold-constructed butcheryou took a shine to, I'm getting convinced he
is a decepticon infiltrated specially to make me insane! I bet he even hid my
favourite paperweight too! It used to keep my Book of Primus prim, and properly
in place!”

Ratchet sighed, clenching his fists.

“...But, if you insist on talking about your junior medical officer, the same
who would vivisect an innocent just to see how their unique T-cogs function,
the one who would mind-rape a test-subject, sorry, a patient into stasis to
save on anaesthetics… tell me, Ratchet, why would we need him back???”

Oh yes, Ratchet forgot.The fact that Strongarm did do these things at one point
or another certainly didn't help.

“Prime, be reasonable, I am currently understaffed. First Aid has been busy
with his gestaltmates, since Strongarm had been chevroned, and can rarely be
found around the medbay, all with his side-missions of rescue with the other
protectobots.” Ratchet sagged “I need that sparkless bastard back.”

Optimus then stopped altogether, rolling a datastream in his processors.

“I see what this is about. You still hate my decision back then.” he rose to
his height “I bet by now Megatron already has your dear assistantand I hope he
is using his head as a paperweight. Strongarm’s loss will be absorbed by First
Aid the way he can, and that is final.”

In barely contained anger, tired of submitting to the Prime’s will, Ratchet
minutely bowed his head, then turned on his wheels, intent in reaching his
special reserve, as he transformed and left.

===============================================================================
 

Left to his own devices, locked within Starscream’s trine Room, Shockwave
calculated he wouldn’t last without refuelling at least two cubes a day, now
that he bore a full Matrix within, no more than a full day, when under normal
conditions he might have lasted more than a decacycle.

He didn’t want to identify himself to the screamer, who would certainly seize
the opportunity to dispose off his spark if only to endanger Lord Megatron due
to their shared bond.

Concluding he wouldn’t come out of his prisonin time without aid, he unblocked
his sparkbond to Lord Megatron, flaring his true spark frequency through the
bond, offlining his visor and coldly calling.

===============================================================================
 

Coldly called in the deepest reaches of his painful sparkchamber, intensely and
with no finesse, Megatron stalled, the instant Starscream set foot on his
throne room to communicate the raid had been successful.

Unamused by Soundwave’s earlier display, squinting as he stared at his second
in command like he were vermin, Megatron tapped on his throne’s arm, waiting.

Stuttering once at the predatory sight, not understanding what he did do of
wrong this time, Starscream cleared his voicebox and started telling about how
many pieces and human collectors they managed to acquire, the moment Megatron
had another spark pain.

Immediately connecting Starscream’s success with the painful insistent tug in
his spark, the tyrant stood up, walking and glaring down at him.

“Was that all, Starscream?”

Before Starscream could protest, a third tug came and Megatron captured his SIC
by his neck, walking through the door ominously.

===============================================================================
 

Ominously walking through the door, Megatron entered Starscream’s Trine
quarters regally, throwing a charred seeker, fuming, on a scrap pile at the
floor, capturing the attention of its current sole occupant.

His optics scanned the bound, knelt down heliformer indifferently, as he kicked
the Starscream heap to a side, coming closer.

“So the stupid fool thought he could hide a prisoner from me.”

The helicopter looked up, expressionless, as Megatron continued.

“Too bad for you. I don't make deals with autobots.”

He aimed the fusion canon, as Shockwave, a gleam in his visor, bowed his head
down, humbling himself even further, and finally offlined his visor, speaking.

“I am honoured to serve you yet again, my Liege.”

Megatron almost shot him then, the instant something offflickered: Shockwave
had just wholly switched his spark-frequency to his real one, flaring his EM-
field wide open, pulsing heatwaves towards his Lord, who, confused, knelt down
to face the heliformer from up close, fusion cannon still zimming.

“…is that you???”

Shockwave was a proper mech and protocol-kept his head down, expanding his EM
field once more, allowing it to lightly brush into Megatron's, who responded
back unconsciously. The tyrant rolled an unseen word in his mouthplates.

“I am grateful you can still recognise my true spark frequency and my call for
aid after those four millions of years of faithful service and longing
distance, My Lord.”

Megatron nodded, powering his cannon off, coming to a distasteful conclusion.

“So the Shockwave on Cybertron….”

“My sparkless shell was converted into a substitute drone.”

Torn between being gladthe monumental failure on Cybertron wasn’t him, and
being mad that Shockwave actually deceived him into thinking the stupid drone
was a maddened version of himself, Megatron just stared, finally sighing and
walking behind him, releasing him off his bonds and sitting with him on the
ground.

“I had stood here hating your struts because of your stupid drone!! I had been
mad at his blatant refusal to meet up in person! Soundwave is sparked and had
just publicly threatened to search for anymech elseto sparkmerge if I,
Megatron, don’t comply within the next solar cycle! So excuse me if I am still
mad that you just showed up in an unauthorised autobot disguise, flaring a
different spark-frequency and expecting to be welcomed back like this.”

Megatron stared, knowing Shockwave didn’t do things by halves: either he got it
right, or screwed it completely, and he braced himself for the worst.

Engulfing his Lord in a bottomless stare, without further ceremony, Shockwave
offlined his visor, focusing, the hydraulic hiss filling the room, gears
whirring as his glass chestplate split in two halves.

Megatron, remembering exhibitionism was Soundwave's thing, not Shockwave's,
raised one optic ridge: finally, flabbergasted, he took sight of the blinding
light filling the room, entwined with the bright blue tone of his well-known
cybertronian spark.

He couldn't believe it. He unwillingly moved a hand towards the light, stopping
and recoiling as bright white tendrils escaped it, trying to entwine with his
fingers.

“How...???”

“It is the final result of my efforts, my Lord. My convoluted plan and chain of
events culminated in this:a regenerated half of the Matrix, the Decepticon’s
Matrix.”

Swirling, glowing, humming, the bluish-white crystal oscillated projecting
lights on the room and into Megatron's face: the familiar silvery handles
rested fused on each side of the internal panels within Shockwave's chest
within a jolting and rotating mechanism also holding his sparkchamber in an
opposite direction, and his battlemasked face retained an eerie glow as he
spoke, anticipating the tyrant's thoughts.

“I advise against latching it into your spark, my Liege. It is truly a
parasite, leeching onto my own life-force and into my systems. If my Lord
wishes to listen, I would be glad to sum up the whole story for you.”

Megatron could have an idea on how deeply compromised Shockwave had become to
obtain such a fruitful result, nodding and agreeing he had no intention in
taking this Matrix away from him, where it seemed so comfortable and alluring.

Instead of succumbing to the allure of a spark he hadn’t seen or felt for four
million years, taking his hands to briefly touch the sides of the still
voluptuous chestplates, Megatron finally politely closed the open canopy,
knowing he couldwait, staring right into his mate’s visor.

“Tell me, Shockwave, tell me everything. We have the whole night.”
***** Two is company *****
The whole night went on and Skywarp and Thundercracker dutifully remained
outside of their own room, waiting.

What they waited for though not even they knew: they half-expected Megatron to
kick out the chewed carcass of the heliformer, half-expected him to kick the
screamer’s corpse instead, half-expected him to drag both by each hand out.

That was half an expectation too many, and they were actually glad the moment
Starscream’s offline, charred shell, still alive, was thrown out and the door
locked back.

Quickly VOPing his trine leader to the constructicons and coming back, Skywarp
returned in time to see Thundercracker trying to listen from outside the door.

“So, anything yet?”

Thundercracker shook his head: he could hardly make out the heliformer’s
vocoded tone saying words too low to be understood through the almost
soundproof door, but it looked clear that Megatron was listening.

===============================================================================
 

“I’m listening.”

Shockwave, still sitting cross-legged before Lord Megatron on the ground, both
at almost touching distance, nodded, taking a break from speaking: his energon
levels had dropped immensely in the hours he had been telling his
ScheherazadeTale, since every time he got to a part where Lord Megatron was
about to go angry and exasperated at his mistakes and errors (especially the
moment he had sunk the Nemesis down by being a terrible shoot), he flared his
EM-field carefully into a neutrally calming stance, to keep his Lord rational
and logical enough to understand his steps without attempting to chastise him
before he could finish speaking.

So far it had been working, but at the price of a lot of spark energy, he
pondered as his HUD warned him of critically low energon levels. Ordering an
override and diverting power to the critical systems, he finally excused
himself, slumping ahead while still sitting cross-legged, resting for an
instant against his Lord’s own chestplates, finally collapsing down.

 
===============================================================================


Collapsed down, Starscream, on a berth at the repair bay, still charred yet
freshly awoken hours and hours after being shot, mused on his own life as
Bonecrusher, under Hook's orders, hammered a few dents out of his outer plates.

He was furious at his stupid, idiotic leader. He had probably taken his
prisoner away! He was so incompetent he couldn't even get a prisoner of his
own, no, he had to steal from his second in command!

He was as furious as the day that 'Nightbird' appeared and the tyrant had
threatened to replace him anytime: Megatron deserved getting punched in the
face back then.

Not that Starscream was in any way jealous.No way. Angry, yes, but jealous is
something Soundwave does, not Starscream.

Soundwave is a very dangerous, sly, insidious glitch, and he shuddered thinking
on ever being under Soundwave's bad optic. No matter how tempted he might have
been once about the strength and power commanded by Megatron, Starscream was
much better off as second in command and leader of his Trine, not as secondary
mate(or worse, tertiary mate), and for an instant he almost pitied Shockwave,
asking himself where Skywarp and Thundercracker were.

===============================================================================

 
Skywarp and Thundercracker, still waiting before their room’s door, jumped in a
startle as the grey features of LordMegatron stepped out, holding the offline
heliformer over his shoulder like a sack of bolts, walking unceremoniously away
from there through the base towards his Office, uncaring if anyone had seen
him.

Letting the offline heliformer slumped on the floor there, he left the place to
gather energon cubes, soon returning with three: he would never hear the end of
the story if Shockwave didn’t wake up.

Kneeling down, Megatron held the unconscious form, tilting his head back,
trying to locate an outer intake at the base of the chin, unable to find any
from where he could drop the energon, then sadly remembering it was Soundwave
who had the convenient chin intake.

Soundwave he had been currently publicly shamed by, with his threat.

Snarling at the memory, recalling Shockwave didn’t do anything by halves, he
squinted and located a disguised intake at the base of the neck, remembering
fondly it was very similar (and probably even as sensitive) as the one in his
original purple frame, smirking widely.

Popping the lid open with a thumb and taking a deep glare down Shockwave’s
exposed furcula, he slowly proceeded into refuellinghim, relieved.

===============================================================================
 

Relieved of duty by a very sober First Aid, summoned to base by a commandeering
Prime, Ratchet awoke in a terrible mood.

Not recalling how the frag he got so over-energised, staring sheepishly at
First Aid shaking his head at his not-so-hidden high-grade stash, Ratchet
snorted loudly.

Observing the pained expression in his Field and Rescue Surgeon, Ratchet
quickly dismissed it with a wave of his hand, slurring he had never been so
fine and that First Aid shouldn’t have bothered to come.

At that, First Aid, in an unexpected display, threw the still half-filled high-
grade cube on the wall, shattering it in a tiny explosion, cursing for once
their Prime and making sure to place the CMO under forced recharge.

===============================================================================
 

Out of forced recharge, Shockwave blinked his visor to life, noticing his head
being cradled by no one less than his Lord.

“Finally, you are back. Looks like without me to bring you cubes, you are
alwaysfaded to starve.”

Shockwave nodded: more than once in the past, in Cybertron, he had held the
base and its routines, while his Lord raided and fought, and would always be
eagerly waiting the energon.

Amazing how some things never change.

“Estate your energon levels.”

“83,5%” He reviewed his inner databanks. “I presume my Lord was responsible for
keeping me out of stasis lock and of bringing me back. I am grateful.”

Megatron nodded, swirling the cube's energon in hands, slowly, just before his
sight.

“Then you should be even more grateful for the last half of the cube.”

“I always am, my Liege. Always.”

Megatron stared with very mixed feelings about the obvious disconnect between
what he saw (an anonymous autobot-blue visor and a generic battlemasked face)
with the EM-field (Shockwave, his Tower Guardian!) underneath his hands,
missing more than he should the giant single optic and the finials in his
purple head.

As such, shaking his head off the shell overseeing Cybertron aeons-light away,
and activating his own EM-field, Megatron allowed it to brush in large streams
against Shockwave's, then reached the white intake, opening it and finally
pouring the rest of the cube in.

Deactivating his visor and turning his vocoder temporarily off, Shockwave
focused on the physical sensation of being painfully tank full, without a
single hint of emotion or regret for how he had decided placing his intake.

Even though he could have allowed his mouthpiece to be accessible, he found it
practical to install the outer intake, not much dissimilar to the one in his
own ancient cybertronian body.

Keeping the intake was not only logical, it was familiar,as much as his Lord
holding his head and pouring him fuel could be, just like old times.

“100%” He spoke, Megatron stopping immediately, looking at the last droplets on
the border of the cube. “It is more than sufficient.” he blinked his visor off,
stating matter-of-factly. “It has been a too long time, my Lord.”

Shockwave crackled static, visor glowing with complete charge. He knew he
should by now be standing up, since he was full and functional, but he was
trapped under his Lord's gaze and EM-field. Megatron made sure to drip the last
few drops into the already full intake, releasing the cube and staring intently
at him, finally nodding.

Wordless, Shockwave arched his neck backwards, as Megatron angled his face,
fitting his own mouthpiece over the base of his neck, slowly lapping the excess
energon off the intake, whispering that it had been a too long time indeed.

===============================================================================
 

A too long time passed before Soundwave could finally try drifting into
recharge. He had the equivalent of a phantom limb feeling in the back of his
telepathy, a feeling he couldn't blame on anything he knew that was happening
on his life.

If he weren't already feeling so chronically under-energised recently, no
matter how much he refuelled, he might have gone on a stroll.

He had actually been expecting Lord Megatron to storm in, furious at his
audacity, ready to punish him for even thinkinghe could order the Decepticon
Lord and Leader around, and this was a mental image currently filling his
lubricious thoughts.

Pity his creations didn’t seem to share his expectation.

“Ewww, Sounders, gross!”

“Some of us are trying to recharge without fluxes!”

Soundwave glowered at the ceiling as Rumble and Frenzy, from within his
tapedeck, complained. He opened the eject button, expelling the grumbling tapes
out, while keeping his laying position.

“Cassetticons: go recharge outside.” he pointed to the door with his left hand,
as Rumble gaped, unbelieving.

“Ow boss, I was just meaning you could spare us of the imagery and...”

The finger pointed out of the door, as the other cassettes remained dutifully
silent: no one wanted to leave. Resigned, the twins grumbled out.

===============================================================================
 

“OUT!! Get OUT!!”

Starscream was unceremoniously discharged, still lacking cosmetic repair, out
of the constructicon’s bay, by the decepticon CMO.

Tired of getting exploded, belittled, shot at, Starscream, feeling specially
rebellious and in the mood to demote his leader, went to Megatron's office,
intent in getting satisfaction: the tyrant had stolen hisprisoner and he wanted
at least recognition at the capture!

He stopped before the closed door, ready to kick it open, the moment searing
light seeped through its undersides.

Scratching his head, he faltered as another pulse shone through. And another.
And another. In rapidly growing succession, coming in waves.

Oh, Primus.

He focused, listening to the tell-tale snarls followed by a barely muffled
vocoder, and got away from the door, stepping backwards as if it were cursed.

Megatron was inside and by the look of it was with Soundwave!

Starscream panicked then, all fight leaving his systems: he might pick fights
with Megatron, but if someone wants to remain online, one doesn't mess with
Soundwave. Talk about an obsessive, vindictive glitch.

Turning on his thrusters, he nearly managed to leave the corridor, as the light
show coming from underneath the door continued, slamming right into a blue
wall.

A moving, tall, broad and battlemasked blue wall.

“Soundwave??”

He quickly stared between Soundwave and the door, as a final burst of blinding
light filled the corridor, and winced: once he opened one optic to look at the
telepath, he gulped.

The blue tapedeck was stock still, visor offline, a subsonic dirge of dread and
hatred spreading from himself both from his speakers and his own spark's EM-
field.

Stalling his air intakes, Starscream decided leaving the premises, to never
return: he had no intention of intruding in anything, specially NOT in Megatron
fragging or not fragging the masked autobot, whoever he was, on top of his
already messed up bond to his two other officers (he was so glad for not being
part of it!). Maybe if he tip-toed away he would...

A sudden blue hand grabbed him by his neck, yanking him up. He twitched one
optic on, looking right at Soundwave's impassive visor.

“I don't know anything! I was just passing! I'm stupid! I'm stupid!”

“Starscream: optic witness. Your presence: required.”

“What? No! I'm second in command, I command you! You let me free you dolt!!!”

Another glare from Soundwave: Starscream protected his audials, as the blue
officer readied his shoulder blaster to shoot.

===============================================================================
 
 

Shot blasting through the door, Megatron barely had time to protect his own
face and audials as Shockwave clung to his frame, face buried in his now closed
chestplate.

Once the dust started settling, the unmistakable gleam of a single red visor
shone through the particles still afloat, heavy steps coming through.

The daggers of Soundwave's EM-field spiked through Megatron's, effectively
incapacitating him for a while, as the telepath threw Starscream on one corner,
stepped closer, then yanked the white helicopter out of Megatron's loose grasp,
raising him to the level of his optics, a single datacable flailing out to meet
his face, an inch too close, charge crackling through its feelers, ready to
plunge.

Before he could order the autobot to identify or even nullify his mind through
telepathic rape, no questions needed, he was met by a flickering, known EM-
field, stopping.

No.

EM-fields do not lie, Soundwave rolled in his vocoder.

And he never forgot an EM-field.

Especially not this one.

Mustering all the self-control he could, Soundwave placed the white mech on the
ground, almost politely, staring down at him. Starscream, witnessing something
he would rather not, did his best to remain inconspicuous, as Megatron
facepalmed on the background.

“Soundwave.”

“Shockwave.”

If whiplash could kill, Starscream would be a floating depolarised spark
drifting into time and space heading for Ancient Earth, possessing a buzzing
insect predacon shell.

Shockwave???

Optics wide, Starscream eyed again and again the white mech, rubbing his optics
then staring yet again.

Soundwave raked his visor up and down the heliformer, then raked Megatron
similarly, then finally raked Shockwaveback, snatchinghim out of Lord
Megatron’s reach.

“Soundwave: requesting sparkmate for mandatory sparkmerge.”

Shockwave stared slowly between both, as Megatron smirked widely, suddenly
yanking the scientistback to himself.

“No, Soundwave, I recall you said you’d look for another mech to sparkmerge
with after I failed meeting your needs within the next 24 hours of the solar
cycle.”

Stopping stock still, Soundwave got very mute.

“So, according to your own deadline, technically, the sun was going down when
you said so, and I still have until the next sunset.”

Shockwave, humming, nodded, agreeing it was very logical, as Lord Megatron,
smug, held him even closer.

“Right now, Shockwave seems infinitely more appealing than you.”

Starscream couldn’t believe his optics: he didn’t know if he felt amazed or
disgusted to see these two actually having a screaming match for the right to
frag Shockwave first.

“Soundwave: caring carrier. Asking it for the newspark’s development. Needs it
more.”

Soundwave pulled Shockwave to himself, as Megatron captured him back through an
arm, snarling possessively, out of rational arguments, the tapedeck flaring his
own EM-field in clear annoyance.

Shockwave, being many times thrown back and forth between them like a ping-pong
ball, finally stalled between both, extending one arm at each of them and
keeping his distance.

“This illogical behaviour is not conductive to a solution and since you cannot
behave logically I will.”

He puffed his chest up, hands clasped behind his back, assuming a rigid
military stance, totally unfazed. Starscream, unwilling to remain as the fourth
wheel between those loons, was slowly attempting to crawl out of there.

Megatron, recalling he was the Leader and Lordof the Decepticons, was about to
protest the attempt of command, the instant Shockwave turned to him, dipping
his head in a respectful bow.

“My Liege, sparkmate and bonded Lord Megatron, I am aware I owe you a full
companionable night since before we left Cybertron, when I refused being with
you, to put my plan into motion. I offer to repay it back now, if you will have
me.”

He dipped his head down then, humbly, knowing his Lord wasn’t yet done with him
and had already agreed with hungry optics and a smirk, finally turning to
Soundwave.

“Sparkmate and bonded Soundwave. I am logically aware you require a very
through and completesparkmerge for a healthy newspark development. After my
time with our Lord, still within your deadline, either Lord Megatron will be up
for proper sparkmerge, or I will, and I add I shall comply with my part
whenever needed, within reason. Is that acceptable, Soundwave?”

Soundwave, seeing no fault in the argument, nodded. Starscream, seeing Mr Logic
in action, had a difficult time believing his optics, as Megatron smiled
darkly, amusement in his plates, eyeing the heliformer deeply.

Finally, turning to leave and making sure he would grab the surprised
Starscream by his neck and drag him on his way out, knowing he may have lost
the round but not the match, Soundwave decided he wasn’t going to insist this
time, leaving the Office to his sparkmates should they wish to remain there the
end of the night.

===============================================================================
 

Having rested through the night, slowly onlining his optics, comfortably tucked
on his own berth, Ratchet blinked as he took on his surroundings, focusing
instantly on the white battlemask and blue visor boring into him.

“…are you back?”

First Aid shook his head, coiling back his own medical cable.

“I’m positive I’m not the mech you mean, but yes, I took a break from my break
and will return to my Protectobots as soon as you are fine. The Prime summoned
me once word got to him that his Chief Medical Officer was stasis-locked on the
medbay surrounded by a stash of high-grade. I had to fight off mechs trying to
steal it, but since I had your wrench on me, I was fine.”

Grumbling, Ratchet sat on the berth, and First Aid joined him.

“By the way, I stored the high-grade somewhere else after sending a sample to
Prowl: he wanted to confiscate it all, so I gave him some telling it was
everything left. I’m not giving it back to you though...”

Ratchet gloweredat him, as he fidgeted with his hands.

“… I mean, as your physician, I say you can’t go on with this high-grade
problem just because the Prime refused to rescue him.”

Ratchet groaned, massaging his helm’s temples: he didn’t have a high-grade
problem – he had a high-grade solution.

The only problem he currently had was The Prime actively making his life
difficult.
***** Three is a crowd *****
Soundwave’s life was getting difficult.

He had come from his obviously ineffectual and pointless recharge, kicking the
cassettes out of their slots early, his mind whirring awake even as the
cassetticons had slumbered all through the night.

He knew he shouldn’t need to be jealous, but he was: he was used to Shockwave
taking secondary role in their lives, not to the purple wonderactually getting
favouredby Lord Megatron, even if he knew it was mostly out of spite.

Hindsight is 20∕20, and had he any idea Shockwave was around (and what the frag
was he doing in that shell?) he would never have threatened Megatron publicly
in a desperate attempt to get a sparkmerge.

In thinking it was because of himself that Megatron took on their second mate.

Soundwave loved spying and controlling, blackmailing, and meddling from behind,
as he pretended not to care being around. Every time a raid happened, on the
occasions as only mate, he was left behind – to be protected from harm, as
Megatron insisted – as everyone went and came, and he hated not being around
the life of the faction: he felt coddled, locked. He felt fragile, and he
wasn't a fragile mech.

He had been a gladiator too, for Primus sake, heavy armour, tentacled
datacables, and all, and he had to divert Megatron's obsession in sparing and
protecting him.

If he could make his leader take his overbearing, siring,control-freakish
attentions elsewhere, so not to be smothered, it would be great.

As such, back then, he did implant telepathic digits suggesting that Megatron
took on a second mate.

Unfortunately Soundwave had not been specific and the gunformer had begun
taking interest in Starscream!

That would be unacceptable.

Soundwave was glad the tyrant never acted beyond trashing the seeker around,
shooting him, blaming him for everything wrong in the Universe, and being so
enamoured with guilt that he even made the Prince of Vos his second in command
– which was actually how Soundwave lost his position from SIC to TIC.

Before a royalcame into play and dethroned himself from Megatron's personal
life as well, considering his own humble origins in old Polyhex, Soundwave had
to act once more, implanting another telepathic suggestion, this time much more
specific and tailored to Soundwave's own wants and needs.

Afterall he hated housekeeping, and he still lusted over purple.

That was how Shockwave and his Tower fell into equation.

He was attractive, an ancient warframe, a classical beauty, upper class enough
to hold a nobility appeal, polished, educated, intelligent and above anything,
cold, and already involved in the Cause in a high position of command as Chief
Science Officer, a science caste mech with a too big attachment to his own labs
and experiments.

Soundwave knew it would take very little effort from Megatron into making
Senator Shockwave a good, tame, house-bound and obedient mate. Strong,
intelligent yet naive Shockwave stood no chance to the master manipulator.

Which led them where they were now.

Logically, grateful for being chosen, Shockwave accepted the conditions the
polybondic union entailed, which suited Soundwave to the T.

Megatron's will had to be heeded, first and foremost, within reason. He also
had to obey the first mate's orders, within reason.

He had to stay behind whenever the decepticons left to any endeavour or raid,
and keep tabs on administrative issues, stock and distribution.

The second mate had the right to refuse Megatron's or Soundwave's presence
whenever wished.

If the first mate refused his Lord, then the second could request extra rounds.
And vice-versa.

It worked very well so far, specially because Shockwave was rarely requested in
the berth by his lord and also rarely requested their presence, except during
the million years he actively tried getting sparked.

By means of telepathy Soundwave usually knew when Megatron had need of company,
and made sure to be there, first, greedy as frag: he was an active, very
fertile and proud carrier-host, which also explained why and how Soundwave
managed to get sparked four times, once with his quite troublesome twins.

The sacrifices I take.

Remembering one way or another he would engage into sparkmerge later, recalling
how he had prepared Shockwave’s room the previous night, before heading to his
useless attempt of recharge, Soundwave stood up, deciding it was time to top
his fuel, going to the Mess Hall.

===============================================================================
 

At the Mess Hall, all the decepticons stopped on their tracks the moment
Strongarm strode in, regally, heli-paddles rotating slowly on his back.

As his Matrix hummed content after a very eventful night, random spark pulses
reaching his EM-field in irregular waves he purposefully held at bay tightly,
taking mental note to analyse it later after refuelling, Shockwave strolled by,
detachedly pondering on how he loathed crowds, especially when they keep
staring: it unsettled his logic. He looked down his protruding chestplate into
his two forearms, both now bearing the purple decepticon symbol, wondering how
some things never change.

Megatron had just broadcasted from his quarters, to where they had gone after
leaving the Office, to the entire base that Shockwave had come all the way from
Cybertron and was in a new shell, no details included, and was to be treated
accordingly.

So there he was, making sure his own energy levels wouldn't drop below 50%,
being the talk of the morning.

So engrossed he was on controlling his own EM-field and sticking his metallic
straw into the cube, plugging the soft end into his neck's feeding intake and
turning on his pedes to find a pace to sit, that he never noticed the moment
the number one came in.

Chin held high, as if he owned the place – which in a way he did –in his
controlled yet fluid pace, Soundwave made sure to promenade the hall, hips
swaying, buttons gleaming in the light, taking the attention of the crowd,
generating an empty cube from his dock and filling it from the energon
dispenser, finally taking it to face, at his chin intake, ingesting it.

Right before his bondmate.

Both eyed themselves, positions mimicked, similar consumption rate. The
decepticons, a very non-subtle bunch of ill-behaved grunts, started gossiping
low, which only served to delight Soundwave and deeply confuse Shockwave.

Not that he was going to show he felt conflicted, he thought as he gave a
slight deferential bow to the main mate of the house, excusing himself to a
table.

“Soundwave: invites Shockwave over.”

He waved his hand to a small empty table. It would be impolite and unreasonable
to refuse, so Shockwave nodded along and went, regulating his feeding straw to
go slowly, as he took a second cube from the wall, and Soundwave took three
more.

From the corner of his optic, Hook kept tabs on the duo, extremely curious on a
near morbid level to see how the ménage would go: he also had a thing for
unusual fuel intakes, and theirs were certainly exquisite.

The things he could do with them, or their lack of thereof.

It was common knowledge that Soundwave never removed his battlemask in public.
There was even a betting pool on whether he had or not a real face underneath.

Some theorised there was a true artificial vocoder, right where should have
been his real mouthpiece, ripped out during his time as gladiator in Kaon,
before he and Megatron started the Decepticons.

The milder facial trauma version believes he still had a mouthpiece, yet
mangled, scarred and barely functional. The dull face verse believed a
commonplace face, hidden out of self-consciousness and lack of ability to
conceal one's facial expressions, and the wish to not expose himself.

Others even swore there was an exquisite low-class polyhexian beauty
underneath, slanted golden optics, smooth faceplates, luscious lips, and that
he only showed and used them with their leader.

There was even one small group believing the big secret was the fact Soundwave
was indeed the last female, the last living decepticon representative of Solus
Prime from before the start of the war, having cleverly undergone a full
upgrade into the boxy, strong, big, battlemasked and visored frame of the ex-
gladiator, and his known carrier-host status might be a disguise for his
natural fertility.

What everyone really knew, envious, though was that he had free refilling
rights, due to being a carrier, responsible for six recharging cassettes most
of the time, and also Megatron's first mate.

Hook observed unashamedly Soundwave’s rippling intake cable going down his
neck, tantalisingly leading the taken energon down, as his visor flicked off,
neck bent backwards, hips strutted, in what could only be absolute bliss.

Turning his sight onto Shockwave, refuelling through his traditional straw,
Hook visually scooped the new shell for telling scratches and the occasional
forgotten dried fluid streak, finding none: Shockwave was known for not caring
about what people thought, sometimes simply not removing evidence away.

This time however everything seemed clean.

Hook’s visual medical scanners told him all the information available on
Shockwave’s new shell: smirking behind his own cube, he was delighted to take
notes on the fact that his scanners located not one but two interfacing panels.

Lord Megatron didn’t waste time on reclaiming Shockwave’s old array in his new
frame: the original double-purpose panel was currently under an automated self-
cleaning cycle after having been purged off the trans-electrical fluid (and
wouldn’t that be a sight Hook would have liked to see); the other, the single-
port one, probably originally belonged to the autobot corpse and was factory-
sealed (what wouldn’t he give to just plain claim it) medically locked away.

Sipping on his energon, he squinted as he took sight of Soundwave’s core
temperature rising slowly as he contemplated the white heliformer, unable to
stop wondering, now their trinebond was complete, when the tapedeck would
finally accomplish his threat and simply jump the heliformer into sparkmerge,
idly wondering he wouldn’t mind having a seat at watching.

“Soundwave: will make arrangements to get Shockwave a new lab.”

Shockwave blinked: he wasn't expecting to be offered a Lab so soon, although it
was logical: shifting minutely in his seat, paddles rotating counter-clockwise
slowly, unaware of Hook’s and half the fleet’s lucubrations on what he and the
tapedeck would be doing in the next hours, he replied.

“That is very kind of you.”

Soundwave nodded once.

“Will vouch for Shockwave.” he finished the first cube, getting to the other
“Megatron: always glad to have a Science Division running.”

Shockwave nodded more: much like with his Lord, it was never good to be on
Soundwave's bad side, but sometimes it wasn't good to be on his good side
either. There had to be another edge in there. He was waiting for the other
pede to drop.

“Shockwave: superior base-keeping skills. Will better keep stock. New lab: will
further the Decepticon Cause. Megatron: ultimately pleased. Soundwave: pleased
Megatron is pleased.”

Ah, there it was. Now Shockwave knew where he stood. On both sides, their
agreement remained fundamentally the same. He could finally relax.

“Curiosity: time with autobots, eventful? No friends left behind?”

Soundwave attempting small talk? Mouthpieces sputtered energon, heads turned on
the mess hall, and anonymous voices rose to slightly higher than a grumble.

Shockwave clipped on his flexible tube, manually pausing the intake of energon,
the mental image of the scowling autobot CMO hitting him on the chevron with
his wrench filling his processors.

“Friendship is extremely illogical.” he gave a not-answer and unclipped the
tube, resuming his feeding.

Soundwave nodded, having tried to no avail to pry into Shockwave's shadowplayed
mind and spark. As he suspected, the Council at the Institute did worse than
damage his emotional circuits, and remove his hands, his face and most of the
function in his interface array: they destroyed forever part of his spark,
making his mind absolutely unreadable, no matter if he took on a new shell or
not.

Pity. No blackmail material then. Even inducing the potential recollection of
stray feelings was not enough to make them readable, and as he bitterly
digested the info, he eagerly gulped another cube, his neck rippling as the
fuel came down.

“Shockwave: your return, greatly appreciated. Come: personally prepared your
own dependences.”

Shockwave corrected his posture, going military stance and marching one step
behind his superior bondmate, both heeding a cube each in hands, followed by
hungry optics out of the mess hall.

===============================================================================
 

Out to the mess hall, hungry, Ratchet caught his energon cube, refuelling,
being intensely observed by the Autobot’s preferred spy.

Jazz, lounging on a sofa, couldn’t help squinting at the CMO, who he knew, had
a nervous breakdown at the disappearance of the junior medical officer under
decepticon hands.

Having himself received orders from the SIC to plot a discreet, sensitive,
rescue plan to snatch Strongarm out of the decepticons, under the guise of him
being even more dangerous out of Prowl’s sight, Jazz took to spark his mission:
if he did it right, he might even return to Prowl’s good graces and not only be
allowed to court him, but also increase his chances to succeed: it might be
slow, but it would be as flawless as Prowl’s aft and as perfect as their future
bonding should be, pondered Jazz as he detachedly rested his own aftin perfect
disregard.

===============================================================================
 

Detachedly resting his wide aft in perfect wait, half-laid over his right side
in the geometric centre of the berth with his right hand’s knuckles holding his
head under his chin, disregarding propriety, Shockwave knew enough of
Soundwave’s tastes to know what to expect the instant he was invited in to see
his brave new room.

If it weren’t Shockwave sitting, no, lounging there, one might speculate he
could be almost enjoying being at the berth, contemplating the infinitely
superior room he was granted by his bondmate – as opposed to the storage closet
the Prime handed him, according the CMO’s own words.

Private washracks, dim purple lighting from the walls, a desk with a strong
light spot where he could tinker with minor projects, the purple memory mesh
covering the otherwise austere standard berth, nicely contrasting with the
whites and blues of his autobot shell.

He had to most definitely reward his bondmate for almost reading his thoughts
and having impeccable taste.

Dimming his visor as he would have his single optic back then, silently, he
outstretched his left arm, palm up, towards the tapedeck, crooking the left
index slowly towards himself, very much aware of how this particular beckoning
affected his bondmate every time he actually used it, glad he had charted every
single session and could orchestrate any event to perfection.

Receiving a definite unashamed lick in his EM-field, Shockwave turned inwards
to find that surprisingly it didn’t come from Soundwave, having instead
originated from his Matrix.

Interesting.

Finally allowing his own EM-field loose, it moved out of his plating in large
irregular waves, rippling against Soundwave’s own, nearly stalling the tapedeck
in his steps: already dizzy from the little menace orbiting his spark,
Soundwave made sure to steel himself against the nearest wall, as both fields
mingled and Shockwave recognised the influence of the intruder, dipping his
head in a nod as his own Matrix hummed in complete approval, his spark pulsing
in double waves now.

“Sparkmate and bondmate Soundwave. I am aware you require for the sake of the
newspark a through sparkmerge. I shall comply. I am here in spark and array,
ready to serve. I expect you do not mind that I will chart and analyse our
session later in my personal archives for betterment and future improvement.”

Soundwave sighed: long ago he gave up on subtle around Shockwave, having gotten
used to his to-the-point displays and comments. The most difficult part was to
know that to get anything across his emotionally-damaged sparkmate, he would
always need to be as direct and unromantic as possible.

Nodding in silent reply, anticipating Shockwave’s calculated EM-field touch,
Soundwave finally sat at the corner of the berth, facing his bondmate, unable
to help the nagging feeling that he was being observed, as the parasitic Matrix
whirred around her own axis.

Aware of his bonded’s need for physical touch, Shockwave unceremoniously
displayed his double-purpose purple array, his useless and unfeeling interface
cable slotted and locked out of sight, his pinkish-purple port clean,
calibrated, and most importantly, already running under programmed lubrication,
a bead of pinkish fluid forming and pooling on the lower end of the port, his
left hand’s index touching it and sliding the lubrication up and back inside
the folds, slowly.

“I anticipate you might be appalled by the recognition of my original array.
Our Lord was, too. I expect you will appreciate my effort as much as he did,
once he was past the initial shock.”
 
Soundwave couldn’t divert his gaze, slightly disturbed at the morbidity of the
array transfer, unsurprised however, since yes, this is something Shockwave
would do: nodding as he felt his own interface cable starting to pressurise
underneath his plating and his own core temperature rising, Soundwave moved
closer to the middle of the berth, in one single move possessively placing his
hands on each side of Shockwave’s hips, mechandling him from a lounging to a
straddling position, both now sitting face to face.

Staring unfazed at the navy blue hands weighting down with a vice grip on his
hips, Shockwave dimmed his visor and jolted his own hands over Soundwave’s,
firmly gripping them in a calculated move, flaring his medical heaters on,
approaching the tapedeck’s audials.

“You have nice, strong hands. I expect to be taken.”

“Soundwave: superior.” the tapedeck purred at the rare compliment.

Feeling for the welcome resonance, the white mech revved his engines in tandem,
transmitting vibration through his bonded’s frame, as Soundwave, in a single
move, unlocked and opened his own interface array, navy-blue interface cable
slowly slotting out of its casing as it pressurised, moving both hands to grasp
Shockwave’s very solid aft and sliding him closer until both exposed arrays
touched and the heliformer completed the move by locking himself in position
with both feet behind Soundwave’s back.

“I strongly suggest that you remove my paddles without leaving our position:
they will be in the way.”

Soundwave tilted his head, heat flushing up his faceplates underneath the
battlemask, as his bonded purposefully ground against his interface cable,
pressurising it further; briefly staring at the paddles sticking from
Shockwave’s back like a sore wound, the tapedeck recovered from the heatwave
and removed both hands from the heliformer’s aft.

Slowly, by trial and error, he managed to take away the first, second and even
the third paddle with some semblance of civility, getting mercilessly teased by
a series of grinds in time with the attempts of removal; by the time he reached
the fourth, as Shockwave not only ground his hips but also slid his port’s
generously lubricated entrance up and down at the underside of a fully
pressurised spike, Soundwave ripped the last paddle out and swung it across the
room, throwing it out of reach as a now very revved Shockwave contemplated the
rotating paddle slowing down its move on the ground.

Excellent.

Before he could drone or comment on anything, though, he was instantly flung
from his straddling position into laying on his back with a thud, Soundwave
throwing all his weight in between the widespread thighs, interface cable’s
underside fitting exactly between the purple folds, a film of pink lubricant
flowing from within, effectively locking Shockwave in place as the tapedeck
reconfigured his inner docks so they would remain inside as his sparkchamber
jolted into place from underneath his deck, only waiting for a command to come
out of the glass door.

Satisfied with the result of his calculated physical moves, extremely ready,
Shockwave, chestplates closed, having listened to his bonded’s dock
reconfiguration, jolted his Decepticon Matrix down to open space for his own
sparkchamber to stay right behind the glass plates too, ready for exposure.

“Your eagerness is stimulating. I am dripping wetand my cockpit glass plates
itch to open. Interfacing has become mandatory.”

Soundwave growled in response: Shockwave reinforced the lock command into his
autobot interface panel, the blue pliant folds pleading, begging to be filled
by such a strong mech, then finally sliding his hips up into the exact position
where the tip of Soundwave’s cable met the entrance of his purple
folds, stalling for three full seconds, then in one single move he jolted his
hips down, engulfing the pressurised spike in a brutish motion, as his own
sight faded to white for a microsecond and the tapedeck nearly overloaded then
and there, finally his glass dock opening wide and revealing his old, abused
spark.

Observing with a detached glare Soundwave’s very blue, ancient, visibly scarred
spark (from being split many times into sparking), Shockwave focused at the
visible spinning orb attached to its field.

“I see your creation is healthily spinning in eights, full of vitality as
usually all your newsparks are, bondmate Soundwave. Congratulations.”

Soundwave nodded non-committally; even though he required the sparkmerges for
the newspark, he was too eager to do it for his own sake right now to remember
about his creation much less to be congratulated.

“Shockwave: talks too much. Open up chestplates and expose spark now.”

Shockwave nodded, offlining his visor and splitting his own plates,
sparkchamber coming out, walls rotating around and releasing his spark away, an
arrhythmic flicker of light glowing from within its blue core, as Soundwave
dimmed his own visor and slowly finished sheathing himself to the hilt within
the purple port.

Finally in close contact, under a languid motion, sparks slowly orbiting one
around the other, taking his preferred role on his back, Shockwave at last
turned off his upper processors and logic systems, running himself on automated
routines, revelling in the crudely primeval, purely physical sensations of
getting painfully port-full.

Face down into the crook of Shockwave’s neck, Soundwave kept his battlemask
resolutely closed, as usual, nuzzling their faceplated battlemasks and shells
in an almost catlike rub of bodies, sensitive medical fingers finding nooks and
seams of transformation, as four dark blue datacables flailed out and connected
to the Nemesis through the ceiling by their feelers, biolights pulsing as they
drained raw energy from the ship.

Soundwave’s hands traced the protruding chestplate, moving down the ventral
plates, pinkish fluids dripping from the sides of Shockwave’s purple array over
the berth at each slide in and out, the occasional droplets seeping through the
locked autobot array as well, electricity crackling and building charge from
the rotating sparks meeting between the joined plates.

Had Shockwave not locked out his upper processor to avoid trying to analyse the
event, being currently focused on mechanically performing for the sake of his
bondmate, he might have retained enough processing power to notice something
was amiss.

If Soundwave, on his side, weren't also enraptured, if he weren't
obsessively cataloguing for future reference the corners and sensibilities of
Shockwave's new shell, wishing deep down he were still his old purple self, if
he weren't currently enjoying himself a bit too much, he would have also
noticed something was wrong.
***** Solus Prime *****
Something had been wrong from the start.
 
The incorporeal entity that had one day been Solus Prime, now unevenly split
and only with partial consciousness, will and ability to interfere in her own
fate, being hosted by that stranger and not knowing where her other half was,
scanned for the spark of Optimus Prime: seeking for her missing parts, she
stretched her tendrils into her host’s systems and spark for clues, any clues.
 
Shockwave. He isn’t and would never be a Prime. How dare anyone have put her in
conjux with a non-Prime?
 
Analysing the situation with a cold non-existent optic, she pulsed, having been
momentarily awoken by the extra raw energy flowing through the entwined shells,
virtual faceplates heating at the bout of vigorous interfacing.
 
Recalling Optimus Prime, who had been bonded to a female autobot and had no
option but take on the active role, she felt instantly aroused that this
Shockwave was honouring herself by actively wanting to be in the receptive
role.
 
When was the last time she herself, on her own body, ever interfaced anyway?
 
Smirking, for now not minding who her host was, Solus Prime made sure to rotate
the jolting mechanism and hiding from sight, overriding with a flicker of spark
Shockwave’s medical locks, took the best backseat to watch.
 
Shockwave’s sparkchamber got immediately exposed to the open air, the
Matrixhumming content: Millennia surviving in between Prime’s shells, as a
prized possession, can turn anyone into a voyeur.
 
Before she tried experimenting with the navy-blue mech’s plates, his warm shell
thrusting mercilessly into her host, she observed very interested that his
chestplate locks unmade themselves without her needing to meddle with, which
turned out to be excellent, for now both sparks were exposed and rotating in
between their chests.
 
The Matrixnodded to herself: long ago she determined there had to be a
newsparkin the Future, and there they were.
 
Two.
 
One was older and thriving, come from an experienced creator, rotating around
its host.
 
The other was too damn young, having been just generated maybe hours ago, from
a physically strong spark whose damaged sparkchamber could not house it,
forcing it into a perfectly healthy sparkchamber around a medically ill spark
that could not sustain it.
 
A recipe for failure that probably repeated itself a few times in the past,
considering the two microscopic scars surrounding the medically damaged spark.
From their size, they probably never lived past their first minutes or hours,
and its host probably never realised they were even there in first place.
 
As such, feeling for the very irregular waves, knowing the tiny newspark was
already fading from improper hosting, she pondered on what to do next.
 
She currently had limitations.She lacked the vessel of the Prime's knowledge,
these databanks having remained with her split half. She wasn't the key to
independent creation in herself, having also lost these abilities to her other
half.
 
She wasn't whole enoughto create Life anymore. Before being unevenly and
crudely split, she could create Life and mature it almost instantly, releasing
newsparks completely at will, given she had the sourcesfrom where to take data
to create them, often working in tandem with the archives within Vector Sigma
as the entity one day known as Solus Prime.
 
In her current unevenly split state, all the power she truly retained rested in
one single act: in her single-mindedness, only being remotely capable of
interfering with a natural sparking event if a newspark was already generated
to start with, having been specially powered by the extra energy source of the
four datacables coming from the blue mech, having no power otherwise and aware
this same set of circumstances might not repeat itself any soon, her decision
was done.
 
Nothing more precious than new life.
 
She would boost both up with this extra-power: she didn't know when there might
be another opportunity with so much energy available, she pondered as she
slowly returned to slumber, one last thought in mind.
  
Let there be Light.
***** Let there be Light *****
Light filled Megatron’s mind as he stalled at the control room, a mute pang in
his own spark, followed by a spreading warmth through his interface array, legs
going weak and glad he was sitting.
 
Ravage, sitting on his feet, shifted, raised his head, looked around, got
patted on his head by a black hand, then purred and laid back, tail entwined in
his master's Megatron leg.
 
Starscream, right beside them, finding the exchange strange, raised one optic
ridge, wondering if...
 
“Is there anything wrong, Starscream?”
 
Yeah, that was what he was going to ask, fleeting a glance at Megatron's
minutely squirming thighs.
 
“Nothing, my liege, a quite uneventful day. I had news though that our newcomer
and our TIC left together the mess hall.”
 
Taking Ravage in his lap to conceal his minute trembling, Megatron nodded,
hiding a smirk. That explained it then.
 
The seeker shook his head, sneering at his leader, finally asking for
permission to take a reconnaissance flight with his trinemates. Megatron,
carefully petting Ravage behind his ears, very pleased with life as it was now,
dismissed him with nothing more than a grunt.
 
===============================================================================
 
Grunting, Soundwave came back online with a crackle of charge rippling through
his shell, alarms ringing on his systems.
 
He had the experience. He knew.
 
It wasn't supposed to start now. He had still at least a hundred years to go:
it was just too early!
 
Shockwave, stirring to life and sitting by his side, idly held his ventral
plates closed, humidity pooling between his legs.
 
“Shockwave: anything wrong?”
 
Blinking dark his visor, Shockwave searched his own systems, stopping, very
still.
 
Processors whirring slowly as charge crackled through, Shockwave analysed
thrice his databanks, making sure he was calculating things right.
 
He couldn’t make a mistake, not on such a grave matter. It required further
clarification.
 
“Soundwave. Allow me a moment of uncertainty and questioning: what could be the
chance that your creation latched onto me instead of remaining with you after
our sparkmerge?”
 
At that, Soundwave stalled: his creation was currently fine, dandy and very
ready as it rotated around his own spark in a full binary system, experience
telling him that it was triggering his Release Protocols.
 
Before Shockwave’ current conflict, Soundwave squinted underneath his visor,
releasing one single datacable and latching its feelers right over Shockwave’s
cockpit glass plates, pinging.
 
Receiving two definite pingsback, Soundwave nodded, in between awed and scared,
recoiling the cable back.
 
Shockwave not only was sparked, but his own newsparkwas also triggering release
protocols and unless he was wrong, experience told him both would be getting
finally released within the next solar cycle, maybe even together.
 
Very aware that his own creation wasn’t due for centuries still, and that they
even weren’t awake time enough on Earth for Shockwave to be sparked from
anymech else to be releasing right now, he was at a loss about why everything
was happening like this. The math wasn’t adding.
 
“Shockwave: has rationalexplanation?”
 
Slowly turning his visor towards his own cockpit glass, in between
scientifically fascinated and morbidly curious to open his own plates and just
see for himself, the only thing that this time was really different was…
 
“The parasitical Matrix.It must be somehow its doing.Fascinating.”
 
It was neither logical nor rational, but it was the only thing that made any
sense. Shockwave furthered his analysis using his medical sensors, already
creating a new databank for future reference and charting in to scientific
work.
 
“Main pain receptors flaring with excess charge.” he gave no external
indication of feeling anything “Medical scans show newspark at 96% maturity,
Release Protocols activated in phase one of presentation, expected release time
within one solar cycle.”
 
Soundwave nodded, smug at how experience served him right and he truly required
no scanners. So he was right.
 
“Query: Since when?”
 
“According to medical systems readings, the newspark had been generated in my
last merge with Lord Megatron, and was releasing irregular energy waves
compatible with early spontaneous termination of which I was not consciously
aware due to the low intensity of the initial newspark charge. My medical logs
further register that its abnormal development took place through excessive
charge and input, come from your datacables channelled through my alien source,
presumably the parasitical Decepticon Matrix.”
 
Soundwave stared, impressed, dipping his head in a nod.
 
“Soundwave: understands parasitical Matrix brought solution to Shockwave’s
infertility. Enquiry: Shockwave, happy?”
 
Shockwave glared at the tapedeck, blankly: he was indeed mighty surprised of
being sparked, was amazed that it involved the Matrix herself, was collecting
data to a start a personal databank, but couldn’t decide if he was feeling
anything else beyond scientific fascination and personal pride about it.
 
Certainly, as obviously pointed by his bondmate, logic dictated that the
Decepticon Matrix was the source of the solution to his ancient problem, not to
mention it was horrifically fast. He would certainly study this entity once his
condition was resolved. The new lab would come in handy. His creation would be
another asset to the cause, maybe even assist in the lab.
 
Before anything though, he would have to make sure the newspark actually
survived.
 
“Happiness is an illogical concept.”
 
Soundwave minutely shook his head, once more failing to glimpse a single stray
feeling out of his bondmate, as Shockwave stood up and headed to the desk,
storing a few datapads into subspace, remembering.
 
Objectively, he knew how to proceed now: he had been there all the times a new
cassette came to life.
 
Talking on the little pests...
 
“Sounders!!!”
 
The tapedeck was smothered by four cassettes, namely his twins and his avians;
they were all requesting to recharge into the deck. Ratbat was timidly perching
atop his shoulder, also requesting to be let in. Making a defeated stance,
Soundwave clicked open his eject button, allowing them all in.
 
Shockwave stared at the familial exchange, an unspoken question in the air.
Soundwave tilted his head.
 
“Shockwave might understand when Shockwave finally releases.”
 
Without data to compare to, he nodded, taking Soundwave's word at spark,
returning to his objective worries: they would need suitable shells. Medical
aid. Working T-cogs. Soundwave, making sure the cassettes were recharging
silently, spoke.
 
“Time: of the essence. Soundwave: has no shell planed for newspark yet. Lord
Megatron’s suggestion: flight-moded. Owns abandoned prototypes for flight
frames with the Constructicons and may lend Shockwave one.”
 
Logically, pondered Shockwave, who for a second failed to imagine his own
creation housed into a cassetticon-sized shell, deciding to refuse the aid.
 
“Very well then. I shall procure my own shell for my creation. It is advisable
that the medbay is ready within the day. Do your part, I will be worried with
mine.”
 
Soundwave then put a hand in his shoulder. Shockwave stared.
 
“Soundwave: soft spark for creations. Has gone through it all before. Always
had Shockwave's aid. Will aid Shockwave now. Transform and open door.”
 
Shockwave, since the argument sounded logical, dirty from interfacing but
ignoring the dripping fluids from between his seams, transformed, opening one
of his doors, as Soundwave converted to tapedeck mode, shifting mass and
fitting inside the canopy over the control panel at one of the few dry and
clean inner surfaces, undecided if he felt disgusted or excited at the prospect
of his bondmate walking around displaying his claim, finally physically
connecting through a navy blue, articulated datacable resembling a tentacle,
into Shockwave's systems.
 
The duo lifted off, manoeuvring out of the room and going through the
corridors, taking the undersea base's lift.
 
After travelling for hours, trying to remain hidden and inconspicuous as they
reached shore and the nearest city nearby, they located an out-of-town junk-
yard, where Shockwave’s unsanitary frame quickly acquired dirt over the fluids,
becoming truly disgusting very soon, dust mingling with the oils and liquids as
Soundwave kicked dejectedly an old washing-machine.
 
“Junkyard: full of junk.”
 
As if Shockwave expected anything less, he mused as he turned a few pieces
around, discarding them.
 
“Logically old fridges, stoves and sofas will not provide an appropriate
alternate mode. It might have been better to foray into a Hospital Ward.
Computerised Tomography, Magnetic Resonance, even X-ray machinery would prove
much more fascinating.”
 
Soundwave searched more, taking hold of a huge 80's broken TV equipment,
grabbing a camera from the pile, holding it up facing his own visor,
Shakespearesquely, staring longingly.
 
===============================================================================
 
Staring longingly at his currently aching hands, Ratchet was very aware that in
less than a few centuries he might need a new set if the workload among the
autobots did not subside any soon.
 
Sensors, scalpels, everything was screaming replacement parts in his servos,
painfully reminding him of Strongarm trying to clean and calibrate them, and
currently only served the purpose of fuelling this stupid, idiotic wish of
undergoing a self-appointed mission to rescue his assistant.
 
“Heya, mech, how y’re doing?”
 
Ratchet’s slow, murderous glare did not shut up the TIC, who kept speaking.
 
“Cheer up! Sit with us.”
 
Ignoring his own life was under potential danger, Jazz placed a hand over
Ratchet’s shoulder’s and steered him into a sitting position towards an
apparently empty table except for Wheeljack and a floating set of cards.
 
What?
 
Jolting his optics to the floating deck of cards, Ratchet squinted as the
disembodied voice of Mirage spoke him a hello and started distributing the
cards between Jazz, himself and a clueless Wheeljack, snatched to the table
after he was merely passing by.
 
 
===============================================================================
  
 
Merely passing by was the understatement of the century as the five green and
purple towering constructicons stomped around the decepticon underbase,
screaming for...
 
“SCAAAAAAAAAVENGER!!!” screeched Scrapper.
 
“C'mon, you don't need to hide just because we made fun of you!!” highlighted
Hook.
 
“We all love you!!” bellowed Bonecrusher.
 
Stalling suddenly, Mixmaster widened his optics, turning a grim glare at
Scrapper, who facepalmed and shook his head, all the constructicons sharing a
single thought, instantly knowing to where their little bonded left.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The two bonded left the scrapyard, unceremoniously stomping over the escaping
crowd, twin energon crackles flowing through their carrying bodies in almost
unison: blinking his visor, Shockwave simply dug his hand through the glass
panels of a computer store, extracting the hardware off exposition and handing
the broken materials off to Soundwave, who tilted his head right, squinting his
optics underneath his visor at the carnage.
 
“Shockwave: damaging computers. Query: has lost his mind?”
 
Handing him another handful of broken and twisted metal, Shockwave gave him a
sparkless glare, droning.
 
“Crude raw components and wiring to craft upper processors will be needed for
the construction of my creation’s body.”
 
Shaking his head, and pondering that Shockwave’s poor choice of raw materials
was not his particular problem, since he had a few half-decent backup shells
for his own newspark already, Soundwave merely subspaced the scraps as his
bonded kept damaging LED monitors and gamer’s CPUs before handing them with
complete lack of care.
 
As Shockwave carelessly collected items, digging his arm through the glass,
breaking one more panel, the salesman, staring helpless and defenceless from
within, saw his only chance to escape against those huge evil robotsinto the
shop’s sliding guillotine door, activating it, the very instant Shockwave fit
his left arm in.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Left arm getting suddenly and cleanly sawed off by the door, energon sizzling
out through the wound, wiring fizzling with static and buzzing with the pre-
release charge, Shockwave stepped back and manually clamped the wound, crushing
the line closed, not a single sound getting emitted or a single shift in EM-
field taking place.
 
Horrified at the unexpected event, a slow crackle of charge arching electricity
from his head towards his shoulder blaster, Soundwave turned his battlemask
between the unfazed heliformer and the now closed door, readying himself to
blast it to pieces, the moment Shockwave spoke.
 
“Your intent in revenging me is admirable, but do not waste energy and time. We
have other shops to raid on the other side of the street.”
 
And turned on his heels, going for the other open shops, raising dust with his
heavy steps, the ground starting to shake.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The ground suddenly started to shake: The floating set of cards, which had been
just placed on the table, spread on the ground! The autobots tried to hold onto
their chairs!! In a sudden, the soil of the base begun to crack, and from the
hole there appeared...
 
“I did it!!! Yeah!!”
 
Scavenger pranced in a victory dance, ready to plunge back into the hole, being
however tackled mid-air by no one less than a very mean Prowl.
 
“Not so fast, decepticon... you have just infringed the construction security
rules by digging an unauthorised tunnel without proper security equipment.
Why?”
 
Scavenger stared at the four autobots surrounding him.
 
“Because Mixmaster asked me to see if I could dig a hole that ended up at the
autobot base?”
 
Prowl blinked. Scavenger nodded.
 
“Why.”
 
“Because I was sad and he tried to cheer me up by asking me to do something I’m
really good at?”
 
“…like digging holes.”
 
Scavenger nodded further, happy: he was so glad someone understood him, even if
it was an autobot. He wormed himself close to the autobot SIC, lowering himself
and nuzzling his face against his shoulder, almost purring.
 
“If you ever one day change sides, you could become our Honorary Constructicon,
wouldn’t it be neat???”
 
In between horrified at the idea, and calculating the chances that such an
absurd notion might ever take place, Prowl suddenly flipped the already flipped
table on the ground right into Scavenger’s head, knocking him offline in a
single move.
 
Ratchet, until then dumbfounded by the full display, snapped awake.
 
“Oh, just great, you fanatical zealot, now I can't ask him about my junior
medical officer!”
 
Prowl snorted, puffing up his chestplates, doorwings twitching.
 
“Look who is calling me fanatical. I am not the one sitting around looking at
my own hands and moping.”
 
At that Ratchet jumped on Prowl and both begun to catfight on the ground, the
medic digging fingertips in painful seams and nipping on his doorwings, as the
SIC yelped and futilely threatened with time in the brig and a dozen lectures
from Prime, catfighting on the ground, Ratchet getting locked in a hook.
 
===============================================================================
 
Hook locked sight into Prowl, as the other four constructicons readied
themselves for fight, all come from the hole Scavenger had crawled from.
 
Sharing a bond with Scavenger, they knew very well who hurt their little
bondmate, and went all for Prowl’s aft, piling atop him and punching him as
Ratchet crawled out, coughing dust and gears, searching for somewhere to hide.
 
The autobots, surprised at the attack, stared, as Jazz screeched that no one
touched Prowl’s aftbut himself, jumping together in the mess, and the distant
whine of the autobot SIC growled that not even Jazzwould touch his aft and that
he would better quit trying.
 
Wheeljack, blinking, scratched his side panels as Scavenger slowly came back to
life, shaking his head and running to the insides of the autobot HQ.
 
Immediately breaking fight and honing into their bondmate, the constructicons
abandoned the place, leaving a Jazz fully sprawled under Prowl’s straddling
self, gleefully groping his aft.
 
Giving his TIC his best scowl, Prowl slapped the offending hands out of his
behind, immediately handed Jazz another fine, and outraged, commed Inferno,
Ironhide and Red Alert, the last like-minded mecha around, intent into
capturing the Constructicons no matter the price, promenading away.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Promenadingaway the down-town, Soundwave and Shockwave unceremoniously
collected pieces of hardware that might be useful as alt-mode.
 
As the humans screeched, Soundwave disrupted the traffic, making sure to stomp
as he walked, collecting the newest pieces of human technology available into
subspace, as the decepticon’s scientist only apparent regret was the fact they
wouldn’t have time to reach and grab any equipment within a proper Science Lab.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
At the Science Lab in the Autobot base, Perceptor opens the door and faces a
smiling Scavenger. The constructicon looks around, then at him.
 
“Hi! Did you know I managed to dig a hole from the decepticon base until
here??? I'll tell you how it was..”
 
Perceptor stared blankly at him as he spoke for ten minutes.
 
“...so I destroyed a couple of underground traffic tunnels and water pipes on
my way here...”
 
Perceptor gave him a flat glare. Scavenger spoke for more 10 minutes.
 
“...then those humans on the subway started to scream..”
 
Perceptor looked around, twitching his left optic. Five minutes later...
 
“.. and then KABLOOOOIE!!... but when I got to the system of..”
 
Perceptor looked at Scavenger, scratched his head, stared around, pinched
himself to make sure he was really awake, and stood up, opening the door of the
lab.
 
Staring outside blankly, he saw the five maddened constructicons; opening a
huge grin, he threw himself in Scrapper’s feet.
 
“Please. Take him away. If he says just one more thing I’ll hang a disco-globe
in the ceiling and start to dance.”
 
The five constructicons shared a smirk. Scrapper screamed for Scavenger.
 
“Hey, Scav!! Tell us once more about your last vacations! For Science!”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
 
“For Science.”
 
Ramhorn nods. Blaster sighs.
 
“You shouldn’t have to change who you are for anything but yourself. Getting a
triplechanging mode? For the sake of having opposable thumbs and speech? Are
you talking too much with Wheeljack by any means?”
 
Ramhorn first nods, then nods, then shakes his head, then nods and nods again.
Blaster scratches his head.
 
“Look. I don’t care that you aren’t sired by Ironhide. Actually, I might happen
to like you even more.”
 
Ramhorn raised an optic ridge.
 
“Right, I agree he never treated you badly, but c’mon, 5 millions of years
without a single shanix of support? Isn’t it a bit too negligent?”
 
Ramhorn pouted, raising one inquisitive optic.
 
“Who, if not him? I wish I knew. I was out overcharged. It’s not like I’m going
around demanding that every autobot gets scanned for me to find out. Of course,
Ironhide is to blame. If he were more often around, I wouldn’t have thrown that
party and…”
 
Ramhorn sagged.
 
“…of course that’s not what I meant. I don’t regret having you, I just wished
things hadn’t gone bad between Ironhide and I. Of course, they did and because
of that you exist, and...”
 
Ramhorn looked just plain hurt then.
 
“… and I’m making an aft of myself, aren’t I.”
 
Ramhorn nodded meekly, then approached Blaster’s legs, nuzzling against him, as
the tapedeck caught him in arms.
 
“I love you too, little lug. Now come back to dock! No cleaning the chainguns
when inside.”
 
Ramhorn nods, almost gleefully, pinging Blaster once more. Sighing, oblivious
to the Hell being raised around the base, Blaster told him that yes, he didn’t
mind him getting properly tutored and making Science at the Lab, as Ramhorn
actually dreamed of getting modified and becoming the battlemasks of duty.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The battlemasks of duty, Shockwave and Soundwave started experimenting even
closer energon crackling charges, as the tapedeck shook his head, putting an
end to the collection of pieces.
 
“Shockwave: release incoming. Risk of post-release overload imminent. Crippling
event: Not advisable outside secure area.”
 
Shockwave didn’t react, still unsatisfied at the amount of the pieces collected
by Soundwave, but rationally knowing he would have to do without, even if it
meant getting the newspark into a frozen stasis-sparkchamber and delaying the
body for later: It was illogical to keep exposing themselves outside like this.
 
The post-release overload was crippling, as he recalled from Soundwave’s
deliveries, leaving the carrier vulnerable afterwards.
 
Even without an arm, having mechanically compressed the energon link and
effectively prevented his drainage to deactivation, knowing his left arm
transformed into the left underside and door of his alt-mode, calculating it
wouldn’t endanger flight, Shockwave transformed and allowed Soundwave in.
 
With grime and dirt caked into the scientist’s fluid-stricken panels, the
tapedeck’s tentacled datacables latched onto his circuitry, as Shockwave's
rotors whooshed wind in a circle around them, his swaying hook and chain
oscillating as they as they attempted to get out of sight...
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Megatron's sight faltered as once more he felt one ripple of distant dulled
pain through his shell. He had no idea on what was triggering the pain, since
as far as he knew everything was just fine in his Decepticon Kingdom.
 
All he knew was it was getting stronger by the hour.
 
The moment Ravage winced and actually stared at him pleadingly, was the moment
an old sense of dread filled his spark.
 
He recognised this pain.
 
It belonged to Soundwave. And it wasn’t yet time.And if Soundwave was already
releasing...
 
Punching his comm, he had only one single order to his Second in Command and
his Trine.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Starscream's trine dove into a smoke-filled commotion on the ground, only to
find Shockwave landcrashed on a side, smothered by screaming humans, as
Soundwave's cassette player form remained thrown in a pile on the ground,
buzzing static.
 
The human mob however got silent and then started to scream as they saw the
three seekers land and transform. Thundercracker growled and shot randomly,
making sure all humans would storm away, and Skywarp tapped on Shockwave's
cockpit, signalling him to transform.
 
“You dolts, what do you think you twolove-birds are doing??” shouted
Starscream.
 
“Acquiring construction material, logically.”
 
Starscream looked down at Shockwave, who was now in root mode and lacking his
left arm, completely disgusting with what clearly looked like congealed grime-
caked transfluid seeping through his plates, his own lubricants still dripping
from between his legs.
 
“Have no one told you should have washed??? Why parading this thing around??
Does everyone need to see Megatron’s and Soundwave’s fluids sticking out of you
like this???”
 
Shockwave looked down.
 
“Actually, Starscream, it is not our Lord’s transfluid, only my bondmate
Soundwave’s. I expect you wouldn’t know the difference however, not being used,
but I shall enlighten you anyway: if you pay attention closely you may see that
Soundwave’s transfluid tends towards gelled when solidifying, slightly bluish
in its tint, bearing a concentration of cybertronium that…”
 
Starscream eeked, waving both hands in the air in full revulsion, as Shockwave
stopped talking to such an under-appreciative audience, uncaring to the jet’s
opinion, idly pondering he would miss the medical apparatus within his sliced
off left arm and that he would appreciate it returned.
 
“I had no time for something as frivolous as washing Soundwave’s fluids off, in
face of the imminent extinction of my creation due to lack of a body. Apropos,
we are getting out of time, subcommander.”
 
As charge crackled through Shockwave's shell, and the transformation-locked
tapedeck was placed within Thundercracker's cockpit, Skywarp looked around,
held hands with his trine and Shockwave, and everyone VOPed away to security.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Security was the word of the day, as Red Alert debriefed every single autobot
individually, taking notes of where they were when everything happened, trying
to find the breech that allowed Scavenger to come through and wreak havoc on
the autobot base, the Constructicons and the decepticons currently being to
blame.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Who else were you expecting me to blame???”
 
Shockwave, strapped into one slab, still awfully filthy, shoulder leaks
recently welded yet not patched, merely stared upwards. Hook was an emotional
creature, and could not understand he had no need of praise, nor could be
affected by irony.
 
“I expected nothing but to be released from these straps.”
 
“Released! You and Soundwave only made our life difficult, and I’m not even
talking about that ooze emanating from you. How are we supposed to take him
from tapedeck mode when he's unconscious?”
 
Hook pointed to the tinyblue tapedeck connected to life support on the other
slab. Shockwave, unfazed by offense, droned to the ceiling.
 
“If you were a proper medic you would know. Release me so I might medically
connect to him and override his transformation.”
 
“So I'm not a proper medic? Listen here, it's not that simple, junkion wannabe.
He mass-shifts. He has a myriad of hidden tentacled datacables, a stationary
alt, and a wingless flight mechanism with antigravs in root mode. His subspace
is full of junk. He has currently five recharging cassettes in. I have no idea
how he keeps track of this whole mess inside because he is so paranoid, he
fragging deleted all his blueprints and invasive data from the whole
cybertronian databanks, and anyone trying to get in will face his freaking
firewalls while tatting around his streams of data. If you get this wrong we
might end up with his innards out flailing like a flying spaghetti monster and
a cluster of floating sparks. No medic can do!”
 
“Unquestionably, as Chief Science Officer, I am more resourceful than the
commonplace medic. I have experimented on millions of sparks. I am the Creator
of the cortical psychic patch. Furthermore, I know Soundwave's internals
intimately, and as sparkbonded I can override his firewalls. I am familiar with
his idiosyncrasies.”
 
Shockwave almost felt something akin to satisfaction at making Hook sneerat the
idea ofanyone being more capable than the perfectionist CMO.
 
“And I alsoknow he's carrying a spark ready to be released. Logically, I am
your best medical option available.”
 
Hook widened his optics. It was notsupposed to be due for a very long time
still, and they didn’t even have a good body ready, the best option so far
being a bee leftover prototype from the time Soundwave couldn’t decide on
repeating the condor theme or taking a new one for Buzzsaw: talking through his
bond to his team, he made sure Soundwave’s newspark would have the backup shell
to fall to.
 
“Very well then, Commander Chief Science Officer. It will be on you if
Soundwave offlines.”
 
The restraints were removed, as Shockwave stood up, a goblet of congealed
transfluid flopping down into the ground, sloshing itself on a radius and
almost reaching Hook’s feet; another rippling charge coursed through
Shockwave’s frame and crackled on his exposed shoulder, as he opened
Soundwave's tapedeck back panel, took hold of his purple medical cable with his
current only available hand and connected it there.
 
Vision tunnelling, Shockwave held himself against the slab where his bondmate
laid, HUD filling with all kinds of medical info, revealing a screen with two
pulsing spark frequencies: after a microsecond scientifically fascinated by it,
he split the screen and dove into Soundwave's systems, shuffling through data
in an orderly yet hurried fashion.
 
It wasn't leisurely invasion and hacking: he had no time to enjoy the
procedure, as endless streams of data flowed through his vision, being
selectively ignored and thrown behind.
 
On the outside of Shockwave's mind, Hook stared dumbfounded and slightly
disgusted as Soundwave's subspace released a freaking huge amount of what he
considered junk pieces.
 
“Constructicon Chemist Mixmaster.” Shockwave spoke, his visor split between the
HUD and the outside world “Take heed of these pieces and proceed into
manufacturing a juvenileshell for a newspark.”
 
Hook scoffed, flickering his fingers in the air, trying his best to prove to
Shockwave that he personally esteemed the tapedeck more, as Scrapper caught the
cassette-sized frost chamber where the bee prototype was.
 
“Looks like we already have this one covered up, commander.”
 
Shockwave nodded, totally unfazed by the comment.
 
“Indeed, but the shell I requested is not for Soundwave.” one more crackle came
through his shell, lighting come from within his own seams. “I would have
produced it myself if I had time. As it happens, I am also carrying my own
creation.”
 
Hook gaped. Shockwave the Sterile, sparked?
 
Realisation dawned then on the constructicons, as Hook imagined all the
implications for his team in case they failed Megatron's other bondmate and
lost their leader’s co-creation.
 
With quick and rude gestures, Hook pointed to the pieces and to Mixmaster, who
saluted, contemplated the full spectra of computer pieces on the ground, and
after a while, incapable of making a choice, just plain placed all piecesin his
drum, vehicle-moding right besides Shockwave, beginning to shake, stuttering
that he needed a source of cybertronium.
 
As hell broke loose around and the constructicons searched futilely for ready-
to-use cybertronium in liquid form, Shockwave just calmly dipped his head down,
following with his visor another drop of semi-congealed transfluid coming from
his panels.
 
Nodding at his own brilliance, uncaring for people’s reactions, Shockwave just
plain opened his main interface array and manually removed with his one hand
the congealed, dribbling sampleoftransfluid from inside, into large chunks,
just plain throwing it inside the shaking chemist’s drum.
 
As Scavenger tilted his head to take a better angle at the sight his favourite
commander Shockwave was unashamedly providing and the other root-moded
decepticons just plain stared, Mixmaster suddenly stalled, his drum stopping to
shake, the whole mess inside sloshing itself down with a blurt in its final
rotation, as silence reigned in the room and all heads turned to Shockwave,
only now manually closing the offending array.
 
“I expect the source of cybertronium will be sufficient to the execution of the
project.”
 
Ignoring the shocked decepticons and going back into the split HUD within his
systems, diving further and plunging into the depths of Soundwave's databanks,
Shockwave’s whole mind rippled altogether with the tapedeck's subspace and his
mass-shifting transformation sequence: emergency stasis threatened his own
systems, his newspark once more sending pulses irregularly, as the scientist
started disconnecting from his bonded.
 
Hook stared at Soundwave's recovering and transforming shell, as Shockwave's
visor went off and he fell on his face on the ground, purple medical cable
straining and finally disconnecting from the tapedeck, one last ripple of
charge filling the helicopter's body before unconsciousness took place.
 
In one move, after hesitating for a second before touching the soiled
heliformer, Hook laid Shockwave's shell on the slab, connecting his own medical
cable into his patient.
 
Overriding his chestplate locks, he nearly broke them open, staring for a full
second at the parasitical structure dominating his innards, focusing on his
medical data-flux, finally finding how to jolt the object downwards, making
room for the exposure of his spark chamber, where a fully mature binary system
of sparks rotated one around the other, behind its walls.
 
“Constructicons!!” he yelled, his own HUD split in half “Everyone knows what to
do!! Mixmaster, are you done already???”
 
Without questioning, the gestalt team started working as one, Mixmaster shaking
on a corner, Scrapper and Longhaul taking over Soundwave's slowly recovering
self, Bonecrusher coming to Hook's aid.
 
Their teamwork was so neatly connected that the moment Megatron tried getting
into the medbay with Ravage in tow, Scavenger, on his self-imposed guard duty,
immediately prevented him of coming in.
 
===============================================================================
 
Coming inside the medbay, Ratchet had just evaded Red Alert’s Brigade and
Prowl’s Inquisition, very aware that Optimus was angrily walking around the
base lecturing mechs, making sure to safe himself in, just trying to keep outof
his way.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Keep out of my way you insolent, I want to come in.”
 
“Hook said no one comes in.” Scavenger shook his head.
 
“Well, obviously he wasn't meaning me.”
 
Megatron attempted to get inside the constructicon bay, as from inside Hook's
voice booms, saying that Yes, it included him.
 
Megatron grimaces, as Scavenger fidgets with his hands, looking at him.
 
“Scavenger. I know Starscream brought my twobonded here, and I want to get in.”
he growled, EM-field flaring menacingly.
 
At that insistent EM-field, Soundwave, finally awake, struggling to keep track
of his own release system, prevented Scrapper of putting him under, removing
his own life-support connections and standing up: he takes immense pleasure in
being conscious and kicking at each of his deliveries.
 
Basic carrier-host pride.
 
Besides, Megatron was outside, attempting to invade the bay.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
 
Outside the medbay, ready to smash Scavenger to a pulp, Megatron suddenly
stopped the instant Soundwave came into view, arms folded.
 
Before Megatron stepped inside, the blue decepticon stepped outside.
 
“Soundwave, what do you think you are doing??”
 
“Soundwave: requires Megatron to remain outside.”
 
He tried closing the door: Megatron prevented him.
 
“I demand to be present! Isn’t it too soon? Do you confirm you are
releasing???”
 
“Affirmative. Soundwave: will explain later: should be busy for now.”
 
Unceremoniously then, Soundwave closed and locked the door into Megatron's
nose.
 
Dumbstruck for a moment, the tyrant finally broke into an angry fit, shooting
randomly the first anonymous decepticons that happened to stroll down the hall.
 
Before he could blast the door open, however, the medbay's door hung open and
Ratbat, Rumble, Frenzy, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw had been kicked out by Soundwave.
 
Megatron, trying to no avail to talk to Soundwave, barely avoided getting
smothered by the five, now six cassettes: the tapedeck ignored him completely
and re-entered the room.
 
Finally, counting to ten, he glowered down at the cassettes.
 
“Good, my favourite spies. Be good to your master, and tell me, what's wrong
with Soundwave?”
 
They shared a glance, remaining mute. Megatron patted Rumble's head.
 
“So, Rumble, my favourite...”
 
Ravage growled: hethought he was the favourite! Personally offended, he turned
his back on the tyrant, licking his paws and hissing. Rumble, barely avoiding
cringing, turned one single open optic to Megatron.
 
“Favourite?” he scratched his head “Oh! If ya think so, dad, sure...”
 
Megatron sighed. The cyberbees and the nightbirds.
 
“Yes, Rumble, exactly that human therm. Now, will you answer me?”
 
“Huh.. I guess..”
 
“I'll take that as a yes.” he knelt down, eyeing his co-creation “Why is
Soundwave releasing now??”
 
He growled the question, taking crude hold of Rumble’s arm.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Growling as he took hold of a certain arm, generously delivered to the autobots
by a very proud salesman, Optimus Prime unceremoniously chimed his Prime
Override at the medbay door, strolling in and honing in a beeline right to
Ratchet.
 
“Here. I believe it interests you.”
 
A white left arm bearing a purple medical cross, a decepticon brand, and a
plethora of scratches and hanging wires from purple grime-caked inner seams,
was unceremoniously thrown into the medic’s lap.
 
Optimus Prime, bitter for having been given a wordless ultimatum by the
unusually quiet Matrix concerning the making of a newspark, sneered, currently
finding joy into closely watching Ratchet’s gaping face.
 
“I have no use of it, but you might need a souvenir.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I didn’t need this kind of souvenir!”
 
Hook shook his head at the grime, disgusted, hovering above Shockwave's open
chestplate, holding in hands a spark extractor, slowly guiding a flickering
blue newspark out of the binary system it previously occupied besides the host
spark, unable to take his optics away from the mess littering the outer plates
of the white frame.
 
Shockwave, on his side, locked inside the wonderful world of his own fogged
mind, undergoing the release system overload, was making a myriad of plans
concerning future experiments in sparking, parasitical matrixes, and on how to
easy up the procedure so that a body can come together as part of the deal,
never minding his surroundings.
 
Hook, for once glad Shockwave was not paying attention, mind seemingly away
elsewhere, turned to Mixmaster, still shaking at the corner of the room.
 
“Is it ready??”
 
Mixmaster is seen spitting out of the drum a dark grey body, almost carbon-
grey, twice the size of a regular cassette, instantly root-moding and literally
purging his tanks at the memory of Soundwave’s congealed transfluids rolling
inside his vehicle mode.
 
Ignoring his disgusted gestaltmate for now and turning his sight to the
newspark shell, Hook started the creation’s physical medical file by taking up
a full visual analysis of its compounds, wincing as he held the spark-extractor
above the closed chestplates.
 
What kind of alt-moded microcomputer-Frankenstein was that?
 
He could certainly see the clear influence of Soundwave’s CNA into the twelve
datacables and the unmistakable Shockwave-like single red optic from the camera
head: even for decepticon standards, it was an ugly mech. Poor kid would need a
psychologist. Or a cosmetic surgeon. Or both.
 
“Was it the best you could come up with?”
 
“Don't compl-plain, I h-had trans-fl-fluid in-t-to my d-drum and te-ten mi-
minutes to make it, and-nd it even t-transforms!!”
 
Taking one more peek at the micro-computer mech-shell and its chestplate-
screen, he shuddered: the awful habit autobots had of mixing parent’s CNA's to
make combinations that were neither useful nor practical was a luxury only the
upper class could afford, he pondered as he recalled the disposables.
 
This mixonly served to symbolise that a mech actually belonged to its co-
creators: it happened every time a wealthy autobot couple went to Vector Sigma
and the Prime, in the Old Times, to request for a newspark.
 
Shaking his head, he nodded silently as through his medical cable he made sure
the chestplate-screen scooted open, revealing the empty, open sparkchamber,
approaching the fading newspark closer, slowly.
 
Bracing himself from the jolt and the flare of light as the spark was
practically sucked inside the geodesical sparkchamber, Hook smirked as the
walls rotated one around the other, finally engulfing the blue light inside,
darkening as they enveloped the spark behind the glassy screen chestplates and
he finally disconnected his medical cable out.
 
“One less to go. Scrapper, make sure it keeps stable while I work on Soundwave
now.”
 
Since Hook was the head physician, he was promptly obeyed in the medbay, as
much as Scrapper was the boss during any construction project: the pure medical
reasons why he started with Shockwave’s creation included the fact that his
scanners showed the scientist’s creation was the weakest of the two newsparks,
and the one that could wait less to be brought into a proper sparkchamber.
 
It’s not like they were going to leave it to chance to have Megatron’s co-
creation deactivate because of presumed neglect.
 
Besides, now that he was over with Shockwave, he could genuinely dedicate
himself to Soundwave, his undisputed favourite between Megatron’s two bonded.
 
Turning to the tapedeck almost reverently, he plugged with a genuine flare of
his EM-field into Soundwave’s medical port, pinged for request and permission
to interfere, as the blue mech replied with a positive and just plain opened
his deck, jolting his sparkchamber outside, expectantly as he rotated its walls
and revealed the bluish, scarred spark, and its slightly smaller counterpart
revolving around it.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Revolving around his thoughts, Ratchet blinked at the amputated arm bearing the
decepticon insignia in the middle of its forearm, the Prime smugly folding arms
and glaring at him with the greatest I told you so face ever.
 
“I suppose that now you are seeing the evidence, you are ready for some duetime
in the brig, Ratchet.”
 
Ratchet leered: he recalled very well the day the Prime, backed by Prowl, told
him in no uncertain terms that he would face the consequences in case Strongarm
ever proved to be a liability.
 
“You are not seriously punishing me for an arm bearing the decepticon symbol.
As far as we know, he could have been forced into it.”
 
Optimus tilted his head right with a clear smirk in his optics, as Ratchet
shook away his oldest memory of Orion moving similarly, albeit coyly, in a
wholly different set of circumstances, the day they first shared glances in the
Senate from afar.
 
“Decepticons don’t brand slaves: branding is a high honour for them. This brand
is proof of Strongarm’s change of spark, or maybe he had always been a
decepticon in disguise, which means your medical evaluation failed; now, are
you accepting that you judged wrong the vouch you took for Strongarm, following
me into the brig, or will I have to summon Prowl?”
 
Stalling, Ratchet gripped strongly the arm, digging dents in the decepticon-
branded forearm: he couldn’t deny Optimus was right in his thinking, and he
knew the Prime would lock him, lecture him, and eventually send him out with a
shameful reprieve, but Prowl would follow the procedures to the book and
eventually court-martial and condemn his excised sparkchamber into spark-
prison.
 
So, nodding silently, he gripped firmly the arm, and looking up to the Prime,
walked ahead, leaving the medbay behind.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Behind the medbay doors, Hook had just captured Soundwave’s newspark, taking
care to sway the spark-extractor in eights precisely as the spark spun: the
last thing he needed was a floating newspark in the medbay.
 
Wordlessly turning towards the bee beastformer cassette shell and linking his
medical cable into it, still lacking its final touches and the full
communications upgrade, but otherwise with a fully functional sparkchamber and
basic bodily functions, he made sure to guide the lively, agitated spark into
the open and expectant sparkchamber, nodding satisfied as it smoothly looped in
an eight while diving inside and the chamber’s walls closed, engulfing its
light.
 
The bee shell immediately flared into life, mesh wings flapping and compound
optics going red instantly, a buzz coming from its systems, as it hovered over
the slab and Hook nodded, very glad it required no jump-start.
 
Soundwave was most definitely superior.
 
Handing Longhaul the spark-extractor, he folded arms, smugly proud at a perfect
delivery, turning his face to Soundwave, who nodded back, fully conscious
during the procedure, finally offlining his own visor: he was tired, he was
satisfied and he was fragging pleased of one more successfully online newspark.
 
Minutely turning his scanners towards the unsettling deathly dark grey shell of
Shockwave’s creation as Scrapper gave him the positive, Hook almost sagged in
relief as they confirmed Shockwave’s creation was online, although still
unconscious.
 
Walking to the mechling’s slab, he glared down to him, intent in hard-resetting
his shell and quick-starting the spark into life, unceremoniously freeing his
medical port and about to plug in, getting instantly whacked to the side by a
white bolt.
 
Blinking and staring at the looming soiledone-armed heliformer, he nearly
managed to growl, as Shockwave briefly glared towards the other four
constructicons, pulling rank by flaring his EM-field large once and stalling
their approach in an attempt to aid their medic, finally turning to Hook back.
 
“Chief Medical Officer Constructicon Hook. I intellectually appreciate the
spark-extraction and the successful incorporation, and you can be sure my Lord
shall hear of my positive regards about your collective procedure, Gestaltmate
Constructicons. I shall take measures from now on, however: I have expected for
a newspark of mine in the latest nine millions of years and I will take on any
measures to ensure his safety. You shall not plug into him unless expressly
allowed. Microtron is mine.”
 
Puffing up then, he merely walked out to his creation’s slab, plugging his
cortical psychic patch into the open medical port, selecting the first primary
files he intended to install, starting.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Starting to regret his decision of coming almost voluntarily to the brig,
Ratchet glowered at the Security Camera, that wouldn’t stop focusing on him as
he waited for the cell to be opened and himself thrown in, sitting with his
feet stasis-cuffed on a bench in the brig.
 
Finally, taking his wrench from subspace and slowly throwing it against the
camera, watching it fall gracelessly to the ground at less than ten centimetres
from his own hands, Ratchet growled as the little voice belonging to Red Alert
came from the microphones with a perfect, satisfied laughter, then called him a
decepticon sympathiser, finally going mute.
 
As soon as Ratchet thought himself safe, the faceplates of Red Alert came
inside the room, the Chief Security Officer holding the wrench in hands,
weighting it twice up and down, finally leaving back to his Security Room,
saying something about confiscating the evidence.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Evidence. Now.”
 
Optimus sighed, talking via comm to his bonded who had been avoiding him for
the latest year.
 
“You know very well I have no physical evidence, Elita. The Matrix had been
humming and inwardly wordlessly threatening to bring unto existence a newspark
using my databanks and is requesting my counterpart. I really hope you to act
on your expected role and just plain come here within the next solar cycle.”
 
On the other side of the screen, Elita-1 shook her head.
 
“Don’t make me send for Prowl. He will be very willing to make the Primeval
Laws of the Matrix-Bearer and his consorts be fully obeyed.”
 
She snorted, tapping on the table.
 
“Sure, the guardian dog, send him in. Make the first newspark to come through
the Matrix in the latest millennia to be fruit of rape. What would your
autobots say if they found out you are that desperate and that it is the Matrix
who controls you, not the opposite?”
 
Optimus stalled.
 
“I am not controlled by The Matrix. I merely follow her sound currently
wordless suggestions to the T.”
 
Elita smiled condescendingly: he gritted his dental plates behind his mask.
 
“Optimus Prime, if you prove you are the one really controlling The Matrix,
then I will accept and sparkmerge with you as many times as needed to have the
dreaded newspark created, and will make sure to tell everyone I am happy about
it. Deal?”
 
Unable to let a challenge like this go, Optimus dipped his head in a
battlemasked nod.
 
“If this is how you want it to be, dear sparkmate Prime ConsortElita-1, then so
be it. Optimus out.”
 
Screen going black, Elita-1 punched the controls, gritting her dental plates.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Gritting his dental plates, Prowl opened the Lab’s door.
 
Arms behind his back, staring inside the Lab as Perceptor clearly pranced over
the desk, under a flashy 70’s disco-globe full of mirrors, the autobot SIC
stared.
 
Prowl most certainly didn’t want to know.
 
“Perceptor. Cease this suspicious behaviour or I’m afraid I shall take you to
the brig.”
 
Pirouetting around his axis and pulling the stoic enforcer up the slab and
continuing to dance, Perceptor never noticed the instant Prowl squinted,
grimacing.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Grimacing, alone with his thoughts, Ratchet stared down at the white arm in his
possession, currently labelled as ‘evidence’.
 
Try as he might, he couldn’t come to terms with the fact that it now bore a
decepticon brand, a true brand, not a merely painted symbol.
 
Be rational, Ratchet. Logical. Strongarm was never your standard autobot.
 
He could indeed depict his junior medical officer bearing his purple crosses,
whirling a chain with a hook attached to the end, unceremoniously rescuing, I
mean, capturing test subjects to unethical experiments, hacking them with his
purple medical cable from his purplish innards, siphoning energon from the
dead, cannibalising corpses for parts, all the while preaching with the speech
affectation of a demented scientist and utterly incapable of normal social
interaction.
 
Oh, Primus.
 
How love makes us blind, miserably thought Ratchet, a chunk of his spark
getting ripped out.
 
There was no mistake though.Logic dictates Strongarm could only be a decepticon
in disguise: unfortunately, Optimus Prime was right. The permanent brand on the
white metal proved that.
 
Which decepticon however, he still didn't know.
 
Looking at the arm in his lap, he remembered the disappeared paperweight in the
shape of the Matrix, widening his optics, then very slowly slapping his own
forehead.
 
Strongarm was indeed mildly obsessed in making their Prime undergomedical
evaluation.
 
What if it had been a plan?
 
What if he had intended all along to steal the Matrix?
 
Widening his optics, recalling the lost paperweight, he came to a terrifying
conclusion.
 
Strongarm hacked Prime's innards, stole the Matrix... and left the paperweight
inside his chest!
 
He had no evidence to prove it, but to the Well with it: he had to tell the
Prime about what he suspected had happened.
 
Looking up to the other security camera from his spot on the bench, he screamed
from the top of his vocalisers.
 
“Red Alert! I know you are there! I demand to see Optimus Prime!!”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Optimus Prime winced, physically holding his chestplates together, as soon as
he finished receiving Red Alert’s message that Ratchetwanted to talk to the
Prime.
 
“Not a good time.”
 
The Matrix whined. Optimus sighed, not sure if he meant it to the Matrix or for
Ratchet: looking down his chest, he questioned.
 
“Who controls who here? Who?”
 
The Matrix smirked. Optimus clenched his fists.
 
“Quiet you. We know very well who is the boss.”
 
The whirr of gears briefly threatened to open his chestplates against his will,
and he suppressed it with a command.
 
“You wouldn’t.”
 
Full laughter came into his inner audials, and he couldn’t help shuddering.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Shuddering, Perceptor was unceremoniously thrown in the brig alongside the
flashy mirrored disco-globe, almost over Ratchet’s lap, already stasis cuffed.
 
The disco-globe also bore a sticker saying ‘evidence’. Prowl started droning
through the still open door of the cell.
 
“Obviously it was a ploy of the constructicons to send Scavenger after you to
flood your processors with inanities and finally make your logic circuits
collapse. After you properly defrag, if we prove this disco globe is not a
liability, you are free to go.”
 
Still disentangling from the scientist, Ratchet attempted to stand up, both
falling in a slow heap on the ground.
 
“I demand to see the Prime!”
 
Prowl turned an almost soulless stare at Ratchet, who winced, recalling
Strongarm’s own glowers,and Prowl’s accurate prediction that his JMO was indeed
a liability.
 
Before he could say anything though, Optimus stepped regally inside the brig,
staring at the small crowd, as a security camera focused on him, and he nodded
in acknowledgement, turning to the CMO.
 
“Red Alert told me you wanted to say something. I’m listening.”
 
Ratchet in-vented, observed by all the autobots, including Perceptor. Better
make it quick and blunt, he pondered as he turned to the Prime.
 
“I know where your paperweight is.”
 
Damn, so much drama for the paperweight! At least someone found it.
 
“Very well then, hand it to me.”
 
“It's already with you. In your chest. Replacing the Matrix.”
 
Everyone made sepulchral silence. Finally, Optimus collapsed in laughter,
cackling that this joke was too good to be truth.
 
Ratchet then lethargically unsubspaced his medical surgical laser and pointed
it at the Prime.
 
“No it isn't a joke. I know it now. You were right all the time, old friend.”
 
Prowl stalled, watching with a flat glare at the laser pointer indolently
hovering over Prime’s chestplate. Optimus stepped aside, the laser dot
remaining locked where he previously was, slowly beginning to move to him.
Perceptor scratched his head, and Ratchet continued.
 
“As you all know already... Strongarm is in truth a decepticon in disguise.”
 
Prowl remained silent, not particularly surprised, already taking measures to
make sure Ratchet would get properly court-martialed later. The Prime looked
down at his chest, following the slow-motioning laser dot, from the stasis-
cuffed medic, that only now managed to reach him again.
 
“Yes, Prime, Strongarm stole the Matrix from you and placed the paperweight
inside to replace it.”
 
Optimus raised one optic ridge. Except for forged medics, who also happened to
own special sparkchamber slots for ICu emergency care, only Alpha Trion and
Shockwave had the technical knowledge to install the Matrix, and those two had
been left behind, on Cybertron.
 
Unaware of Optimus' reasoning, as last measure of sanity, Ratchet very slowly
rattled the surgical laser at the Prime's chest.
 
“If you have the real Matrix, I want to see you bring this...” he very
sluggishly caught the disco-globe in his free hand and unhurriedly threw it
before the Prime’s feet “...into life as an Autobot by using the Matrix!!”
 
Optimus raised another optic ridge, forgetting his previous trail of thought.
Ratchet insisted.
 
“What, can’t you control it? Will you prove I am right and the Matrix had been
stolen?”
 
Optimus slowly moved a gear up his processors, recalled Elita-1’s accusation
that he was controlled by the Matrix, briefly checked on both his SIC, his CSO
and the helpless disco globe, as the security camera recorded them with Red
Alert behind it, and finally glared at his CMO.
 
“Of course I can control it. I’m the Prime.”
 
Prowl nodded, satisfied: Ratchet snorted.
 
“If you had the Matrix, then you might, but as it is, with a paperweight
replacing it, I doubt it!!!”
 
Optimus squinted.
 
“This is outrageous.” he gritted on his dental plates “Do you want me to prove
it???”
 
Ratchet snapped.
 
“Yes I do! Do you see this fragging disco globe there!? Do it, Prime! I want to
see you bring it to life!”
***** Bring me to Life *****
“Are you bringing him to life?”

Shockwave absently nodded to Scavenger, currently plugged via cortical psychic
patch into his creation Microtron, as the constructicon hummed besides his
favourite commander.

Shockwave needed to install a series of basic function files into the hardware
of the new shell: Mixmaster’s work was flaky at best, and despite the autobot
touch of inheriting Soundwave’s CNA and owning a myriad of datacables, he had
no other interestingfeatures and literally came online without a single
software ready to function, which explained why he did not react or wake up.

Either he left his creation to learn from scratch like the stupid autobot
nobilitypreferred to, and in this case he would take aeons to become a useful
decepticon, or he would go cold-constructed and install speech, minimal
comprehension and logic thought processes, and a pathway to make sure new
knowledge would always be incorporated.

It would take years for his creation to fully mature, but was still better than
the alternative.

As Shockwave worked, one-armed, Scavenger on tow, on his side, Megatron, just
entered the medbay as soon as Hook told him he could now come, had finished
acknowledging Soundwave’s creation, having helped his first mate to stand up,
brushing EM-fields and raising a hand up, where their creation landed, buzzing.

“So this is the little menace. I expect our creation to undergo an upgrade as
soon as you devise a superior adult cassetticon body.”

Soundwave shook his head.

“Menace: instant incorporation into shell. Full adaptation to insectoid
beastformer frame. Requires no change to function.”

Megatron raised one optic ridge, glaring at the compound-opticed bee. Soundwave
continued.

“Menace: good decepticon girl. Happy with shell as it is.”

Megatron smirked: the second decepticon female ever sparked by Soundwave then,
just like Laserbeak, the first in millennia since their extinction among the
Decepticon ranks with the deaths of Obsidian and Strika.

One single female spark from a male carrier was rare enough; two were a high
statistical improbability.

The more to add to his own awesomeness, thought Megatron as he contemplated the
tiny bee.

Shifting a glance to the side, Megatron nodded thoughtfully at the sight of
Shockwave, currently plugged to his own creation, as focused as an African
buffalo licking his calf and watching for lions and hyenas.

Having personal experience with a certain furious carrier-host, Megatron made
sure to keep his distance: Hook had reported how his second mate tackled him
away from Microtron, presumably having entered full-fledged automated carrier
protocols, making Shockwave a dangerous carrier to be around until the
protectiveness eventually faded a bit and he returned to his usual emotionally
flat self.

To Soundwave, however, with a healthy spark-to-body connection, sparking was a
ride in the park; a new cassette was nothing exactly new. Every couple of
millennia Soundwave ends up sparked anyway. Megatron was used to it.

The novelty was in how fast Soundwave delivered this one, not to mention
Shockwave of all mechs, getting sparked and delivering as well. It had
certainly involved the parasitic Matrix, somehow: he had honestly expected it
to neverhappen.

Megatron couldn't deny he wasn’t secretly proud.

Not that he had been left with a choice.

===============================================================================
 

“You don't leave me with a choice.”

Optimus Prime offlined his optics and opened his chestplates wide, then,
revealing the beautiful, hypnotic, swirling crystal of the Matrix, as Prowl,
Perceptor and Ratchet listlessly protected their optics, and out of nothing, a
blue beam of light left the Matrix, enveloping the disco globe, surrounding it.

A bluish, swirling spark came through the tractor beam from within the Prime’s
chest, finally detaching and entering the disco-globe, as slowly, in between
bursts of blue lighting, the object was finally enveloped whole, aglow,
emitting blinding light in all directions, generating an EMP on a radius around
himself, making every single autobot in the brig fall unconscious.

In the midst of chaos, surrounded by the knocked out mechs, the Disco Globe
transformed into his root mode, revealing a very reflexive robot, full with
annoying mirrors, depicting a badge saying Evidence, emitting his own light
from within, stepping around calmly and recognising his surroundings.

Being the first to return from the world of the unconscious, Ratchet groaned as
the disco-globe shifted his blue optics towards the grumblingmedic then knelt
down, extending him a hand, his mirrors literally starting to glow.

===============================================================================
 

Starting to glow, Microtron’s single giant red optic slowly came online,
flickering on and off: Shockwave, still lacking his arm, connected to him,
showed no outwards sign of satisfaction or lack of thereof at his successful
onlining however, immediately disconnecting his medical cable and droning.

“My creation Microtron. Rise up.”

Nodding non-committally to Lord Megatron and Soundwave from afar, he dismissed
himself, followed by the slightly hesitant newspark, who practically scurried
behind him without saying a word.

===============================================================================
 

Without saying a word, Ratchet stood up, facing the unsettling newcomer,
smaller than himself by half a shell.

“…do you have a name or should I call you Evidence?”

The mech held a smirk, mock-saluting and looking up.

“Technotor at your disposal. How may this humble autobot be of help?”

At such an eager, young, naïve newspark, freshly come from the Matrix, Ratchet
minutely groaned: Optimus Prime was indeed in control of the Matrix and his
theory of the paperweight just went down the grater.

Slowly sagging, Ratchet glared at the stasis cuffs on his feet, knowing very
well what waited him once Prowl awoke.

“Sure, Technotor. You could certainly help me.”

===============================================================================
 
 
“You could certainly help me.”

Shockwave droned at Scavenger, who had followed him out of the medbay, in a
glee: the constructicon nearly jumped at the prospect of aiding his favourite
commander after Lord Megatron – of course – and almost hopefully clapped hands
staring at Shockwave’s newspark, getting interrupted as still right outside the
constructicon bay, the heliformer handed him his energon-dispenser card.

“Constructicon Scout Scavenger. Please take a total of four energon cubes into
my dependences, and reserve a fifth one for yourself. Now my creation is
properly online and out of peril we both shall be finally heading to my
washracks. My door will be unlocked for your particular spark-frequency, so you
may come in to deliver the cubes and my card. Do you copy?”

Excited, Scavenger nodded, quickly patting Microtron in the head then taking
the card and hurrying to gather the cubes, as Shockwave turned to his creation,
walking away to his dependences, being dutifully followed by the mechling, who
clicked his three-digit claws together in visible anxiety.

“Carrier?”

Shockwave kept walking, ordering him to report without turning a single glare,
as the mechling’s optic glowed minutely, his left hand slowly moving towards
Shockwave’s right one, holding it firmly although not being held back, an
inquisitive tilt in his head.

“What’s a washrack?”

===============================================================================
 

“A washrack.”

Technotor nodded.

“Why do you think I need a washrack now, kid?”

The disco-globe mech waved a hand over Ratchet’s overall appearance.

“You’re scratched, dented, and just plain old, mech! You need a wash and a
paintjob just to start with!”

Getting whacked once with Ratchet’s turned off surgical laser across the
forehead, Technotor yelped.

“Don’t Knock-Out me, lad. I’m old enough to be your sire. Now, are you helping
me or not?”

“I was trying to help when I suggested the washracks.” He sagged.

“You know what I mean! I’m a deadmech once Prowl awakes, and I have to leave.
You want to help this old timer? Get me my wrench from the security room and
out of Red Alert’s hands and then I’ll remove these cuffs and I’m out of here.”

“Out? To where?” the disco-globe mech practically somersaulted before the
medic, posing before him. Ratchet just shook his head, pondering that he really
didn’t have much time left.

===============================================================================
 
 
“I don’t have much time left.”

Scavenger was busy, annoyed, and was currently carrying four piled up cubes in
his arms, as he got surrounded by the coneheads.

“Sure you can share these beauties with us. We know your bondmates have their
share of access to the solar-energy cubes, so they won’t miss these four.”
droned Dirge.

“But they aren’t for us. They are for Commander Shockwave.”

Turning white in their plates, the three coneheads shared a glance and left,
running, as Scavenger nodded happy to see how respected his favourite commander
was, leaving the mess hall, gleefully sauntering away.

===============================================================================
 

Gleefully sauntering away, full of dirt and carrying a distinctive stench of
Wheeljack’s inventions and sulphur, Technotor walked by the corridors of the
Ark wholly satisfied.

He had just helped an old mech to cross the street, I mean, cross through the
huge underground tunnel leaving to the decepticon base – what’s a decepticon
anyway? – and to finally seal the tunnel behind him with something labelled
plot device unit (that they had found sitting on a shelf at the Lab).

So engrossed was he in sauntering that he nearly didn’t notice the pair of
black enforcer hands holding him up by his chest, bringing him to optic level.

“Commander Officer Prowl, Second in Command of the Autobot Forces on Earth.
According to security recordings of the brig, you are under arrest for helping
the escape of a prisoner of the Prime.”

===============================================================================

 
A prisoner of his own systems, The Prime awoke slowly, noticing he was under
someone’s care: thinking it could be a medic, he winced then relaxed as he
noticed Red Alert, sporting a huge dent and an energon leak in his forehead,
looking down at him.

“Welcome back, Prime.”

Optimus squinted, not quite understanding: having suffered a small memory wipe,
he vaguely recalled ordering The Matrix to give life to the fragging disco-
globe, but remembered nothing afterwards.

“Where is the disco-globe?”

Red Alert fidgeted.

“You sure you want to know?”

===============================================================================
 

“I certainly want to know.”

Technotor shrugged, stasis-cuffed, his mirrors reflecting a thousand of Prowl’s
faces, one scowl in each of them.

“That old white mech first asked for help to get his wrench – he must be really
attached to it! – then I got to that room full of cameras with a screeching red
mech called Mad Alert or something with finials fizzling, ready to whack me for
trespassing, and what was I doing getting that criminal out of the brig, so I
had no option but to whack that lunatic first.”

Prowl gave him a flat stare.

“…he looked dangerous.”

Prowl raised one optic ridge, sighing.

“Continue.”

Technotor nodded, smiling and flaring his mirrors wide for a second, resting
them back against his plating.

“Well, I took the wrench to that old timer, he seemed quite satisfied then did
some jigamajig into the things on his feet and finally came free, then he
dragged me to some place smelling of sulphur, whacked a poor mech with a
faceplate and two side glowing panels before he could say anything as he went
through the door, got something labelled plot device unit, and then dragged me
out again, giving me the thing and getting me to that tunnel, insisting that I
had to explode it after he went through.”

Prowl stiffened.

“What. Tunnel.”

Technotor laid a pensive hand before his chin.

“Before leaving, he said some decepticon scavenged through it, and commented
something about him being a dead mech already, although he did look like quite
alive to me, despite being old, and that since he was persona non-grata anyway
around here, he might as well join the decepticons.”

Prowl gritted his dental plates, recalling Scavenger and instantly
understanding how Ratchet left. Technotor smiled.

“I have been helpful, officer! Can I ask one thing?”

Shooting daggers, Prowl squinted.

“What.”

“What’s a decepticon?”

===============================================================================
 

“What’s a decepticon?”

Shockwave, still lacking his left arm, holding a mesh, dutifully washed
Microtron’s back plating until it gleamed under the solvent shower.

“We are Decepticons. Turn.”

Microtron turned with a saunter, opening both arms wide asking for a hug,
tilting his head to the right, as Shockwave ignored his silent request and
merely scrubbed his screen chestplate carefully not to scratch it. The newspark
looked disappointed for a second, then giggled as the solvent bubbled up.

“I like this washing thing. The bubbles tickle!”

The kid hummed as the solvent-drenched mesh brushed his plating, and Shockwave
nodded, droning.

“It is a necessary routine maintenance, required whenever you become less than
sanitary, unless self-preservation is paramount, in which case it should be
postponed until safety is ensured. Register this degree of cleanliness into
your systems and aim to keep like this whenever possible. Do you copy?”

Microtron nodded, as Shockwave unceremoniously lifted then carried his burden
under his arm and placed him outside of the washracks, inside the recharging
area of the room.

“It is my turn now. I require that you wait in the room. While you first came
in and I told you to begin washing without me, I cleaned up the berth, so now
it is hygienic enough for you to sit there and wait for me. I will not close
the washracks, but you may not enter.”

“Why?”

Shockwave turned a flat glare to his creation, the insides of his soiled
interface panel reminding him of why he cleaned up the berth and also begging
to be properly cleaned as well before the automated self-cleaning routine can
kick in, as he ignored the question and continued to drone.

“I am lacking an arm. I will take a while to finish and you will wait my
return. Understood?”

Microtron sagged, but nodded, turning on his back and sitting on the berth
cross legged, waiting. Shockwave, satisfied to see he was already raising an
obedient creation, briefly patted him on the camera head, returning to the
solvent shower and promising to call him back.

===============================================================================
 
 

“Call me back? Promise? Prowl! Ya not really leavin’me with dat annoying
newspark, are’ya?”

Prowl ignored Jazz, walking out of the brig, having left his TIC in charge of
their two prisoners, Perceptor, still offline, and Technotor, stasis-cuffed and
still slowly bouncing up and down in his seat.

Passing a hand through his helm, Jazz sighed, staring at the minibot that
managed to measure three fourths of his height, blinking his reflection off the
hundreds of mirrors, now poking the offlined Perceptor.

The things he sacrificed himself for, he pondered, remembering how close he was
to the deadline Prowl established for Jazz to go back into trying to courthim.

It would better be worth it.

===============================================================================
 

It would better be worth it.

In-venting, Ratchet prowled upon the Nemesis, covered with dirt, mud and
foliage, having just emerged from Scavenger’s tunnel: he had to find Strongarm
and expose his situation. He hoped to be vouchedfor and perhaps be allowed into
the decepticons with minimal hassle.

Later he would think of whacking him across the chevron for bringing him
trouble in first place: for now the vouchingsufficed.

Having no idea where he was, he tried to scan his closer surroundings for the
spark frequency he knew, unable to find him. Either he was too far away in the
ship, locked up behind thick walls, or in the worst case possible, deactivated
and the left arm in his subspace was nothing but a grim reminder.

For a second wondering he didn’t want to be found by any other decepticon
before getting to his intended destiny, Ratchet scurried in root mode,
squinting as he spotted the shadow of four paddles and a battlemasked head
peeking from a corner at him.

“Hey!!!! You!!!!”

As the battlemasked face disappeared on the corner, Ratchet ran out of the
underbelly of the ship after it, feet splashing the dirty puddles of water
away.

===============================================================================
 

Feet splashing the dirty puddles of water away, Scavenger, having just come
from his assigned task of taking Shockwave’s room the four energon cubes, had
just returned to his treasuresin the lower hull of the Nemesis, practically
sauntering in glee as he carried his own personal cube of energon, gifted from
his favourite commander.

Already planning on how he would savour his well-deserved prize, he could
barely contain his EM-field, spreading it wide around the corridors, wondering
if he should convert it into gelled treats to chew on slowly, or if he should
just slosh himself fully to the brim, the instant he was ran over by a
battlemasked heliformer followed by a screeching white mech bearing the autobot
symbol and insistently calling for Strongarm to wait for him, for he wanted to
talk.

Scavenger made his best to keep his energon cube out of reach, as he observed
Ratchet seize the confusion to capture the rotary in a tight hug, threatening
to hit him across the chevron if he disappeared again.

Clearing his vocaliser, scratching his head and giving a worried glare at the
white mech hugging him, Vortex blinked his red visor, stared briefly at
Scavenger, then sized Ratchet up and down, snorting and groping the medic’s
ass.

“I wasn’t aware Swindle was still pimping me.” He winked his visor “You’d look
good getting introduced to my hacking cable, autobot medic.”

Freezing in place, Ratchet finally properly stared at the red visored, grey
heliformer with both arms that he was hugging tight and whose hands not only
groped but also fondled his aft, shoving the torturer away to the ground with a
disgusted face, as Scavenger tilted his head in confusion.

Looking slightly offended, Vortex shook his head and stood up folding arms.

“What, were you expecting a different rotary?” he shook his head “Now it’s a
matter of pride. I’ll make sure you’ll have a better time with me. At least I
have emotions, albeit inappropriate, unlike Shockwave, that sparkless drone
Megatron seems to be so fond of.”

Scavenger, until then just looking confused, growled.No one badmouths his
favourite commander!

Suddenly being witness to a catfight, before he could attempt to process the
phrases Vortex said, Ratchet blinked as Scavenger subspaced his energon cube
andjumped the interrogator on the wet ground, engaging a healthy discussionand
rolling out of sight.

 
===============================================================================
 

Enrolling a healthy discussion, out of sight from his autobots, within his
Office, Optimus Prime smirked widely beneath his battlemask as Elita-1 regally
strode in.

“Elita-1. I summoned you here with a purpose.”

By now very conscious of the new autobot, Elita, blasé, aware she lost their
bet, rested a hand against her hip, not losing her poise.

“Yes, beloved sparkmate. I have commanded the Matrix to give life to
Perceptor’s disco-globe.”

She nodded, sarcastic.

“You are such a brilliant mech, dear. Not only you humiliated your ex into
leaving to the decepticonsby proving him that his absurd notion that you have
the paperweight and not the real deal inside is nothing but a fraud, but you
also floored me by commandeering The Matrix, winning our bet. Congratulations.”

Walking around his desk and climbing it, Elita-1 positioned herself legs
widespread before him, ready to move into his chair and straddle him on
command.

“I recall we are due at least a year of absent sparkmerging.”

Optimus then retracted his battlemask, holding his hands on her hips,
snickering.

“We are, aren’t we?”

Staring deep into her optics, he quickly dipped his head down, capturing her
lips in his and literally floodingher systems with all sorts of
Primedirectives, almost activating on autopilot her lubricant releasing
subroutines, a powerlessness that had been installed into her frame as consort
to the Prime that made sure she would be readywhenever required.

She hated the lack of choiceand the slaverythat being a Prime consort truly
was, but right now, specifically now, she had a mix of want and accumulated
spark-energy, almost welcoming the invasion, literally melting right then and
there, recalling how Prowl accused and forbade them of getting intimate into
the Office and surrounding areas.

“I wouldn’t mind getting a fine, Prime.”

Receiving the large waves of her compliant spark’s EM-field, Optimus deepened
the kiss, smirking against her lips and staring at her optics, until he
finally, unceremoniously, broke contact, stood up and walked to his Office’s
door, opening it wide and making a flourish towards the outside.

“I would. Farewell.”

Elita-1 blinked stupidly as the first droplets of lubricant dripped down from
her port-only systems into her own closed interface panel. Optimus cleared his
vocalisers and briefly approached her.

“Let me explain to you like you were a protoform. The instant I brought into
existence my brave newspark with The Matrix, my command has squelched her
spark-hunger, and literally quit the pressure into making you and I physically
produce one.”

Elita-1 gaped, unbelieving, as Optimus motioned with his optics to the door
that she should go, and she just plain left, stomping.

Contemplating his sweet one-year long revenge, Optimus, smiling almost
innocently at her retreating aft, nodded to himself and to the world at large.

He would for the first time in ages recharge in peace.

===============================================================================
 
 
Recharging in peace, curled like a protoform on a tight ball on his left side,
Microtron never heard the moment Shockwave stepped out of the washracks,
already clean, a quick patch covering the stump of his left shoulder.

Contemplating his creation, sternly, Shockwave dipped his head down, letting
him rest and finally sitting on his desk, taking notes on his personal
databanks concerning Microtron’s behavioural patterns, then opening a new file
where he copied the specs of his remaining right arm into a datapad, mirroring
it and starting a replacement arm project, lamenting the loss of the
doubleforged left hand and all its sensors and medical paraphernalia.

Pondering about the impossibility of currently opening up his own right hand
and splitting his medical sensors into two hands, without help, he briefly
turned to stare at his creation, then shook his head, giving up.

Microtron was too inexperienced to do anything yet, even with the proper
programming: Shockwave either needed a real medic to help, or to give up and
install a gun-arm, just like his purple shell back on Cybertron.

Hummm.

Standing up, he recalled he still had a spare, forged hand in storage back in
his Tower on Cybertron, under the guardianship of his purple sparkless drone;
with a temporary arm and that spare left hand installed, he might be able to
split the sensors of the right hand to allow for the recreation of two regular
medical hands, which would be the most logical course of action, given the
circumstances.

Wondering how difficult it would be to call for his drone left on Cybertron and
request for a spacebridge, Shockwave stared once more at his creation, walked
close, opened his lateral medical port with a quick medical override, and
plugged him his purple cable, accessing his recharge centres and providing him
a deep cycle, to make sure he wouldn’t be awake while he was away and get into
trouble.

It was time for an audience with Lord Megatron.

===============================================================================
 
 
Lord Megatron passed his optics with annoyance at the datapad Hook had handed
him.

“What is that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to shun Shockwave? Sever the
sparkbond???”

“My Lord, I never meant that. Just that I advise against any future
sparkmerging with your second mate until we find out exactly how that parasitic
structure, attached to his shell and spark, affected both his and Soundwave’s
sparking. What if we get a brave newspark out of each single merge or couple of
merges? What kind of strain would it bring to Shockwave’s already medically
weakened spark? You don’t want your mate to offline and leave you at risk of
consequences from the severed bond, do you?”

Megatron seemed to ponder for a second, then waved a dismissive hand in the
air.

“Apparently, Shockwave’s Matrix is an impressive beast and it worked
terrifically, especially if you consider he even got sparked in first place.
Quite the feat. You worry too much.”

Hook stared, offended, huffing and stomping out of the place, as the control
room’s door came open, revealing the already gleaming clean, one-armed
Shockwave strolling by, going in a beeline right towards Megatron, bowing with
a flourish, helm and visor dipped down, waiting.

Megatron smirked and straightened himself.

“Shockwave. Perfect timing as usual. Ready to share news on Microtron?”

Shockwave, who had come by to talk about the possibility of contacting
Cybertron to reach his drone and gather his spare left hand, stalled: he had
not anticipated his lord would actually really want to know about their
creation, and didn’t have any official report prepared on this.

Before Shockwave could drone a not-answer however, a loud klaxon roared on the
background and a white and red ambulance bearing the autobot symbol invaded the
room, full of dirt, transforming and literally braking right before the
heliformer.

Unblinking, apparently unsurprised, Shockwave didn’t stir, merely visually
inspecting his former CMO.

“Chief Medical Officer. As you can see, I am busy. What do we owe your
presence?”

He dipped his head in assent, stepping aside and making room for Megatron, who
walked in and growled, grabbing Ratchet by the scruff of his neck, raising him
to the level of his optics.

“Shockwave asked you a question I am quite curious about myself.”

At that, Ratchet widened his optics and snapped his neck, turning his face
towards the white heliformer.

Shockwave ?

Wait.

Hadn't Shockwave been left behind on Cybertron???

Mind suddenly spinning as he briefly scanned the white shell for Strongarm’s
spark frequency, confirming it was notthere, he opened his ancient databanks
trying to compare the readings he obtained to come to the conclusion that…

Oh, Primus.

Everything now made complete and terrifying sense: not only Strongarm was a
decepticon, he was the decepticon, no one less than Shockwave, the first of the
known outliers, the only known mech capable of altering his spark frequency,
and as usual, Prowl was absolutely rightin his calculations and fears.

Getting thrown out of his thoughts as he was also thrown at the ground, right
before the immobile white mech, Ratchet shook his head, looking up from his
position at the undersides of Shockwave’s protruding chest, briefly raking his
sight up, down, and finally resting optics in the shoulder stump, just as the
zimmm of Megatron’s fusion canon approached his audials, close.

“I don’t have the whole day, autobot. What are you doing in my base??”

Ratchet stood up slowly; he was literally fried with the autobots anyway, and
was already about to be smelted at the Pit just for being here at the
Decepticons: might as well go there and shake hands with the Unmaker himself.
What was one more sin or two?

“I’ve become persona non grata among the autobots and so I’m here to join the
decepticons.” He pointed to Shockwave’s missing arm, unsubspacing the left arm
he had stored in “I expect you might be needing this? Vouch for me and we have
a deal. I can even installit.”

He dangled the amputated arm before the heliformer’s visor, subspacing it back,
as Shockwave stared completely unfazed, thinking about the potential recovery
of his left arm, instead of going through the hassle of crafting himself a new
one.

Megatron, observing the silent exchange, aimed the fusion canon.

“You believe you may obtain favour with me by performing service. I trust your
abilities. I don’t trust your intentions: I know what you are trying to do.
It’s useless, Ratchet. What you want is to take the Decepticon Matrix from
inside my Chief Science Officer!”

Ratchet stalled, rolling this particular info in mind.

What was this Decepticon Matrix? Did it have anything to do with the missing
paperweight?

Before he could ponder further, though, Megatron readied his canon to shoot.

“You might have made a good, and by good I mean dangerous, decepticon. Very
well. Since you claim to be persona non grata, I supposed that I should return
your severed head and your hands to your Prime as token of your deactivation.
Who knows. The Prime might even appreciate it.”

At that, Shockwave, immobile and thinking about the similarity of this
situation with his own Empurata, spoke.

“My Lord. May I suggest the most logical course of action for the current
situation?”

Megatron, raising an optic ridge towards his mate, nodded briefly. Shockwave
kept droning.

“The autobot Chief Medical Officer has brought my left arm arm back: it is
ladded with medical instruments, paraphernalia and a double set of medical
sensors and scanners I would sorely miss. If it wouldn’t be untoward of mine, I
would wish to reclaim the arm back. It would be a great waste to let these
medical instruments go, and I am positive that as a chevroned medic and a
scientist I am skilled enough to implant it back myself with a little aid.”

Megatron, pondering, kept aiming at the medic.

“Unsubspace his arm. Now.”

“Only if you let me into the decepticons.”

Megatron snorted, the zimm of the cannon approaching the medic’s audials as
Shockwave stared completely unaffected.

“You aren’t exactly in position to bargain, medic. I can just as easily dispose
off you and retrieve the arm afterwards.”

Ratchet then felt the heat coming from the fusion canon, the instant a certain
monotone voice droned.

“My Lord. If I may make a request. Spare the autobot and throw him in the brig
for now. He might be useful. I could always use a pair of forged, capable
medical hands under my direct command.”

Squinting, Megatron briefly inspected his mate, unable to discern any kind of
inappropriate intent from his EM-field, just eerie neutrality.

“Very well. I am aware you will be getting a new Lab soon. Granted. Make sure
he will be obedient.”

“Do not worry. I have means of ensuring his complete cooperation, my Liege.”

Before Ratchet could protest, Shockwave walked to him and extended his hand.

“Chief Medical Officer. Be a collaborative test subject and future lab
assistant and return me my arm. Do not make me plug in and force your subspace
to release it. You know I would, and you know it hurts.”

Giving him a brief unreadable glance, the heliformer just kept his stiff
position, as Ratchet, knowing when he lost the fight, shook his head, groaned
and finally unsubspaced the detached arm.

Taking the arm with a dip of his head, Shockwave then bowed to his lord,
ignoring the medic and leaving, as Megatron called for Skywarp to take the
autobot to the brig, observing amused the purple seeker come up then disappear
in a VOP through a narrow tunnel.

===============================================================================

 
From a narrow tunnel, Scavenger crawled at the other side of the underbelly of
the Nemesis, carrying a stasis-locked grey heliformer.

He had just beaten up Vortex for offending his favourite commander, and he was
positive his gestaltmates would approve it!

Having emerged right inside Vortex’s own dependences, or better, his personal
torture room, he knew what he had to do, the instant he spotted the decorated
recharge slab full of dangerous shiny trinkets, where the heliformer brings his
victims to, and smiled, laying his victim on the slab, broken and crashed.
***** Crash test dummies *****
Crashed on his side, slowly coming out of a foggy recharge, Wheeljack coughed
up a few gears from underneath the desk where he was currently laid, only to
meet the stern faceplates of..
 
“Prowl?”
 
The autobot SIC gave him a brief nod, rising him from the ground by a shoulder.
 
“Where is your plot device unit?”
 
Wheeljack blinked his optics and his side panels twice, instantly looking at
the shelf where it used to be.
 
“...why?”
 
“I am the one making the questions: was it meant to explode?”
 
“You know very well my stuff is rarely meant to explode!”
 
“Of course. Whenever it’s meant to it never does. Isn’t it just convenient?”
 
“What are you implying?”
 
“I’m affirming you are a conveniently lousy engineer and that I have a place in
the brig just expecting you.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Soundwave. I wasn’t expecting you.”
 
Soundwave nodded, EM-field flat, having arrived in the room and standing by
Megatron’s side: he had just witnessed Shockwave leaving the room carrying his
own arm out.
 
Megatron on his side, dipped his head in a nod and kept contemplating a giant
octopus crawling by the outsides of the undersea base, recalling how the
autobot’s arrival effectively prevented himself of ordering Shockwave to
present him their creation, finally turning to his first mate.
 
“I have read Microtron’s tech-specs, Soundwave. He has your cables. Care to
explain?”
 
Soundwave nodded.
 
“Newspark’s shell: Mixmaster’s craft. Soundwave: always active participant
during interfacing and sparkmerging with Shockwave. Soundwave’s CNA within
Shockwave’s plates: the most immediately available source of cybertronium.”
 
Megatron nodded: he knew. His scientist even made sure to forge mental pathways
elaborated enough so that he could offline his conscious mind during the act
and actually perform on his feeble sensations in a way both bondmates could see
they were doing everything right.
 
If it depended solely on Shockwave’s logic, the tyrant would always interface
with an immobile, yet feeling, willing and consenting drone: Megatron could
indeed appreciate that Shockwave valued enough their bond to have taken time to
develop the automated responses at all.
 
“I thought the luxury of passing one’s own CNA unto offspring is one we
decepticons cannot afford.”
 
Stalling minutely, Soundwave stiffened his joints, ready to defend himself.
 
“Soundwave: superior. Datacables, useful: will teach Microtron.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Microtron onlined his single optic to find himself alone in his carrier’s room.
 
Sitting on the very large berth, he asked himself where carrier could be,
swinging his legs out, jumping and walking to the desk, where he sat, feet
dangling out of the chair, staring at the two datapads left there.
 
One of them was about himself, the other about what he understood would be his
carrier’s future arm.
 
Suddenly getting an idea, he nodded, and slowly wormed out one datacable from
his back, opening its feelers wide and latching them without finesse onto the
first dapatad, his HUD filling with information he didn’t yet understand, soon
downloaded to his systems. Blinking his optic on and off, he shifted the
feelers to the second datapad, literally guzzling all the information in,
getting slightly dizzy.
 
Giggling, almost drunk on the overflow of information, he didn’t even notice
the instant Shockwave came inside the room, carrying with his single hand his
damaged arm.
 
Turning his visor at his giggling creation, Shockwave, pondering he would have
to recalibrate Microtron’s recharging routines, walked close, peeking at what
he was doing.
 
“What kind of reproachable behaviour is that.”
 
Microtron hiccuped.
 
Recognising the symptoms of dataoverload, and staring at the datacable,
connecting the dots, Shockwave nodded, taking one energon cube, cracking its
sealed lid open, and placing it before him.
 
“The fact that you have part of Soundwave’s CNA is a very interesting outcome
indeed. Estate how many datacables you own.”
 
Microtron dimmed his single giant red optic, counting on his clawed fingers.
 
“Tw – hic –elve?”
 
“Fascinating. Soundwave only owns four. Allow me.”
 
Capturing the datacable in his hand, Shockwave felt for its weight, and with a
quick flare of his medical heaters, coaxed its plating open, revealing his
feelers, at which Microtron stared with a tilt in his head, excitedly: he
didn’t expect them to come out without his conscious will.
 
“Cooool!”
 
“It should allow for refuelling, considering your lack of a working mouthpiece.
You shall need raw energy to process the excess data. Now spread your feelers
wide as you dip them into the energon. Gently.”
 
“Yay!”
 
Microtron, practically beaming, jolted the feelers out like a nuclear mushroom
into the energon, spreading it all over Shockwave’s battlemask and visor, as
the heliformer just stared.
 
“We must seriously refine your skills.”
 
“…sorry?”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Sorry! I said I’m sorry! I didn’t know that old timer was dangerous and
defecting!”
 
Jazz, trying to fall onto Prowl’s good graces, made his best to ignore the
disco-globe mech, the instant Optimus Prime walked into the brig.
 
“Jazz.”
 
“Prime.”
 
He dipped his head in a nod to the Prime, as Optimus regally ordered him with
his optics to give room, walking towards the stasis-cuffed and locked up disco-
globe mech.
 
“Technotor. I am here to welcome the first newspark to come from the Matrix in
aeons.”
 
The small mech sagged.
 
“Don’t feel much welcome here. I’ve been used by that rustbucket of a medic for
him to escape, been interrogated and locked up, and no one here seems to like
to rave!”
 
Perceptor then meekly rose a hand, nodding, as Jazz smirked and Optimus cleared
his vocalisers, continuing.
 
“As The Prime, and responsible for your existence, Technotor, I’ll give you a
second chance. Jazz, release him.”
 
“But Prime! Prowler specifically tol’me to mak’sure he won’t leave da brig!”
 
“He was goaded into aiding. I’m positive I can teach him better by example.
Now. Who is the TIC and who is the Prime here? Just release him. If Prowl asks,
I ordered you to.”
 
Jazz groaned, obeying and letting the energon cage and the cuffs go off, as
Technotor rubbed his wrists and Perceptor just stared, meekly pointing a hand
to himself.
 
Jazz, seeing this gesture, cleared his throat, alerting the Prime; Optimus,
taking an instant to ponder, waved a dismissive hand.
 
“Perceptor is not dangerous. Let him out as well. Technotor, you come with me.
I have someone you need to meet.”
 
“Yessir!!!”
 
Technotor then pirouetted at the brig, as Optimus, having been enlightened by
The Matrix to come by to meet his creation, smiled, followed closely by his
newspark.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Followed closely by his newspark, Shockwave did what he was good at and dove
into a new project, intent in refining his creation’s set of still non-existent
skills.
 
“Microtron. Pay very close attention. This is my missing left arm, full with
sensors and important instruments.”
 
Shockwave exposed his own detached arm to his creation, as the mechling, very
curious, prodded the loose wiring with a claw.
 
“You shall undergo a brief anatomical lesson now. Soon, we are undergoing
surgery. You sorely needto refine your non-existent skills, and my arm needs to
be reattached.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“My arm! It needs to be reattached!”
 
Scavenger inspected Vortex’ arm, autistically sitting on the ground, the
heliformer bound on his own torture slab. The torturer winced as the
constructicon pulled wires slowly from the detached arm, inspecting their gleam
like treasures under the dim light.
 
“I… I’m not sorry of insulting Shockwave. I indeed think I’m better at being a
heliformer than he is, and even better at interfacing. I’m yet to see Swindle
trying to pimp him!”
 
Scavenger ripped a full set of cables out, displaying them around his own neck
like a morbid necklace, giggling. Vortex minutely widened his visor.
 
“C’mon, Scavenger, you can’t be that serious, he is just Shockwave, not even
hecares about what anyone says about him, why should you care???”
 
Opening his battlemask and slurping the cable from his neck into his fuel
intake like macarroni, Scavenger burped, as Vortex, for the first time in ages
horrified, despite his own masochism, screamed from the top of his vocalisers
that he was sorry, terribly sorry, the sound of crunched wiring filling his
audials.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The sound of crunched wiring filled his audials, as Microtron focused intensely
on Shockwave’s hand working on his own amputated arm, and the scientist
impassively droned with his pince-transformed, hand pointing out:
 
“Look closely at these structures: I will try to compensate function by
diverting the link to the other half of the neural net connection. Notice that
the processed fuel line used to pass up close and I will reroute it as well.
Most probably the waste fluid cable can be split to be used as alternative.”
 
Microtron approached, looking: the single optic focused on the hanging wires,
clawed hands clicking nervously as Shockwave droned mercilessly on the
adjustments required to make the arm functional again.
 
“Where did you say is the alternativeneural waste connection?”
 
Shockwave stalled, eerily turning his visor to Microtron, blinking slowly,
deadly mute for a full minute.
 
“Microtron. Have you no sense of logic? There is not such a connection. You
were clearly not paying enough attention. I see I will need to simplify the
explanation as I speak. Start taking notes.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Speak. I am taking notes.”
 
Wheeljack sagged, as Prowl made sure to interrogate him on the way to the brig.
 
“I already told you, I’m innocent!”
 
“Everymech says the same: Technotor, Perceptor, even Jazz.” he pushed the
engineer inside the brig, not even looking inside “Now get in and join them.”
 
“Them who?”
 
Jolting his optics inside, Prowl contemplated the empty brig, Jazz sitting
dejectedly on a corner, sulking and shaking his head.
 
“Sorry, Prowler, can’na win’against da Prime.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The Prime unceremoniously overrode Elita-1’s door, stepping in, getting greeted
by a flying energon cube, ducking as it exploded in a tiny atomic mushroom on
the wall and Technotor widened his optics.
 
“Love you too, darling.” Optimus dipped his head in a nod at her “I am here to
present you my creation, Technotor.”
 
She held her contempt and stood up, walking in circles around the shiny
mirrorred mech, staring him almost optic to optic, the newspark being slightly
smaller.
 
“So glad to meet my bonded’s creation. I don’t recall we have interfaced. Who
was the happy sire?”
 
Optimus gritted his dental plates behind his mask, as she kept her fake smile
and confused, the newspark scratched his head.
 
“What’s interfacing? What’s a sire?”
 
Before Elita could reply, Optimus intervened.
 
“Technotor was created using my databanks as basis and there was no interface
involved. As far as I know, the co-creator is no one less the Matrix herself.”
 
She snorted.
 
“An immaculate conception to the Prime! Why am I not surprised?”
 
Optimus glowered at her, pulling Technotor closer.
 
“Elita. You promised you would be graceful about it. Show some respect.”
 
She puffed up, outraged, hands on her hips.
 
“Fine, mommy. Speaking on respect: have you given him his own quarters already,
or are you planning on going decepticon and neurotically bunking up with your
creation?”
 
Optimus, not having thought about it, stalled.
 
He was aware of the decepticon custom of keeping a very close watch on one’s
own creation, due to the numerous threats come from other mechs at their
faction: among the autobots it wasn’t really required for safety matters, as
such, newsparks were supposed to be given their own place.
 
The only problem is, they didn’t have any proper room available, and the
storage closet he had given Strongarm once was certainly not adequate.
 
Unless…
 
Bitterly recalling there was indeed one vacant room, he turned his face to the
newspark, ordering him to follow behind.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Following behind the outraged Prowl, Jazz futilely tried to do damage control
with Wheeljack on tow, as the SIC resolutely searched for Optimus in the Ark.
 
Who the Prime thought he was to disrupt his authority like this?
 
Oh, sure. He was the Prime.
 
Still. It was a breech of security and a break of trust for the Prime to
release his suspects like this.
 
Perceptor, for a start: it was highly suspicious of him to keep a disco globe
around. It was obvious he had to keep detained until a proper explanation could
be obtained.
 
What about the newspark himself? He obviously needed to be scanned to confirm
his origins: what if he had notcome by the Matrix, being instead another
decepticon in disguise?
 
If the Prime had sent Strongarm to Cybertron years ago when he showed up, they
would never have had him, her, whatever, flip sides to the decepticons, much
less their CMO would have defected behind.
 
Prowl was getting progressively tired of Optimus’ ineffectual leadership: the
Prime had too much spark and emotion and too few rationality and logic to
properly abide by the rules.
 
“Prowler, can’I release Heeljack? He ain’t goin’nowere but da lab.”
 
Prowl turned on his heels, growled, glowered, and just plain kept stomping, as
Jazz stared at Wheeljack, shaking his head in an unspoken sorry and tugging on
his stasis cuffs, whispering that ‘he tried’.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I tried.”
 
Microtron sagged, as Shockwave stared at his own left shoulder, medical
scanners showing a repair rate of 70% underneath the silvery scar.
 
“An acceptable first weld and repairwork. It shall suffice to a normal degree
of laboratory strain and wear.”
 
“But it’s uglyand it’s your arm and you’re beautiful and it’s not fair.”
 
Shockwave stared for a full minute at his own creation, intellectually
comprehending yet unable to appreciate the compliment, dipping his head in a
nod as he focused on Microtron’s Empurata-like single-opticed head and his
claws, recalled his own punishment, and finally nodded.
 
“Life is never fair, Microtron. I currently do not care about the scarred metal
or something as futile as aesthetics and appearances. I ordered you to weld the
plating, you did it. Be honoured, I do not let just anyone learn in me.
Consider it a privilege.”
 
Extending then his left hand to his creation, he dipped his head in a nod,
silently inviting him to hold it: Microtron showed a high degree of need for
physical contact and such an obedient creation deserved to be rewarded with
what he liked and wanted, from time to time.
 
Not needing to be ordered verbally, the kideagerly grabbed his creator’s hand
in a saunter with his right claw and a gleam in his optic, nearly cradling it
close to his own chestplate, looking up with an emotion Shockwave couldn’t
identify or empathise with, but would rationally guess could be called pure,
undiluted love, of the same kind he often saw between Soundwave and his own
creations.
 
As soon as a full minute passed though, Shockwave stood up, pulling his
creation along.
 
“Microtron, now I have indulged you enough, you will come with me.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Come with me.”
 
Technotor nodded, practically sauntering as he walked behind the Prime.
 
Optimus, heading straight towards Ratchet’s room, stalled once he saw no one
less than Prowl spreading ‘do not cross’ police tapes all over the door.
 
“Prowl. What is that supposed to mean?”
 
Prowl extended a datapad, mute. Optimus caught it, reading it.
 
“….evidence? Evidence of what?”
 
Prowl extended another datapad, and another: Optimus groaned, handing them to
Technotor, who caught both. Prowl extended another yet, and Optimus repeated
the motion, making the disco-globe mech start piling up on datapads.
 
“Prowl...”
 
“Prime.”
 
Optimus sighed, getting the sixth datapad and transferring it to Technotor.
 
“Why are you putting everyone on the brig? We can’t jail everyone!”
 
“Yes we can.”
 
“Prowl. The Brig isn’t big enough.”
 
“It could be.”
 
He handed the Prime another datapad, labelled Brig Upgrade by Hoist and
Grapple. Optimus made his best to pretend to ignore it before piling it again
at the newspark.
 
“The point is, you are too obsessed.”
 
“No. The point is, you are too permissive. This room remains locked for now. If
you disrespect my command here I am the one who will defect to the decepticons
this time.”
 
Optimus stalled then: he couldn’t keep proper control of the autobots without
his SIC and his perennial Police State. Bitterly, he clenched his fists.
 
“Fine. You win this time! Technotor!!! We are going to the Office!”
***** Office Space *****
“We are going to the Office.”
 
Microtron nodded, releasing Shockwave’s hand and clicking his claws together as
he watches carrier chime in his own spark frequency and unlock the door,
walking in.
 
Peeking inside, he observed the white heliformer give a navy blue mech sitting
before a console a respectful nod, then walk before the gunformer’s bejewelled
throne and heel at a close distance, his own HUD, programmed by no one less
than Shockwave himself, filling with one single word.
 
Sire.
 
Anxiety kicking in as his viewport narrowed, Microtron completely forgot
carrier’s recommendations on proper behaviour and protocol, just plain rushing
in and jumping into a surprised Megatron’s lap, holding his midsection firmly
and clicking against his chest.
 
Soundwave observed from his spot the display, recalling his own cassetticon’s
antics before they learned better, shaking his head, as Shockwave on his side,
not giving away a single flicker of his currently conflicted EM-field or making
any motion to stand up, just glared at his creation, for three full seconds,
droning.
 
“Microtron is an effusive, emotional creature and has yet much to learn. If my
Lord wishes I may take him away immediately and shall call him upon on his
improper behaviour.”
 
Megatron, looking down the amorous mechling yet not replying the hug back,
snorted and waved Shockwave a dismissive hand: there was something refreshing
to have someone actually like you just for you being you, even if it was your
own creation.
 
Recalling how deep down one day he had been hopeful and naive as well, Megatron
unsubspaced a small datapad, practically un-glueing the mechling from himself
and sitting him on his knee.
 
“Microtron. I have given something of mine to each of my creations, and I
believe you will treat this with the spark it deserves.”
 
Taking the datapad in claws and staring down at it, he slowly wormed one
datacable out and was about to latch its feelers into the datapad, ready to
download it in one go, the instant Shockwave bolted from his position on the
ground and clasped the cable with a hand, preventing him.
 
“You shall give our Lord’s gift the due attention it deserves and you will read
it properly with your optic lens. This should only be used to manipulate the
screen. Are we understood?”
 
Raising an optic ridge, unaware of Microtron’s data overload earlier, Megatron
observed the mechling nod once and leave his lap, beaming as the datacable
jolted out of Shockwave’s hand and a single feeler came out, touching the black
screen and lighting it up.
 
Yelping a yay! and running into a corner, Microtron immediately sat down
and begun to read, ignoring his surroundings as Shockwave followed him with his
visor, watching his creation thoughtfully, and Soundwave left his console,
walking to his side, contemplative as well.
 
Pondering he wouldn’t have an opportunity better than this to get them together
in his adjacent private room, Megatron hurriedly stood up and took hold of both
his bonded’s wrists, the three bondmates leaving the premises.
 
They needed to talk.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“We need to talk.”
 
Firestar sighed at the phrase, sitting with Chromia and Arcee on the couch and
staring at an inactive comm screen depicting static, before a single energon
cube, being shared by them, as from the sofa a bound and tied Nautica, tired of
being kept as a prisoner, repeated the request.
 
Rolling her optics, Firestar turned to her amica.
 
“Yes?”
 
“I accept. I accept completing the full sparkbond to become your conjux, with
one condition though.”
 
Firestar rammed her fist in the air, getting cheered by her fellow female
autobots.
 
“Say it out then!”
 
“Not here. In private. These two are too nosy!”
 
Arcee growled and Chromia huffed, as Firestar shook her head.
 
“I don’t have secrets with my fellow female autobots! You can ask for
absolutely anything before them!”
 
At that, Nautica smirked.
 
“Absolutely anything?”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Absolutely anything.”
 
“Really?”
 
“Of course, Technotor. You’re my creation and what’s mine is also yours.”
 
“Ultra-gear!!”
 
Technotor beamed, jumping and hanging himself in the ceiling, as Optimus
sighed, contemplating the turned off disco globe silently decorating the place:
he had no option but to bring his creation to his own Office.
 
He seemed to be agreeable enough, despite slightly too effusive, not to mention
his functional tendency to saunter and want to party: at least here he would be
out of Elita-1’s poisonous voicebox and envious spark.
 
Sitting on his own desk, looking up to find the currently turned off,
recharging disco-globe, mirrors passively reflecting his own battlemask and
optics, Optimus finally smirked, thinking that at last everything was finally
over and well.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Now that everything is finally over, and well. Tell me. What came through your
minds to leave base like you did, sparked and about to release?”
 
Neither Shockwave or Soundwave blinked or moved, both standing up right before
the tyrant’s very large recharge berth. Megatron sighed, pacing around them.
 
“You may speak freely. We are alone. You can make gestures. Even show emotion.”
 
Soundwave and Shockwave shared a faceplated glance, EM-fields flat and neutral.
 
“Soundwave: volunteered help. Variables: not calculated. Risks: unaccounted
for.”
 
“My Lord.” Shockwave finally knelt down, on his secondary mate role. “It was my
fault. I had been surprised by the newspark and went after parts for a shell.
It was not logical to allow our creation to deactivate for lack of a body.”
 

Megatron shook his head.
 
“According to Hook, this extra-fast development of you BOTH had to do with this
cursed Decepticon Matrix, when you sparkmerged, am I right?”

Shockwave and Soundwave nodded, neither showing a single ounce of shame.
Megatron pinched his nose-bridge.
 
“Shockwave: I will be blunt. Apparently sparkmerging with you on your current
state can lead to extra-fast newsparks being released, and Hook advised against
any of us sparkmerging with you, specifically, until we learn enough about this
matrix you carry.”
 
Shockwave stalled: although he couldn’t care less if he interfaced or even
sparkmerged with his bondmates or not, this particular recommendation looked
like hooked on Hook’s own personal dislike of his own self, instead of on true
logic.
 
“Hook is not a scientist and cannot appreciate all the fascinating aspects such
an unusual event provides. If I may speak, my Lord, a casuistic of two
newsparks appropriately maturated into release protocols, out of one single
merge, is logical yet feeble evidence of the presumed interference from the
parasitic Matrix. This unprecedented phenomenon should be properly investigated
under scientific rigour by a true scientist, applying the proper standard
protocols.”
 
Shockwave then stood up, turned and unceremoniously hung his chestplates wide
open, matrix jolted behind and sparkchamber ahead, ready to expose his own
spark for the two dumbfounded bondmates.
 
“Since I am the current bearer of the parasitical matrix, opposite to Hook’s
unscientificrecommendation, I offer myself to get experimentally sparked and
entering release protocols repeatedly, conditions required to reach a minimum N
of events so that the correct statistical calculations are made, improving
dramatically the hard evidence surrounding this eventful happening. Which of
you shall be the first contributor?”
 
And stared at them, as Soundwave blurted static and Megatron
blinked, immediately growling.
 
“Close up these plates immediately! You are not getting sparked for the sake of
Science!”
 
Shockwave tilted his head, visibly pensive, chestplate remaining open,
sparkchamber’s walls rotating and revealing his now exposed spark to them.
 
“It is a very logical and sound solution to prove or finally disprove Hook’s
negative presumption.”
 
Soundwave shifted a glance between a now angrily stuttering Megatron and the
eerily calm Shockwave, who kept droning.
 
“Need I cite, with all rerspect, my Liege, that all my newsparks eventually
produced may be used to further the Decepticon Cause?”
 
Soundwave, knowing very well on an emotional level what it was for carrier-
hosts and females cybertronwide to be enslaved for reproduction, before they
were nearly extinguished, shuddered at the mental image, as Megatron shook his
head, vehemently stepping to his scientist and unceremoniously clasping his
hands at the open glass, violently closing the open plates, as the glowing
spark barely had time to hide underneath the sparkchamber walls and Shockwave
offlined his visor, out of balance and stepping backwards.
 
“I have nothing against natural events of sparking, and certainly all of
Soundwave’s creations and even Microtron are or will be assets to the cause,
but I expressly forbid you of getting purposefully sparked with this matrix
inside!”
 
As Shockwave recovered and just stared, Soundwave, finally out of his stupor,
stepped ahead and placed a grounding hand in his leader’s shoulder, yet turning
to his logical mate.
 
“Soundwave: is positive Shockwave will heed Lord Megatron’s command. Shockwave:
much more useful as scientist, not breeder. Should focus on new Lab.”
 
Dipping his head down in a nod, Shockwave retained a purposefully humbled
stance, mind spinning.
 
Now there was something he could actively plan into and work on. Uncaring to
Lord Megatron’s command, he indeed could practically see himself researching
with all his scientific lack of passion every nook and secret involving the
artefact and the event of sparking.
 
He only needed further medical expertise, he pondered, recalling the autobot
medic.
 
Logically, heeding Soundwave’s suggestion, he would indeed focus in the new
Lab, and certainly find a way of keeping his Matrix very much alive, latched to
an anonymous power source, where each time they needed a newspark, different
mechs would connect through it.
 
He could imagine full spark factories, making decepticons in series, hatching
them in artificial chambers.
 
He could devise a re-enactment of the very Well of Sparks on Earth, under
Decepticon guise and his command, as Chief Science Officer.
 
Fascinating.
 
===============================================================================
 
Fascinated with Lord Megatron’s Early Poetry Compilation, Microtron was sitting
quietly on a corner at Megatron’s Office, reading his gifted datapad, the
instant Starscream entered the room, trying to find his idiotic leader, nearly
missing the silent mech.
 
Jolting back with wide optics, stopping right before him, kneeling down to
optic level, Starscream gaped, having not yet seen the cyclopic drone’s
creation.
 
“My, my, mighty Shockwave! Make Megatron proud, Guardian!!!”
 
Microtron tilted his camera head in annoyance, as Starscream rose to his
height, inspecting his own fingertips.
 
“Stand up. As you must already know, I am Starscream, Second in Command, and
every other mech except for Lord Megatron must heed my orders!”
 
Staring very focused at the seeker, standing up slowly, Microtron cycled his
giant optic’s objective almost closed, processing the command, as a sudden beep
escaped his frame and out of nothing his chestplate-screen froze in blue, then
darkened, and finally lighted back, showing the start-up screen of Windows
Seven Professional.
 
Starscream raised one optic ridge, scratching his head, as Microtron ashamedly
and hurriedly turned off his chestplate-screen, nearly tripping on his own
feet, rushing back to his corner, ready to go back into reading, the instant
Starscream snorted, cackling.
 
“You know something, little glitch. Poking fun at you isn't funny. Hahahaha!”
 
He sauntered to leave, as a dumbstruck Microtron stared, silently bubbling
anger, EM-field flickering, a single datacable flailing out of his back slowly,
worming in the air like a cobra, feelers spreading wide, ready to...
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Poke.
 
Optimus blinked stupidly, waking up: he didn’t even notice falling under
recharge over his desk, again, and kept face down the table.
 
Poke. Poke.
 
“Yes, Technotor. What do you want now?”
 
“Sorry, Prime, your kid’s still hung up.”
 
Finally looking ahead, he met the faceplates of Blaster, then briefly glared
up, to see the newspark still off in slumber.
 
“And why are you here, now, Blaster?”
 
Blaster then handed him an official-looking datapad, silently, as the Prime
read it briefly and pinched his nosebridge.
 
“So, you are really seeing this through to the end. Don’t you have a spark?”
 
Blaster nodded, looking up at the recharging disco-globe, very aware due to the
gossip mill that it’s Prime’s creation with the Matrix.
 
“Let’s just say that now you are practicallya single creator too, you might
begin to understand what it’s like to be in my place.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“But this is my place!”
 
Nautica shrugged.
 
“You said I could ask for anything.”
 
“I thought you’d ask… I don’t know what I thought, but certainly not that!”
 
Chromia then sighed, patting Firestar’s shoulders slowly.
 
“She isn’t asking much. She just wants to walk around freely in your place and
to remain out of her binds.”
 
“But she will run away! She had her optics set on that Skates fellow!”
 
“It’s Skids.” Nautica shook her head “...and what does it matter that I did? He
will never really set his on me. He might not even be alive anymore. Might as
well settle for the only one who ever wanted to kidnap me anyway, my lovely
amica.”
 
Nautica donned her a flat glare, as she shrugged.
 
“Please, it’s not like I have much of a choice. Where else will I go in this
blasted planet? Shockwave’s Tower with his army of drones? Knock-Out’s Mod
Shop? Reflector’s Art and Photography? At the ruins of Kaon’s Gladiatorial
Ring? The destroyed Hallowed Halls of the Church of Iacon? Sunk down the Sea of
Rust? The obliterated Praxian Grounds? The Lawyercon Stronghold? Among the
Empties at old Polyhex? Nearby the Great Smelter?
 
At that, Firestar jumped her bound friend, enraged and screeching she was an
ungrateful, undeserving amica, and she would only ever walk around with herself
on tow, attacking in full charge.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“What. Are. The. Charges?”
 
Optimus pinched his nosebridge, holding Blaster's datapad in hands, as
Ironhide, sitting across him on the desk, folded arms, his grim faceplates
reflected in Technotor’s turned off mirrors above.
 
“The charges include: neglecting your three co-creations, never being around
when they need....”
 
The arms specialist raised his arms up, fuming.
 
“I... we... are at War, Prime! My time is consumed between the decepticons,
protecting you, and the Military!”
 
Which was the main reason why he and Blaster actually grew apart. Optimus
raised his hand, still reading.

“You are accused of never depositing the cassette-support.”
 
“Of course not, all Cybertronian banks no longer exist, where would I deposit
anything? Besides, it isn't like we actually get paid. I'm broke.”
 
Optimus coughed then, quickly turning the page in the datapad with his hand.
 
“Ahem. It also says you don't spend quality time with the cassettes.”
 
“Look, I care about them. I took them that one time into training at the range
at the begin of the War. Ramhorn, that I recently found out isn’t even mine,
was exultant to be allowed to shoot things. I even promised one day he would
have a pair of chainguns. Frag, Prime, you can't possibly believe I'm that
negligent!”
 
“The War started more than 10 million years ago, Ironhide, and you took them
only the once.”
 
Ironhide cringed his dental plates. Optimus continued.
 
“...and last accusation is inappropriate exposure to that... human called
William Lennox.”
 
Optimus went deadly mute, reading the detail of the accusation. Ironhide
stuttered.
 
“But but... that wasn't exposure, the human claimed he needed to empty his
waste tanks in the woods and I stopped at the road to let him go! It isn't my
fault the little perverts kept staring through my windows as he tugged on his
hose!”
 
“...too much information, Ironhide.”
 
He bit on his lip-plate, as Optimus continued, shaking his head sombrely.
 
“According to the three cassettes whose paternity was confirmed, they felt
vulnerable and defiled by the presence of the human in their special day
together with you, and became permanently emotionally scarredafter that.”
 
Optimus flickered his fingertip in the datapad, turning pages, as Ironhide
groaned, recalling Ramhorn, the only creation that wasn’t his, and the one he
actually likedthe most.
 
How much he regretted having never sparkbonded the last autobot carrier-host.
 
Now three sparked creations, one bastard and four million years later, he got
prosecuted for neglect by fraggingcarrier-hostBlaster, through the hands of the
vicious Lawyercons.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Lawyercon Stronghold, Sea of Rust: we see a pitch-black mech with glowing
crimson optics wandering the place, the signature frilly white wig on his head,
a black mesh toga on his back, judiciously preparing his Accusative Defence.
 
Once, Quintessons were the Judges, having created their kind to aid in Court.
Since everyone, especially innocents, were judged all the same and threw in
scraplet-filled pits anyway regardless of proof or lack-of-thereof,
Cybertronians stopped having faith in the Juridical System, as such, business
had been an all-time-low for the latest million years.
 
As he scavenged avoiding the Empties among the dead, it was with great surprise
that he got contacted by a stranded cybertronian located on a backwards planet
called Earth. He suspected it had to be a mighty specialised communications
officer, especially because the message came cleverly disguised through
decepticon satellites using an autobot signature.
 
The mech was good,he whistled reading the arguments. Appellative in just the
right way, playing his emotions very close to his chestplate docks.
 
Typical Carrier-host.
 
He almost shed a tear from his left optic, and he wasn't even aiming to
emotionally compel the witnesses!
 
Cassette-support charges were often very appealing in court. There isn't a
single mech that doesn't go soft for newsparks being neglected, under-fuelled,
under-armoured and under-armed, because their co-creators found it very nice to
frag the delightful, multiple-ported carrier-host, but weren't willing to put
up with alimony at theresults.
 
The lawyercon puffed, adjusting his wig. He was the voice of the innocent. It
was his duty to prosecute these infidels!
 
It was his sparkright to charge 20% as well, he smirked: as the Last Lawyercon
Standing, he re-read carefully the petition, smirking, calculating the amount
of Shanix he would be able to coax from the accused, greed burning deep through
his spark.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Sparkling with deep electrical burn, Starscream crashed at maximum thrust into
Megatron's own room through the door, his left wing bearing a round, charred,
smoking hole, as he screeches and flails his arms.
 
“IT BURNNNNS!!!!! BURRRNNNNS!!!”
 
Throwing himself in Megatron's washracks, the hiss filling the room,
Starscream, wet with solvent, finally brought his face out, leering.
 
“You, Shockwave, make sure the little spawnof Unicronwill never touch me
again!!!”
 
Without ceremony, Shockwave came to the washrack, pulled the seeker's wing down
to his height and brought the hole closer into view.
 
“So his datacables can jolt electrical charges strong enough to burn through
metal. Interesting.”
 
“Interesting? Interesting?? I'll show you interesting!!!”
 
Screeching and jumping Shockwave, starting a catfight, Starscream kicked and
turned as they rolled on the ground, spreading solvent around: the heavyweight
heliformer mercilessly nipped at his wings, overpowering and straddling the
seeker, finally tilting his head and unsubspacing the cortical psychic patch,
crackling static before the air commander’s left optic.
 
“Starscream. If you so far as expand your EM-field to try to brush his, I will
have to show you things from my perspective.”
 
Shockwave gave him one single jolt of energon through his optic, as Starscream
shrieked and flailed his arms in full fledged anger, going berserk.
 
“Horrendous, graceless, humongous glitch! If your little glitch ever try to
come close, I’ll make sure he will regret having ever touched my wing!”
 
Starscream literally reverted the game, changing positions and blindly clawing
the heliformer, as Megatron blinked sheepishly and Soundwave shook his head,
facepalming.
 
This was going to be a long day.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
This was being a very long day.
 
Abandoned in the decepticon brig, tied up with strong traditional cuffs and
stasis cuffs to a chair on the ground, he kept the whole day processing what
Shockwave would do to him.
 
Shaking his head, he startled as if come from a dream, or a nightmare,
Strongarm strolled before him, his left arm roughly detached and brought in his
right hand. He had to speak three times before Ratchet convinced himself the
mirage was true.
 
“I repeat. I require a real medic's aid. Medically speaking, Hook is a
glorified butcher, and Scrapper a well-meaning nurse. The other constructicons
cannot repair living circuits.”
 
Ratchet shuddered: Herr Shockwave considers Hook a butcher!
 
“My Creation Microtron did his best, but his patch did not last a mere catfight
with Starscream within Megatron's room.”
 
Ratchet bulged his optics. Creation? Catfight? Starscream? Megatron's room??
 
“Soundwave was an optic witness.”
 
Ratched blinked: the things about Decepticon High Command he never wanted to
know about.
 
“So you have domestic problems that are clearly not mine. Why should I care???”
 
He shouldn’t but he did, instantly visualising a foursome between Megatron,
Soundwave and Shockwave, with Starscream on a side, immediately shooing the
mental image away, as Shockwave droned a not-reply.
 
“As every mech knows, we are in a Decepticon Trinebond, of which Starscream is
not part, and Soundwave and I were sparked by our Lordand released our
creations at the same time.”
 
Ratchet stalled, turning a slow optic to the heliformer: Shockwave, sparked?
Worse, releasing???
 
Last time he checked, Strongarm certainly had no stowaway sparklets latched,
and as every cybertronian knows, sparking cycles last hundreds of centuries.
 
 
The math certainly was not adding: Ratchet snapped.
 
“So you're a carrier now! Why are you even telling me that???”
 
Tilting his head to the right, Shockwave this time answered.
 
“It is only fair that you should be informed of the circumstances since I would
appreciate to have your capable hands under my disposition, instead of the
clear waste of a good medic, with your head and them disposed off to the
Prime.”
 
Ratchet minutely recalled Megatron’s earlier threat, and hurriedly nodded: he
could investigate this unusual sparking later. For now, he had a more immediate
worry.
 
“I suppose you will then vouch for me. What are my duties and obligations?”
 
“You suppose correctly; I have no logical reason not to require your capable
services. Firstly, rights: as my direct subordinate you own considerable range
of movement and action around the base, as long as you remain a good, obedient
mech. Except for freedom on sensitive areas of the base, and the freedom to
leave the premises, for now, until you prove yourself, practically anything
within reason, and obviously, things that can be provided.”
 
Ratchet stalled. This was slightly more freedom than Prowl conceded
Strongarmduring the first year, donning a slow glance to the grossly amputated
arm and to the patched stump.
 
“Is your arm the reason you require a pair of forged, capable medical hands
under your direct command?”
 
Shockwave stepped closer, lowering his face to the medic’s face level, very
closely inspecting his face, nearly touching, suddenly leading a hand to
Ratchet's medical panel, in a quick move opening it and connecting his medical
version of the cortical psychic patch.
 
“I may also occasionally require a test subject.”
 
Holding a curse at the mind-rape, Ratchet almost screamed the moment a ping in
his systems informed him of an upload.
 
“What the frag are you installing!??”
 
“Your slave program binding you to me, obviously. I cannot vouch for a mech I
cannot control.”
 
As soon as the program was in and running, Ratchet, angry beyond all grief,
lashed through the mental link...
 
...only to be silenced by the letters showing in his HUD.
 
“I installed firewalls in your mind against Soundwave's probing. They provide
automatic fakelines ofthought for my bondmate to read, so he doesn't know your
real ones in first place. I designed them specifically for your frame and
personality, using your spark frequency. My creation was also fitted with a
similar version.”
 
Ratchet squinted, inquisitive.
 
“Chief Medical Officer, I am aware of your interest towards my Strongarm
persona. Soundwave, if alerted, would serve you into a cybertronium platter to
my Lord and Master Megatron.”
 
Nod.
 
“You understand then logically, since I require you alive and working under my
command, why I couldnot communicate you about this firewall before connecting
into your systems and installing it.”
 
Nod, nod.
 
“Apropos, the slave program binding you to me is very real, and ancient,
ensuring complete dependence to your assigned master.”
 
Ratchet gritted his dental plates.
 
“Now, onto obligations: my basic rules as slavemaster:do not miss work hours,
do not try to run away, do not contact the autobots without my orders, do not
obtain or pass Intel, and never disobey, betray or try to kill or overthrow me,
my creation Microtron or my bondmates, nor any actions that might lead to any
of the previous outcomes either directly or indirectly, even by remote
possibility. You are expected to defend yourself as long as it does not
conflict with the first amendments. You are not allowed to initiate conflicts
that will result in your own termination. You are also neither permitted to
self-terminate nor allow yourself to remain damaged much less refuse repairwork
or patches, nor any other means of permanently ending the estate of slavery,
unless expressly released by my direct command.”
 
As usual, no loopholes to exploit. Why wasn't he surprised?
 
At that the medical connection was broken, and Ratchet crashed for what seemed
to be an instant, before returning online, this time unshackled and alone in
the brig, hours later, doors wide-open, and a note in his systems.
 
“Logically, as I am familiar with your idiosyncrasies, as my slave, you bunk
with me and my creation. My room is respectable and accesses private washracks;
Shockwave out.”
 
Ratchet raised an optic ridge. He might have been comfortable once berthing
with Strongarm, but what about with Shockwave and a creation he never saw
before?
***** Before the Dawn *****
Before the dawn, instead of contemplating slumber, at bedtime in his Office,
Optimus Prime's mind drifted to a happy place as he read the 'Book of Primus',
the instant Technotor awoke, bright lights beaming from every single mirror in
his plating, deafening music filling the room.
 
Sighing loudly, the Prime rested his head over his arms in the desk as the
disco globe spoke.
 
“...carrier?”
 
Optimus glowered at the shiny autobot with the corner of his optics, being
solemnly ignored by the newspark, who transformed halfway down from the
ceiling, stretching and sassing around the room, shaking his booty and
pirouetting to soundless music.
 
“We must discuss about tonight's party. Prowl forbade me of ever trying to set
up the Lab again, so we need to find a room big enough for us to fit the whole
fleet in. How about here?”
 
Optimus blinked. Us? Here?
 
“Technotor. My life is under chaos. The Matrix no longer talks to me, My
beloved nephew Hot Rod is a disappointment and decided running away with a
neutral to spite me just because he can, the autobot chief medical officer also
ran away after a fragging decepticon, Prowl wants a brig upgrade and is
currently mad at my alleged lack of leadership skills and threatened leaving to
the decepticons as well, Elita-1 hates me and I fear the feeling is mutual, and
to make things worse, there is a certain creation that takes up all my energy
despite not even being around for a full day yet. Why would I even want to
commemorate?”
 
Technotor stopped dancing, holding his chin and thinking for a while, then
opening his arms wide, and jumping in place, Armin Van Buuren’s Intense
technoanthem playing deafeningly high from his systems.
 
“Because Trance is Life and it would bring a smile up on your plates and behind
this serious, sour battlemask?”
 
He winked, trancing in place waving up and down with both arms to an imaginary
crowd as Optimus pointed a finger at him and shook his fist at his direction,
exasperated.
 
“I see it now. I know what you need! Why don’t you go refuel at the rec room.
You must be hungry, with all the energon you’re wasting in this thing you call
dance.”
 
Not getting the cue, the disco-globe shook his head.
 
“Nope, it’s not dance, it’s Trance. There’s a great difference.”
 
He nodded solemnly at no-one: Optimus rolled his optics.
 
“Technotor. What did I say about not wanting a party that you didn’t
understand?”
 
“What’s there not to want?? I could this time continue from the eighties to the
nineties, what do you think? Remix of Transformers, more than meets the eye!?
It could be Intense.”
 
Optimus sighs.
 
Why the Matrix saw fit to gift him such a party mechling as a creation, the
Prime would never know: it almost seemed like it had gone insane or out of
wits.
 
If only it properly responded him, like she used to do, instead of only sending
cryptic feelings, he might be able to ask.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Asking himself exactly how to get at his master’s room, Ratchet found out it
wouldn’t be a so difficult task considering Shockwave provided him the full
layout map of the underbase.
 
Were he still an autobot, he might have been gleeful at the prospect of
providing them such a map, but as it was, not only he was forbidden of
contacting the autobots, he also happened to want nothing currently with them,
and couldn’t care less: it hadn’t been the way he wanted things to be, he had
not been welcomed with the elegance he expected, but everything considered, he
had been taken into the Decepticons afterall, no matter the circumstances, and
was going to make the most out of it.
 
Snorting as he glared down his own chest, he ran a finger through the painted
decepticon symbol currently adorning the place where he once held the autobot
one, recalling a single true fact in the end: branding was a high honour, and
decepticons never brand slaves.
 
Pondering about exactly whatthe slave program did to him, since he didn’t feel
any different, Ratchet decided to run diagnostics as soon as he finished
getting to Shockwave’s room, passing by a blessedly empty corridor, soon
reaching his intended destination.
 
For an instant wondering if he should knock, he snorted the instant the door
came open at the mere presence of his spark frequency, and a small mechling
peeked up at him from his sitting position on the ground, suddenly standing up
and approaching, clawed hands holding a tiny datapad against his chestplates,
and what could only be described as a tentacle worming out of his back.
 
“Are you the office’s chief medic?”
 
Ratchet squinted at the small mech measuring almost half his height, shuddering
at the thought of seeing a juvenile version of a traditional Empurata.
 
“Something like that.”
 
He stepped in, passing by the mechling and taking a perfunctory inspection of
the room, staring at the double berth in the middle of it, covered by a purple
mesh, then shifting his optics to a smaller, single one right besides it, a
datapad over the mesh, walking towards it.
 
“Carrier told me you’d come to repair him and that you would then stay.”
 
Taking a brief glance back at the mechling, he nodded, unwilling to explain he
was a code-programmed slaveand didn’t really have a choice, taking the datapad
and turning it on.
 
“Greetings, Chief Medical Officer. I am currently busy on an errand for my
Lord. I suppose you already saw my creation, Microtron, who I left in the room
under recharge protocols, so do not awake him. Apropos, this should be your
berth. When I return I will bring your energon rations. Shockwave out.”
 
Squinting at the very awake kidcurrently staring at him, Ratchet rolled his
optics, this time walking to the desk and contemplating the scratched, dented,
patched and grossly amputated arm he recalled so well about.
 
“Is it true you were carrier’s boss?”
 
He nodded, sitting on the chair and taking hold of the arm, focusing on the
shoulder articulation, transforming his right index into a heated scalpel,
cutting through the white metal in the grossly welded scar-line at the
shoulder, right where the purple cross rested, unsurprised to find it was only
surface armour.
 
“But now he’s your boss, right?”
 
He nodded further, cutting through one more layer of the scarred piece of
under-armour and finally reached what was supposed to be Strongarm’s original
paintjob, in black, also retaining a silvery scar.
 
Opening the shoulder’s last welded mesh and assessing the degree of inside
damage, immediately recognising the adaptations already made in what had
probably been the previous repairwork that Starscream certainly ripped out,
Ratchet entered medical protocols and started to work.
 
Pondering he could do very few to improve the current degree of 70% function of
the limb in a hurry and without spare pieces at hand, he made sure to make the
shoulder’s cabling ready for implantation, pulling a congealed string of
processed energon from within the main energon line, setting it aside for later
disposal, suddenly stopping as the very curious minicon, on the tip of his
pedes, slowly moved his camera-head and cycled open his giant optic at his work
then shifted to the string of congealed energon, worming out of his back one of
his tentacles and poking it with a single feeler.
 
“Carrier’s gelled processed energon! This is so gross!”
 
Ratchet couldn’t agree more.
 
“Can I have it?”
 
“If you shut up, you can.”
 
Microtron then beamed and yelped one Yay!,deploying the four feelers out of the
datacable and gripped on the string, suckling it inside in one go.
 
Blinking in near revulsion as he mixed the current sight with the memory of
Strongarm siphoning energon from the dead and fuelling with it, he shook his
head as Microtron finally fully planted himself on Ratchet’s right thigh,
poking with one single feeler out with his tentacle the rest of the shoulder
cabling.
 
“I have a feeling I don’t want to know what you’re doing.”
 
Rotating his neck 180 degrees until his single optic faced the medic, Microtron
blurted a not-reply.
 
“I’m hungry.”
 
And rotated his head back to the arm, looking for more.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Looking for more in life than surviving, Knock-Out opened up shop to find
Reflector, the single unit, knocking.
 
“I’m not buffed up enough for one more photographic session. Return at another
time!”
 
Almost closing the door in Reflector’s collective face, Knock-Out stopped once
the mini-gestalt placed his (their?) foot in the door, entering the shop and
handing him a datapad.
 
Groaning and taking it, he gave it a perfunctory glance, immediately gaping.
 
“Is that so?”
 
Reflector nodded. Knock-Out smirked, re-reading the datapad as Roddy the
Hotcame from within the recesses of the mod shop dangling his multiple pierced
chestplate kibble, peeking at it.
 
“Wow. I never thought we would ever see one of those again.”
 
Knock-Out released the datapad in Hot Rod’s hand, turning to his currently
quite ill equipped shop, since business had been a success recently, and his
currently owned mods, pondering which would be the best to install into the two
prospective brides.
 
A proper, documented Sparkbonding Ceremony was something mechs rarely do
nowadays, but apparently they would soon have one to go.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“One to go!”
 
Wheeljack hid behind the desk, battlemask on, optics off, a hand in each side
panel, waiting for the incoming KABOOM, which never came.
 
Smirking underneath his mask, he slowly stood up, glad with his accomplished
task: his plot device unit II did not explode at assembly!
 
It certainly called for celebration, he pondered, glad for having been let out
by Prowl, who was currently obsessively inside Ratchet’s quarters gathering
evidence.
 
He then called for Perceptor, blissfully analysing samples in microscope mode,
completely unaware he could have been blown up just a minute ago.
 
“Hey, Percy. Wanna hang up the globe?”
 
Suddenly stopping, Perceptor raised his scope up to focus on Wheeljack.
 
“I’m afraid for that we’ll have to ask for permission to Optimus Prime.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Optimus Prime sighed, currently having given up on trying to make Technotor,
who had just asked for his opinion on a few trance samples he wanted to mix
(and to which Optimus couldn’t care less), just sit still and stop.
 
Almost missing Ratchet’s no-nonsense approach, wondering a few hits of the
wrench in his creation’s head wouldn’t hurt, Optimus still couldn’t believe the
autobot medic ran away.
 
How dared he get away from him? Just because he and Ratchet weren’t supposed to
be together anymore, it didn't mean he was allowed to go away.
 
At least nothing hazardous was happening, and they didn't need a medic
immediately. At least the Earth rotates around its axis and the sun, and the
continents still float over the magma. At least no meteor threatens to
extinguish life.
 
At least the Decepticons don't have the Matrix.
 
That was the moment his comm decided to beep, as Technotor hung around,
vibrating in place, humming, expectantly looking at the flat screen, and
Optimus answered the call.
 
“Optimus speaking.”
 
The visual feed flickers and Optimus groans, Megatron's face appearing
onscreen, in a mock salute, snickering.
 
“Cut out the pleasantries, Megatron. Just stick to what you want to say.”
 
Raising an inquisitive optics ridge, Megatron scoffed.
 
“Biting today, are we? Very well then. I just wanted you to take a look on
this.”
 
The camera view changed to a white chestplate hung open, purple background,
showing a golden structure with silver handles, a swirling blue crystal inside.
It then cut back to Megatron's face.
 
“Breathless and startled, Optimus Prime??”
 
The Prime choked over the table. Technotor flapped him with the Book of Primus.
 
“...but.. but.. It's impossible!”
 
Afterall, the Matrix was indeed with him. Optimus even gave life to the disco-
globe with her!
 
Megatron, uncaring for Optimus’ conflicted thoughts, kept his cool, smirking
widely.
 
“Let's just say I've had inside help. Megatron out!”
 
The call died on screen, as Optimus passed a hand over his optics and
battlemask. There was a traitor among them. Thinking for a shameful long couple
of minutes, the autobot leader joined the facts, then turned to Technotor, that
still happened to be by his side, still flapping him with the book of Primus.
 
Ripping the book out of his creation’s hands, he held it against his own chest
protectively.
 
Somehow, Megatron came across an exact visual copy of the Matrix.
 
Shaking his head and remembering the lost paperweight, that was an exact life-
size replica of the Matrix, and recalling recent events, Optimus came to a
distasteful conclusion.
 
Megatron was playing him a prank!
 
Staring down at his own chest, the Matrix growling low, almost rumbling in a
low frequency and very displeased with her host, Optimus almost yelled at her
for refusing to speak.
 
Why wouldn’t she talk? She could only be offended at the sight Megatron
provided. That was the only explanation that made sense.
 
Instantly recalling who had recently left for the decepticons, pieces falling
into place, Optimus facepalmed, as Technotor raised an optic ridge.
 
“I think I know who is the responsible for this prank. Can you imagine who?”
 
Technotor scratched his head, as Optimus gritted on his dental plates,
recalling Prowl’s sound advice of letting Strongarm go years ago, pondering at
the chain of events that took place since then.
 
“I should have seen it coming. I'm afraid we have all been played on... by
Ratchet!!”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Ratchet, contemplating the back of Microtron’s head as the kid looked plain
frustrated at the now clot-free fuel lines, shook his head, unsure if he felt
pity or relief at him having found nothing else to ingest, the instant the
room’s door whirred open and heavy steps followed in.
 
As the mechling practically jumped out of his lap and nearly tripped on the
datacable running towards the newcomer, Ratchet turned in time to see his
master being smothered in a bear-hug, absolutely not replying it, very slowly
turning his head between his creation and the medic.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I see Microtron is up.”
 
A dark grey datacable probing his remaining arm, Shockwave stared down at his
creation.
 
“We must reprogram your irregular recharging subroutines. Again.”
 
He insistently tugged on Shockwave’s dangling chain and hook with his claws,
looking up hopefully.
 
“I’m hungry. Can I have more?”
 
Ratchet cringed at the memory, as Shockwave, mute for the longest three seconds
of history, shifted a glance at the open and half-repaired arm over the desk
with its energon lines hanging in the open, finally understanding, head dipping
down in a nod.
 
“I was not aware this would be a required predicament. Fascinating.”
 
Unsubspacing one full energon cube, he handed it to his creation.
 
“I am not currently capable of providing you with what your inadequately
crafted frame requires, but I am positive this cube will calm your tanks for
the while. Fuel. Do not spill.”
 
Microtron tilted his head, slightly disappointed, but obeyed, jumping to the
main berth with the cube between both claws and dipping one single datacable
in, as Shockwave walked to the desk and took a long glance at the arm, then
turned to the medic.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I am more than ready to have my arm back, and once it
is finished, you shall prepare one of my secondary energon lines to be capable
of reverse-fuelling my creation with my own processed energon, on demand.”
 
Ratchet blinked, not immediately jumping to obey, and called Strongarm’s specs
to the forefront of his mind, a few easily accessible energon lines getting
highlighted on screen as Shockwave still droned to the walls.
 
“Soundwave’s creations are totally dependent on his enriched fuel, their
juvenile frames being unable to properly process crude energon, even low grade.
Whatever they ingest tends to be wasted, especially the high-grade his twins
usually steal and think no one knows about.”
 
Nodding to the medic as he fleeted a glance at his creation, who had already
drained the whole cube and now flopped under recharge on a side, datacable
still inside the empty vessel, Shockwave walked there and removed him from the
berth, placing him in the single’s one.
 
“It is unfortunate you will have to work on sub-optimal conditions however, for
I do not yet have a slab or a Lab ready, but I trust your ability to operate
under adversity.”
 
And flopped on his own berth, looking like a dead corpse waiting for
disassembly.
 
“Your usefulness begins now. Show me what your more than capable hands can do.
I am ready.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Are you ready?”
 
First Aid, standing before the Ark’s main entrance on his own, shook his head
as Blades gritted on his dental plates.
 
He received with sour contempt Optimus’ orders for his bonded to immediately
return from break; who cares if Ratchet and that Strongarm glitch left? How
could the Prime not understand that his First was on break and that as a
gestalt they needed to remain close?
 
“Because if you truly aren’t, I’m kidnapping you away.”
 
First Aid blinked at the memory of the time Blades kidnapped him, blushing
furiously under his mask, shifting meekly on his feet.
 
“Perhaps I still have some time before the next sunrise.”
***** The sun always rises on TV *****
Sunrise having come by for some hours as the decepticon base remained under
perennial darkness on the ocean’s floor, Ratchet onlined his optics, the
memories from the previous night surfacing in a haze.
 
He remembered being commanded to start working, and work he did.
 
Doing very quick job of re-implanting his master’s arm and fusing the armour
closed, Ratchet recalled contemplating the scarred left shoulder no longer
bearing any white painting much less the medical cross, manually shaping it in
the likeness of the right one, as the unsettling, immobile heliformer merely
turned his visor and contemplated the craft, silently.
 
It was a task so menial he could do it with his optics closed, but he didn’t,
occasionally getting lost in the dark blue visor that clearly was not focusing
on anything but the reshaping.
 
Dimming his optics as he shifted on the single berth, facing away from the wall
and turning to find Shockwave now under recharge, left arm in place, he
couldn’t help glancing at the newly established glowing energon fuel line
currently flowing from the scientist into his creation, also silently
recharging, one facing the other in the main berth.
 
It would have been a demure sight if it weren’t for the circumstances: setting
up one secondary energon line to divert it into a permanent plug-and-play
connection involved having access to his master’s main interface panel, at the
upper ventral plates, which basically meant Ratchet worked literally face-to-
face to Shockwave’s blessedly dry and clean port.
 
Very aware that this was the additional double-purpose interface array, Ratchet
did a visual medical scan to confirm what he already suspected: there was no
mistake at the fabrication date, followed by its techspecs with rate of
electrical charge transfer and safety calliper stretch dimension widths, all
matching to date and model, rolling in his HUD.
 
Having confirmed this is Shockwave’sancient, original array, that had been
transferred into the female shell, Ratchet shook his head: the old Cyclops is
indeed even more insane than ever expected.
 
Ratchet offlined his optics and couldn’t help recalling the purple inner walls,
the purple bifolded, dry port and his depressurised and slotted interface cable
(properly and respectably stored, not hanging out like shareware), in the upper
portion of his ventral plates plates, in stark contrast to the outer white of
the borrowed shell, as he worked into repurposing the surface energon line.
 
Obviously, he shouldn’t be affected, for he had seen many ports in his medical
experience, and his share of them during better, merrier times, before
everything went to Hell and he met Orion Pax, and then the war begun, and.
 
And.
 
Back to the present, scowling at the laid heliformer, then at his own
traitorous memories, Ratchet stood up and caught on his half-energon cube,
leftover from last night’s rations, sitting on the desk and starting to drink
it, recalling Shockwave mentioned they had work to do in the morning, clearing
his vocaliser and asking to the walls what would be his orders for the day.
 
Instantly turning his visor ON, Shockwave spoke.
 
“You shall go to the Constructicons and wait for me there. I am not yet
finished.”
 
Scoffing as he fleeted a last glance at Shockwave, the image of the carrier
feeding his creation his own energon, he bowed exaggeratedly, guzzled the rest
of the cube and stomped out.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Stomping out of her quarters, Elita-1 couldn’t stop thinking on the Prime’s own
creation with the Matrix and on him blatantly refusing her.
 
She shouldn’t feel angry, but she did. Who the Matrix thought she was to just
give him a creation, like this? A disco globe out of anything else!
 
Not that she would have wanted to get sparked: she was never the motherly type.
 
Being taken out of the succession line however was beyond offensive: of course,
she knew a sparkbond was for life, for good or worse, and that the Prime would
not break theirs, no matter the circumstances, but still.
 
Were she on Cybertron, she would by now have gone to the Hallowed Halls at the
Church of Iacon in search of a surviving priest, to consult with him, or her,
on advice.
 
How to make sure the Prime would remain invested in their bond, now he himself
said the Matrix is no longer thirsty for them to merge, since she knew very
well their union was a sham from the start?
 
Not that she cared for the bond in itself, but she cared for her current
position, and without the Priestdom around, with only the Matrix and his own
head as guide, she feared the Prime might eventually decide to disfavour her in
place of a new, more desired mate.
 
Smirking as she recalled how Ratchet left, instantly glad he was no longer
around and there would be no chance of a fallback, she walked to her private
washracks, filling her tube with pure desert petrol oil, stepping in.
 
The Prime had left her very angry and she needed to relax.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Ya need to relax.”
 
Prowl kept taking photos of Ratchet’s messed up quarters, cataloguing
everything, doing his best to ignore Jazz.
 
“I could help ya to relax.”
 
Jazz winked: Prowl pointed his hand to the door.
 
“I forbid you of disturbing the crime scene. Keep behind the yellow tape.”
 
Jazz shook his head, stepping back out of the room, this time talking from out
of the door.
 
“Ya stressed out. I can get you very legitimate engex from Maccadam’s Oil
House.”
 
Prowl squinted.
 
“And I can get you to the brig.”
 
Jazz snorted.
 
“Ya wouldn’t.”
 
Prowl droned, impassive, starting to catalogue the pictures and videos into a
security file ready to be sent to Red Alert.
 
“It’s very empty.”
 
Smirking wide as he imagined something else being very empty and needing
filled, Jazz lounged against the open door, arms folded, the SIC turning on his
heels, stopping by his side, scowling down at him.
 
“The brig is very empty, and Engex is illegal.”
 
And handed him a fine, walking away.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Walking away from his master’s room and in-venting once, Ratchet made sure to
enter the decepticon medbay, the Constructicon’s bay, slowly, looking around in
a mix of curiosity and revulsion: the bay is messy, instruments with dried
energon laid over a table without much logic or care, piles of cannibalised
parts on a corner, and two ground troopers waiting to have dents removed from
armour, Scrapper currently working on one of them.
 
Scavenger, as usual on guard duty, exhibiting proudly dry energon-stained
collar of wires around his neck, clearly come from the insides of a living
mech, waved him a hello.
 
“Hi! Nice to see you again. Did you know you look a hell lot like that autobot
medic, Ratchet?”
 
Ratchet held his disgust at the morbid souvenir and rolled his optics,
exhibiting his painteddecepticon symbol (slaves were never branded) and his red
crosses, as Scavenger beamed.
 
“Wow!!! Such coincidence! Not only you look like Ratchet, you are also a
medic!”
 
Ratchet flashed his best smile. This decepticon was so gullible it hurts. It
was almost not funny to mess with him.
 
“No wonder Commander Shockwave took you as his new slave. The likeness is too
much.” he saluted vehemently “Such honour. What wouldn’t I do to be in your
place.”
 
Scavenger managed to sigh, as Ratchet raised an optic ridge.
 
“Would you actually wantto trade places? To serve Shockwave?”
 
“In a sparkbeat. Don’t ever doubt my devotion to... Commander Shockwave!!!”
 
Scavenger instantly saluted, ignoring the medic.
 
Shockwave, appearing behind Ratchet, having just come from his creation’s
presence, recalled how he cut his processed energon flow off the fuelling line,
then disconnected from his creation, receiving the definite ping of request
from the decepticon matrix for fuel herself.
 
Having already taken rations for himself before arriving, he visually dismissed
Scavenger, as the medic looked at his right, stepping aside, allowing his
master to fully come in, paddles rotating at each step.
 
“Greetings, Constructicons: by our Lord's decree, I am to take over a part of
your bay.”
 
Scrapper instantly dented out the poor grounder's armour, generating a screech:
Longhaul and Bonecrusher, sorting parts, stopped: Mixmaster stuttered and mixed
two chemicals at random, generating a purple coloured smoke: Scavenger tilted
his head, confused. Ratchet poked Shockwave.
 
“Do you think it's wise to just barge in and declare you now own a piece of
their place? They are four and...”
 
“Correction. They are six. I am the creator of the concept of a gestaltand
turned them into Devastator, and I am Cybertron's Guardian and Prior, First
Lieutenant – Chief Science Officer, Second Mate and Fourth in Command. They owe
me their current status of team. I outrank them: many times. All facts
accounted for, they will obey.” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Come here.”
 
Ratchet did: Shockwave fit his medical cortical psychic patchcable into his
lateral port, uploading the blueprints for the Science Lab first into the
medic, then into an unsuspecting Scavenger, who shivered, then blinked
surprised as it came.
 
“Constructicons. Unless you wish me to upload into all and each of you, take
from your gestalt link the blueprints I just handed Scavenger, and start
working. I want it ready by the next day. I need one slab, and some supplies
according to the plans set. As my personal slave, the Chief Medical Officer
Ratchet represents my authority and will call me when it is ready. Shockwave
out.”
 
Scavenger saluted, rushing to his gestalt members, to hand them the blueprints,
as Ratchet, resigned, stared out of the window, staring at a school of passing
fish, and Shockwave turned to leave, paddles rotating slowly as he walked out.
 
===============================================================================
 
Out of the main room, Soundwave sat at the controls, keeping tab of all the
security footage of the undersea base and its surroundings, receiving live feed
from cameras and his symbionts, the only one currently still synchronising
being Menace.
 
The new cassetticon was still receiving imprint on her basic functions. While
Ravage was best at infiltration, Frenzy was the best hacker, Rumble was the
wrecker, Buzzsaw was the strategist, Laserbeak as video and sound footage, he
didn't yet know where to place Menace yet.
 
“Bonded Soundwave. I believe you already met my newspark.”
 
Soundwave nodded, typing at the console and sending a silent ping through their
comms, to which Shockwave promptly replied.
 
“I came to request permission to leave my creation under your strong, capable
hands for the moment.”
 
The newspark stared directly at Soundwave's face with his huge camera head, red
optic unblinking.
 
“Shockwave’s slave: busy?”
 
“The Chief Medical Officer is coordinating the construction of the new Lab with
Devastator's gestalt team, at my orders.”
 
Soundwave squinted his optics underneath his visor.
 
“Soundwave: busy. Looks like willing to sparksit???”
 
Shockwave stared neutrally ahead.
 
“I have not meant offense. I tried, but Microtron’s makeshift shell impedes me
of properly force-linking his systems and reprogramming his core and defining
new functions the easy way. I can upload small patches and programs, but that’s
all so far. As such, forced by contingency, I politely request that my creation
stays with you to learn the old fashioned way basic communication skills while
the lab is being built. Once it is up I will need him ready to speed up our
Lord's future research.”
 
Soundwave scanned him for signs of ill intent, finding not a single flicker of
his EM-field out of place, and their sparkbond blocked as usual, being also
unable to read his Shadowplayed mind.
 
Why does he keep bonded to such a selfish bondmate anyway?
 
Oh, sure. Shockwave’s clinically perfect sparkmerges and ever efficient
interfacing.
 
Frustrated, Soundwave kept his position in the console as Shockwave nodded back
and turned on his heels to go, leaving a curious newspark right by the
communications officer’s side, single optic hungrily glaring at his left
shoulder.
 
“What does this button do?”
 
Soundwave held still, asking himself what he ever did to deserve it, as
Microtron pointed, never touching, to the button in his left shoulder.
 
“Microtron: desist. Your objective: panel buttons, not Soundwave's buttons.”
 
If a faceless mech could pout, that would be precisely what Microtron would be
doing now: Soundwave sighed, stretching his neck, cracking his fingers, then
releasing a third navy-blue datacable, connecting it to the panel’s slot, a
myriad of windows popping up at the holoscreen, functions running, as the
tapedeck lounged on his chair, placing both hands behind his head.
 
“Microtron: owns tentacled datacables. Do same.”
 
He awkwardly wormed a single datacable out, the only one he learned to use so
far, feelers wide open, touching the panel superficially and randomly, probing
the slot with his feelers acting like very thin fingers, ineffectually.
 
“Microtron: insert datacable into slot: once inside, latch feelers against
walls.”
 
He tilted his head, recollecting the feelers inside the cable and obeying,
startling as the four feelers met the insides of the slot at the same time,
reflexively recalling them back.
 
“It tickles!”
 
Soundwave, ever patient, repeated the command: Microtron obeyed again and this
time giggled uncontrollably.
 
“Open HUD and connect into ship’s systems. Ignore itching.”
 
The kid cackled loudly, unable to follow through the instruction, as Soundwave
looked up and sighed. Why him. There was a reason he never used his own CNA
into any of his creation’s shells before.
 
Datacables were a pain in the aft to master.
 
Wondering he didn’t want to waste much time teaching that and recalling
Shockwave mentioned the kid could have programs and patches installed,
Soundwave nodded to himself.
 
“Microtron: open lateral dataport.”
 
He kept cackling, not listening; Soundwave then wormed out his own fourth
datacable, touching one single feeler at the kid’s connected cable and zapping
it once with charge, forcing the datacable out of the slot, as Microtron
finally stopped squirming and rested against the panel.
 
Soundwave waited for him to recover, then repeated the request, being finally
obeyed: latching it on the newspark's lateral port, he ran a quick anti-virus
and placed a firewall between them.
 
Instructions for tentacled datacable functions rolled in Microtron's HUD, an
exact copy from Soundwave's. After a brief info overflow, the connection was
cut, and the tapedeck tilted his head, observing the newspark hold himself
against the computer panel.
 
“Microtron: status?”
 
He nodded, straightening himself. Soundwave, stepping aside, ordered him once
more to connect to the panel with all his spark.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Megatron's spark plummeted as his computer panel went haywire, the video feed
invading the screen, thick looping electric crackles coming up from the
Communication's Room, quickly rushing there, staring.
 
“Microtron? Soundwave??”
 
The camera-head mech looked down, ashamed, as twelve grey datacables encircled
the panels, his own shell and even Soundwave's neck and hands, practically
bondaging the blue tapedeck.
 
The navy blue mech was spitting static, his own four cables flailing in the
air, as Megatron shook his head.
 
“I'm waiting.”
 
“Microtron: activated gladiator program for cables.”
 
“I... see.” he poked the slim black and grey cable clearly belonging to the
newspark, raising one optic ridge as the cable waved him a 'hello' back “And
who gave him the gladiator commands for datacables, anyway?”
 
Soundwave kept his blank stare ahead. Microtron stared guiltily between them,
as slowly, one by one, he recalled his cables back.
 
Megatron groaned.
 
Finally hanging free, recollecting his own cables, Soundwave stood up, dusting
off his boxy frame, as Megatron remained, hands behind his back, staring at
them.
 
“You two. War Room. As much as I left the gladiatorial ring, looks like I will
need to take on students again. Ready the cassettes and tell Shockwave to
come.”
 
“Yes, Lord Megatron.” Soundwave bowed his head.
 
===============================================================================
 
Head aching, Hook stared at the walls being built in the middle of his Medbay.
 
“What??”
 
Ratchet turns to see Hook place a half-consumed energon-cube on a slab.
Scavenger turned, waving a hello.
 
“Oh, Hook, welcome back!” he hugged Ratchet over his shoulders, bringing him
close “Have you met him! He looks like Ratchet and is also a medic!”
 
Ratchet rolled his optics. Hook stomped, shoving him from Scavenger's arms.
 
“No, you stupid, it is Ratchet!”
 
Scavenger had a confused look, counting on his fingers, as Hook turned to yell
at the other medic, repeatedly poking the painted decepticon insignia on his
chest.
 
“You'd better explain what you are doing here with this badge!”
 
“I'm Shockwave's slave now.” he shrugged “I'm only following orders.”
 
“Orders?”
 
“Yeah, Hook, don't worry, I was supervising him!”
 
Hook blinked, as Ratchet snickered and patted Scavenger.
 
“Tell him I was doing everything right!”
 
“Hook, he was doing everything right!”
 
Scavenger beamed. Ratchet smiled. Hook bellowed.
 
“Scavenger, you dim-witted light bulb, were he digging out a crocodile-filled
moat right now you would still think it was all right!!”
 
“I like crocodiles. And moats. Can we have one?” the confused decepticon
scratched his head.
 
Hook, enraged, screeched and chased both he and Ratchet out of the medbay, as
the other constructicons cheered, immediately stopping to work.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Overwhelmed with work, completely bothered by Megatron’s last display,
squinting at his prancing creation in the background of the room, ignoring the
battlemasked mech before him, Optimus cursed: he was slagging tired of medics
and their problems.
 
“So, I am here, and asking for medical reinforcements.”
 
First Aid fidgeted, stealing a glance at the pirouetting disco-globe mechling,
deciding not to ask, as the Prime donned him a cold glare.
 
“Which is why I promoted you to Chief Medical Officer, and summoned you, First
aid. You are officially out of the Protectobots now.”
 
First aid twitched an optic ridge.
 
“But. We're Defensor. We're a gestalt. I can't just leave them foreverand
assume the medbay.”
 
“Yes you can, Chief Medical OfficerFirst Aid.”
 
“But but but... don't you already have Hoist?”
 
“He is a mechanic turned basic maintenance medic: you are our last graduated
surgical medical professional. No buts. You are the reinforcements and you stay
in the medbay.”
 
“Please, Prime, at least one assistant. Let me bring Blades.” he shifted his
visor to the side, ashamed “I can teach him to be my nurse. He would even like
that.”
 
Optimus blinked. Technotor jumped atop his desk, played an invisible guitar in
the air, then walked away screeching one YEAH!!! as First Aid merely followed
him with his visor and Optimus finally shook his head.
 
“Absolutely no.”
 
“But Blades is my bonded.”
 
“No assistants. Especially not helicopters.Every rotary mech is insane! The
last helicopter we had around turned up to be a psychopathic slaughterer. There
is a reason autobots aren't supposed to fly!”
 
“Strongarm wasn't that bad once you go past the lack of ethics, the morbidity
and the endless datapads and the droning. He knew what he was doing, at least.
He even calibrated my hands once.”
 
Optimus shifted a side glance as First Aid looked slightly guilty for a second.
 
“It felt good.”
 
“First Aid. Out.”
 
“But what about my assistant.”
 
“OUT!”
 
The poor, white ambulance scurried away.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The poor, white ambulance scurried away through the corridors of the undersea
base, wondering about how to best contact his current master.
 
Not that he wanted to receive a new task, but Shockwave's orders were so
thorough and well-knit that he didn't have loopholes for anything but
refuelling on his ration, recharging, and crashing into their shared quarters
waiting to give him the report on the unfinished status of the Lab.
 
As such, Ratchet, already in root-mode, had no choice but to enter Shockwave's
room, finding it empty except for the default datapad over his single berth.
 
“Wait for my return. I look forward to your slave synch this
cycle.Shockwaveout.”
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Shockwave.”
 
The datapad in Megatron's hands glowed, as the expressionless helicopter walked
in, gathering his surroundings. He had been summoned by Soundwave with the
cryptic information that his creation needed to train.
 
Rumble and Frenzy were sparring, as Microtron watched with curiosity the
exchange of punches and jabs: Laserbeak and Buzzsaw refused participating,
remaining perched atop Megatron's shoulders, as did Ravage, napping on
Megatron’s feet, and Menace currently buzzed, unintelligently flying around
Soundwave's head.
 
“My Lord, may I enquire the reason for this?”
 
Instantly hearing carrier’s monotone, Microtron literally jumped Shockwave’s
arms, getting held by reflex as the scientist looked straight into his giant
optic and Megatron spoke.
 
“Apparently Soundwave gave Microtron his gladiator program for datacables.”
 
Shockwave minutely bowed his head, looking down at his expectant creation.
 
“I am certain our bonded had his best intentions.” he turned to Megatron,
releasing his creation on the ground “My Lord, I politely request to be the
first to fight Microtron.”
 
Soundwave raised an optic ridge, the beastformers couldn't care less, Rumble
and Frenzy stopped sparring and shared a glance, as Microtron tilted his head
to the left, clicking his claws in anxiety and Megatron, rising an optic ridge,
took a long glance at Shockwave’s dangling hook and chain, waving a dismissive
hand.
 
“I can’t see why not. I’d like to see you try.” he snorted, recalling Shockwave
was never able to fight or shoot.
 
Walking away from his creation into the centre of the room, Shockwave reached
for his chain and hook and swung it around his right side.
 
“Now. This is an exercise. Hit me with your datacables. I will take defensive
stance.”
 
Microtron cycled open his camera-optic, nodded, and claws clenched, EM-field
flaring in hesitation, sent one single cable undulating the air and rotating
around its own axis towards Shockwave's face.
 
Evading the datacable with a flourish, rotating the hook and chain now above
his head in tandem with the rotation of his rotor blades on his back and
stepping backwards, Shockwave captured the cable and rolled to the side,
pulling the tentacle with him and yanking Microtron along, both finally
crashing one atop the other, motionless on the ground.
 
Megatron facepalmed as the mechling shook his head to both sides, slowly trying
to extract the datacable from his carrier’s tightly coiled chain, and Shockwave
attempted to sit, a bent paddle on his back.
 
Getting suddenly hit by twin coiled cables on the left side of his mask,
Shockwave came to the ground again, chain and hook getting ripped out by the
first cable, turning to face the three undulating tentacles right above him.
 
Turning his back on his creation, he felt three of his rotor blades get
gripped, idly pondering he chose well in making them detachable, letting their
connectors loose.
 
Getting hit by the whiplash of the three datacables bringing each a paddle
right to his chestplates and limbs, cracking his LED screen chest, Microtron
crashed at Megatron’s feet, the helicopter blades now rotating aimlessly on the
ground besides him.
 
By now having managed to catch Soundwave’s positive attention, with the
tapedeck staring through squinting optics behind his dimmed visor and actually
analysing the sparring, Microtron stood up, revealing a fourth datacable from
his back.
 
Recognising the pre-programmed attack sequence Microtron was about to use,
Soundwave turned to see Shockwave, now armed with his two hands holding his
last unbent, detachable paddle, running towards his own creation swinging it
like a mace, the very instant the mechling captured each one of his carrier’s
limbs with a single tentacled cable, slamming him against the ground and
glaring at him from above, the last paddle flying against the wall and impaling
itself in it.
 
Staring up at his riled up creation, Shockwave, trapped, dipped his head in a
nod, EM-field flat.
 
“Excellent. Now, bring up a fifth cable through my cockpit right into my
sparkchamber and jolt it with charge.”
 
Megatron now bulged his optics, about to step in to interfere, being held back
by Soundwave, who simply nodded and pointed at the two sparring mechs.
 
Shifting his glare to them, Megatron contemplated Microtron get very still,
holding Shockwave’s limbs firmly, twitching his optic and releasing a
stuttering electrical blurt, his now broken chestplate-screen glowing with the
barely readable Blue Screen of Death, finally crashing down with his giant
optic cycled closed, limp on the ground.
 
Unfazed by the event and apparently uncaring to the glitch his creation
presented, Shockwave extricated himself off the now lifeless tentacles, walking
around the room and collecting his rotor blades, as Megatron growled and
Soundwave nodded, knowingly.
 
“Soundwave’s gladiator program: especially tailored to Soundwave’s frame.”
 
Having clicked the last bent paddle in, Shockwave now held his ripped out
chain-and-hook mechanism in his left hand, absently rolling the hook between
his right hand’s fingers, turning to Megatron, who was glowering at him, and
droned.
 
“Soundwave’s datacable program is inadequate for my creation’s frame and
configuration. I recall our bonded never controlled more than four cables at
once, so logically, requesting a fifth to be used brought up my creation into
logical conflict, thus allowing me to leave relatively unscathed, without any
of you needing to resort to force to stop him from trashing me.”
 
Megatron turned his glare to Soundwave, since giving his best scowl to
Shockwave had no effect, and the tapedeck shrugged.
 
“Soundwave: only owns four cables. Never had to program more than that.”
 
Shockwave dipped his head in a nod, unceremoniously turning to face away from
his bondmates, noticing by the corner of his visor his creation booting up,
giant optic cycling open as the startup music of Windows played from his
speakers.
 
“Microtron. Rise up. As you can see, I am no fighter and you require true
training, by trial and error, old-school, to master all your twelve
datacables.”
 
He then extended a hand to his creation, who captured it eagerly in his claws,
sauntering to his side while hugging it, guiding the hand towards both Megatron
and Soundwave, literally handingthem the mechling.
 
“The best Gladiators of Kaon, our Lord Megatron and Soundwave, are certainly
more adequate for your special training than me, and I ask that you remain with
them for the while.”
 
Before both could protest and say “What!!”, Shockwave shook his hand a few
times until his creation detached from him, instantly placing himself quietly
between Megatron and Soundwave, taking their hands in his claws.
 
“I am positive he will not bring trouble.”
 
And dipped his head in a nod at Microtron, who nodded eagerly, beaming and
promising obedience.
 
Megatron faced down the bouncing kid, and Soundwave donned him a nearly
horrified glower as Shockwave, tilting his head, unreadable, excused himself
for the night and left, as the sliding doors whirred open in the room.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Doors whirring open in the room, Shockwave stepped in to find Ratchet resting
his head over his right forearm, snoring in the desk.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I see you obeyed.”
 
Ratchet, jolting awake, startled, contemplated Shockwave staring him down in
the room, and snorted.
 
“Where’s your cute little clone?”
 
“My Lord will stay with my creation for the while.”
 
He extended the medic the detached chain and hook then, as Ratchet glanced
between the protruding chestplate, only now paying enough attention at the
half-bent rotor blades and the dark grey scratches in Shockwave’s frame,
snorting.
 
“Confess, you let yourself get trashed on purpose, just to end up under my
servos.”
 
Shockwave stared, for a full second, EM-field unreadable, hand still extended,
and droned.
 
“Letting oneself be trashed without purpose is highly illogical.”
 
Ratchet, twitching his left optic, snatched the device in hands, grumbling his
way through the repairs.
 
“I swear I’ll never understand decepticon courtship.”
 
Shockwave, turning a very slow social gear in his processors, replied.
 
“Your perspective is skewed, Chief Medical Officer. This admittedly small and
permitted degree of damage in my frame came from Microtron’s datacables when I
voluntarily became living target for his training.”
 
Ratchet blinked as Shockwave unclipped the four damaged rotor blades from his
back, setting them aside.
 
“First you decide giving him your own processed fluids, then you let the kid
just come and scrap you?”
 
“Logically.”
 
Ratchet then shook his head and took on one rotor blade and with the heat
emitters in hands on, manually straightening it.
 
“What the frag did carrier coding do to your sense of logic?”
 
Shockwave, failing to see the logic in not giving in to his creation’s non-
life-threatening demands and needs, turned on his back, allowing Ratchet to
clip the first paddle in.
 
“My sense of logic remains intact, Chief Medical Officer.”
 
Physically focused in the warm hands as soon as they finished clicking the
second repaired blade back, Shockwave rotated around his own axis and now faced
the medic, looking up at him, as the red hands slide up and down the second
rotor blade, straightening it between themselves.
 
“On leaving my creation with Soundwave to start learning to communicate via
datacables, I calculated Soundwave’s pride would result in my bondmate handing
Microtron thedatacable gladiator program.”
 
Raising an optic ridge, Ratchet stared at his master tilting his head to the
right and lowering his left shoulder, rotor hub rotating in his back and
showing one more slot to fit the next paddle, above the shoulder.
 
“Considering Soundwave only owns four appendages, it was mostly logical that
the program would be insufficient for my creation’s twelve datacables, and that
Microtron would probably wreak havoc on first using it.”
 
Stretching his right arm over Shockwave’s left shoulder, Ratchet clicked the
second paddle as the heliformer rotated the hub again to bring up the third
blade’s slot.
 
“On my Lord seeing the débâcle, I indeed counted on the very high probability
he would act on his siring subroutines and call up his creations, including
Microtron, to train.”
 
Resting both hands at the medic’s red hips, right and left, he stepped ahead
once, as the medic then clicked the third, repaired paddle back.
 
“Once summoned to partake on the training, I offered myself to be Microtron’s
living target, guaranteeing he would remain relatively undamaged, pointing up
the need for him to be further trained by my bondmates, leaving him in their
care.”
 
Cockpit glass resting against the medic’s windshield now, Shockwave rotated the
last slot up, wordlessly requesting it to be filled.
 
“As such, I am now unencumbered from my carrier duties and I can comfortably
proceed with your slave synch.”
 
Ratchet then caught the fourth, nearly undamaged rotor blade, straightened it
quickly back into shape and clicked it in, a flush of heat coming from the pair
of black hands currently touching his hipsides, and scoffed.
 
“You fiend, creepy amoral glitch. I can’t believe you planned this all along,
involving your own creation in the process!”
 
Shockwave did a full rotation in the hub, ignoring ratchet's reprehension.
 
“I have not planned the circumstances, but I indeed considered the most
probable outcome. As usual, I am correct. Now, Chief Medical Officer. Open your
medical port.”
 
As Ratchet scowled, the scientist stepped back and tapped on the medic’s
lateral hipside twice, waiting, nodding satisfied at the prompt obedience,
taking his right hand off the red hips and unsubspacing his cortical psychic
patch.
 
Standing up, in the middle of the room, unresisting, Ratchet had been invaded
by the purple medical cable, his vision tunnelling for a second, his own HUD
filling with the twin screen from Shockwave's own systems.
 
“Observe these currently green bars in your HUD. They represent your degree of
need for a proper slave synch. Notice they are as vital to your function as
your fuel levels or defragging and should not be overlooked.”
 
Ratchet, squinting, tried to find the rest of the deception in said progress
bars, for he truly didn’t feel much different from before, as Shockwave,
ignoring his conflict, droned further.
 
“Now, since you did such good work on my arm and even proceeded with my minor
repairs, spoke patiently with my creation earlier and dutifully watched the
conversion of my future Lab, as rewardI will automatically reset your bars to
zero today, no other strings attached, via cortical psych patch, and as long as
you remain so, I will never make you grovel and beg for the daily synch.”
 
Ratchet blinked, still not feeling any different, as Shockwave finished
resetting the bars, keeping his purple cable connected.
 
“Trust me when I say you will not want to have to beg: I am quite immune to
mendicancy of any kind. Now, be a nice slave and get into my berth.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
At his Lord’s berth, Soundwave glowered at the ceiling.
 
“Everything: just perfect.”
 
And folded arms over his glass chestplate, all cassetticons in slots, one
single slim dark grey datacable coiled and hugging him around his waist.
 
Megatron sighed, pinching his nosebridge with his free hand as another
datacable held his other arm, with a near punishing grip. Soundwave kept
complaining.
 
“Soundwave: severely displeased by intruder.”
 
We now see Microtron, deep in recharge, slotted between Soundwave and Megatron,
camera-optic turned off, foetal position, back turned to the gunformer, front
to Soundwave.
 
“Soundwave.” Megatron, summoning all the patience he didn’t have, tapped once
Microtron's cable, coiled around his own left wrist. “Your CNA litters his
frame, so don’t play the jealousgame. He even reminds me of you in a time you
used to keep your cables more at hand.”
 
Soundwave tilted his head, releasing one of his own cables to briefly touch
Megatron's face.
 
“Reminiscence: otherwise welcome, however moment inappropriate. Full of
cassettes in slots; extra newspark around. Enjoyment: Impossible.”
 
Megatron shook his head and smirked, as the mechling slouched himself further
into Soundwave's arm.
 
“See, Soundwave. He even likes you. What can you possibly have against it?”
***** Sleeping with the enemy *****
“I have everything against it!”
 
Ratchet refused moving, as Shockwave stared at him, mute for three seconds.
 
“I have just complimented you on being a good slave, and I strongly advise
against refusing to obey my direct order.”
 
Shockwave then tuggedon the cortical psychic pathto remind him of obeying, as
Ratchet growled, back resting against the side of the berth.
 
“Is it really necessary?”
 
Pushing Ratchet lightly and making him sit then lay on his back on the memory
mesh, Shockwave crawled over him, unashamedly straddling his white thighs,
black hands running slowly up, heat emitters turned on and ghosting over his
red interface panels, finally gripping back into the red abdominal plates.
 
“My interest is this impending event is scientific in nature.”
 
Ratchet raised an optic ridge, squinting as in a single move the heliformer
moved up, slotting his wide aft comfortably over the medic’s interface panels
and grinding, as Ratchet held his in-venting, finally managing to hoarse
through the next phrase.
 
“Doesn’t look much scientific from my perspective, master.”
 
Shockwave tilted his head left, amazingly unaffected, right hand trailing up
and reaching Ratchet's neck, lifting his chin up and contemplating the visible
fuel lines going into his head, fingertips grazing them down back into his
chestplates and the painted decepticon symbol, tracing the single glyph of the
Science caste over it, as his black fingers were followed by a set of hungry
blue optics.
 
“Your perspective is once more skewed, Chief Medical Officer, but I shall
enlighten you. I have need of scientific medical data you have deep inside your
core, and I shall access it, either you want it or not.”
 
At that Ratchet snorted, contemplating Shockwave’s straddling position and
fighting the urge to just clasp his red hands over the plentiful aft.
 
“Insidious glitch, can’t you just hack in and take whatever you want?”
 
Shockwave, not caring about being accused of a fact, droned a not-reply and
deliberately placed the medic’s hands on his own aft.
 
“I am taking what I want.”
 
Ratchet snorted, hands burning as they touched the white plating, recalling how
his master lead his bondmates along, manipulating them into taking his creation
away, savouring the mental convolutions Shockwave went through just to get him
in his berth.
 
“Now. I am currently connected to your medical port. Complete the loop into
mine and connect me with your medical cable. I am ready.”
 
Despite the fact the decepticon scientist apparently wanted nothing but an
extended medical connection, Ratchet, hands still holding Shockwave’s hips,
finally shook his head in a negative, as his master stared, unaffected.
 
“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Our firewalls and anti-viruses are up to date.
Our ports and medical cables, fully compatible. Our systems, medically clean. I
fail to see the logic in your denial.”
 
Ratchet shot daggers from his optics at his master: he would rather not be in
this particular position right now, or better, would rather be, but not in this
particular circumstance. As if reading his thoughts, Shockwave droned further.
 
“I know you understand why I have firewalled your mind. As mechs of Science and
equals in Caste, it would not do to have Soundwave probing on you, not when we
are meant to exchange data through our connections. My bondmate is not a
scientist, and albeit intelligent enough, Soundwave would not comprehend, and
would certainly misinterpretthe event.”
 
“I can’t blame Soundwave, even Iam misinterpreting the event!”
 
Shockwave then unceremoniously opened his left hand in a clawing motion,
transforming all his fingertips into bladed cybertronium microsurgical
scalpels, warming them up and digging his fingers like hot knives in butter
into the medic’s lateral right hip and forcibly reaching Ratchet’s medical
cable, pulling it out through the debris with a punishing grip, as the autobot
medic suppressed a scream.
 
“Chief Medical Officer: you do not comprehend the position you are in. I can
still make this connection objectively unpleasant.”
 
At that, the decepticon quickly connected the energon-dripping medical cable
into his own port, completing the loop, visor dimming involuntarily as his
download begun.
 
“You should be grateful, however, that I have respect towards your usefulness,
and decided that your collaboration would be more thorough with positive
stimulus.”
 
Shockwave then turned on his anaesthetising heatwave emitters, loosening his
own hand plating and carefully, slowly reached back the damaged right hip-
plates, nullifying the pain he himself caused, spreading the numbness wide, as
he rolled his hips over the medic’s, slowly.
 
“Oh, Primus.” whispered the medic, sensory net ablaze with heat and the sudden
lack of pain.
 
“Primus is hardly the correct designation.” he monotoned, increasing the heat.
 
Ratchet, blue optics dilated to a slight rim, shell relaxing against his will,
finally let his firewalls go, systems being systematically invaded by
Shockwave’s relentless hacking.
 
“I can be very indulgent, Chief Medical Officer, and you currently do deserve
it.”
 
Flat on his back on the berth, the very welcome weight of the heliformer
grinding over his array and enticing his interface cable to attempt to
pressurise, medically locked inside slot and behind his plating, Ratchet was
currently unable to leave position or do anything about it, optics off, wholly
numbed, shell-shocked and almost drugged in delight.
 
“Lay back and enjoy it.”
 
Staring down, merciless in his logic, Shockwave impassively uncoiled his chain-
and-hook, looped it around Ratchet’s neck and pulled the unresisting medic up,
battlemask to face, in his sitting position, nuzzling against the crook of his
neck, dimming down then finally turning his visor off.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Off to the Science Lab, pledging with Wheeljack and Perceptor for help in the
medbay, First Aid was on his knees.
 
“Please?”
 
Wheeljack, hand in chin, stared, very thoughtful.
 
“Anything?”
 
First Aid shuddered.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
 
Shuddering, at the brink of a thundering, data overload, Ratchet was suddenly
disconnected from the data and electrical loop he had been locked into with
Shockwave.
 
Still nearly floating, as if in out of body experience, not exactly crashing,
he detachedly onlined his optics back and observed a completely unfazed
Shockwave leaving his previously straddling position and walking calmly to the
door, opening it to find and take a certain mechling in arms, getting enveloped
by four dark grey datacables at the same time in a tight hug.
 
“Microtron, what is the matter? Why are you not with our Lord?”
 
The small mech grumbled something about having a nightmare and being hungry,
tightening further his cables around his carrier’s midsection. Shockwave
nodded, quickly cradling the mechling and putting him right besides Ratchet at
the main berth and connecting the cortical psychic patch, in seconds providing
his creation with instant sleep.
 
Once the grey mech had finally released his cables from carrier, embracing his
own midsection and limbs instead, visibly relaxing, the heliformer disconnected
from the newspark, then in a single brutish motion shoved the still numbed
medic at the extra berth, placing one idle hand over Ratchet's chestplate.
 
“Where did we stop, Chief Medical Officer?”
 
Not awaiting any answer, Shockwave unceremoniously connected the purple medical
cable on the medic, and Ratchet's own cable on his own very purplish medical
port, looping the circuit back.
 
“Yes. I remember now.”
 
He force-crashed Ratchet's HUD, bringing the autobot immediately to darkness
and silence.
 
===============================================================================
 

Darkness. Silence.
 
Blissful silence.
 
Soundwave couldn't believe his luck when Microtron had awoken screeching that a
sparkeater was out to get him, spreading his dozen datacables both at him and
Megatron.
 
After carefully extracting themselves off the nightmarish Medusa, he convinced
Megatron the newspark shouldn't recharge away from his carrier yet, standing
up, delivering him besides Shockwave's room, and sauntering away from there
even before the drowsy kid opened the door.
 
Kicking his cassettes out, including a very well recharged buzzing little bee,
he ordered them to remain in his own room, taking care of their younger sister
until Soundwave's return, and finally, finally, invaded Megatron's room back,
locking the door on his back, and before his liege could protest,
literallyjumped him, standing optic to visor, holding him hostage by two
datacables to his waist as he straddled his hip-plates.
 
“Microtron: delivered to carrier. Cassettes: recharged and released. Soundwave:
very empty.”
 
Megatron smirked, holding his face, bringing his battlemask close to his own
face, at kissing distance.
 
“Is that so? And how could I help your emptiness, Soundwave?”
 
“Soundwave: wouldn't mind getting full.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Full of all kinds of medically relevant data from Ratchet that he managed to
download during the medic's data overload, Shockwave reviewed his stolen
databanks.
 
Obviously he would need much more info still, but so far, very good stuff
indeed. He could really work with some of what he copied. There were even loose
details on the medical info concerning a certain Matrix-bearer Prime called
Optimus, former Orion Pax, details that might prove useful into Shockwave's
future Decepticon Spark Creating Project – or so – he didn't yet have a name
for it, but it would be a monumental project, revolutionary, to allow for the
fast production of warriors independently of any of Primus’ will.
 
Having by now welded and fixed Ratchet’s right hip-plates, absently caressing
the top of Microtron's camera head, like a villain would to a cherished white
cat, dutifully laid besides his creation, Shockwave was now partially enveloped
by two grey datacables, his own purple medical cable connected to his
newspark's correspondent port, making sure he would get enough rest.
 
The kid certainly would need further subroutines and variables installed,
before complete recharge independence would take place.
 
Turning his head to the extra berth, he observed unconcerned the medic
groaning, holding his own head and checking on his hip-plates to find them
already patched with greyish-white foil.
 
“Frag it. I've been hit by a truck. And I have the white paint transfers in my
hip-plates to prove.”
 
“I believe it had been a long time a truck doesn't hit you.” Shockwave absently
nodded “It would be more correct to say it had been a helicopter, Ratchet. I
had analogous red paint transferral, already resolved. My private washracks are
available for your mandatory ablution.”
 
Blinking, he turned to the decepticon currently embraced by dark grey cables on
the other berth.
 
“How dare you remind me of my own memories of the Prime? When did your clone
get in? Did he get to see anything??”
 
Shockwave, petting his creation, ignored the medic, who snapped.
 
“Frag you, Shockwave, he’s a newspark, you’re a monster for exposing him to
this! I should be mad that you even mentioned Optimus!” he spared a glance to
the recharging newspark “Despite you being an awful parent, the only thing
redeeming you so far is you indeed seem to take care of your creation.”
 
“Unmistakably. I am a responsible mech.”
 
“You are a bastard, that's what you are.”
 
“A responsible bastard, then. My intent for myself was exclusively scientific
in nature and you know it. I have arrangements for the day. Wash.”
 
Shockwave nodded to himself, pointing to the washrack. Grumbling, Ratchet went.
 
“Once you are over, and Microtron had at least two more hours of recharge, we
are heading to the Constructicon Bay. I require my Lab ready.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Ready?”
 
First Aid nearly whimpered.
 
Of course he wasn't ready.
 
“Please, not this.”
 
“You said you’d be good.” Wheeljack interjected.
 
“Are you sure there isn't another way?”
 
“Progress requires it! For Science!” Perceptor agreed.
 
“But... will I have to archive all those datapads???”
 
We see then First Aid staring dejected at a big pile of datapads at the Science
Lab, littering the corners of the room up to the walls.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The last wall was set by the constructicons into the small portion of the
medbay now turned into Shockwave's Laboratory.
 
Having just released Microtron from recharge, making sure to order him to
remain at public areas where other mechs would often come by and he would never
be lonely with anyone, for extra security while he went to work, Shockwave came
inside his future Lab, followed by his personal slave, hands clasped behind his
back, shoulders high, feet slightly apart, paddles very slowly rotating
counter-clockwise on his rotor, as he started marching in.
 
“Constructicons.” he walked past their 'head surgeon', nodding once. “Hook. You
have produced an acceptable craft. The Decepticon Cause acknowledges your
effort.”
 
Shockwave dismissed them then, as Hook left, groaning something about losing a
quarter of the bay just because Megatron can't keep his spike and spark out of
certain voluptuous chestplates, as Ratchet stiffened minutely.
 
He could entirely understand the appeal.
 
Once finally alone, the decepticon scientist approached the medic, purple cable
in hands.
 
“The work begins. Come here.”
***** Black Friday *****
“Here, here, kitty!!”
 
“Now where the slag that cat went???”
 
Rumble and Frenzy searched the common floors of the undersea decepticon base,
fruitlessly; Ravage was nowhere to be found, and they were dreading the moment
Soundwave would search for them in their room, and they would not be there.
 
Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Rumble speaking. Do you copy?

The avians pinged back, in negative. At that, one distant ping came positive.
 
Menace? Ratbat? Do you know where Ravage is?
 
Another ping, another positive. Rumble spoke into his comm link, asking for the
coordinates.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Coordinates. Now.”
 
Blades tapped into his military radio, waiting for his reply. Apparently there
is a commotion southwards the planet, and the main crew of the autobots will
not be able to arrive in time.
 
He groaned. Optimus Prime couldn't have chosen a worse moment to remove
hisFirst Aid from their team. How were they supposed to form Defensor? How was
he supposed to barge in and scrap decepticons if they didn't have a field medic
with them anymore?
 
Who would personally tend to his many varied wounds??
 
Helicopter-moding and deciding he had to find a way to protest his lot in
autobot faction life, Blades growled, his tow cable glimmering in the sunlight.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Sunlight shone through Ravage's optics as he contemplated the Chaos.
 
Apparently Chaos happened due to some sort of Black Friday Event and the humans
had gone insane, littering the streets and stores with their presence, carrying
truckloads of boxes around, screaming at themselves, tearing limb and eye
apart, all because the prices were too damn good!
 
Ratbat, perched atop his head, chirped; Menace, flying in eights around him,
buzzed. Ravage internally rejoiced.
 
Despite the specific orders for them to not leave the area in their room,
Ravage wasn't stupid and knew as any good decepticon how to exploit a loophole.
 
Or better, a hole.
 
Afterall, technically, if Scavenger came in through a hole, waved them hello,
and left, they never left the room, if the hole was located within the room,
right?
 
Ravage, as the oldest cassette, had the moral obligation of watching over
Soundwave's youngest creation. He was carrier's and sire's favourite, for a
reason!
 
Getting a ping from Rumble, the mechanic bee informed them of the incoming
arrival of the twins. Ravage settled on his back paws, waiting, and pondering
on their younger sibling.
 
She wasn't discreet enough for infiltration, the buzzing disrupting stealth.
She wasn't bright nor smart, or strong, or even weaponised. She had one ability
though.
 
Vibrating her insectoid wings, she generated a high-frequency inaudible sound
that seemed to be disrupting the humans, making them even more agitated and
prone to further chaos.
 
Considering the already installed Chaos of the Black Friday, this was bound to
become interesting.
 
He could hardly wait for the other cassettes.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Two cassettes ran over Microtron, who happened to be innocently sitting by
himself on the corridor, making sure to remain in a common area where lots of
mecha usually passed by, a datapad in hands, reading: in automatic self-
defence, he grappled the twins with two of his datacables, bringing both to the
level of his single red optic.
 
“Yo big bozo! Let us go!”
 
“Sounders will be so mad!”
 
Microtron blinked, lowering them to the ground, kneeling to meet their faces.
 
“You broke my datapad.” he shook the pad before their optics “Sire gave it to
me. It contained the copy of his early poetry.”
 
Microtron somehow pouted without a mouth. Rumble and Frenzy nearly choked.
Megatron used to write poetry???
 
More than meets the eye indeed.
 
Microtron shook his camera-head, releasing them from his cables though.
 
“I guess I'll have to ask Sire for a new one. Maybe Soundwave can upload the
poetry back.”
 
At the mention of Soundwave, knowing they were in trouble, Rumble and Frenzy
shared a glance, first gulping, then finally snickering.
 
“Hey, kid, we’re gonna shopping. Wanna come along???”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Ratchet came along his senses, slowly; he had received a myriad of blueprints
for a device, that according to description, will...
 
“No.”
 
“Is there a problem, Chief Medical Officer?”
 
Blinking, Ratchet observed the delicate pieces spread on the slab, as Shockwave
welded together what suspiciously looked like an octagonal spark chamber with
easily accessible locks.
 
“You are insane!”
 
Shockwave tilted his head right.
 
“I am logical.”
 
Ratchet twitched an optic.
 
“I have to get out of here. The way you knock me into unconsciousness with this
fragging cable of yours, when I next wake up I'll be strapped to a berth with
this... spark condenser attached and you'll be getting me sparked… for
Science!”
 
Shockwave stared, apparently pensive for a full minute.
 
“Spark Condenser. Good name.” he nodded to himself “Your offer to strap
yourself on the berth is tempting.”
 
Ratchet widened his optics.
 
“But illogical. I had already considered strapping myself to the berth, however
Lord Megatron convinced me not to.”
 
Ratchet blinked. Why wasn't he surprised.
 
Shockwave then attached two pliable metal cylinders to the sides of the
handmade spark chamber, with a click, handing him the partially mounted piece.
 
“Now. Be a good slave and take over construction.”
 
Ratchet snorted, folding arms and dutifully ignoring the half-mounted prototype
in hands, as Shockwave glared.
 
“Why, master? Aren’t you the capable scientist who devised this project?”
 
Shockwave, tilting his head right, EM-field flat, staring at the medic’s red
hands for three full seconds, finally captured Ratchet’s left hand in his own,
turning the red hand’s palm up and deposing the device in it.
 
“I am always fascinated to see a capable pair of hands working, and yours are
very capable indeed.”
 
And closed the medic’s fingers over the half-mounted device, dipped his head in
a nod and placed himself adjacent to the slab, hands clasped behind his back,
expectant, as Ratchet groaned, adjusting the stool and finally sitting.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sitting on his office, Optimus shoves his face in hands as soon as he notices
Blades on the comm.
 
Why do helicopters haunt me? Why?
 
“Optimus speaking.”
 
“We have a situation.”
 
“What happened?”
 
“Sir, the humans are restless and crowding.”
 
“What's the news? It's Black Friday.”
 
Blades snickered on his comm.
 
“I know, sir, but apparently the decepticons went shopping as well.”
 
“What???”
 
Optimus' comm feed shows a mob screeching out of a chain department store,
followed by no one less than...
 
“Soundwave's cassettes and an unknown decepticon are terrorising the humans.
It's a pity we are out of action, you see, we might have been gestalting into
Defensor, but someone decided our medic should be out of our team, so, we are
with our hands tied.”
 
Optimus growled. He really hated helicopters, especially those who decide their
group should go on strike.
 
The video feed shifts to the humans: one of them comes to a halt, turns to
camera, and screams in absolute fear that Microsoft allied with the
decepticons! as Microtron, LED screen chestplate cracked and blurred, comes
close, blinking his single optic/camera, speaking.
 
“Microsoft?I hate Windows!I want to shift to Apple!My Ipad was a
completesteal!”
 
He raised the Ipad Air II to the camera with a tentacled datacable in Optimus'
screen.
 
Optimus blinked. Who the slag was this decepticon? Why was it attempting to
sell Apple to the Autobots? Wasn't Microsoft the Evil one?
 
Why was it small?
 
“Identify, decepticon.”
 
Microtron turned to the camera again, clicking his claws together.
 
“I don't know you. Who are you?”
 
“I asked first. Where are your manners?” Greatly mature, Prime.
 
“Oh. I'm sorry. Hello.”he waved a shy hello with a spare datacable “I'm
Microtron. And you?”
 
Optimus shifted on his seat. This decepticon looked so friendly!
 
“I am Optimus Prime, Autobot Leader.”
 
The giant red optic flickered once, cycling its objective open. Microtron
turned left slightly, showing his branded decepticon insignia on the left side
of his head, as he seemed to be paying attention to something else, then turned
back straight to the screen.
 
“My siblings are calling. Must be going.”the datacable waved a goodbye.
 
“Wait!” Siblings??Optimus extended a hand to the screen.
 
At that, Rumble screamed offscreen that they gotta be going, Sounders will be
mad!, and Microtron finally saluted and left, his CPU feet thumping on the
ground, screaming that he was going, bye!!! as the screen refocused on Blades,
grinning evilly at his rebellious strike.
 
Optimus, on his side of the screen, a headache brewing, waved the smirking
Blades out, then started thinking.
 
Mystery: the newspark's carrier. Who would be the newspark's carrier?
 
Hypothesis number obvious: Soundwave. Last Decepticon Carrier-Host (Some mecha
speculate he is in truth the last decepticon female, the status of carrier-host
being a clever disguise), knowingly bonded to Megatron, very successful at
getting sparked.
 
It explained the fact that the cassettes and Microtron considered themselves
siblings.
 
It didn't explain though why the fugly mechling was not a cassetticon.
Soundwave is too much a control freak to let any of his offspring be housed in
an independent shell.
 
As such, no, it can't be Soundwave's kid.
 
Yet, the new decepticon is clearly sibling to the cassettes. As everybody knows
who sired the cassettes, we must conclude then the newspark is Megatron's kid.
 
With whom, then??
 
A sinking feeling reached Optimus. Megatron got himself sparked by Soundwave?
 
Optimus snorted. Primus wouldn't be so cruel as to let Megatron get sparked.
 
Would he?
 
He fleeted a glance at the Book of Primus, fidgeting for a while, then shook
his head.
 
He still had other probabilities to think over before thatone.
 
Let's for now not consider rape.Surprisingly there is no shortage of mechs that
would have willingly jumped into Megatron's berth.
 
As a matter of fact, there seems to be more people wanting Megatron than
himself, Optimus pondered.
 
Not that Optimus actually wanted Megatron's fanbase over him anyway.
 
Back to the mechling: this Microtron certainly isn't getting any beauty prizes
with his single giant red optic. And how does he fuel anyway?
 
Hmmm. Single giant optic and no mouthplates.
 
A scary resemblance to good old Shockwave, Megatron’s second bonded.
 
Everybody knew Shockwave would be very willing.
 
And proud.
 
There was a series of problems with that though.
 
As Elita-1 assured him many times from the autobot's energon raids,Shockwave
was left behind on Cybertron, on guard duty, significantly understaffed, being
his unemotional, one-dimensional self, disturbingly inapt shit shoot, as ever.
 
Then how?
 
Oh. Obviously. The same way Elita-1 travelled from Cybertron to here.
 
Megatron and Shockwave probably had been meeting via spacebridge during energon
cube deliveries, fragged and sparkmerged andCybertron's Guardian Doggot sparked
with this uncomely little newspark!!!
 
(Megatron's bad tastes in mates are not under discussion now.)
 
(Much less the fact Shockwave once had been a decent fellow, until he got
Empurata-ed and decided based on cold hard logic the Deceptions were more to
his tastes, abandoning him!)
 
Optimus quickly shooed away the last thought. Bad Optimus. That Shockwave you
sat on a bench for days with, and had as a purely platonic friend for, was long
ago dead and gone.
 
The only thing not addingto the Math was the very known fact that Shockwave was
considered sterile.
 
Then how come did he even get sparked?
 
Pinching his nosebridge, Optimus offlined his optics.
 
If weren’t so sure Megatron was pranking him with a visual copy of the Matrix
(that as far as he knew very well could be his disappeared paperweight – he
refused to believe anyone would ever truly clone the Matrix), he might even
believe that somehow Megatron ordered the Matrix to provide him an offspring.
 
Shooing the bad thoughts away, Optimus shook his head: Shockwave is brilliant,
and it was painfully obvious that the decepticon scientist found a logical,
scientific way, not related to the Matrix, that never left his chestplates, at
all, to fix his age-old problem of infertility, and then, only then, made sure
to merge with Megatron and...
 
Optimus shuddered, uselessly trying not to imagine Megatron and Shockwave
together.
 
The things about Decepticon High Command he never wanted to think about.
 
He sighed: at least it wasn't Starscream.
 
===============================================================================
 
Starscream observed very amused the swarm of cassettes littering the corridors,
hissing and chattering and chirping and buzzing, failing miserably to pretend
they never left their quarters that early morning.
 
He had already searched for the tapedeck on the bridge today, failing to locate
him, which could only mean, coupled with Megatron's absence, and Soundwave's
open promise of a new lab to Shockwave, that the previous night had been busy
for them and that a certain scientistand his slave were certainly working
within the newly finished lab.
 
“Hey! You, there!”
 
He would not give Shockwave's newspark any notion that he had any kind of
special privilege for being Megatron's offspring: Primus knew Shockwave himself
would make sure the kid knew.
 
The one opticed kid, walking slowly with a strangely small datapad in hands
stopped.
 
“It's Microtron.” and tilted his head.
 
“Whatever.” he waved a dismissive hand “What is that?”
 
“My new Ipad.” he turned his giant red camera away, holding the datapad close
to his screen-chest “I need Sire's Lord Megatron's poetry copied back. If I ask
nice Soundwave might copy it for me here. I was reading when the cassettes
broke my other datapad. So I got my Apple during Black Friday.”
 
Starscream stalled minutely. Ipad? Megatron? Poetry? Soundwave? Black apples in
a Friday?
 
The things about Decepticon High Command he never wanted to know about.
 
He smirked. He couldn't directly get further revenge (the catfight with
Shockwave didn't count!) on the mechling for his datacable-burned wing (it
hurt, fraggit!), but certainly Starscream had no qualms against causing petty
havoc into Megatron's intimate life.
 
“You wanna know something? Why don't we go find your daddy? I bet he’s missing
you.”
 
Microtron subspaced the datapad then, beaming, uncoiling a datacable and
holding into Starscream's hand, looking up at the seeker. Sighing loudly, down
the corridor of the ship, Starscream steered the newspark, nearly bouncing with
unspent energy.
 
===============================================================================
 
Nearly bouncing with unspent energy, the fully charged outer spark chamber
Ratchet built to Shockwave's specifications thrummed into life, connected
directly to the new Lab's computers.
 
“Excellent. The readings prove that both ends of the electrifying cables can
transmit adequate charge to the condensing chamber, currently capable of
housing and fully keeping a spark energised, as calculated.”
 
Shockwave nodded, taking notes into his personal datapad, hardlined directly
into his own systems, linked to the computer by his purple cable. Ratchet,
blueprints ingrained in memory, knew very well where the whole thing was
leading.
 
“Briefly we shall be testing with live, non-bonded subjects, to produce a
newspark not attached to any of the sparks. If feasible, then the next step
shall be to keep the chamber charged, continuously sustaining the growth and
development of said newspark. Finally, the most complicated step will be on how
to make sure a protoform can be attached to the process.”
 
“Shouldn't the best step be, Mr. Logic, to make sure protoforms can be produced
first, so that any potential newspark produced during the test sustains chance
of survival?”
 
“Random newsparks generated during test phase by unrelated unbonded subjects
aren't worth keeping.”
 
“Oh, yes, I forget, your own cute newspark was certainly not randomly generated
and certainly had not been worth keeping.”
 
Going still, Shockwave became suddenly very aware on an intellectual level of
how many million years and trials it took for him to get sparked – an event
that only happened because of the parasitical Matrix.
 
“You forget your place, Chief Medical Officer.”
 
Ratchet snarled, truly annoyed by the unethical means by which the project – in
itself an intelligent and interesting idea – was being conducted. He recognised
parts of his own medical knowledge and files snatched from his own memories,
now ingrained in the project, and he hated he had been an unwilling part of it,
and he had to protest.
 
“Hopefully not the same place the test-subject sparks will go to, master.”
 
Shockwave slowly turned to glare, silently, at Ratchet: if the medic wasn't
sure his master was a sparkless emotionless bastard, he would almost believe
that he had a rouse out of him.
 
“Very well, Chief Medical Officer. At your behest, I concurto shift the order
of the tests.”
 
Shockwave ripped his purple cable off the computer, stepping right beside him,
looking him square in the optics, being both almost the same height, battlemask
to face.
 
“Indulge yourself.”
 
At that, he nearly stomped out of the lab, leaving Ratchet alone.
 
The medic, not expecting any change of spark much less a half-emotional
reaction, blinked, stupefied, watching his master leave the door, reaching the
corridor.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The corridor suddenly got very cold by many degrees, the instant Starscream
stopped, facing a very silent, very resolute Shockwave stomping towards him,
rotor spinning on his back.
 
“Starscream.” he stopped, at attention, hands behind his back, apparently cold
and uncaring, rotor coming to a halt.
 
“Shockwave.” he looked between himself and Microtron, feeling with dread the
tightly contained EM-field not-radiating from his fellow commander and hearing
the forcibly stalled rotors.
 
“Is there a matter you wish to discuss, Starscream?”
 
For Shockwave of all mechs to be anything less than cold and unemotional, there
must be some serious shit happening and Starscream wanted to be no part of it.
 
As such, Starscream rolled for three full seconds the situation in his
processor, finally snatching the datacable from his hand, taking one of
Shockwave's own servos out of his own back, and unceremoniously placing the
kid's cable there.
 
“Your newspark got Soundwave's Ipad a black apple for Megatron's Poetry
Friday.”
 
And bolted away.
 
Unblinking, Shockwave stared down at Microtron's cable currently coiling around
his fingers, his rotors slowly silencing themselves. The kid showed him the
actually white Ipad Air II, red optic gleaming.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Red optics gleaming in the dark, Megatron onlined, completely restored.
 
Forget defeating Optimus Prime. Currently, happiness was an afterglowing
Soundwave void of cassettes.
 
He turned to contemplate his first sparkmate. What a perfect day. Nothing could
ruin it.
 
Nothing.
 
“I require your attention, my Lord.”
 
Megatron facepalmed: Shockwave could.
 
When did Shockwave get in the room??? Why didn't he hear anything?
 
“Report then, Shockwave.” he sighed, resigned.
 
The scientist then bowed, extending his hand to Microtron, who gave him the
Ipad.
 
“Starscream informed me about my Lord making Friday sessions of Black Poetry in
exchange of apples with Soundwave, using this tiny Ipad. I fail to see the
logic behind these actions, my Lord.”
 
Megatron turned to stare at the supposed Ipad, whatever it was, snatched it out
of Shockwave's fingers, and contemplated its stupidly small size, rolling a
couple of gears in his own processor.
 
“Microtron. This isn’t the datapad I gave you.”
 
The newspark nodded, explaining how the datapad had been damaged, and howhe got
a substitute. Megatron actually scratched his chin, finally calling.
 
“Soundwave.”
 
“Soundwave: just five minutes more.”
 
He turned on his side and returned to recharge. Shockwave tilted his head,
bringing Microtron close to himself.
 
Megatron, being his manipulative mean self, rolled his optics, this time coming
very close to Soundwave's audials and whispering full of sarcasm.
 
“Soundwave. Wouldn't you like to know what I just found out: the cassettes have
left the room and wreaked havoc, against your orders.”
 
Soundwave's visor suddenly beamed in the dark.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
In the dark, First Aid hugged his knees.
 
He was tired.
 
He had just managed to archive all the datapads.
 
Ask him if he got his promised aid!!!
 
Nope. He got more work.
 
As it happens, while he did his ungainly mission, Wheeljack and Perceptor had
free time in hands, and the engineer decided to request his fellow scientist’s
help to test his plot device unitII.
 
For Science.
 
Now poor First Aid had two stasis-locked fully dismembered autobots piling the
medbay, depicting various kinds and degrees of damage.
 
On top of these emergencies, he also had the basic medical appointments to take
care of.
 
Even though Hoist was supposed to take on the most basic maintenance, no one
liked to schedule these things through the common Autobot Health System, and
thus since forever, even before the Golden Age, they instead preferred to fake
'emergencies' to get quicker aid in the surgical medbay.
 
That explained why there were lines of autobots waiting to be seen on semi-
emergency procedures like malfunctioning lights, ruined cogs, burned fuses,
replacement of overused port callipers, paint scratches, interface-related
viruses, not to mention those mechs outright lying about being ill to get
medical work leave.
 
And still no medical assistants.
 
He was tired of non-medics telling him how to administrate a medbay!
 
First Aid was positive that if the Protectobots had the whole bay, like the
Constructicons did, things would be done better and faster.
 
No matter they didn't have experience building anything. They were officially
on strike anyway, they would have enough time to learn. They could really have
their strike together!
 
At least he would get company. He missed his gestalt.
 
He missed Blades.
 
Patting himself on his gears for comfort, he finally wiped the pooled drying
coolant from his visor, standing up, straightening his back.
 
He knew what he had to do.
 
He was a mech on a mission.
***** Mission: Impossible *****
“Soundwave: on a mission. Cassettes know what they did.”
 
The cassettes cowered on a corner: they expected to be caught, but not so soon,
and now they had a very pissed off Soundwave on their feet.
 
“But Sounders, we broke the pad, we had to compensate the kid!”
 
“Shockers' boy wanna be a writer or something, just like dad, and we only
wanted to help!”
 
Soundwave, knowing very well how his own creations liked to help, glowered at
Rumble, who flinched; Ravage, assessing the situation, positioned himself at
petting distance, faking a purr, as the two avians perched atop the desk,
tilting their heads and the mechanic bee vibrated her wings in a subsonic
rhythm.
 
As Ravage rubbed his face into Soundwave's leg, the tapedeck's bubbling anger
slowly diminished, and his hand shifted lightly to the feline's head.
 
The twins shut up at the sight, gaping; usually by this point their carrier
would either hand them bothersome tasks, or pocket them in his chestplates for
punishment. Instead, there he was, sedately petting Ravage, who would never
admit this wasn't hisbrilliant and elaborate strategy to distract their beloved
creator in first place.
 
Visor going offline, finally Soundwave rested against the wall on their
collective berth, Ravage jumping to his lap, his avians on his shoulders,
Ratbat hanging from his battlemask and Menace atop his head, still vibrating
her hypnotic rhythm, and the twins one by each side, cassettes and carrier
shifting slowly into recharge at a lovely huddling pile.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Ratchet took from the huddled pile a couple of metallic sheets, smelting them
into the miniature plant he was making.
 
This compact plant was meant to cold-forge a viable startup protoform so that a
basic cybertronian shell may be infused with it, and an alt-mode subsequently
scanned.
 
He wouldn't deny that Shockwave's blueprints weren't sound, and most probable
to work than not.
 
The scientist was indeed brilliant, which only angered Ratchet even more. Maybe
his experimentwouldn't even have wasted that many newsparks.
 
Ratchet however hadto make sure not a single one would eventually offline,
undeservedly, at least.
 
It was a matter of honour.
 
He might have finally found a subject with which he seemed to have some kind of
leverage against his master. It was maybe the first time that logic or
rankwasn’t enough to make Herr Shockwavewin an argument.
 
He smiled, recalling the cyclopic kid waving a hello with a tentacled
datacable, a tilt in his huge camera head and a gleam in his optic.
 
Interesting how one's priorities shift when they become attached.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Attached to Shockwave's hip, Microtron followed him across the undersea base,
tiny Apple Ipad in a hand, Megatron's early poetry uploaded back, practically
sauntering as he walked, silent as ever.
 
“Microtron. Walk straight. Be mindful of your status.”
 
The kid stopped prancing, walking right besides Shockwave, trying and failing
to mimicry his heavy steps and his rigid stance.
 
“Status?”
 
“You are our Lord's creation. It is only logical you need to reflect his
greatness.” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Remember: he is the Decepticon
Leader.”
 
Microtron rolled a couple of gears in his mind, nodding to himself.
 
Leader.
 
“Oh. I met the Autobot Leader!”
 
Shockwave practically screeched on the brakes he didn’t have, nearly tripping
on himself, vocoder monotoning evenly.
 
“Elaborate.”
 
Microtron then led a clawed fingertip to the side at the base of his neck
besides his camera head, tapping once his never used fuel intake.
 
“There was this camera with a human on the street. This mech, Optic Pride,
asked me who I was.”
 
“And you plain told him.”
 
“He asked first, and I'm a well-mannered mech.” Microtron nodded, visibly
beaming. Shockwave stared very mute, restarting to walk, the mechling following
suite.
 
At the back of his processor, Shockwave pondered on the latest news.
 
He knew from personal experience that the Prime wasn't stupid and would
probably by now have concluded from where the new decepticon came.
 
He had hoped to keep his newspark hidden from the autobot sight at least until
he had matured a few centuries and had stopped being so innocent and gullible.
 
Now he had a situation in hands. His creation not only would have to watch his
back for decepticons, but also against the autobots.
 
Even though Lord Megatron was Leader, and Shockwave was his second bonded,
being fourth in Command and owner of considerable range of action and
authority, in the event things ever went wrong, the decepticon scientist wanted
to make sure his creation would be a useful and indispensable mech, regardless
of faction or leadership, by carving him a unique niche.
 
Nodding to himself, Shockwave found out the solution, taking a turn and
entering the Constructicon Bay, instead of his new lab.
 
“Come with me, my creation.”
 
He knew where to gather resources. He just had to ask nice.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“What, are you going to just ask nice?”
 
Nautica nodded. That Shockwave fellow couldn’t be that bad. Apparently since
the decepticons left Cybertron he was no longer capable of slaughtering and
kill a single autobot, being utterly unable to shoot anyone away much less
prevent any single energon cube of being borrowed.
 
“Follow my trail of thought: no one could be that inept: Shockwave has to be
doing all this on purpose. What if he has seized the fact the decepticons left,
to in truth be on the autobot side, making a show of pretending to defend the
energon but truly allowing for Megatron’s energon to be transferred to the
rebels and ultimately end the War for Cybertron?”
 
Firestar stalled.
 
“But everyone knows he’s Megatron’s mate.”
 
Nautica shrugged.
 
“It can’t hurt to ask.”
 
They contemplated Shockwave’s Tower from the distance, having previously left
Reflector’s Art Shop with all the details for their Sparkbonding Ceremony
arranged, the compound going for Knock-Out’s Mod Shop as they came after the
old cyclops.
 
There would be a Reception in the hallowed Halls of the Church of Iacon, the
buffing and modding provided by Knock-Out, Roddy the Hotacting as his special
guest and Reflector, multitasking, responsible for filming, photographing,
music and show management.
 
All they needed now was someone to provide the energon goodies, and who better
than our good, old, generous, Mighty Shockwave?
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Mighty Shockwave.” the Drone First spoke, his screen face flickering in tandem
with the artificial voice “You have visitors.”
 
Shockwave, the sparkless drone, almost sputtered energon through his neck
intake at the affirmation. How??? He was the Mighty Shockwave! Shockwave’s own
drone, who locked all access to the Decepticon Space Bridge, only to make sure
there would not be a single chance of Soundwave or Lord Megatron himself coming
by to find out he was not the real Shockwave.
 
As such, spacebridge locked out, who could there be at the door, trying to
visit???
 
“Were the visitors sent by Lord Megatron?”
 
“I don’t think so, Mighty Shockwave. For a start, the spacebridge controls are
in your hand, second, he doesn’t phone you since the day you hung up on his
face.”
 
The cyclops gloweredat the drone, immediately requesting video feed, at which
First’s screen face depicted the two invaders.
 
“Feeemale autobots!!! Certainly after Megatron’s energy!”
 
“They don’t seem to have come to steal. When they come to take energon away,
they prefer to use the back entrance you never order the drones to lock.”
 
Mighty Shockwave shhhh’ed then.
 
“That back entrance is supposed to be a secret! How will the surveillance
drones come in if they forget the access code?”
 
First nodded, then.
 
“What will you do to them, Mighty Shockwave?”
 
“Easy. We’ll pretend we aren’t home!”
 
Contemplating the purplish female autobot chiming the doorbell again, the
sparkless cyclops puffed his chestplates up, proud. After a full minute
waiting, he sagged, as the feeemales continued chiming the doorbell.
 
“Aw, shit. Looks like they aren’t going away. The glitches!”
 
“If you want I can send the drone army, Mighty Shockwave.”
 
Mighty Shockwave shook his head, straightening himself.
 
“I’ll deal with them personally. I can do it! I’m the Mighty Shockwave!”
 
The purple cyclops walked to the door then, protruding chestplates once more
puffed up, right hand heading to the door lock, single optic gleefully glowing.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Single optic glowing in pure glee, Microtron stared up intently at the very
happy constructicon.
 
“Oh! I love newsparks! Your kid is so cute!!”
 
Scavenger patted Microtron’s head as the kid hungrily contemplated the necklace
made from Vortex’ wiring, and Shockwave resisted the logical decision of
backhanding the constructicon for touching his creation.
 
Afterall, this was Scavenger, surprisingly enough a mech the scientist could
trust.
 
Believe it or not, despite cold and sparkless, Shockwave was a fair mech. Ages
untold, back on Cybertron, many hundreds of years after the poor Scavenger was
drafted into the decepticons then fitted with the ability to gestalt with his
fellow constructicons, the scientist had needed a few special components, and
it was Scavenger of all mechs who went through mines and subterranean passages
to dig out each of the minerals he had needed to create his cortical psychic
patch.
 
Amazingly, this was the only constructicon he actually respected for his
usefulness and promptness to work.
 
Not to mention Scavenger, memory wiped whenever needed, had no idea about the
fact Shockwave felt indebted to him.
 
This is why the logical mech puts up with his foolishness.
 
Scavenger was lucky for being very much loved by his counterpart
constructicons, no matter that they would never admit it. In truth, Scavenger
would never have survived the decepticon army without his gestalt mates backing
him.
 
In many ways Scavenger reminded him of Microtron.
 
Hence why he knew he could trust him with this.
 
“Constructicon Scout Scavenger. I have a task tailored specially for you.”
 
“Yes, Commander Shockwave, Sir!”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Sir.”
 
Optimus looked up from his resting position at his faithful desk, to meet the
stern faceplates of…
 
“Prowl. What do I owe your visit. Are you here to arrest me at last?”
 
At that Prowl stood silently, very still.
 
“Should I?”
 
Optimus groaned, feeling tired just for witnessing Technotor dancing non-stop
to soundless music on the other side of the Office, since he woke up. Prowl
raised one optic ridge.
 
“Continuing.” the SIC handed him a datapad “I have finished the comprehensive
annotation of every single ounce of evidence within Ratchet’s room. Photographs
are in registry, even a video recording was provided. Now the room is properly
catalogued, you may finally get in.”
 
Without waiting for a reply though, Prowl turned on his heels, leaving a gaping
Prime and his prancing creation behind.
 
Before Optimus could stand up and grab Technotor by a wrist and drag him to his
future room where he would be allowed to dance and prance at will, he was
floored by a dozen of unknown autobots whose toys never made it to the shelves,
in line, protesting.
 
“We need medics!”
 
“We had three medics, now we have no one working!”
 
“I need my optics checked, but there is no one to do it!”
 
“My hand fell off and no one will replace it!”
 
“The medbay is closed, my left hip is on a desk waiting, and I can't go back to
function lacking it!”
 
More random protests follow, mecha filling his Office, as Optimus literally
gives up and plants himself in the chair, just staring and absently nodding to
each and every complainer: Technotor, just finished executing a particularly
intricate dance move, turned to find his creator smothered and clearly not
coping.
 
Walking through the small complaining crowd, he placed a thoughtful hand in his
chin and came close to Optimus’ face, standing by the tip of his feet and
whispering.
 
“Carrier. I can make them go away. I'm good at providing distraction.”
 
Optimus, making his best impression of a statue, numbly nodding at each of the
protesting autobots, fleeted a glance to Technotor, pinging him a please do
through inner comm.
 
Rubbing his hands together, the mirror-covered, glimmering mech, reflecting the
image of every surface of the office and protesting mecha around himself,
jumped on the ceiling, globe-moding and spinning.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Driller spinning through the terrain, Scavenger happily followed Shockwave's
lead.
 
Do not fail me, Scavenger.
 
He nodded to himself, hurriedly; of the four commanders, Shockwave was the one
he liked the most: amazingly he only asked for things Scavenger could actually
do!!! That certainly pumped up his self-esteem.
 
Not to mention his kid was so cute!!!
 
Coming out in the middle of the food court at a human Shopping Centre,
following his honed mineral sensors, scaring the hell of people away, he took
hold of his instructions, gently provided via cortical psychic patch, and
started pillaging jewellery stores in search of the precious gems required.
 
The biggest diamond was tiny in his servos, so he made sure to steal shinnies
enough to make up for their lack of size. Certainly Mixmaster could meld them
together.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Together, Streetwise and Groove drove, utterly ignoring the fleeting crowd that
screamed a purple and green giant robot was terrorising the Shopping Centre
located downtown.
 
They were on strike afterall.
 
“Streetwise, Groove, you are needed.”
 
And had just been summoned by their dear firetruck boss.
 
“Is it about this human commotion we are just passing by?” answered Streetwise.
 
“Of course not. We are on strike.”
 
Streetwise mentally nods. He would have been as mad as Blades if they had taken
his Groovy away too.
 
“Then what do you need us for, Hot??” chimed in Groove.
 
“Remember our Headquarters?”
 
Who would forget that dumpster, thought Streetwise.
 
“Wouldn't you like to move?”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Move.”
 
Ratchet actually jumped on his seat in the lab, as a slightly too silent
Shockwave approached, pushing him out of the way.
 
“Master, something bit your processor?”
 
He rubbed on his plating, fleeting a glance at Microtron, quietly sitting on
the ground at a corner of the lab, taking a stupidly small – by transformer's
standards – datapad from subspace and starting to read.
 
“Report your progress, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet.” he spoke, never taking
his visor away from the half-mounted plant on the slab.
 
The medic resumed how he managed to get the protoform plant attached to four
main vials, meant to be filled at each time a new basic shell was to be
created, with a series of micro-elements in pre-programmed amounts within
saline solutions, completely according to the blueprints.
 
Comparing his blueprints with the final result and taking note of the slight
modifications, Shockwave nodded to himself, missing the glances Ratchet gave
between the helicopter and the micro-mech.
 
“Very well. Go gather one extra energon cube and return to quarters.”
 
He handed Ratchet his own card. An unspoken question hovered between them.
 
“This is my unlimited energon access card. You will take one cube for yourself.
You will need the extra cube.”
 
Ratchet minutely stalled, unblinking. The time for the slave synch was
approaching, but he wasn't exactly looking forward a deceptive overload meant
to lower his firewalls just so he can be easily hacked afterwards.
 
Microtron thoroughly ignored the silent exchange, reading on his corner, a
single datacable turning pages by touching tiny feelers on the screen of the
Ipad.
 
Shockwave raised his head, tilting it to the left, visor locking with the
medic's glare.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I strongly advise against disobedience.”
 
Ratchet sighed. His slave ration the previous day at the mess hall amounted to
less than a tenth of a full cube, and he worked non-stop at the lab. No matter
the reason behind Shockwave’s reward, his systems would certainly welcome the
extra ration.
 
Not that he could avoid the mind-rape anyway, and it was certainly better to
face it with a tank full.
 
Finally, Ratchet bowed exaggeratedly and hastily left, Shockwave staring at him
all the way.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The constructicons hastily cleared the way as the ground shook and a drill came
through it, revealing then Scavenger's shovel, releasing a dozen computer
carcasses on the ground.
 
“Who would imagine! Scavenger brought junk!!!”
 
Longhaul raised his hands to the air, as Scrapper actually hit his head.
 
“Scavenger... what did you bring it for?”
 
He robot moded, looking around.
 
“Commander Shockwave gave me a series of blueprints.” he handed Mixmaster a
truckload of gems from subspace, then brought up his main datacable from his
lateral slot, staring at Scrapper. “Please?”
 
The Constructicons recoiled: they hated receiving blueprints by crude hardline.
Scavenger stepped to them, cable out, optics beaming pleadingly: either that,
or they would have to gestalt.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The gestalt team, reunited, got into a collective hug: First Aid finally
relaxed his shoulders.
 
“I was so tired of being alone in this Primus damned medbay!”
 
“No worries, First.” Groove chimed, resting on a chair, feet on Ratchet's desk.
“So, what's our first task, especially for you?”
 
He fleeted a glance to the two closest slabs, each containing a dismembered yet
still alive autobot. Cracking his knuckles, Hot Spot smirked, and Blades
cruelly poked Perceptor's pieces with one of his hands.
 
“Scientists!”
 
Groove stood up, practically jumping before the slab and dislodging Blades.
 
“You'd think they would ever learn.”
 
First Aid shared a glance with Blades, handing him an energon scalpel and
winking, as Streetwise shook his head.
 
“Ok, folks. Let's fix them and make this place home.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Ratchet stepped in the mess hall of his current home, quickly getting to the
energon dispenser and taking one full cube. The place was empty and he hoped
not to gather attention.
 
Hoped.
 
“My, my, autobot medic. What a surprise to see you unattended.”
 
Starscream.
 
“I am here under Shockwave's direct orders, Commander Starscream.”
 
“Sure you do.” Starscream came close, snatched the card from his hands, turned
it around, then gave it back “I wonder what deeds you did to be rewarded.
Wouldn't Megatron love to know.”
 
Ratchet actually stalled for a fraction of a second.
 
“I completed an important step in a personal project.”
 
“Personal.” the seeker measured him from head to pedes “I honestly can't see
what that insipid scientist saw in a ground-pounder like you.”
 
Despite his own anger, Ratchet recalled the full display of Shockwave's side
abilities: calculating, cold and nearly unfeeling, sure: Insipid?
 
If only Starscream knew.
 
“I have no obligation to justify myself to you, Starscream. I’m not your
slave.”
 
At that, full of contempt, intent in despising Starscream just because he
could, Ratchet filled not only the one, but also a second and finally a third
cube, snickering as he walked past the seeker.
 
“I wonder. Wouldn't it be better if you were Megatron's glitch, or even a slave
with access to an unlimited card, instead of your meagre half-cube rations?”
 
He rolled the card between his fingers in his free hand, then stored it into
subspace, leaving Starscream fuming behind, taking the three cubes along.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Technotor tagged along, sauntering and prancing as Optimus recalled dumbstruck
the ease with which his glittering creation got rid of the protesters – by
tricking them into partying somewhere else, with light and music.
 
If he put himself into taking over leadership, he would actually get through
and overthrow the Prime.
 
Happily, he is an autobot, not an evil, scheming decepticon.
 
And slightly too inclined to fun to his own taste.
 
“Can you stop for a second? I’m trying to get you into your new quarters!”
 
Technotor blinked, placing both hands over his mouthplate, as Optimus shook his
head, keeping his pace going at Ratchet’s room.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Going to his master's room, Ratchet stopped by the door, taking a deep in-vent.
 
The medic did his best, yet failing, to avoid staring: Shockwave not only was
connected via cortical psychic patchto Microtron, but also currently fuelled
his little clone from his modified fuel line with purified, processed,
cybertronium-rich, nanite-filled energon.
 
Taking a long glance, Ratchet focused at the purple biolights glimmering from
newspark to carrier as they pulsed and Microtron already dozed, curled on one
datacable around his own waist, the moment Shockwave decided to drone.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. You took longer than expected...”
 
Ratchet then unsubspaced the three cubes, smirking, as Shockwave dimmed his
visor.
 
“...and more cubes than supposed to. Do you have a good explanation?”
 
Consciously avoiding to stare at the energon glowing reverse-fueling line right
besides Shockwave’s exposed purplish folds, he felt a rush of heat come up his
own closed plates, then replied.
 
“Starscream showed up in my way and I was angry.”
 
Placing two cubes at the desk, ignoring the sudden warmth filling his
faceplates, pretending he felt fine, he offered one to Shockwave, opening a
large smirk.
 
“But at least now you don’t need to leave the room to refuel, master.”
 
Shockwave merely stared, not a clue on what went through his mind, laid on his
side, interface panel wide open revealing everything, without a single hint of
shame or pride, as Shockwave finally accepted the cube, then spoke.
 
“Place the card on the desk, and have your cube now.”
 
He obeyed, hungry in more than one level, hurriedly getting one of the full
cubes from the desk, heading to the chair and sitting, rolling it in his
fingers, as he observed Shockwave take from a surface pocket his metallic
straw, sticking it into the cube and fitting the flexible end in his intake.
 
Ratchet's optics widened at the sight of the open intake, added to the open
panel, the flowing energon, and he offlined his optics, for two full seconds,
willing his own systems to quiet down.
 
“Anything bothering you, Chief Medical Officer?”
 
Ratchet shook his head, actually gulping almost half a cube in one go.
 
At a plop, he stared at Shockwave, energon cable undulating back and properly
slotting into jack, as the logical mech briefly inspected his inner panels,
finally manually closing them, an additional locking sound following suite, as
the energon cube slowly emptied itself into the intake through the straw.
 
Ratchet shallowed, almost tasting the air as the half-cube hit his systems at
once, letting him dizzy and he almost numbly stood up and stepped close to his
master, recalling the progress bars were almost going red and he had to be
synced, blinking and barely avoiding to expose his own medical port for
connection, gobbling down the last half of his cube, expecting to be force-
hacked again.
 
Shockwave turned his head to him as he came close, visor never flickering once,
then actually shifted his glance as the medic stared between the sleeping
Microtron and the purple cable, waiting.
 
Three full minutes of silence passed between them.
 
“Anything wrong, Chief Medical Officer?”
 
Ratchet managed to rake Shockwave's whole frame without moving his optics,
unblinking.
 
“No.”
 
Shockwave nodded, discarding his now empty energon cube on his slave's hands.
 
“Guard your extra energy for the manufacture of the project, in the morning:
the plans remain the same. Have an eventful recharge, Chief Medical Officer.”
 
He turned on his side, offlining his visor, as Ratchet stalled.
 
“Will that be all?”
 
Shockwave then turned on his visor, facing the medic.
 
“Absolutely.”
 
“But I brought you energon. Two extra cubes!”
 
“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Need I explain why there will not be a slave
synch for you tonight, or are you intelligent enough to infer?”
 
Ratchet groaned.
 
“I abused your trust and disobeyed a direct order, bringing more than the one
cube I was ordered to.”
 
Shockwave nodded, as Ratchet fleeted a glance at Microtron, recharging
peacefully connected to his creator.
 
“...and it might have been unfair of mine to compare Microtron’s existence to
that of the experimental newsparks you intend to create with unbonded subjects
for testing the Spark Condenser project.”
 
“No. In that you were absolutely correct. Microtron was as random as any
potential newspark. Why should I put him at more face value than any other? The
illogical and unfair mech was me in letting my quasi-emotional reaction rule my
judgement back then.”
 
Ratchet blinked.
 
“...but he’s your kid! Of course you would be displeased!”
 
“Unfairly displeased. You were brutally honest, unbiased, and unmistakably
logical, and for that I do not blame you. However, you are indeed having the
synch delayed because of the unauthorised cubes.”
 
Ratchet gaped, but held himself. He wasn’t going to beg for the synch.
 
“Now, Chief Medical Officer. Do you still have any questions? Or perhaps a
request?”
 
Ratchet shook his head, as Shockwave nodded, finally offlining his visor and
curling on his side towards his creation, as the medic’s bars reached red and
he suddenly stood very still.
***** Still Waters *****
Very still, looking through the windows at an upper corridor as a school of
fish passed through, Starscream moped.

Blasted planet. Blasted fish. Blasted barnacles!

Everything rusts or dissolves in this uncomely brine.

At least he had the throne room for himself and could watch humancable, now
that Megatron was off for the night, Shockwave was certainly busy mindfragging
or just plain fragging his slave and Soundwave seemed to be blissfully away
from surveillance.

Starscream zapped the channels, stopping by one program about Energy Sources in
National Geographic, watching it for a while and harrumphing: If he were the
leader, not the idiot fool, they would have already changed to a solid ground
base, and at least captured Earth and managed to siphon its resources into
energon back to Cybertron.

As the TV feed ran on the background, his processor whirred in activity: he was
a brilliant scientist, whose field of speciality is precisely on Energy
Sources, and he knew so much more than those humans that it was almost not
funny to sit idly watching them babble on what they do not know.

For example, Starscream helped set up their geothermal undersea stations, truly
useful to keep the base running and producing a small yet steady amount of
energon each cycle; the continuous ocean water current flowing through the
Nemesis' modified turbines also helped. Not to mention the only reason why they
had solar collectors littering the lift and the hull, at all, was because
Starscream was very insistent with their idiotic leader, and during the peak
solar activity, some more energy was eventually cubed, daily.

Not that he had been any thanked: according to Megatron, it was his duty, and
thus he should be glad he didn't screw up this task as well.

Starscream sighed: all the energy cubed was never enough though, and the
Decepticons were always in a way or another half-starving.

His mind bubbled with ideas as the program passed on TV: his attention was
immediately picked as the documentary went on about the subject of pre-salt
layer oil, under the flat bed of the Atlantic, right by the continental plate
of South America, nearly completely unexplored.

Hmmmm.

Undersea petrol sources.

Ready for Decepticon taking.

They did live in an undersea base, right?

Human tech still did not advance enough, except for a few experimental
Brazilian oil platforms located there: the decepticons would have hundreds of
years before any humans even found out they were siphoning energy from them.

Starscream nodded to himself. Nothing like concentrated hydrocarbons to make
life good.

His idea would be certainly successful and prove the old buckethead that he,
Starscream, was the fittest to become leader. He only needed his Trine to cook
up a plan, and maybe the Constructicons later.

He hurriedly stood up, and went to his own room, quietly.

===============================================================================
 

Quietly, Technotor and Optimus stepped into Ratchet's deserted, dark quarters,
the Prime turning the lights on.

“Technotor. These will be your quarters now.”

The shiny mech nodded vigorously, somersaulting once and making a pose at no-
one and nowhere, stretching his right arm up, strutting his hip left, feet
spread apart.

“This is ultra-gear! I need to immediately globe-mode and start analysing the
ambient during a full rechargebefore I can compile new music!”

Optimus sighed as his creation indeed globe-moded and glued to the ceiling, no
shines, no music, just a subsonic thrumm of systems working under recharge.

At the silence, Optimus raked his optics around the room, noticing the
controlled chaos on the desk and shelves, among the piled datapads and one
nearly empty high-grade energon cube left on the berth.

Taking the leftover high-grade cube in hands, Optimus actually shook his head.

“Better I take this away. Good recharge, Technotor.”

He left.

Even before the room's door had been properly closed, the rest of the high-
grade cube was finished in one go, the memory of Ratchet flowing from his
spark, his own battlemask locking back in face.

===============================================================================
 

Facing back his mortal nemeses, who wouldn’t stop chiming, Shockwave’s
sparkless drone blinked his single optic in annoyance as he kicked open the
door.

“Stop! What are you doing? This is my house!!!”

Firestar hid behind Nautica, who walked towards the significantly taller mech,
looking up, defiant.

“We are here to make a proposal.”

The drone tilted his head, cocking his arm canon.

“You cannot defeat the Mighty Shockwave!”

“Cut the nonsense. We aren’t here to fight. You’re getting invitedto our
SparkbondingCeremony.”

The drone blinked, lowering his arm: he didn’t have an automated response for
getting invited to anything.

“Invited?”

“It’s a party to commemorate our union! As if you never had one. All you are
supposed to do to participate is give us an energon Sparkbonding gift!”

The drone raised his right index in the air, stopped mute for a second, then
blinked his optic.

“Excuse me.”

He bolted inside, closing the door on their faces: Firestar and Nautica glued
their audials to the door, listening to the Drone First speak.

“Mighty Shockwave, they are listening behind the door.”

The purple drone opened the door then, staring straight at the two female
autobots.

“Excuse. Me.”

Both autobots shifted on their feet, ashamed. The towering cyclops closed the
door back for an instant, then opened again it, staring down at both females.

“I, the Mighty Shockwave, accept the invitation. First!”

At this, the cyclops gave room for his own drone to step out, bringing a
truckload of energon.

“Is this an acceptable gift?”

Nautica and Firestar widened their optics, opening a large smile, and the
cyclops hummed, nodding; it can’t be considered stealing if he freely gave them
the energon cubes.

===============================================================================
 
 
“Energon cubes!!!”

Ratchet, thrumming in anxiety at his master’s room, blinked back to reality,
turning to face Microtron, wide awake and disconnecting himself from the still
recharging Shockwave.

“….weren’t you supposed to keep recharging connected to your carrier, lad?”

Microtron blinked, turning his face to his carrier, whom he briefly inspected
for any spilled, leftover processed energon, sagging minutely, then hugged very
tight with a datacable, and finally turned to look back at the medic, tilting
his camera-head and shrugging.

“I’m very hungry.”

He wormed a single datacable out, captured one of the energon cubes in the
desk, brought it to the berth where he was, cracked the lid open and delicately
inserted the datacable in, spreading the feelers inside the swirling liquid and
started to fuel, like Shockwave taught him to, completely ignoring the medic.

Ratchet on his side did his best impression of a statue, ignoring the little
clone and trying not to move too much.

He was uncomfortably warm, his self-regulation systems unable to keep his
temperature down; his systems were consuming the energon cube he gobbled down
without mercy, forcing the production and storage of transfluid, and to make
things worse, his interface cable was threatening to pressurise inside jacket,
and all feeling and sensation had been turned off from his usually unused,
currently very dry red port, his systems calibrated exclusively into male mode.

The tight fit would have been almost welcome if it weren’t for one problem: He
couldn’t just head to the washracks or to anymechto seek any kind of relief,
because the cable not only was locked inside jack, but the panels also wouldn’t
open without master’s command.

Trust him, he tried, and he has his own scratches in his interface panel to
prove.

So that was the agony Shockwave spoke about. Perpetual arousal without
resolution as long as the synch didn’t take place, zeroing the bars, or…

Microtron cackled suddenly retracting the datacable from the energon cube,
splashing energon around, then gleefuly staring at the puddles, sending the
datacable like a vacuum-cleaner with its feelers wide at the spread energon,
siphoning it in droplets.

Ratchet, diverted from his thoughts, shook his head, turning a quick glance at
the recharging Shockwave, the image of the silent carrier and his angled,
scarred left shoulder mesh, wide rounded hip-plates and protruding cockpit
chestpiece burning his optics, his fans nearly clicking on, doing his best to
remain very, very quiet.

===============================================================================
 

The quiet in Optimus' room was broken by his noisily shifts on his berth,
acting out his dreams, currently filled with ancient memories from before his
Primedom.

Fleeting glances of cyan blue optics and a heated white frame invaded his
plates, scorching, blazing his senses into his full lit array, hipside
connection locking into place, bypassing medical cable doubling as extra
stimuli right into his main dataport, from a time clearly belonging to before
his acceptance of the Matrix.

He knew it was a memory sequence slotted into a dream and right now couldn't
care less; on the rare moments his processor acknowledged the dream as it was,
he had the option to literally ride the flux.

And ride he did.

In dreams like these he rode like he never did, he rode like it were proper, he
rode it like his own spark needed it, searing white light filling his sight
from their shared chestplates, no Matrix Crystal in between to judge and
contempt and decide with whom or how he should interact.

The Power that came with it sometimes wasn't worth the inconvenience of losing
your own choices in life for the greater Good.

Now cold, numb, cursing loudly at his currently silent Matrix for having been
chosen Prime, regrettably aware of his ending dream, Optimus stood up and left
his room, shaking off his recharge.

===============================================================================
 

Coming out of recharge, Soundwave asked himself what he was doing piled up with
cassettes dozing all over his frame, after having literally lost the whole day
in useless slumber.

As far as he recorded, he had come to lecture and punish them for disobedience,
then..

Menace.

The little ladybee had one potentially useful skill afterall.

Good. Soundwave despite loving his creations, always made sure they would be
useful, good decepticons to further the cause, on their own pace, for their own
good as well.

Even in the event Soundwave one day perished during the war, and all creations
were finally unbonded from his direct safety net, he had to make sure each one
would have their place in the army and skills to live by.

Every good creator had to make sure of this.

Opening his tapedeck and sending a wordless ping to each of his creations, all
of them woke up, grumbled, tape-moded and got in.

Now he knew what she could do, he had armour, weapons and subroutines to
install into Menace's frame, and his own firewallsto strengthen up: it wouldn't
do to get knocked out by his own creations, and if anything, Soundwave was
efficient and deadly in his total mastery and command of his symbionts.

Time to go to the Constructicon's Bay.

===============================================================================
 
 
The Constructicon Scavenger, currently alone in his nightly shift, soldering
metal with his mask on, stood up hurriedly and saluted with the soldering iron
on his forehead, hissing smoke, as Soundwave strolled in, regally.

“Commander Soundwave!”

Soundwave nodded in dismissal, peeking at the myriad of scattered junk on the
ground, paying special attention to what Scavenger had been tinkering with.

“Query: objective?”

The construction stopped saluting, absently rubbing his forehead and smudging
the dark spot of blackened metal now resting there, and turned the soldering
iron off.

“Commander Shockwave ordered a private project done.”

Soundwave nodded, staring at the confusing collection of plates, screens, and
slim grey cables.

“Soundwave: also requires personal aid.”

He ejected a drowsy Menace, taking her from tape mode and handing him the
sleeping bug. He didn't need saying what he wanted done.

The construction had done armour any times to all of his creations.

Scavenger cradled the cassette, mumbling mumbo-jumbo at her and placing her
into a slab, taking a monocle and his delicate instruments, procuring cassette-
sized armoured plates, as Soundwave peeked further in to the project Shockwave
had ordered.

A neat series of what looked like sparkless minicons piled the slab where
Scavenger had been previously working at. All seemed to possess a CRT screen
for a head, CPU's for trunk, and cabled limbs, a very simplified version of
Microtron himself.

Soundwave knew better than to disturb Scavenger while he worked on plating his
newest cassette, thus he refrained from hacking him right now to get to the
blueprints of Shockwave's new idea.

So Shockwave decided making his creation a batch of drones: to what effect,
Soundwave didn't yet know, but soon he would. He was patient.

Scavenger wouldn't take forever.

===============================================================================
 

It took forever, but finally the protectobots could rest.

Stasis-locked yet repaired to First Aid's best abilities, Wheeljack and
Perceptor rested on the slabs, full of fresh welds and lacking proper paintjob,
spark-rate monitored.

Streetwise and Groove decided going on a nightly stroll, Hot Spot was taking a
nap: feet propped up the desk, First Aid had his visor offline, humming
tonelessly.

Life was finally good. They had a decent place with cable and Wi-Fi. Blades
proved to be a fine if not slightly too triggerhappy nurse, and they had the
whole bay for themselves, tonight.

“Excellent, now buff the other.”

Blades shifted from the left to the right hand, snickering with a wink as he
worked the bufferer and First Aid let go a more than content sigh.

Sensitive hands. The night promises.

Nothing could disturb it. Right?

Knock-knock.

Blades groaned, screaming at the locked door.

“We're on strike, go away!”

“I am aware. I'm here to talk.”the door spoke.

The two protectobots shared a glance, First Aid finally nodding, as Blades
grumbled and unlocked the door, locking his guns to shoot.

Optimus Prime walked in, shoulders low, glancing down.

“I give up and I'm here. You guys did it. You finally did it.”

“Actually, we didn't do anything.” First Aid shifted on his feet.

“Yet.” Blades added, lowering his guns: First Aid nearly slapped him, looking
at Optimus, who ignored them and sat himself unceremoniously at a slab,
remembering his dream.

“I had the crappiest day ever, and I'm very, very tired. Please just... fix
it.”

First Aid and Blades shared a look. Optimus asking them for help?

It was their opportunity to make demands!

“Then maybe you should have seen Rung. It's not my attribution to do the upper
processor. I'm a surgeon, Prime, with all due respect.”

“Yup, and if I recall well, you were denying my First the right to train his
own faithful nurse - me. Something on all helicopters being insane.”

Primus, how much Ihatethe mere sight of Ambulances and Helicopters together.

Optimus shook his head. There had to be another decepticon tainting his
autobot's ways like this. Why couldn't they just be good autobots and say yes
sir?

Wasn't it enough that Optimus literally overrode his panic and hatred of medics
and willingly walked inside the medbay to specifically ask for help? Can't they
see how difficult that was?

If only they removed the smug look in their faces.

Finally slumping on his place, Optimus sighed.

“First Aid. Blades. I am sorry. I was wrong. You aren't insane.”

“Actually, yes, I'm really insane.” nodded vigorously Blades “Something about
spinning rotors scrambling your neural net.”

Optimus blinked, repeatedly.

“Blades, you aren't helping.” First Aid facepalmed, turning abruptly to Optimus
“So you are saying you are sorry you denied me help?”

Optimus nodded, and before he gave First Aid the chance to change his spark, he
just plain laid on his back and opened his lateral medical port, waiting. First
Aid scratched his head.

“Hum. Sir, I'm not Strongarm to just plain hack in and...”

“Just do it already!!!”

Blades crossed his arms.

“Say please. Be nice to my First.”

Why me? Why meee?

“Please.”

Nodding, content, First Aid took hold of his medical cable, plunging in.
***** Dangerous Minds *****
Soundwave plunged into Scavenger's mind as soon as Menace's plating was done.

With one datacable slotted at each side of the constructicon's head, twin
biolights pulsing a navy blue tone, he managed to gather the whole facts: Wi-Fi
telepathy alone wouldn't have given him blueprints and directives, and as long
as Shockwave was involved, certainly technicalities that were impossible to
mind-read would always be present.

As he cautiously reviewed the many details of Shockwave's pet project for his
newspark, Soundwave shook his head.

Looks like Shockwave was about to take the idea of “making friends” a little
too far.

Microtron certainly would be in for a surprise, he pondered, as Menace, now
awake, flapped her wings and buzzed hovering Soundwave's head.

“Menace: desist. Soundwave's firewalls currently reinforced against your
pranks.”

The bee landed atop the slab, pinging Soundwave once. He shook his head.

“World: does not hate Menace. New armour: fundamental. Reassurance: Menace not
punished.”

The mechanic bee actually leapt and made eights in the air before Soundwave's
optics, buzzing as he recollected his datacables, leaving Scavenger unconscious
with his forehead atop a droneling's chest on the slab.

===============================================================================
 

On the slab, Wheeljack took his time awakening from what looked like the
scrapping of the millennia.

He really needed to remind himself not to confuse the fuchsia and the magenta
wires ever again.

Actually, he should stick to good old white, black, yellow, green, red and blue
code. It was much more difficult to make wrong.

Blinking his side faceplates twice, he stared down.

Thanks Primus for pain suppressants and the art of surgery. The leftover criss-
crossed welds were a work of art.

Abstract art.

At least he was whole and functioning.

Standing up, he looked around in search of First Aid, only to find in the last
far slab that he and Blades were surrounding the body of...

“Prime?”

Blades made a shhh with a finger before his face: puzzled, Wheeljack
approached.

“Wasn't Prime avoiding the medbay? What happened?”

Blades merely reiterated the need for silence, as First Aid, glassed visor
unfocused, remained immersed into Optimus' mind, through their light blue
biolight-glowing link.

===============================================================================
 

The purple biolights glowed, pulsing serene, one end disconnected over the
berth, the other linked to its owner, Shockwave, peacefully recharging, as
Microtron idly probed the free cortical psychic patchwith the four feelers of
one datacable spread wide, trying twice to vacuum it into his cable’s fuelling
line without success.

“Why can’t I get processed energon from it? What’s that?”

Ratchet, deeply bothered by his condition, was currently sitting at the desk,
immobile, having just taken in hands the datapad containing the Spark Condenser
blueprints, sighing.

“This is your carrier’s medical link, to which you should have remained
attached, recharging.”

Microtron nodded, ignoring the subtle instruction to link himself back,
clicking his claws together and approaching the medic slowly, cable undulating
in the air behind his back, right claw scratching his giant red optic, walking
towards the desk.

Before Ratchet could ask him what he was doing, the too tactile mechling clung
to Ratchet's left arm, looking up hopefully at him and tilting his head, as one
datacable crept slowly to embrace his waist.

“I liked a lot to see you re-implant carrier's arm back. So much fluid.And the
gelled energon. Promise we’ll do it again sometime?”

Demonstrating an unnerving lack of care about personal space – much like a
certain scientistdid whenever hacking with his purple medical cable–the
littlecannibal unceremoniously flung himself on the medic's lap, chirping and
clicking like a newly released newspark, optic off, rocking back and forth.

His HUD registering the word newspark in place as soon as Microtron touched
him, Ratchet noticed with great relief his interfacing subroutines and drive
subdue to near zero, bringing him immense peace of mind.

Interesting.

Before he could enjoy the lack of agony any further, as he held the kid close,
the door hung open with a hydraulic hiss, heavy steps filling the room.

He didn't dare look behind, but the kid onlined his single red optic and did,
waving one datacable into a hello to the looming shadow, single red optic
beaming as he pulled himself up to the huge mech's arms through the creepy-
crawly datacables.

Absolutely not willing to show the medic he knew how to hold a newspark,
Megatron just allowed Microtron to cling the best way he could through the
datacables, both hands clasped behind his back, as Ratchet stalled minutely,
his interfacing drive returning slowly as soon as the last inch of the
mechling’s mesh stopped touching his own shell.

He had never been so glad for small mercies: he would hate himself if he had
kept thinking on fragging Shockwave while a newspark rested above his lap.

“Microtron is... friendly.” Megatron cleared his voicebox, interrupting
Ratchet’s thoughts and shifting his glare to the recharging Shockwave “What
schedule did my Chief Science Officer put you under, that you have such free
reign of the room while he recharges?”

Ratchet blinked, standing up as his interfacing cable pulsed in long waves
inside jack, his EM-field nearly wobbling as he did his best to hold it in
place, looking up to the decepticon leader.

“No specific schedule, Lord Megatron.” he extended the datapad, trying not to
shake his hand “He’s working on a project meant to create a... a non-personal
factory of sparked decepticons.”

Megatron briefly analysed the datapad, ignoring the medic’s inner struggle,
Microtron now resting comfortably on the tyrant’s left side.

“I see.” he handed the datapad back to the medic “At least he isn't trying to
inject his own self with predacon CNA to try to create a clutch of predacon
eggs anymore.”

Ratchet nearly whimpered at the mental image of his master with both legs
spread wide open and laying an egg, shaking it away and remembering very well
Megatron’s purple griffin fiasco.

Suddenly it explained so much.

Megatron snickered, clamping his right hand on the medic's shoulder and
squeezing, as Ratchet squirmed, sensors burning at the touch.

“I had a good report on your work at the new Lab. Shockwave may think I never
read them, but I do, medic.” he approached his face, growling low. “I don't
trust you. As long as he vouches for you, and nothing suspicious comes out of
you, however, I don't mind your presence.”

Ratchet stared, impassive in his anxiety, his systems locking his speech as he
pondered about the possibility of uncovering his master’s Shockwave real amoral
self.

If Megatron knew.

The tyrant handed the currently recharging newspark back into Ratchet's arms,
the medic visibly relaxing as Megatron walked to the berth, going military-
stance.

“Shockwave. Report.”

The recharging mech lighted his visor on and off twice, suddenly recollecting
his purple medical cable and finally jolting into a standing up position, right
before the larger mech.

“Lord Megatron. What do I owe the honour?”

Shockwave tilted his head, right knee almost giving away as he nearly moved
into a knelt down position, following protocol.

Megatron prevented him, grounding him by his shoulder, giving a cruel smirk as
he ran three fingertips, slowly clawing the glass of his chestplate with a
screeching noise, then sending a comm ping.

Not before the help.

To the outsider, a silent second passed between them. Shockwave nodded, as
Megatron left the room.

Finally, once the door was closed, Shockwave sat back on the berth, hand
lingering in his own chestplate, smoothing the light scratch.

Ratchet, now more puzzled than ever, holding the newspark, with his upper
thought processes temporarily intact and unencumbered with the need to
interface, watched the display.

“Anything wrong, master?”

Quickly steeling himself and standing up, remembering he wasn't alone,
Shockwave took the four paddles from the corner, fitting them on his back,
meticulously.

“Why there should be, Chief Medical Officer?”

Ratchet almost snorted, Microtron in arms, seizing the moment of mental peace.

“Please. Drop the unfeeling act. There is something troubling you.”

Shockwave glowered his visor darkly, clicking the last paddle in, walking to
the other mech and snatching Microtron from his arms, being reminded once more
of the intrusive Decepticon Matrix.

Unquestionably, it had provided him his - so long ago wanted, not really
expected anymore - newspark, and for that he was grateful.

Considering the unexpected attachment he had developed tohis Microtron, he
could entirely understand now why the idea of strapping his own self to the
berth and getting sparked for the Decepticon Cause would notwork as source of
warriors: Shockwave would NEVER let them out of his sight for too long.

Not to mention his own history of bad shots and Microtron's delicate nature
meant his newsparks would never really be up to fight: he had always been a
scientist.

On secondary thought, how was Shockwave supposed to balance his scientific
career if he ever ended up with a truckload of newsparks?

For a fleeting second Shockwave imagined himself surrounded by dozens of
creations of differing faceplates from buckethead helmets to finials and even
helmets with finials, and optics, from one to two to three, and colours, from
grey to purple – all of them gunformers, obviously! - sitting on the ground as
he read them a berthtime story featuring the full details of the Predacon
Cloning process before recharge.

He would certainly need a bigger Lab.

Shaking his mental image away, Shockwave could finally understand on an
intellectual level why Soundwave would forever keep his creations in cassette-
sized frames, bound to him physically in juvenile shells for everything
including fuel, working directly under his orders.

Finally, realising he had gone silent for quite a while during his musings,
Shockwave spat back.

“You know nothing, autobot.”

He laid the newspark in the berth, petting the camera head once, turning to the
medic, who was fully back into active interfacingprotocols and struggling yet
failing not to show.

“Apropos, out of scientific curiosity, how are you dealing with the
consequences of your disobedience?”

Squinting, Ratchet inhaled and approached his master, looking him optic to
visor, as the heliformer tilted his head to the right and the medic’s optics
momentarily darted to the crook of his neck.

“Frag you, Shockwave.”

“You wish, Chief Medical Officer.”

Outraged, Ratchet turned on his back, interface cable pinging desperately to be
let out, transfluid tank full.

“You are aware that your rebellious behaviour earns you no points with me.”

Ratchet folded arms, doing his best to ignore his master, Shockwave staring at
him the whole time, thinking.

“Your current orders, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet, are to take good care of
Microtron. I highly recommend you take him with you everywhere. You know what
happens if you get out of touching range.”

Ratchet glowered, a cruel gleam in his optics, which Shockwave ignored and
droned further, walking to the door.

“My Lord has requested my presence and I shall comply. Excuse me.”

Ratchet nodded, his EM-field tightly held in place, as Shockwave nodded back,
leaving.

Once the door was closed, the medic offlined his optics, in-venting deeply and
letting his EM-field finally come out of his plating, anger, arousal and regret
surrounding his spark, pulsing in bright blue waves.

===============================================================================
 

The bright blue spark whirled in place as First Aid closed Optimus’ chestplate,
trapping the Matrix inside. Wheeljack, hypnotised by the sight of Prime's spark
and the Matrix, merely blinked, as Blades helped an exhausted First Aid into a
seat.

“So?”

The medic shook his head.

“I went as deep as I could. Despite his claim, there isn't anything to fix.”

Wheeljack, puzzled, tilted his head, staring. Blades pursed his lips.

“So actually you didn't solve anything? Does that mean he will revoke our
demands?”

“I don't think so. I made his condition more tolerable, and I indeed helped. I
managed to install a patch, but there are lines you do not cross. I don’t
delete memory files.”

Delete what? What condition? The scientist asked himself, hovering
uncomfortably close to Optimus.

First Aid, noticing Wheeljack was getting too nosy, motioned with his head
towards Perceptor, still unconscious on a slab: Blades, now sporting his
improvised nurse crosses, crude silvery metal soldered directly into his
plating, on both shoulders, nodded back.

Time to make the sleeping beauty rise and shine from the slab.

===============================================================================
 

Rising up from slumber over the slab, Scavenger's visor shone through the dark
and the dust particles at the Medbay, as he looked around, clueless on how he
ended up atop a droneling.

Slag, he shouldn't recharge during his shift!

Shaking his head, his shovel-tail swung right and left as he walked around the
room, frantically: he had nearly finished assembling the parts according to
instruction, and could hardly wait for Shockwave to come by later to inspect on
them.

Maybe he would even get complimented.

Beaming, he went back to work: he had still a couple of hours before sunrise.

===============================================================================
 

Sunrise still evaded the Ark, the precise moment Blades slapped a hand behind
Wheeljack and Perceptor's heads, making them stumble away from the medbay.

“Now you two leave us the Well alone, we are still on strike!” and slammed the
door shut.

Outside the corridor, Perceptor shook his head, still dizzy from being awoken,
as Wheeljack stretched.

“So, Percy, ready to go back to testing for Science???”

The microscope nodded, numbly walking there, mumbling something about for
Science indeed.

===============================================================================
 

“Indeed.”

Skywarp projected himself out of the berth, VOPing away to the ceiling, hitting
it and falling back right into Thundercracker's lap, as Starscream loomed into
the room and the blue jet finished throwing his purple counterpart on the
ground.

“Talking to yourself again, Screamer??” Skywarp rubbed his aft, slowly standing
up.

“Shut up, you overgrown oaf.” He strolled in, pushing Thundercracker aside and
taking his place on the berth “Not my fault you can't grasp my degree of
scientific advancement and follow my trail of thought.”

“What does Trailbreaker has to do with anything?”

“Please, Warp, no.” Thundercracker rubbed his forehead “And what did your
amazing intellect come up with now, Starscream?”

Starscream smirked, as his trinemates recoiled, unaware about the fact he had
just watched the satellite feed right into Megatron's throne room, under
Soundwave's proverbial nose.

He cleared his voicebox, starting to expose the subject of undersea oil
deposits to his trinemates.

Thundercracker followed his lead, as Skywarp stared at the ceiling, bored,
continuously poking the blue seeker's side. Starscream continued on the
feasibility of exploration of the undersea oil as a future plan for mankind's
current mild energy crisis, added to the details on footage of a grievous
accident unfortunately entirely human-made, resulting in the sinking of
Petrobrás P-36 platform, containing 1.500 million litres of unprocessed petrol.

Petrol that was deemed technically impossible to recover under the guise of
mankind's current technology, not to mention the risk of spillage into the
ocean as soon as a rescue team attempted getting to it – Greenpeace would have
a field day in the event that ever happened.

“So you are saying this oil is trapped right under our own afts, unclaimed and
given up by the squishies?”

Starscream nodded at Thundercracker, who judiciously ignored Skywarp's poking.

“Almost like a pirate's sunken treasure chest.”

“Ohh, let's dig it Screamer!!” Skywarp suddenly quit poking Thundercracker and
draped himself in one VOP all over Starscream's lap, wriggling his optic
ridges. “How are you sure no one is guarding the treasure anyway?”

“Of course it's completely unguarded!” he pushed Skywarp off his lap, making
him land with a yelp “It isn't like the humans expect anyone in this mudball to
actually go there, undersea, to steal it anyway. Not even the autobots would be
able to prevent us. All we need now is a plan.”

He set his back on the berth, Skywarp finally draping himself over their
leader, giggling as Starscream beckoned for Thundercracker to join them.

They could start planning later.

===============================================================================
 

“Are you planning in joining them later?”

Ramhorn nodded. Eject sighed.

“But Ramhorn, they didn’t even wrung out your new scientifically-able mode
yet.”

Ramhorn shrugged.

“Sure, the day Wheeljack stops exploding himself he might be able to finish
it.”

Ramhorn shook his head vigorously, then stomped on the ground once.

“No getting mad at me, but Perceptor doesn’t have his screws right as well.
Just between us, everything was better when all of us were officially full
siblings.”

At that Ramhorn cocked his hipside guns, frowning, and Eject rose his hands in
defeat.

“You know what I mean! Now everyone looks at Blaster and keeps imagining
whomight have been fragging him back then! Don’t you think I can’t infer what
everyone thinks?”

The rhino groaned, looking dejectedly at the ground.

“Of course our carrier is not like that.He slipped, that’s all, and no one
really wants knowing who is your daddy, ok, little lug?”

Ramhorn sighed, staring up, the moonlight still in the sky despite the early
morning.

“Me too, bro. Can’t wait to see you talking like us, getting real smart and
making science all while sporting your chainguns!”

Both high-fived then, heading to the Ark and finally getting inside.

===============================================================================
 

Finally inside his office, Soundwave rested comfortably at his favourite chair,
feet propped up at the console, hands behind his neck, a single blue datacable
creeping out of his back and latching to the panel.

“Menace: training mission: extensive patrol. Report activity, especially if it
involves Starscream.”

The bee buzzed once, compliant, leaving the premises, as Soundwave logged onto
her video feed, following her progress through the undersea base.

He couldn't have left himself recharge like this. He was the Communications
Officer. He had duties!

Skimming through the camera recordings, he came across the footage of
Starscream lounging at Megatron's throne room with one foot propped up the
armrest, seemingly watching human television, very focused on the screen.

Blinking his visor once and resting his right hand on his chin, the
communications officer asked himself what could Starscream be up to now,
quickly shifting through the screamer’s access code logs until he found out the
seeker was currently in his own room, where Soundwave could detect right now
the presence of the full trine.

He recalled sadly the amount of times he tried to sneak one of his creations
inside the trine's room to install a spy camera, to no avail. Starscream wasn't
stupid, and managed to build a lock that recognised only his trine’s specific
spark frequencies.

A completely inviolable lock, by usual standards. So good that Soundwave had
managed to tinker with his and Megatron's lock so they would open only to their
specific spark frequencies as well.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, afterall.

Of course he never credited Starscream to his leader. Megatron didn't need to
be reminded that Starscream was not only a pretty aft, but also a brilliant
mech. His leader was infatuated enough already, and Soundwave didn't want the
competition.

Soundwave snorted. Until recently, this type of lock would have been fully
inviolable. Unfortunately, or not, Shockwave, being the first registered
outlier, could alter his spark frequency to match any he wished, which made him
the only mech able to infiltrate the whole base at will.

Starscream would go crazy if he stopped to think about it.

Ah well. Let's not make Shockwave aware of this though, not now: Soundwave had
keyed Megatron's and Shockwave's own room with his signature as well, both as a
show of good will and as a means of not needing to explain his bondmate how
this specific kind of lock worked.

Evidently, Soundwave keyed Ratchet's spark frequency into Shockwave's door as
well: the scientist vouched for the medic, politely requesting Megatron to make
him into his personal slave, for he was sorely lacking a competent lab
assistant, and would need the occasional sparksitting for his young.

Obviously, Megatron complied. He had such blind faith in Shockwave that it was
borderline scary.

He feared for the day such blind faith cracked and Megatron's frustration took
the best out of him.

Soundwave shuddered at the thought and the idea.

If Shockwave weren't so emotionally blind, and so devotedto the Cause,
Soundwave might even suspect he was actually in an affair, actively fraggingthe
medic.

===============================================================================
 

“Fragging medic!!!”

Optimus cursed, blinking his optics slowly as he awoke at the medbay.

Searching for his files, he discovered all the memories were still there,
intact, albeit no longer associated with hateful regret.

Slag it, he wanted his Shanix back! First Aid didn't fix anything!

He still remembered his past.He wanted it gone, not as a page to be properly
turned over.

Sitting on the slab and glumly deciding he really, really hated medics, Optimus
shook his head and walked away, all alone.

===============================================================================
 

“What are you doing here all alone?”

Perceptor, scope out of his shoulders and resting on the bench, open in a
myriad of parts, worked on its apparent reassembly as he ignored Wheeljack's
question.

Puzzled and scratching his head, Wheeljack visually inspected the defiled
scope.

He wasn't aware a microscope needed cocking mechanisms, reservoir for bullets
and energy cells inside the tube.

Fleeting a worried glance at his science bro, he couldn't help flinching as
Perceptor rubbed his servos together, mumbling something on needing to comm
Swindlefor supplies.

===============================================================================
 

“Wh-what do yo-u-u ne-e-ed those sup-pl-pl-plies for?”

Ratchet, glad for small mercies and his intact mental faculties for the moment,
had Microtron on his lap, secured by the datacables in silent recharge, as
Mixmaster took notes of the list of chemicals he requested.

“It's for Master Shockwave's Lab Project.”

The decepticon nodded, glad for receiving the list in a datapad instead of
through mandatory hardline hacking like Shockwave would have done. Pointing
Ratchet to a stool, he moved to his chemicals, filling the vials methodically
with the requested micronutrients.

Shifting a glance at the medic holding Shockwave’s kid on the corner, he shook
his head: he hadn't appreciated losing part of their bay for the Commander, but
he wasn't bitter about it. The scientist was the one who made them as
Devastator, afterall, and for that he was glad. His bondmates balanced him, and
as long as no one messed up with his chemicals or with Scavenger, he was fine.

Labelling the substances by their layman terms, he hummed tonelessly: despite
being a nervous wreck and stuttering even in his thoughts, Mixmaster was a
brilliant natural chemist: albeit unable to wring up a written formula
together, he could reproduce mixtures and substances from spark, not to mention
he was the only one capable of conjuring up palatable high-grade from the
sludge of energon the decepticons had access to.

On his side, Ratchet, sparksitting, obeying to the T Shockwave's orders,
completely unable to get into recharge, decided upon speeding up the Spark
Condenser project, which was why he ended up with the constructicons in first
place: restricted on his orders by his master, there was little else besides
remaining coped up on the room and moping, or trying to tinker with Shockwave’s
pet project, and who knew, he might even win his synch back by doing his work.

The clicking of glass vials and cubed chemicals rolled on the background as a
closer clicking caught Ratchet's attention: his charge whirred into life,
actually scratching his single optic with a stray datacable, waving hello with
a second one, and tightly hugging him with a third.

Ratchet nodded back to him, releasing him on the ground and letting all the
datacables go, except for one he kept firmly holding in hands, and readying
himself to gather the chemicals.

As soon as he stared at the two vials and one cube of cybertronium, ready to
subspace them one by one, he felt the datacable slip and the last thing he saw
was Microtron running.

Freezing in place, feeling the ticking time-bomb of his interfacing protocols
slowly rising, Ratchet felt his world spin: optics dilated to a thin rim of
blue, he excused himself and left a cackling Mixmaster behind, bolting out of
the door.

===============================================================================
 

Bolting out of Prowl’s Office, Jazz screeched he was sorry, as an outraged SIC
glowered towards his retreating self.

Still not understanding what he was doing of wrong, the TIC glumly sat on a
corner, sulking: he had spent so much time elaborating his formal request to
start a traditional courtship, had researched so much on Praxian customs, had
even managed to smuggle a crystal from the Crystal Gardens from a black market
collector, to what effect??

Once more, Prowl simply refused, ordering him out, even after he got on his
knees and swore eternal undying love and dedication.

His words sending him away stung, still ringing his audials:

The day you find out who deactivated Wheelie, I will sparkbond you.

That case should be filed under impossible police mysteries at the Iaconian
Archives: Prowl was a fragging, obsessed bastard!

Sitting on a corner to sulk, he barely noticed the approach of everyone’s
favourite newspark.

“Hi! I’m Technotor. You look sad. Can I invite you to a party?”

Jazz blinked.

“Party? Are ya mad? I’ma busy trying to find Wheelie’s killer!”

Technotor flashed his best shiny smile then, flaring his mirrors on and
starting to play Elements of Life from Tiesto, extending him his hand.

“C’mon, it’s just this once, it can’t hurt! I’m positive after having fun
you’ll finally come to a solution!”

===============================================================================
 

He had finally come to a solution.

He would make Shockwave open up the Spacebridge on Cybertron.

The Lawyercon steadied himself, walking imposingly to the front of Shockwave’s
Tower on Cybertron, in Tarn, ringing the doorbell.

Inside, Mighty Shockwave groaned, interrupting his reading of the holographic
invitations he and the drone First received to Nautica and Firestar’s
sparkbonding.

“What does this jerk want?”

DING-DONG

“I’m busy!”

DING-DONG

He went to the door, opening it. The pitch-black Lawyercon adjusted his frilly
white wig and handed him an official-looking datacard.

“By the Powers conferred to my caste through the Quintessons and the
Cybertronian Juridical System, I order you to open up the Space Bridge.”

Acting on his automated response program, Mighty Shockwave replied.

“I only take orders from Lord Megatron, not you… whoever you are.”

“I am the last Lawyercon standing, Justice cannot wait!”

“And I’m Lord Megatron’s loyal Guardian of Cybertron.” he cocked his hand
blaster into life “And you’re guilty of insubordination. I’m telling Megatron.”

The drone turned to his station, ready to comm.

===============================================================================
 

Coming inside the room and locking up the door, Shockwave barely had time to
properly kneel down and submit himself to his Lord’s will, as expected, getting
instantly pulled towards a pair of gunmetal grey arms and having his EM-field
invaded by Megatron’s imposing spark frequency, the warlord approaching his
audials with dimmed crimson optics and closing a hand at his mate’s neck.

“I don’t like that medic watching over your recharge. I have been a slave once
and I know deep inside how the coding works.”

Shockwave, EM-field flat, kept staring up, neutral, giving a not-reply.

“I assure you the synch bars I have added into the program work with perfection
with my cortical psychic patch and there is no need of traditional slave
bonding between master and slave, my Lord.”

Groaning, Megatron loosened the hand on his neck, keeping it there, thumb
grazing Shockwave’s fuel intake lid.

“There better not be, Shockwave.”

“Absolutely no need, Lord Megatron.” he tilted his head to the right, stepping
ahead and purposefully sliding both hands at each side of Megatron’s hips until
he cupped his lord’s aft “Have I been summoned with a purpose beyond being
reminded, or should I return to quarters now, my liege?”

Giving a lopsided smirk, Megatron finished popping the lid open, index rimming
the entrance of the fuel intake, finally probing its inner walls with a slow
rotation of his fingertip, as Shockwave shut down his visor, going still, and
the tyrant’s other hand travelled to the small of his back.

“Can you imagine why I specifically came after you, Shockwave?”

Shockwave knew why, but shook his head. Megatron smirked.

“You know how much it pains me to sparkmerge, and unfortunately for Soundwave
merging is usually a requirement.”

Pulling themselves closer with his other hand, Megatron approached Shockwave’s
audials, growling low.

“Hook said that I should avoid sparkmerging with you, but he said nothing
against a good, old, hard frag, and you and I know that you like it rough.”

Shockwave, currently focused on the non-damaged sensors in his fuel intake,
revelling in the quasi-painful slide and twist his lord was providing, and glad
to know he wouldn’t have to sparkmerge, nodded, as Megatron snorted.

“That always does the trick: if only I could get you to trash and convulse and
scream in overload.”

Shockwave’s visor came back to life.

“I may create subroutines for that specific request, my Lord.”

Shockwave droned through the mask’s vocaliser, already starting to compile a
program in his systems, the instant a loud slap on his aft brought him back to
reality, both his arrays instantly pinging to life and beginning lubrication,
heat rising.

“That was a rhetorical wish.”

Shockwave nodded, charge building, focusing on the feeling of the heavy, black
hand removing his paddles one by one and throwing them on the ground,
Megatron’s thick finger continuously teasing his oesophageal tube.

“I could do you the whole solar cycle. There is something special in seeing you
like this. Reduced to nodding.”
 
Shockwave nodded further, unwilling to speak, getting suddenly mechandled back
against the berth, failing to notice the instant his last paddle was taken out,
Megatron’s grey abdominal plates fitting between his widespread thighs, sliding
up slowly until his black pelvis met his own.

“You have no idea on how much I enjoy your true reactions.”

Shockwave nodded, in automatic, his lord sliding up and down over his
overheated arrays, finally double-locking the autobot one out of reach and
letting his original purple one come free, thick beads of lubricant pouring
from between the purple folds, interface cable slotted and inactive in jack.

Megatron stared, remembering how many times he tried coaxing it out, to no
avail: Primus-damned Empurata!

“My Lord, could I respectfully request that you just start poun….”

Getting interrupted in his visual appreciation, Megatron growled.

“By the Unmaker, Shockwave, can you shut up.”

Megatron smirked, emphasising the last word by immediately filling the port
with both his right hand’s index and middle finger, rotating them inside and
crooking them up, this time a small gush of pinkish fluid coming out,
Shockwave’s visor dimming minutely, voicebox shutting immediately.

“You know what’s your problem, Shockwave? You always think you can order me in
the berth like you do to Soundwave.”

Shockwave nodded non-committally: he truly didn’t think so, but it was no use
arguing with Lord Megatron in this matter, especially not when his lord was
actually trying hard to please.

“I will fill you up whenever I wish, not when you respectfully request. You
haven’t given me enough real input yet.”

Shockwave was about to drone, stopping himself: call him basic, but what he
really craved was the crude, nearly painful slidingin and out, one of the few
things he could honestly still feel in his damaged array and his dulled sensory
net due to the damage of the spark-to-body connection because of Shadowplay.

What his lordcalled input, he called as useless foreplay.

As such, even having been ordered not to, visor offline, he disobeyed and had
to call upon automated subroutines and made sure to squirm just lightly enough
at each crook of fingers, even calculatedly flaring minutely his EM-field,
hoping his Lord would be convinced of true reactions he couldn’t have, and just
start the really good part soon.

The instant he felt emptiness followed by the heavy weight of a full warframe
over himself, and a thick, warm, cylindrical, dripping rigid structure
painstakingly slowly filling his now stupidly lubricated folds, he let go his
first genuine shudder, earning himself a satisfied growl upon his audials,
holding himself not to speak out of turn and just start droning, as his Lord
suddenly let go of his own self-control and begun to mechanically pound.

Charge building exponentially now, about to turn off his upper processors, his
bliss was interrupted by the sound of a comm line coming to life.

===============================================================================
 

Comm line on his personal quarters coming to life, ringing, Megatron, focus
suddenly removed from the happy place inside Shockwave’s port he was currently
into, growled: who could be the jerk that dared interrupt him on his personal
frequency at a moment like this?

If Starscream had dared to call him now…

He turned on the sound only, sending his voice but not his face.

“Megatron speaking. It would better be important.”

The screen's image flickered to life, depicting his interlocutor.

Blinking twice, he contemplated the immutable faceplates of his purple guardian
left on Cybertron, or better, his empty shell, getting a sinking feeling in his
own spark as he stared for longer than he should at what he now knew was a
soulless husk.

“Lord Megatron.I can’t see you.Am I interrupting?”

Megatron growled, giving him an unspoken order to report, the guttural echo
reverberating the room. Mighty Shockwave, on screen, being unable to see his
face, just flinched.

“I’m here to report an intruder in the Tower.”

“And I expect you to properly arrest whoever it is and to deal with him
accordingly like the good drone you are!!!”

Mighty Shockwave nodded, happy for clear instructions that do not make him open
up the spacebridge and glitch in logical conflict. Megatron, a headache
brewing, spat.

“Now don’t comm again unless what you have to say is really important!”

As the feed was suddenly cut, Megatron finally stared down at the real
Shockwave, interface arrays connected and pinging, as the scientist donned a
logical excuse, both hands holding up to his lord’s chestplate and keeping
their faces at close touching distance.

“I had only a few hours to compile and run the drone program, My Liege. I
apologise for the drone's ineptitude.”

Megatron then suddenly pulled out and disconnected himself from Shockwave,
finally pushing him to the ground and practically jumping out of the berth,
interface cable slotting into jack with difficulty, panel locking with a loud
click, finally pacing in a circle around the room, EM-field wide and menacing.

For 30 full seconds Shockwave stalled his processors, standing immobile with
his purple interface panel open and folds dripping, finally closing it and
slowly standing up from the floor, silently hoping his Lord wouldn't send him
to take his drone's place and thus stay away on Cybertron for good.

It would mean his self-imposed mission resulted in complete failure, logically
wasting all his efforts during the last four million years.

At Megatron’s unnerving silence, Shockwave walked closer.

“My Lord?”

Megatron stopped pacing then, clenching his fists and staring straight at
Shockwave's visor, both standing up in the middle of the room.

Shockwave's sparkless drone phoning from Cybertron only soured what was
supposed to be a rough, physical, deep and intense frag with his mate: the
scientist, medically barred from merging, was a perfect choice to what Megatron
craved this time.

Leave it to Shockwave to be the only mech capable of interface-blocking his own
self from a separate drone shell, millions of light-years away.

Contemplating his rarely hesitant mate, Megatron's mind filled with the
plethora of Shockwave's mistakes, from him leaving Cybertron against orders, to
wrecking the Nemesis into Earth by being a terrible shoot, to finally arranging
for the damn decepticon matrix to exist and be housed into his own chestplates,
barring him from sparkmerge, to the medic being his slave and sharing quarters
with him.

Squinting as the green monster of jealousness entered his spark, Megatron
growled: he didn’t particularly appreciate sparkmerging due to the pain in his
slave-damaged sparkchamber, but Primus knew the only thing preventing him of
ordering Shockwave to just merge with him right now (and thus seeing his true
intentions towards the autobot medic!) was the dreaded decepticon matrix.

Megatron then furiously and repeatedly poked his mate’s chestplates, Shockwave
stumbling backwards.

“I don't care how, Shockwave! This decepticon matrix thing was a bad idea! This
has to go, even if I have to rip it from you myself!!!”

Shockwave asked for apologies in a half hunched position, promising to make it
right, as Megatron raised a hand, ready to backhand him.

Offlining his visor, Shockwave braced himself for it. It was only logical. He
deserved punishment for his failures afterall.

After almost a minute of stillness and silence and not a single beating, he
turned the visor back on, staring at his Lord, back turned to him.

“...My Lord?”

Hands clasped on his back, absolutely not staring at Shockwave, Megatron walked
to the far side of the room.

“Just leave my sight, Shockwave. Go. Until you solved this problem you created,
I don't even want to remember your touch.”
***** The Touch! *****
Chapter Summary
     Enter the Combaticons!
“You've got the TOUCH! You've got the POWAAAA!!!!”

Optimus winced and paused his refuelling at the Rec Room, as Technotor pranced
around the tables, lights flickering on all directions, music booming, leading
a conga line behind himself and winking at the Prime: Jazz, the second in line,
actually blew a kiss and waved goodbye, as a few unknown autobots followed
suite.

Blinking twice, shaking his head and rushing back to his own office, Optimus
had been pleasantly met with a complete absence of autobots pledging him
stuffat the door, quickly hiding himself in.

As provider of diversion, Technotor was most definitely proving to be good.

As Matrix-generated offspring, he was a thundering disappointment.

Sitting at his desk and shaking his head, he actually smiled under the
battlemask for having left the insanity behind.

===============================================================================

Behind the palm trees, at the tropical sun of the Solomon Isles, Guadalcanal,
Swindle lounged on the beach, the moment his comm whirred into life.

Answering it, he blinked his purple optics, smirking to himself.

“Swindle's Independent Entrepreneur Business Expenditure at your disposal, I
have just precisely what you never knew you wanted or needed in first place!”

He nodded at nowhere, the wind blowing on the palm trees.

“Now, for my favourite costumer, especially for you, I'll be making a discount,
now what do you think of that?”

Waves washed his feet on the beach, as he laid on his back, arms behind his
head, staring at the sky, wondering where Blast-Off could be now.

“Don't trust Swindle? How can you not! Swindle's Independent Entrepreneur
Business Expenditure is reliable and discreet! With Swindle you never have to
worry! I'm even taking extra mods for you to see, who knows what else might
pick your fancy. I'm always in for a good deal.”

Comming off, he couldn't help rubbing his servos together, seagulls cawing on
the background.

He loved deals with autobots. The energon was pure and volcanic, the Shanix
valid and current, the earthly Petrodollars overflowing, and they often had no
real notion of true value attached to the product, cutting sweet deals for
Swindle and his space-faring partner Blast-Off.

Hopefully they wouldn't even need to raid anywhere this time: he already had
everything the autobot requested, which obviously would only bring the price
up.

Managing to pick his partner's comm frequency, he warned Blast-Off of the
impending business.

Blast-Off, lounging on the upper atmosphere, in orbit, still, revved his
engines alight.

===============================================================================

Engines revved still, turning ON his room's lights, Shockwave, carrying his
four paddles in hands, static humming through his frame, stepped in to find it
empty.

Presuming Ratchet had left with Microtron on tow to either the constructicon
bay or the Lab, he logically concluded everything was under control and decided
to take time to ponder on the problem at hand, or better, at his chest.

His Lord had been severely displeased, and the only way to return to his good
graces was having the Decepticon Matrix removed, and preferably installed as an
independent device, soon.

Resting the four paddles against the wall and retracting the rotor inside, he
sat at the middle of the main berth, finally lying on his back, buzzing with
residual charge.

There had never been registry of a single Matrix-bearer giving the Matrix up,
so he had no information if it was even possible to have it removed before a
mech's deactivation: all the Primes so far had first turned grey, then had the
pulsing, living, surviving Matrix removed and transferred afterwards.

Being semi-religious symbols, the deactivated Primes had never had their shells
defiled and thus never properly studied; as such Shockwave also had no info on
the state of their frames after extraction of the Matrix.

He remembered well how the Matrix latched itself, side struts fused to Optimus
Prime's frame, and on how his spark frequency fluctuated dangerously the only
time he had been close enough to touch, the fateful day he stole the half of
the Matrix and housed it within the infamous paperweight.

Would his regenerated half, his Decepticon Matrix, take well to being removed?

For one, it did appear to have somewhat of a will of its own, or at least an
absurd fondness for newsparks, to the point Shockwave himself wasapprehensiveof
sparkmerging again.

Afterall, he had really no control over it, like the Primes do. He couldn't
order it to give a spark to any shell (Primus knows he tried), he couldn't
access any kind of wisdom or knowledge from within, he couldn't hack it, and it
continuously fed on his own systems, taxing his processors by 48 to 67% more
than he should be running, consuming energon enough to power four to five mechs
a day.

Although his Lord seemed frustrated for not being able to sparkmerge, and
didn't even know half the difficulties Shockwave had living with his cursed
knock-off, Lord Megatron was right in concluding the whole experiment was a
terrible idea.

Shockwave had the inkling he shouldn't just rip the Decepticon Matrix out;
unfortunately, he would indeed need the medic to intervene right beside his own
spark, something he had only ever trusted around his bondmates and his own
sparkless drone back on Cybertron.

Despite bound by the slave coding, which just downright impedes the medic of
even thinking of attempting to harm his master, Shockwave had good reason to be
wary: logically, Ratchet was probably in the least disappointed and in the
worst, downright pissed at his current situation, and a mech as resourceful and
intelligent as his slave was, would be able to find a suitable loophole to work
around as his very sparkchamber laid exposed and helpless under his servos.

Shockwave, willing his systems to rev down from his failed session with his
Lord, frame heavy with unspent charge, offlined his optics, for once wary of
his future, not knowing how to proceed.

===============================================================================
 

“Let us proceed. Look at these wares!”

Swindle smiled his best salesmech smile, as Perceptor inspected the
merchandise: in the distance, we see Wheeljack eavesdropping, barely hiding
behind a boulder.

Blast-Off, lounging with his arms folded, shook his head: he couldn't care less
about who Swindle bartered with, as long as he kept an optic to be sure he
would never ever sell his team mates again.

Particularly interested on a couple of special mods, Perceptor actually caught
a sniper rifle and aimed right at the direction where Wheeljack was, shooting.

“Oh, no wasting, if you waste it, you pay it!”

Swindle immediately stopped protesting as Perceptor gave him a creepy smile,
resting the sniper rifle on his shoulder and actually cackling as Wheeljack
came from his failed hiding spot sporting a minute, precise hole in the middle
of his forehead, screeching.

“Frag it Percy, didn't you see me??”

Adjusting his monocle on his right optic, Perceptor tilted his head.

“I have seen you with precision, my friend, and I knew you were no threat. That
is why you have a minute shot through your forehead, not a minute hole through
your sparkchamber.”

A minute hole through my sparkchamber?

A minute hole through my sparkchamber?

Realisation dawning on him, Wheeljack blinked his side-face lights twice and
widened his optics, as Perceptor caught and threw each of the mods right into
the hands of his frightened and scared co-scientist.

“I'm taking your full stock.”

Perceptor then turned and took in hands a second twin sniper rifle, manoeuvring
both in hands with amazing expertise, finally resting them, each on one
shoulder.

Swindle, whose optics briefly turned into two Shanix signs, quickly coming back
to their normal shape, extended then his hand to the microscope, intent in
sealing the deal...

...the moment two twin red dots shone, at the same time, at where both Blast-
Off's and Swindle's spark chambers were located in their chestplates, buzzing
with charge, Perceptor's smile opening wide.

===============================================================================
 

Single optic cycling wide, Microtron walked around the undersea base, staring
up at the purple walls in the dim lit halls, occasionally stopping to
contemplate a window with a giant octopus latched on, or a whale singing by.

The undersea base was huge, he didn’t know where carrier was, and he was
hungry.

He was very hungry, and could hardly contain himself inside the constructicon's
bay once Ratchet released him on the ground.

Mind stubbornly seeking for what would appease his hunger, Microtron swung his
slim arms as he walked, blocky feet thumping on the ground and echoing on the
hull, four datacables flailing out from his back, feelers occasionally touching
the walls, the panels and the ground, feelers wide, gathering info from his
darkened surroundings: he blinked his optic slowly, turning around and heading
into the lower levels of the Nemesis.

Pedes splashing in a slimy layer of oil and brine, reflexively moving the four
datacables he had out, he held against the seams at the wall panels, avoiding
to fall onto the edge of crates, unaware he could be blind and lonely if he
did.

Never having been under this current degree of exposure to danger while away
from family, he kept advancing down, the four outstretched tentacles holding
onto the walls and serving as guide, as his sensors followed the unmistakable
scent of stale, gelled processed energon going stronger.

Turning his cracked screen-chestplate ON into a white background screen, he
managed to illuminate partially his surroundings and cycled his objective wide,
outlining the shapes of...

Carrier?

Carrier!!

Microtron ran at the visored, faceplated shadow with four paddles on its back
that was moving at the end of the corridor, happy to see Carrier was there,
right where the scent of processed energon was stronger.

Anticipating a hearty meal, Microtron opened both arms wide, finally jumping
and latching himself like an octopus through datacables and arms and legs at
the mech’s own chestplate, enveloping his waist with his legs, nuzzling his
camera head at the crook of his neck, whispering.

“What is it you have there for me? I’m hungry!”

Heat burning from his frame as his rotors revved loudly and his fans turned on,
the red visored faceplate turned to the mechling in the dark, a mad
unrecognisable cackle echoing the halls, and Microtron froze in place, sprawled
against the heliformer.

“What a coincidence.”

It wasn’t carrier’s voice.

“I’m hungry too.” the rough voice whispered right on his audials. “And I do
have something for you.”

Before Microtron could detach and run, Vortex vice gripped his waist,
immediately trapping him with his interrogator stasis cuffs, nullifying the
movements on his limbs and datacables, disabling his comm links and finally
walking away into a secluded room dragging him by the tentacled appendages, as
the mechling silently bellowed for help.
***** Save me *****
“Ahem. Do you need help?”

Scrapper folded arms, positioning himself right between Starscream and
Scavenger, who was recoiling from the screamer. The decepticon air commander
pointed at the scout, bellowing.

“This... this stupid idiotic glitch is saying you all are too busy with some
imbecile project for Shockwave and can't help me build a submarine!”

“Commander Shockwave's project takes precedence.”

“But...but I'm second in command!”

Scrapper merely smirked and patted once Starscream's shoulder. Scavenger
nodded, complementing.

“He asked nice too. His kid will be so happy with all the friends!”

Starscream blinked repeatedly. What???

“I can't believe you are designing that scrapleta batch of friends! This is a
waste of resources! Shockwave has lost his mind! I will tell Megatron at once!
I...”

At that, Scrapper stood to attention, as did Scavenger, saluting. Starscream
got deadly mute, waiting for Megatron's voice of Doom.

“BZZzZZZzzzZ???”

Starscream leered. What was it with Soundwave and beastformercassette modes for
his own offspring? The thing can’t even talk! Isn’t it enough that his
creations are small?

“Go get yourself a hive, insect! How dare you actually live in such a shell!
I’d never be caught up dead inhabiting you, even by accident! You’re a disgrace
to the decepticons! You..!”

At that Soundwave’s voice of doom echoed from the cassette.

“Starscream: Soundwave watching you.”

Sputtering, Starscream yelled at the bee.

“Oh, yeah??? Very mechly of you, hiding behind your wasp!"
 
 
“Menace: bee, not wasp." 
 
 
"Wasp, bee, what's the difference? You're a coward the same! Why won’t you come
by yourself and be a real mech for once?”
 
 
"Soundwave: superior. Challenge: acknowledged.”

Looping another eight in the air, the buzzing Menace stopped right before the
air commander, Soundwave’s laughter dying from her systems.

Starscream, realising too late he had committed a mistake, glared at the
smirking Scrapper and just bolted through the corridors.

===============================================================================
 

Bolting through the corridors, Ratchet, searching for Microtron, abandoned
discretion and now wailed his sirens in ambulance mode as decepticons right and
left gave way, actually using his aggressive interface drive to a good cause
for once.

He had already searched the Rec Room and the Lab, had tried pinging the
mechling’s comm with no reply, and currently hoped to locate him lurking with
his Ipad sitting on some corner, reading.

Certainly no sane decepticon would attempt to harm Megatron’s creation.

Would they?

Ratchet stalled for a second. What a stupid idea.

They are decepticons. Of course they would, given opportunity.

Icy fear creeping up his plates, interface cable pinging continuously to be let
out and just angering him further, fuelling his drive to find the kid, Ratchet
asked himself where and how such an opportunitymight take place. He wasn’t a
connoisseur of the Nemesis, but he suspected the deeper and darker, the worse.

Slave coding kicking in full force, pre-transfluid actually starting to drip
from the forcibly slotted cable behind his locked panel and EM-field flaring
aggressively, obliged to seek his charge, knowing he had failed and needed to
make it right and aware of the potential danger, he braced himself, rolling
down the corridors, anger and determination in his voice.

“I’m going to find you and retrieve you, you little elusive glitch!”

 
===============================================================================
 

Elusive glitch!!!

Elita-1, deeply rested, awoke inside her amazingly luxurious oil bath.

After having been thoroughly rejected by her Prime, she needed to undergo such
bath to relax: who Optimus thought he was to goad her like this?

Of course: he was the Prime. As leader, he could truly do anything, and in a
way, she deserved it after a whole year running away from any and all his
attempts to sparkmerge.

Finally coming to peace with her punishment, she now pondered about the events
of the Matrix crafting the Prime his own scraplet and heir, without needing to
get her sparked, finally agreeing she had been blessed indeed and shouldn’t
show so much hostility.

Maybe it was time for apologies from both sides. They were bonded, afterall,
and had to make it work, and it should begin by the Prime stopping to refuse
her.

Elita-1 puffed her chest and stood up, intent in getting satisfaction,
recalling Optimus’ scraplet.

 
===============================================================================
 
 
“So, scraplet.”

Vortex’s voice echoed in his dark room, only the light coming from his own red
visor illuminating the area, Microtron’s optic stubbornly kept offline as the
mechling remained strapped to his interrogation slab.

“It wasn’t wise of you draping yourself like shareware over my frame.”

He ran a claw through the mechling’s chestplate screen, scratching the already
broken glass, quickly tapping the visibly damaged abdominal and ventral plates,
revealing plain plating without a single connector or port underneath.

“Do you have any idea on why I’m keeping you here?”

Microtron slowly shook his head. His voice synthesiser was too ladded with
static to work.

The stupidly strong scent of stale processed energon making his tanks growl in
hunger wasn’t doing anything to help him either.

“Your carrier has something I want. I want to improve my hacking cable, and the
cortical psychic patch would be just perfect.”

Vortex’ engines revved loudly and deeply as he traced Microtron’s inner plates
with his claws, drawing streaks of energon, his single optic shining crimson as
his own fluid pooled besides the slab.

“I intend to exchange you for his tech. Obviously, I might enjoy you a bit
before returning you back.”

He loomed before the giant optic, closely inspecting the headphone-like audials
at each side of his head, nuzzling his battlemask against them and growling.

“Any idea on what I am talking about? Oh, I forget. Juvenile frame. No
interface panels.”

Microtron cycled his optic wide, searching his databanks for the expression,
not finding anything related to interface panels, having already an inkling,
however, that it was something he would not like to do, as Vortex revved his
rotors loudly.

“Your ignorance, scraplet, is invigorating. I’m afraid I’ll need to improvise.”

The claw travelled to the side of his waist, digging into the seams and ripping
the lateral plate off, revealing the dark grey medical port and the emergency
fuel dump lid, clawtips lightly grazing both.

“Two different entrances, but neither fit my hacking cable in.” he threatened
inserting the tip of a claw, closely inspecting for Microtron’s reactions
“Nothing I cannot solve with stretching. Or rupturing. Which will it be?”

Pain flaring on his systems from his broken abdominal and ventral plates and
now his medical access panel, in mix of fear and hunger, Microtron’s mind
screamed through his carrier-bond, desperately trying to get to Shockwave.
 
 
===============================================================================
 

Shockwave woke up in a jolt, a choking tug in his spark as a lightning arch
went through his plating seams.

He stalled, recovering from the pain: he wasn’t supposed to get feelings
through any of his bonds.

Logically, Shockwave had properly blocked the transmission of feelings both
ways in both his sparkbond to Soundwave and Lord Megatron: the tapedeck’s echo-
bond to his own creations was distracting, and Lord Megatron’s fluctuating
moods were not conductive to the supervision of scientific experiments.

So whocould be sending him such distress and pain?

===============================================================================
 

In distress, arousal, and now pain, Ratchet, currently in root mode, shook his
head, having just been run over while still on ambulance mode by Starscream,
apparently escaping from an army of scraplets.

Or better, cassettes.

Right after getting hit on by the screamer screeching a creative collection of
profanities against Soundwave, the medic was trampled by Frenzy, Rumble and
Ravage, closely followed by the other flight-framed symbionts.

Standing up slowly, having reverted to root mode by now, Ratchet turned on his
heels to keep his search for Microtron, getting instantly captured by his
chestplate and brought down to optic level.

“Chief Medical Officer.”

Shockwave.

Interfacing subroutines skyrocketing at Shockwave’s touch, Ratchet made a
herculean effort not to beg for the synch or a frag, as his master let him go,
the heliformer’s EM-field tightly contained against his plating, occasionally
irradiating a wave of determination, ordering Ratchet to follow him, leaving
further darker and down the hull.

===============================================================================

 
Hull darkening, Astrotrain soared at the stratosphere, ceramic shield plating
cooling down as he left the light of a rising day to the dark side of the
planetary orbit, currently responsible for the dull orbital surveillance, more
than glad for having to do it.

Afterall, he only got hit on by Skyfire and had the interface session of a
lifetime precisely because he had been forced to remain in orbit for so long.

Sighing at the memory, he smirked: according to the autobot shuttle, he was way
better than Blast-Off.

===============================================================================
 

Blast-Off glumly stared at the wall, stasis-cuffed behind energon bars at the
autobot brig.

“I said I'm sorry already! The business seemed legit!”

Swindle, on a separate cell, pleaded for mercy, already knowing he would be
doomed the moment they managed to get out of there.

He should have imagined there was something wrong when who asked for sniper
technology and spy mods was no one less than Perceptor.

===============================================================================
 

Perceptor carried himself tall and high, a sniper rifle over each shoulder,
Wheeljack following behind worriedly holding a truckload of illegitimate mods.

It had been cool and scary enough to see the microscope – no, the sniper –
subdue with a creepy smile and two well-aimed rifles, the two combaticons:
whatever damage he incurred after their last explosion in the lab had been
enough to scramble his logic circuits.

Not that they hadn't acquired interesting weapons out of the decepticons:
Wheeljack was damn sure Sniperceptor wouldn't mind setting aside the two
katanas for him.

At least katanas were something he knew he would not explode.

Wheeljack followed Perceptor then, passing by a huge conga line on his way to
the Lab, blinking slowly twice.

===============================================================================
 

Blinking slowly twice, Starscream shook his head: he had just been mobbed by
the cassettes, who dutifully were sitting all over his frame, cawing, chirping,
hissing, buzzing and cackling.

“You fragging midgets, release me! I’m the Air Commander and I demand
obedience!!!”

“Cassettes: not loyal to Starscream.”

Great, the tapeglitch.

Soundwave, nodding appreciatively at his creations, knelt down, meeting
Starscream face to battlemask.

“Starscream: never learns. Soundwave: optics and audials of the Nemesis. Query:
real reason for wanting a submarine built.”

Getting him by his neck as the cassettes left his frame spreading around in a
circle, Soundwave lifted the screamer, optic to visor, waiting.

===============================================================================

 
“I’m waiting.”

Optimus banged his head against the desk.

Elita-1 had just stormed in, scattered all the datapads with a sweep of her
arms on the Prime’s desk, and actually stood up on it, tapping her foot down.

“Right, Elita. You win. I forgive you and you forgive me. Now. Please leave me
alone?”

She just tapped her foot, slowly shaking her head, arms folded, looking down at
Optimus with a determined gleam in her optics, as Optimus shuddered, flinching.

===============================================================================
 

Flinching, Ratchet blinked his optics meekly.

What the frag had just happened???

Contemplating what looked like the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust with the
mental clarity of a monk, Ratchet willed himself silent and immobile, staring
at a partially dismembered dark and purple heliformer hanging from the ceiling
by his bound feet, upside down, outer plating haphazardly snatched off spread
on a radius, energon dripping from some of the wounds, forming a puddle on the
ground.

On his arms, Ratchet finally understood why he wasn’t desperately thinking in
fragging Shockwave: he found himself holding Microtron, under medical stasis,
connected to his own medical cable, and he was pretty sure he had no idea on
how the mechling appeared there, also not remembering when he connected himself
to the kid.

Circling around the hung up, mutilated, defiled Vortex, Shockwave, both hands
having each finger turned into one single scalpel blade, all ten dripping with
energon, coldly stared through his blue visor at the interrogator.

“Combaticon Interrogator Vortex.” He stopped before his comrade-in-alt-mode,
the combaticon’s head having a great view of his protruding chestplate “Estate
your reasons for the assault on my creation.”

Raising a hand towards the other’s battlemask, Shockwave transformed his hand
into a welder, cutting the mask off, revealing the crude circuitry underneath,
aglow with biolights: Vortex truly lacked a face, having a cold-constructed
body.

Scraping the still hot welder into a wire, he earned himself a static blurt
followed by a cackle.

“I repeat, estate your reasons.”

Another burnt wire, and another cackle, followed by a powerful engine rev and a
lustful gleam on the red visor.

“I meant to exchange your scraplet for the blueprints of your hacking cable,
but I wouldn’t have minded to frag the cute little thing before.”

Shockwave stared immobile and reactionless, as Ratchet growled: the only thing
currently preventing him of striking the combaticon being the fact he was
keeping Microtron under medical stasis.

“Commander Shockwave. This is how you must address me at each sentence. Do you
copy?”

“Of course, Commander Shockwave.”

“Very well.” Shockwave nodded, welding two wires from his face together,
generating a spark of charge and raising black smoke as Vortex hissed,
shivering and clicking his cooling fans on.

Ratchet, processors thinking clearly with the newspark in arms, gaped, getting
to the realisation that yes, Vortex was aroused by the torture, and that yes,
Shockwave apparently was either completely oblivious or completely conscious of
what he was doing.

Sudden indignation filled his faceplates: how could Shockwave even remotely
indulge the masochistic tendencies of the fragging aggressor of his own
newspark???

Staring in utter disbelief, he observed Shockwave painfully dig his left hand
with all fingertips turned into scalpels into the other’s face wiring, ripping
some of them slowly, coiling them around his fingers, the other hand
transformed into a surgical laser and tracing down Vortex’ chestplate, bringing
a fresh energon trail down.

Vortex purred loudly, actually mewling and snapping open his own interface
panel the instant Shockwave fried his inguinal transformation seams, melting
the locks away.

“I wasn’t aware you were so good with your hands. I yield. You are the best
heliformer. No wonder Lord Megatron keeps you around, Fragwave.”

He had a modded and adorned spike-and-valve system, both dripping wet with
lubricants and pre-transfluid. Blue visor darkening minutely, detachedly,
Shockwave removed his hand from the mech’s wiring, finally gripping around the
semi-pressurised spiked cable and pulling it out of slot.

“You did not call me Commander Shockwave and it is a grave mistake.”

He then dug his scalpel fingertips into the spike’s mesh, piercing its
underside, fluids reaching his own chestplates and energon dripping, Vortex
stiffening alongside the twitching pressurised spike, with a loud moan.

“You will respect the hierarchy.”

Shockwave pierced the spike further, as Ratchet winced, unable to stop staring,
faceplates heated in a mix of embarrassment, pain and lust, very glad for the
mechling’s medical stasis, as Vortex keened, his moaning deepening and openly
asking for more.
 
 
===============================================================================


“More! More! MORE!!”

Technotor, having managed to hypnotise every single autobot he passed by with
the conga line by now, currently tranced at the Rec room of the Ark, jumping up
and down with a microphone in hands, his lights and mirrors gleaming and
illuminating the whole autobot fleet, their audience for the night.

“DJ Blaster, the Voice of Cybertron, especially for your pleasure!!!!”

Blaster walked in, his plating shining like new, followed by his four
creations, the reds and yellows nearly sparkling: he swayed his shoulders right
and left, chin held high, his tall broad chested frame dragging everyone's
attention.

Waving his arms to the crowd at the mess hall, he called for cheers and
applause, taking the microphone from Technotor's hands.

“Everybody trancing!!! YEAH!”

Blaster then positioned himself in front of Teletraan, as Hard Industrial
Tarnian Trance bellowed from every speaker and Technotor globe-moded into the
ceiling, swirling with sound and lights, the crowd roaring mad in delight.

===============================================================================

A mad roar of delight echoed through the hull of the Nemesis, followed by the
palpable silence of two different footsteps thumping in the halls.

Shockwave parted the horrified crowd that came to the darkest corridors of the
underbelly of the base, to see what that roar was about: his battlemask and
chestplate bore a mix of silvery streaks, energon and a glossy sheen of
something slippery and visibly disgusting.

No one dared open their mouthplates to ask or comment, however, donning
mournful looks as Shockwave unceremoniously discarded, slowly, piece by piece,
step by step, parts of what one day had been a full-fledged pierced and adorned
interface panel, gelled energon coating in between his fingers, the loud echoes
of sullied metal sloshing against dry metal filling the silence of the room.

Ratchet, walking behind at a short distance, trying not to slip on the parts,
carrying Microtron bridal-style, was the receiver of the glares that were
supposed to go to his master: Dirge, feeling particularly bold, asked with a
glee in his optics if Shockwave had hung up the stupid fragger on the ceiling
with the innards open that way.

Twitching once his optic ridge, Ratchet recalled the open gash of Vortex’
ventral plates, once his whole interface array was excised, piece by piece,
with the scalpels at cauterising temperature to make sure he wouldn’t offline
due to lack of energon, and merely nodded, practically rushing after his
master.

He had no will of further stirring a carrier’s coldly calculating, detached,
logical wrath.

 
===============================================================================
 
 

Elita-1’s wrath logically didn’t last long once Optimus yielded to her will.

She wasn’t stupid: she knew very well she would never be the first choice in
Optimus Prime’s spark.

Or even in array.

She was damned however if she would give up her place as consort of the Prime.

Let him dream of getting spiked. Elita-1 didn’t care, and apparently
Ratchetdidn’t anymore either, having defected to the decepticons after that
Strongarm glitch.

How Strongarm managed to change so drastically from an easy going, pleasant,
simple, autobot enforcer girl, to a vocoded and masked, hard and cold mockery
of a medic, truly a decepticon, Elita-1 couldn’t even fathom.

It could only be consequence of the time she had been victim of Shockwave’s
Lab.

===============================================================================
 

At Shockwave’s Lab on Cybertron, Mighty Shockwave tapped his fingers on the
comm array, staring blankly at the screen depicting a decepticon symbol and a
message saying they were facing technical difficulties and would return soon.

The last Lawyercon was standing right beside him, gently patting on his left
shoulderplate.

“Poor Mighty Shockwave, you proved you are nothing but Megatron’s little
glitch.”

Afthole, thought the drone, removing his shoulder from the reach of the
lawyercon, who snickered and adjusted his frilly wig.

“If only you would use the Space Bridge to get to your daddy Megatron to go on
and tattle.”

At that the drone puffed his chestplates, reaching for the controls.
***** Out of Control *****
Reaching the controls for life-support, Shockwave puffed his filthy chestplates
as the third slab at the Constructicon's bay was inclined into a 45º angle and
its lights thrummed into life.

Hook frowned, fleeting the occasional disgusted glance to all the mess covering
Shockwave up, arms folded, as Ratchet placed Microtron on the slab,
transferring the medical stasis from himself to the life-support system and
resting a hand at the mechling’s plates, keeping his interfacing protocols
down, waiting for Shockwave’s orders.

“Chief Medical Officer Hook.” Shockwave walked towards the constructicon,
looking up “I am aware this is your medbay, however I shall override your
authority and concede my slave free reign for the execution of my creation's
repairs.”

“I am perfectly capable of repairing your creation, commander.”

“I acknowledge your abilities and your offer will not be forgotten. Yet, it is
not logical to occupy your time and skill when I have an idle set of coded
hands under my direct command to tend to my creation.”

Shockwave then gestured towards Ratchet, who remained beside the slab ignoring
the exchange and started inspecting the damage on the mechling's frame, mind
thinking straight and full medical code kicking in. Hook, ex-venting loudly,
shook his head, as Shockwave turned to Scavenger.

“Constructicon Scout Scavenger. You will fetch whatever is required for the
repairs. Do you copy?”

Scavenger saluted, practically jumping to Ratchet's side, as Shockwave minutely
nodded to Hook.

“Very well then.”

He turned to leave, rotating his head over his shoulder to face the decepticon
CMO.

“You do know how to proceed in case a certain interrogator ends up under your
hands, am I correct, Chief Medical Officer Hook?”

Hook smirked then, nodding.

===============================================================================
 

Nodding, Soundwave finished listening to Starscream and was now thinking.

Once more, the flier proved to be brilliant, and the decepticons could indeed
make good use of such an abandoned source of ready energy.

“Starscream: Soundwave will help.”

Starscream, still sat over by cassettes, widened his optics, unbelieving. Why
would the main glitch aid him???

“And what will be your price? Nothing comes free with you.”

Soundwave stared, impassive, Ravage growling towards the screamer.

“Starscream: notoriously disloyal. Lord Megatron: always sees Starscream's
plans as plots against himself.”

With a gesture and a ping, all symbionts walked out of the prone Starscream,
who started rising from the ground.

“Soundwave: trusted and loyal. Will admit to co-authoring plan with Starscream,
proving plan is not a plot. Soundwave's word will give enough credit to
Starscream's idea.”

The Air Commander looked at the tapedeck, snickering. Obviously, the tapeglitch
wanted to reclaim some of the glory for himself.

No matter. Everyone knows who the brilliant scientific mind capable of such
plans really is: at least now he would prove everyone that he, Starscream, was
the most fit to be a leader, once every decepticon was properly fuelled and
aware it happened because of his plan.

“Very well then, Soundwave. I graciously accept. Partners?”

===============================================================================
 

“Partner?”

Onslaught approached the hung up Vortex, slowly, as Brawl trailed behind,
judiciously avoiding the puddles of goo, energon and pieces of what he
recognised as part of the adorned and pierced inner panels of...

Primus.

He stared, mute, at the open gash. Onslaught exchanged a glance with him.

“You do recognise this style, don't you?”

Brawl didn't need to nod, irked, as Onslaught approached and lowered himself to
the level of Vortex's mangled face.

“We know you enjoy pain, but this is ridiculous! Idiot, what were you
thinking???”

Vortex, visor glassy in near stasis lock, weakly giggled.

“...t'was worth it. It's still tingling.”

Brawl shuddered. Onslaught sighed, comming Swindle.

===============================================================================
 

“Swindle's Independent Entrepreneur Business Expenditure at your disposal, I
have just precisely what you never knew you wanted or needed in first place!”

He answered with his jingle, cheerful: business couldn't stop just because of
something minor like being currently under arrest at the autobot brig.
Listening to the speaker, Swindle looked around his cage, glad that Blast-Off
was recharging.

“Sure do! I have the fanciest mods. Wanting an upgrade?”

Swindle flinched at the sudden expletive blasting from his comm.

“Not that you need one, boss, but....”

Oh.

Expression changing suddenly, he cringed.

“Of course, boss, once Blast-Off and I are out of here...”

===============================================================================
 

“Out of here!! OUT!”

Red Alert waved his arms, head finials glitching, as he parted the trancing
crowd at the autobot Rec Room, attempting to bring things back to a semblance
of normalcy.

“Have you all no sense? This is a security hazard!!!”

The roaring crowd ignored Red Alert wholly, pure undiluted electronic music
blasting through the speakers, Blaster mixing it on the background.

===============================================================================
 

Mixing on the background, Mixmaster shook his drum as Scavenger poured in
liquid purified cybertronium alongside the ground pounded metals that were
supposed to go to the little computer friends Commander Shockwave had planned
for his kid.

He had to sacrifice all the small dronelings for the task, and currently
Bonecrusher was grounding them into metallic powder: the medic Ratchet
requested material enough not only for the repairs, but also for an armour
upgrade.

Running through Microtron’s code, Ratchet located the medical log referring to
the memory sequence of the event, reviewing it in detail: Vortex had managed
only outer physical damage, running out of time to pry further the instant
Shockwave smothered him.

The whole Cybertron of course knew of Shockwave’s cold psychopathy and of his
detachedly cruel tendencies, but to actually seeit happening was frightening
and unsurprisingly arousing.

He was still amazed at how fast and passionless Shockwave moved, a true tank
wreaking merciless destruction and inflicting with medical instruments damage
he had rarely seen during the War, much less had been around to repair.

He doubted Vortex would ever function properly again, even if he got a new
interface array and medical hands willing to repair this non-vital function
back to him. Shockwave had welded wiring together, short-circuiting most of the
connections and literally frying the neural net, in a way only a connoisseur
would know how to.

Even though his medical code screamed for him to impede Shockwave back then, as
he already held the mechling in arms, his consciousness thought it was very
well-deserved and good. Vortex took advantage of a defenceless newspark who had
no idea of what was being demanded of him.

Once finished removing the outer damaged plating, Ratchet extended a hand for
Scavenger, who fished a thick foil of dark grey metal from Mixmaster's drum.

Starting to mould the foil around the mechling's midsection, mechanically,
Ratchet's mind brought up the blueprints of Microtron's frame, the inklings of
a full body re-plating beginning to steam.


Walls beginning to steam, we take full body view of Shockwave staring at the
reflexive surface in his washracks, the solvent spray falling on his rotors and
running through his chestplate, frontal and ventral arrays, and down his legs,
taking the filth and the muck away.

It was only logical to have punished the assaulter like he did, and he felt no
pride or remorse on having done the excision.

He is sure the other decepticons are thinking he mutilated Vortex so and left
him alive for him to suffer living without the array, for revenge.

Revenge had been merely an unintended yet fitting consequence: he only made
sure Vortex would never be able to assault his creation, by logically removing
the offending array, since he wasn't aiming to offline the interrogator.

There was no logical advantage in breaking Bruticus: if he did deactivate the
rotary, he would have to modify and fit another decepticon into his role.

Staring at his reflection and dutifully cleaning his mask and visor from the
streaks of pinkish silver, Shockwave's memories briefly wandered to a time
where he had a forged face.

Shockwave never forgot the day he lost his face, his hands and the simplest
pleasure of fuelling with dignity.

Once, he would have gone to the depths of Cybertron and out in the Universe
only to recover his face and his hands, out of anger and pride for the
punishment they inflicted him, just because he believed a mech should dictate
his own destiny, not the function he was born to do.

Once, he cared enough.

Hands running down his own neck, Shockwave remembered.

He remembered the useless rage, of hitting the implanted unfeeling claws that
replaced his hands against the bars of his cell at the Institute until they
became stumps, of screaming muted cries from his disconnected vocaliser as his
current single optic shone in full throttled anger, the exhaustion in his
defiled frame, now painted rich, deep, glossy, royal purple, all traces of his
previous multi-coloured schemes gone, the phantom pain searing on his sensory
net.

He recalled the mutilation of his interface array, transfluid tank excised,
interface cable disconnected from the neural net and now completely useless,
and barely no charge sensors left in the port, mostly those associated directly
to pressure and pain, leaving him unable to respond to light and delicate
touch.

He remembered having been further punished then, with a shimmering, filled-to-
the-brim energon cube on full display in his cell, as he stared at it,
unrestrained, only his stumps and his hunger for company, for ten solar cycles.

He would never destroy his appendages ever again, he pondered, slowly trailing
both hands down his chestplate and taking the glued dirt out of his clear
glass, a minute electric arc cracking from one lateral seam.

Once they gave him his second set of claws, still denying him his voice, he was
ravenous the moment his rations had been delivered, but wasted them trying to
no avail to reach the feeding intake and dumping the fuel in.

He suffered then in silence, emergency fuel tank locked away and unattainable
for now, tanks rumbling and stuttering, on fumes, energon spilt on the floor,
at licking range, if he still had a tongue and the subroutines on how to use it
(his whole facial subroutines had been deleted altogether with the removal of
his face), or fingers to scrape the energon out and into the leftover intake.

Bringing his right hand up, he traced the lid of his fuel intake with the
thumb, slight heat coming up from his core: weren't for the modified straw with
a flexible ending, a very thoughtful gift from his Lord that partially restored
his dignity, he would need to always resort to the emergency fuel dump.

He remembered the humiliation of imploring for aid to refuel, wordlessly, with
gestures of submission. He remembered the warden's pleased faceplates as he got
into the cell with the ration and embraced his purple frame from behind,
draping himself all over his back and aft, tilting his neck and slowly fuelling
him through the intake, the other hand popping open his panels and fingertips
digging into his port.

As soon as some fuel entered his systems, single optic glimmering in the dim
light, at the same time mad and relieved for being no longer able to register
that kind of touch as potentially arousing, feeling nothing but the now
slightly painful, dry stretching of the port lining, Shockwave turned on his
axis and gripped the abusive warden, piercing his feet with the claws and
swinging him by his legs into the bars in full berserk mode, managing to escape
the cell, only to be recaptured on the adjacent corridor and beaten senseless
for insubordination.

He recalled without anger or pride how they needed four wardens to subdue and
recapture him, and on how they finally managed through brute force to serial-
rape his damaged port, until fresh energon came out through the barely feeling
walls.

He remembered being taken for repairs, which basically meant the few and
damaged sensor nodes were removed and never replaced, to the point he now needs
very rough and direct handling to have anything felt and done.

Fated to be considered a freak,Shockwave’s burden wouldn’t end up like this:
most subjects became sedate and contrite after the procedure, but not
Shockwave: always a mercurial tempered senator, he remembered having been
deemed too dangerous still to be released back outside lacking only hands and
face.

If it depended on pre-Empurata Shockwave, turning him into a floating
depolarised spark would still have been dangerous.

For him, Empurata alone wouldn't be enough. They had to do more still. He would
be their perfect test subjectand example.

It was how Shadowplay came into effect.

He remembered few details on his mnemosurgical procedure, his leftover, ill-
repaired interface array pinging for proper repairs and getting dutifully
ignored: as he mutedly screamed, flailed and trashed and they took him off the
cell, the faceplates of Trepan filled his sight and he finally went numb.

The moment he awoke, he was coldly analysing his current situation, just come
from medical stasis, his new synthesiser vocoder in place, released back into
the world and his Senate.

The surprise his fellows had at the academy was disconcerting. The looks of
pity. The whisper when they thought he wasn't listening. The way they knew his
mutilation went beyond hands and face and the speculation on the current state
of his interfacing device.

They were distracting. How was he supposed to get anything done when everyone
kept asking if he was fine?

He was finally properly functional. He was free of the morals previously
binding him. Free of his extreme emotional estates. Free of the frequent need
for interfacing that most mechs have. He could barely believe he used to flip
tables and wreak havoc at the Senate whenever his sparkling whims were not met.

Soon he found himself having brilliant unimpeded ideas, resolving around one-
percentrers, outliers, triplechangers, six-phasers, combiners and gestalts,
spark-splitting programs, cloning ancient cybertronian life, however all were
denied.

He had been called obsessed with playing Primusandtampering with Creation.

None of them could comprehend? It was only logical to wish so into a world
where the access to the well of sparks was gone and Vector Sigma worked no
more, and the Matrix was restricted in access to the Elite and the Prime who he
had made fit to receive such honour, and who betrayed them so.

Shockwave would never forget he day he was contacted by the rising Decepticon
movement.

The mysterious courier, the navy blue decepticon communications carrier-host
that wormed himself on his life in more ways than one, came along his glossy
black cybercat, not a regular pet, but his own sparked creation, Ravage,
promising the opportunity and offer of a lifetime.

All Shockwave had to do was talk to the leader of the opposition.

And meet they did.

Shockwave, cold, distant and unemotional since the intervention of the
Institute, didn't fall for the charm, the cunning and the rugged beauty of the
rebel – even though his rational mind appreciated the thought of him immensely,
he recalled, an electrical arch passing through his whole body – nor to the
silver tongue of the broad-chested courier.

He instantly knew, by their body language and little signs, that they hadto be
a sparkbonded couple, and back then Shockwave had absolutely no inkling of the
logical invitation to join them in bond that would ever follow.

Shockwave couldn't deny however that he fell for a pair of hands.

Forged hands. In a box.

He remembered staring longingly at those hands. They weren't his own lost ones,
by now already melted down and gone. They had a lavender tone, and were quite
delicate looking, refined even, although clearly male, looking amazingly fresh.

He had a feeling he met these hands before at the Senate, once, but he couldn't
remember when or who. They were untraceable as they were, purged of its
original CNA and frozen in stasis, ready for implantation.

He remembered the humiliation of having to rely on other people for his
experiments now that he had claws. He remembered falling in logical
contradiction, asking the price for the hands, yet knowing that by law he was
not allowed to replace his own.

The moment he showed up around without the claws, sporting his new, refined
lavender hands, they would know.

Shockwave wasn't stupid. The hands were a symbol of what he had lost and what
he could have back.

He couldn't be brought to care about the poor soul that lost these hands: he
suspected whoever it was, was probably dead or reformatted, or wishing he had
been.

He was willing to accept their price, whichever it was, just to have these
hands.

Not out of pride. Not out of whim.

He needed normal hands, at least one, to keep doing Science, but as soon as he
showed up with normal hands, he would lose his lab and the rest of his life,
being thus unable to keep his work.

The logical contradiction was killing him. He remembered voicing his conflict
to the rebel leader, who seemed to find it endearing.

It was the moment he was offered his Freedom.

Not only the hands: he had been promised a Lab.

(Interestinghow some things just never change).

He had been promised the freedom to experiment, to do as he pleases, even
murder if needed, all in name of Science.

All he had to do was say yes and start working for the Decepticon side.

Blinking his visor to the present, Shockwave shook his head under the solvent
spray, dispelling down two forming electrical arches that wormed through his
midsection and around his aft and legs: knowing there would be battle and fight
ahead in his future, he calculated the Decepticon chances of success were
higher than the Autobot Forces, and finally took on the offer of the hands and
had the right one implanted.

The left one was still frozen under stasis in his tower back on Cybertron.

The left claw was replaced by a plasma gun, both as a weapon and a symbol, as
he also took on a new gunformer alt mode instead of his previous flight frame,
both to spite his previous friends, and to attempt to appeal to his new Lord.

Thrumming with unspent charge, amplified by the ion-ladded solvent spray,
Shockwave remembered the how and why his Lord was currently displeased with
him, and the harsh words of dismissal he used, cupping both hands on the sides
of his breastplate, feeling both his spark and the Decepticon Matrix pulsing
warmly inside.

As soon as Microtron was properly repaired and functional, and safe, he would
reward the medic and have him cooperate willingly.

===============================================================================
 

“And here I thought you'd cooperate willingly!”

Mighty Shockwave merely dipped his head in a nod, watching impassive at the
Lawyercon locked behind bars, in a cell inside the corpse-laden wing of his
Lab.

“I will not open the Space Bridge.”

The lawyercon huffed and the drone ignored him then, sitting on his desk and
contemplating his and First’s invitation.

“You're accused of obstructing the Cybertronian Juridical System! I'll have you
prosecuted once I'm out of here!!”

The drone puffed up his huge chestplate in annoyance, comming First and telling
him to get ready.

“You cannot escape the mighty Shockwave! I have a Sparkbonding Ceremony to go!
Firestar and Nautica are waiting!”

===============================================================================
 

Nautica and Firestar waited at the dais, adorned with fancy mods and beautiful
lights, the hallowed Halls alight as Reflector made sure to photograph the
event, Moonracer and Knock-Out discussing on the background as Hot Rod
currently talked to the other three guests.

“Do you think he will come?”

Chromia shrugged.

“He would better not!” Arcee growled.

“Don’t be unfair.” Nautica nodded, holding hands to Firestar and raising a cube
“He should come. Without him there would be no proper energon!”

===============================================================================
 

“There isn't properenergon!”

Ratchet threw his wrench on Bonecrusher's head, doing his best to not get out
of touching range from Microtron, beyond furious: how could these six idiots
keep a medbay running without proper medical grade energon?

As the constructicon balled his fists and contained himself not to hit the
medic, Scavenger fished an energon cube from Mixmaster's drum.

“It's not medical grade, but it's energy-dense. Does it serve?”

Ratchet flared his hand scanner ON, nearly choking.

“You intend me to fuel the kid with high-grade?? Who is the fragger who does
it???”

He shifted on his feet, meekly.

“Hook does. He says it's good to kick-start a protoform.”

“Sure right!” Bonecrusher bellowed, hammering the head of a droneling into dust
“I always feel better when Hook gives me one after a good old scrapping!”

Morons and butchers, all of them!

Sighing, he diluted the high-grade with standard energon, then topped
Microtron's tanks with the mix: it would still give him symptoms, but certainly
not a full overcharge, predicting he would at least have a hell of a processor-
ache.

===============================================================================
 

With a hell of a processor ache, Blast-Off awoke from his nap in the autobot
brig, still very much locked, audials ringing.

The most obnoxious noise was thundering through every speaker, and he had to
struggle not to shoot his own spark to quit the torture: Blast-Off was an upper
caste Vosian heavy duty flight-frame, and his tastes in music stopped at the
classics and the mathematicians of the golden age.

“Frag it, Swindle, what's that organic slag?”

Swindle blinked, raising a pair of soundproofing headphones.

“Sorry, didn't hear you with my soundproof headphones!”

He smiled, showing off the headphones.

“I asked what fragging scrap of music is that.”

“Oh, I don't know how the squishies call it, but I do know you need to buy this
amazing piece to get rid of it!!

Blast-Off blinked repeatedly.

“Swindle. You are not trying to sell me the headphone, are you?”

“I could. I could even offer you a discount, 50% off, just because you're my
team-mate, do we have a deal?”

Blast-Off growled low, clenching his fists into balls, glowering.

===============================================================================
 

Megatron glowered, veryinterface-frustrated, fists clenched into balls, sitting
on his throne, as both Starscream and Soundwave pledged him authorisation.

For a joint enterprise. In a submarine.

What were the chances of things going bad?

“Will I regret it like the time you two made up the Dancitronfiasco?”

Bad memories of defeat and humiliation filled his mind. Both officers shook
their heads.

Megatron sighed then, dismissing them.

===============================================================================
 

Dismissing himself off the Constructicon Bay, Ratchet had just left Microtron,
already re-plated and fixed, with Scavenger, under medical stasis to allow for
inner repairs, and dutifully ignored his interface drive pinging and his own
pre-transfluid dripping behind his plates.

The decepticon was the least dangerous of the constructicons, and despite
having a couple of bolts and nuts missing and being eerily dumb, he certainly
would NOT harm the kid, not to mention Microtron was better off under
surveillance of Devastator than himself, for now.

He was exhausted, under-fuelled, drained of energy and will, and irremediably
aroused, since having witnessed the whole débâcle since Vortex was found
assaulting the mechling, until his repairs were done.

Even though he would usually go for more than a day without recharge and on
fumes, right now he couldn't. He was too weak to complain on his perennial
arousal, being almost used to it by now.

Opening the door to his master's quarters, he got in and plopped himself
without further ado across the main berth.

Shockwave, standing up in the middle of the room and having witnessed the
previous display, unfazed by Ratchet's presence at the wrong berth, stared at
him for three full minutes before speaking.

“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. I was expecting your return.”

Head stuffed down the berth's mesh, Ratchet subdued the agony for a little
while and spoke, muffled, generally explaining the re-plating and the repairs.
Shockwave, nodding, walked closer to him, clicking open his medical panel and
revealing the spooled corresponding cable and medical port.

“You have done well by my creation and you shall be synced immediately.”

Ratchet, numb with unspent charge, took a shameful long while to understand,
just nodding as Shockwave synchronised the bars into full green and released
their connection.

Shuddering as his core temperature lowered down and his interface panel stopped
continuously pinging, Ratchet finally sat down, running a self-diagnostic, the
single ping of the full transfluid tank reaching his systems.

“I’m afraid the synch wasn’t complete, master.”

Shockwave turned, tilting his head to the right.

“Your progress bars are in full green and your interface drive is baseline low,
as default. Estate the precise nature of your complaint and we might be able to
reach common ground.”

Ratchet sighed.

“My transfluid tank is full and I can’t open my own panels to discharge.”

“I am aware.”

“Would it make a difference if I said I’m. Tank-full. Dripping?”

Shockwave stared, unfazed.

“Is this your only complaint, or is there something else lacking in the synch?”

Holding an in-venting, Ratchet shook his head.

“Very well then. Follow me to the Lab.”
***** Making Science *****
The Lab rested dark, only the humm of automated machinery whirring at the
background, the instant Ratchet came in, room erupting in light as Shockwave
paced to the shelves.
 
“No other complaints, correct?”
 
Unceremoniously handing the medic a vial, before Ratchet could respond,
Shockwave pushed him into a sitting position at the slab, led his right hand at
the left side of the medic’s ventral plates and with one fingertip at the
lateral seam, Ratchet’s very moist interfacing panel was unlocked.
 
“If you have no other requests, you may begin now. Make sure to collect a
sizeable sample.”
 
And assumed a rigid stance, clasping his hands behind his back.
 
Ratchet, staring at his now unlocked panel, just waiting to be opened, felt for
the dripping slotted cable inside, finally shifting his glare to his expectant
master.
 
“Do you truly expect me to open the panel and do it here, now, in your
presence, on command, like this?”
 
“Yes.”
 
Deadpan, Shockwave replied, as Ratchet snorted.
 
“Aren’t you even inviting me to a drink first?”
 
Shockwave seemed to ponder for a while, finally shaking his head.
 
“High-grade might poison your sample. Perhaps later.”
 
At that, the vial flew right at Shockwave’s head, clanking against it and
shattering on the ground.
 
“Frag you, Shockwave, what do you even want a sample for?? Can’t you obtain one
anywhere else???
 
Shockwave actually in-vented and looked up to the ceilin, droning.
 
“Lord Megatron stopped giving samples when he found out I was using them to try
to clone predacons, Soundwave never has a tank full enough because of his
creations consuming most of his energy, not to mention what he uses when with
our Liege and even me, Starscream’s trine never agreed, the constructicons
elected Scavenger for donation and he had so far been my most cooperative
subject back in Cybertron, except when Mixmaster decided he was not OK with me
being present at the process, being unreasonably and illogically jealous of me
and forbidding him of coming, then there was this time I asked Astrotrain but I
found out the worse possible way my standard size sample vial was a bit too
small for the size of his average sample, so after thoroughly cleaning every
single slab and apparatus on my lab back on Cybertron I had to decline on
future donations, then...”
 
“...I meant from yourself.”
 
Shockwave stopped droning, tilting his head.
 
“My current shell cannot provide samples. Female CNA is meagrely released out
of the port only on occasion, following a seemingly arbitrary pattern not
necessarily related to overload, in an amount sparse enough to not even
remotely be scientifically relevant. Maybe with modifications I might be able
to add a discharge mechanism similar to the interface cable. I wonder if
inverting the port and externalising the sensors I could actually...”
 
Actually flushing up his faceplates at the idea of Shockwave installing an
interface cable at the port-only array, Ratchet stared aside, stuttering.
 
“...I meant, your original array!”
 
Shockwave then stared down his own plates, shaking his head.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I fear you do not know the full extent of my special
punishment from the Institute and I should enlighten you.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Enlightened, blessings from Primus himself pouring down upon himself, Red Alert
beamed: he knew it!!!
 
He knew this stupid dancing and clubbing on duty would lead to it!
 
Staring at the shuttle-shaped hole at the wall, and seeing the two empty cells,
he felt a mix of satisfaction and dread for seeing his predictions come true.
 
Following the debris, he arrived at the Rec Room, precisely at the epicentre of
the catastrophe, where over a table no one less than Swindle bellowed at the
autobots, Blaster currently favouring his alt-mode and playing music at his
highest volume, Technotor's mirrors and lights rotating and illuminating the
room.
 
“Glow-in-the-dark party stickers, spiked high-grade, crystallised dark energon
powder, Swindle has all your shadiest clubbing needs available! Will accept
shanix, earth dollars, euros, diamonds and gold! Can also barter for things of
my interest...”
 
The autobots went for the shady dealer: only a few remained lost at the dance
floor, too overcharged to have listened to Swindle, but still too well to
collapse and stop dancing, as Blast-Off sheepishly blinked his visor on and
off.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Visor blinking on and off, slowly, almost hypnotically, Shockwave told Ratchet
in richness of details and backed up by a pile of datapads about his own
personal empurata.
 
Rationally, Ratchet knew precisely what the procedure entailed: removal of face
and left optic, leaving only the right one and the upper processor intact and
removal of hands and corresponding sensors, replacing them with two-digit
claws.
 
It was another thing entirely to hear it first hand, specially concerning the
rarely performed shadowplay, that effectively turned his master into the cold,
nearly unfeeling, amoral creature he was today.
 
“So they removed the transfluid tank, among other things.”
 
Shockwave nodded, walking to the shelves and inspecting the empty vials.
 
“You do see now why I cannot provide myself with samples.” he turned and
extended a new vial to the medic “Now. Be a cooperative subject.”
 
Ratchet shook his head.
 
“I can’t do it like this.”
 
Shockwave seemed to ponder on the subject, visor locking with the blue optics.
 
“I see. Do you require assistance?”
 
Ratchet gaped, as the scientist almost obscenely wriggled his right hand’s
fingers in the air.
 
“No!!”
 
Suddenly going stiff as his spooled cable threatened leaving slot, the medic
vigorously shook his head.
 
“I mean, I need privacy.”
 
The scientist then gave him a sparkless glare, nodding and going to the Lab
door, activating the Bio-hazard lock and returning.
 
“We are under coded privacy now. Only another Scientist may come in, and I am
proud to be the only decepticon scientist left.”
 
“...privacy, meaning from you too.”
 
Shockwave tilted his head to the right, then, walking closer until he was
standing at an arm’s distance from the medic, moving his right hand towards the
still closed red interface panel, hand sensors open wide, registering the
levels of heat and humidity pooled within.
 
“I am fascinated to see your equipment does not seem to agree to your illogical
wish for privacy from meand is responding quite adequately to my pings.”
 
Ratchet’s optics widened and focused into the dark blue visor as he felt his
interface cable release a slow droplet at the back of his red plates, holding
his EM-field very, very tight as Shockwave just plain hatched the panels open,
staring approvingly at the sight.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Staring approvingly at the sight, Blast-Off smirked as he approached an already
overcharged Skyfire.
 
The autobot shuttle was dancing alone in the middle of the room, too big for
anyone to approach for fear of being squished while dancing, the instant the
decepticon unceremoniously snatched a high-grade cube from the autobot's hands,
downing it down through his chin-placed intake under his blastmask, in one
single go.
 
“Hey! That drink was mine!”
 
Heat flaring up from his tanks, being now the centre of the attention of the
room, Blast-Off blinked, smug. Now that was a good drink, not the slag Swindle
tries to pass off to them. He immediately held Skyfire by his waist, bringing
themselves together.
 
“I know somewhere very quiet... how about we launch out of here and get lost in
space?”
 
Red Alert jumped up and down around them, finials fizzling with static. No,
Skyfire, this is fraternising with the enemy, this is re-incidence, what are
you thinking???
 
Skyfire, blinking slowly, ignoring Red Alert dutifully, buzzing with charge,
opened a largesmirk, approaching the decepticon's audials, whispering.
 
“I'd love to dock on zero G under the stars.”
 
Red Alert then glitched from a seizure with a heavy thud on the ground, as
Blast-Off, Skyfire in tow, transformed and finally left, rumbling his shuttle
engines low in anticipation.
 
===============================================================================
 
Rumbling his engines low in anticipation, Ratchet closed his optics the instant
Shockwave’s right hand ghosted over the very dripping interface cable, finally
taking it with a light grip as it came out of slot.
 
With what seemed to be a mixture of fascination and scientific curiosity, the
scientist flared his hand scanners on, taking medical readings at the same time
he circled his fingers around the girth, applying pressure and slowly,
maddeningly slowly, worked them up, then down, turning the battlemask towards
Ratchet’s face, visor aglow in dark blue.
 
Interesting.
 
The mechanical sliding continued, as Ratchet gripped on his own thighs with his
hands, optics still off, EM-field beginning to pulse in tandem with each
movement, Shockwave’s own field held absolutely tight, despite the amount of
charge building up between themselves.
 
With a tank painfully full however, the first load of transfluid came with
barely no effort or even sense of relief, getting immediately stored within the
vial in the scientist’s left hand.
 
Lowering his head as charge still crackled through his frame, the autobot
barely registered the instant Shockwave released the still stiff spike and
unceremoniously dropped him a clean mesh, and left him sitting on the slab,
capping the vial and storing it back into the shelf.
 
“The fresh sample is in sufficient amount. Clean up.”
 
Ratchet, taking a long glance down and suddenly very tired as he forcibly
depressurised his interface cable and slotted it back, cleaned up his inner
plates from any and all evidence, finally closing them and getting suddenly
surprised by a deep purple energon cube.
 
“...why the frag are you offering me high-grade??”
 
“You expressed the wish to be offered high-grade.”
 
Ratchet raised an optic ridge.
 
"What is that about decepticons and high grade? I thought you were on rations
and permanently starving?"
 
Shockwave, ignoring the inquiry, insisted on offering the cube.
 
“As part of the High Command I have access to a few indulgences not available
to the commoners.”
 
Ratchet finally took the cube in hands and swirled it a little, finally
blinking and truly staring at its contents, as the scientist droned further.
 
“This comes from my Lord's stock.”
 
Ratchet squinted: Megatron's personal reserve.
 
“It is not poisoned.”
 
Ratchet managed to give Shockwave a glare: if he wasn't thinking about it
before, now he was.
 
"Do you require me to sample it with you thus proving it is not poisoned?"
 
Ratchet scratched his head. Was he hearing things, or Shockwave was inviting
himself to drink?
 
"...why."
 
“It would be illogical to ingest anything that might harm myself, as such, my
participation certainly would ensure you the high-grade on this cube is
perfectly safe.”
 
He was!
 
Sleek glitch.
 
For a second the flash image of Shockwave draping himself over his frame and
leading the cube of high-grade right into his lip-plates filling his
mind, added to the sudden satisfaction of knowing he would have Megatron'shigh
grade brought by his own consort made Ratchet give a smirk a bit too wide: the
small victories.
 
Ratchet raised the cube in a toast then, contemplating his master, and still
half-full of trans-electrical fluid, nearly revved his engines, finally donning
down a burning gulp that took almost one third of the high-grade, his optics
going offline instantly. Shockwave came closer, at touching distance.
 
“I am certain my offer of Lord Megatron's best is more than suitable for your
needs.”
 
He caught the cube from the medic's hands, fitting his flexible straw in,
raising it up and setting it to fuel a parsimonious morsel, the slight heat
flowing down his tanks, reviving minutely the unspent charge he still had in
his shell, as Ratchet stared at the tiny electric arch, optics dim, hands
almost grabby and barely avoiding to touch his master.
 
“I wouldn't mind having more than merely a taste. Megatron's best... certainly
packs a mean punch.”
 
Shockwave stared, the mental image of Ratchet gaping while he mutilated Vortex
entering his mind, as he took the straw out and returned the cube back to the
medic's waiting hands, fingertips touching for a too long instant before
withdrawing.
 
“I trust I have given proof enough it is not poisoned.”
 
Ratchet raised an optic ridge, as Shockwave pointed out to the Lab’s door.
 
“You are free to go to quarters, wash and enjoy your well-deserved treat, in
this precise fashion. I have work to do.”
 
Shockwave then dipped his head in a detached nod, clasping both hands behind
his back and remaining still, as Ratchet sighed, the high-grade starting to
cloud his upper processors, masochistically appreciating the still heavy
transfluid tank underneath his plates, as he hungrily raked Shockwave’s frame
up and down, and left the Lab, slow-building arousal creeping up his abdominal
plates.
 
===============================================================================
 
Coldness creeping up his plates, Microtron clutched his claws over his tanks.
 
Blinking his single optic, a thundering processor-ache coming in bouts of
nausea, he slowly sat up on the slab, looking around to find Scavenger ignoring
him and fiddling with his treasures on a corner.
 
Standing up with a thud, he checked on his systems readings, observing he no
longer could transform to separate compounds of a CPU and desktop PC.
 
Walking to the computer terminal, he stared at the screen, open in his own
blueprints.
 
Flailing one single datacable out, he wormed it to the computer’s main port,
releasing thin feelers inside, suppressing a cackle and opening up the
connections as his own HUD overflowed with the download of his blueprints.
 
The medic had designed him a mainframe alt-mode as he had given him his new
layer of armour.
 
Unclenching his claws and keeping the datacable plugged, he shifted his plates
and rotated on his own waist, compacting himself into a boxy, retro Eniac-like
mainframe, the green phosphorus screen glowing with cybertronian command lines.
 
Processors overflowing with increased capacity as his senses narrowed to his
connection to the ship, he actually found out he could access every single
camera feed, every single microphone, and even…
 
“Intruder: estate reason for roaming network.”
 
“Soundwave?”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Soundwave, having just come back from Megatron’s presence with Starscream, who
left to plan on their joint expenditure, as he returned to surveillance, was
currently connected to the Nemesis through two datacables, stalling at the
sudden call.
 
“Microtron?”
 
Widening his optics underneath his visor, he actually snorted. The mechling
finally managed to honour his alt-mode and plugged in.
 
Hacking through the mechling’s practically non-existent firewalls without
resistance, finding him strangely overcharged, Soundwave discovered he was
currently accessing the terminal from the constructicon bay, and had been
recently repaired, re-plated and had his alt-mode upgraded.
 
“Query: Microtron damaged?”
 
Before Microtron could voice an answer, Soundwave accessed the memories from
Vortex’ attempted assault, actually growling, reaching his comms towards
Shockwave.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Shockwave, currently placing droplets of Ratchet’s transfluid into his
microscope’s glassware, opened his comm channels at the sudden ping.
 
“Soundwave: responsible for Security. Should have been first to witness event.
Requesting clarification on the true nature of Microtron’s damage.”
 
Without stopping his dutiful work, Shockwave split his HUD into his comm screen
depicting Soundwave’s face, and the other half showing his current craft.
 
“Do not blame yourself. Not even you and your army of spies can be at every
corner at the same time. It is not logical.”
 
Sending his memory file with Vortex in full colours, Shockwave waited as
Soundwave watched and physically winced, then showed smug satisfaction at the
carnage donned in just punishment.
 
“I trust I have dealt with the problem adequately. If you are satisfied, I wish
to return to my work.”
 
Soundwave sent him a positive ping then, calling Lord Megatron on one channel
and also pinging Microtron goodbye in his other comm, finally disconnecting.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Disconnecting, Microtron shifted his plates back into root mode in a mildly
overcharged daze, shaking his head, unaware of the diluted high-grade fuelling
his systems.
 
He wasn’t expecting to be expelled out of the network by Soundwave: what was
the problem of him roaming there?
 
It’s not like he actually felt boldto roam anywhere else on the ship anymore.
Not even the prospect of getting processed energon out of carrier’s fuel lines
would make him do it: he never wanted to see that mech again.
 
Sagging, full with unspent energy, yet hungry, he blinked thrice the instant
Lord Megatron stomped in, meeting his Sire’s stern glare, the warlord kneeling
down before him at optic level.
 
“I have just been informed of everything. What had gotten into you? Weren’t you
being properly watched by the medic???”
 
Microtron lowered his optic in shame.
 
“I was hungry.”
 
Megatron stalled.
 
“...You were hungry.”
 
Microtron nodded, cycling wide his optic, shifting on his feet meekly.
 
“I was very hungry.”
 
Megatron raised an optic ridge in annoyance, having read Shockwave’s report
where he details that Microtron tends to consume two full cubes a day plus a
fair share of his carrier’s own processed fuel every solar cycle. Anyone
hearing the kid speak would think no one ever fuelled him since activation.
 
Taking a very deep in-vent and remembering who was Microtron’s carrier, and on
how he had to be very straightforward with Shockwave to get anything across,
Megatron actually facepalmed.
 
“Fine. Whatever.” he sighed, the mechling staring in confusion “It’s certainly
not how I wanted my creation to learn about the facts of life.I trust you had
your lesson and will not roam around on your own until you get older and
wiser.”
 
Microtron shook hastily his head, bleeping a hiccup. Megatron raised an optic
ridge, then stood up, contemplating the sturdier plating around him, nodding.
 
“Very well, Microtron. You’re dismissed. Go straight to your Carrier, in the
Lab, and stay with him.”
 
Microtron shifted on his feet, his world spinning, clicking his claws together.
He didn’t want to leave the room alone.
 
“Can you take me there?”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Take me there!!”
 
“No.”
 
The Lawyercon sighed loudly.
 
“C’mon, can’t you just once act on your own and please take me to the
Sparkbonding Ceremony with you?”
 
“Your request is not logical. I have only two invitations and with you I would
need three.”
 
The Lawyercon stuttered, then smirked.
 
“As Agent of Law on Cybertron, only bondings presided by an Official
Representative are valid. I am aware there are no priests left. If you want the
Bonding to be valid, you must take me. Of course, representatives require no
invitation. Logically.”
 
The drone stalled, rolling a few gears, finally nodding.
 
“Fine. But you are going cuffed and bound! First!!! Prepare him and don’t
forget the wig!”
 
Glitch, thought the Lawyercon, all-black plating gleaming under the low-powered
cybertronian lights, Shockwave’s single optic glowing in the dark.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Optic glowing in the dark, Microtron more swayed than walked close his Sire,
one hand held by him firmly.
 
Megatron shifted a quick glare to the mechling, asking himself if the heavier
plating was disturbing his balance, unaware of the high-grade running through
his lines. Remembering his gladiator days long past when his master obliged him
to serve and service clients against his will, he was actually glad his
creation didn’t have an array to be defiled.
 
Still, most probably the kid would have some kind of mental scarring from this
event, and Megatron, still angry with Shockwave because of that decepticon
matrix, indeed needed to talk to him, now.
 
Entering the lab, he met Shockwave’s focused glare and hands at whatever it was
he was analysing, as Microtron also glared.
 
He knew better than to disturb Carrier’s lab work.
 
Desisting to ask for carrier’s own fuel for now, knowing he would probably get
ignored, he slowly walked to a corner, unsubspaced his Ipad and quietly begun
to play Bejewelled 3, as Megatron, having slightly less sense, cleared his
voicebox and called.
 
“Shockwave.”
 
Without stopping the inspection of Ratchet’s sample, Shockwave spoke matter-of-
factly, not even sparing a glance towards his Lord.
 
“Lord Megatron. I am currently busy with biologically sensitive material and
cannot stop. Please take a seat and wait.”
 
Megatron, squinting, unceremoniously captured Shockwave by his shoulders,
rotating his stool around his axis, finally looking optics to visor and
pointing to their quiet creation, as the scientist took three full seconds
staring, finally droning.
 
“I presume my Lord already knows about what happened to Microtron.”
 
And turned back to his sample, hands working down the scope, focusing.Megatron,
now furious, rotated him back.
 
“Why, Shockwave? Why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to hear it from
Soundwave?”
 
Fingertips still on the scope, absently sliding up and down, EM-field flat,
Shockwave kept his fixed glare on Megatron.
 
“Logically, I believed contacting you would be inappropriate: I recall my Lord
ordered me out of sight and that you did not even want to remember my touch.”
 
Megatron, who followed Shockwave’s hand motion hypnotically for three full
seconds, finally shook himself off the sight, opening his mouth to speak
without emitting sound, immediately clasping it shut and finally growling.
 
“That was not concerning…!… nevermind. I follow your logic. Fine. You can
contact me as you see fit, for serious reasons and anything concerning him. We
are not getting together in any fashion however until you resolve your problem.
Am I clear now??”
 
“Absolutely, my Lord.”
 
And turned back to the microscope.
 
Megatron, grimacing, shook his head: his mate was too intelligent to be so
fragging dumb, and if he weren’t his faithful reliable Shockwave Megatron might
think he did it on purpose just to annoy him.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Are you doing it on purpose just to annoy me???”
 
Hook bellowed at Onslaught, who folded arms, as Brawl held the nearly stasis-
locked shell of Vortex.
 
“Listen, we just need you to fix him and get him ready to have a new array
installed. You are a medic. Is it too much to ask?”
 
Hook, perfectly aware of how and why Vortex was like this, merely smirked.
 
“I have express orders to not fix his particular damage.”
 
Onslaught growled. Of course not.
 
“At least properly close his leaking lines and top his fluids and we are
leaving.”
 
Hook gave a perfunctory glance at the mech over Brawl’s shoulders.
 
“You can refuel his tanks on your collective rations and starve while he
undergoes inner repairs: see if I care. This damage is not life-threatening and
as far as the whole Nemesis knows was well-deserved. Strap some random plating
over the gap and he’s good as new. Now out of my bay!!!”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Out of the bay!!!”
 
Hot Spot, Groove and Streetwise blinked sheepishly as Blades expelled them out
of the medbay.
 
“But we are kin! We are gestalt!”
 
“And First Aid and I are busy. Go find something else to do.”
 
Streetwise sagged as Groove shook his head.
 
“Not cool, bro, not cool at all.”
 
As Inferno dragged a glitched Red Alert down the hall, Hot Spot, resigned,
threw an arm over each of their mates’ shoulders, focusing on the distant hard
trance playing.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Trance playing hard, Swindle smirked to himself and counted his Shanix as the
now overcharged, potentially intoxicated crowd partied to the electronic
sounds.
 
Blaster, currently sitting on a table with a small cube of high-grade, left
both music and lights to Technotor spinning on the ceiling, blinking sheepishly
as the nice heat reached his frame, reminding him of another kind of heat.
 
Once, Ironhide had promised getting official, first mating, sparkmerging and
finally bonding, and he had been too naïve back then to believe. It took him
three events (one with twins) to get convinced the bonding would never come,
one of them not even being Ironhide’s, and they definitely split.
 
Not that he hated Ironhide. He had never been outright mean, merely neglectful.
Blaster just wanted the cassette-support deposited. Millions of years with
interest would amount to a nicevilla on Cybertron the day they ever returned to
their home planet, and his kids certainly deserved that.
 
Smirking under his high-grade, briefly missing the touches and attentions of a
mate, optics slightly foggy, he glared ahead, his sight narrowing to a single
target in the middle of the room.
 
Strolling in slowly, scope over his shoulder, confident, regal even, Perceptor
parted the crowd as he held a beeline right to his direction.
 
With a courteous flourish and a slight bow, he captured Blaster’s hand in his,
giving it a chaste kiss.
 
“I wager you would be conceding one dance to this humble scientist and sniper?”
 
He winked his free optic and smiled, his monocle glowing darkly blue.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Visor going darkly blue, Shockwave observed his Lord leave the Lab, once more
tracing the microscope’s scope, remembering the way he had been harshly yet
rightfully dismissed earlier.
 
He had absolutely no problem with how and why Lord Megatron told him away.
 
His only current problem was the troublesome charge currently travelling
through his frame, his purple interface panel pinging him for permission to
open, just plain asking to be roughly filled by a spike.
 
“Override. Abort attempt until second order.”
 
Click.
 
Microtron, playing games and hiccuping loudly, unaware of Shockwave’s struggle,
minutely raised his optic as his Carrier stalled suddenly, eerily still.
 
He stared down, finding his upper ventral plates dutifully closed. Strange. He
could swear…
 
Logically.
 
Staring further down, he found the white lower panel – the port-only array
originally belonging to the autobot shell – clicked open wide, its white
insides exposed, blue-folded port and blue upper node at sight, a single arch
of electricity flowing from his seams into them.
 
Briefly glaring at his creation, who didn’t shift from where he was, still
having fun with his game, Shockwave ordered the plates closed shut, watching
closely as they did, commanding a full-fledged lock.
 
This charge was getting out of hand, and he had to do something.
 
“Microtron.”
 
Swaying to attention, the mechling sauntered close, as Shockwave tilted his
head at his unbalanced gait and contemplated his re-plating with an
appreciative nod at Ratchet’s craft.
 
“Yes, Carrier?”
 
“Come with me. You will stay with your siblings for now.”
 
Reinforcing his overrides, Shockwave held a hand down to his creation, as he
caught it and both left the Lab, on their way, the heliformer hoping to not
meet anyone, especially not Starscream.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Starscream entered the constructicon bay, smug and confident, bearing
Megatron’s official seal and authorisation of his blueprints.
 
“Constructicons! It’s with great pleasure that I announce my project has been
authorised by Lord Megatron to be built, thus I, the Second in Command…”
 
“Constructicons: build Submarine to Starscream’s needs. Megatron’s orders.
Soundwave out.”
 
Starscream sneered at Soundwave’s voice booming from the audials, clenching his
fist: nosy tapeglitch, stealing his moment!
 
Scrapper, master architect, walked to the outraged seeker, asking for the
blueprints and extending his hand.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Extending his hand and opening the unlocked door, Microtron peeked into the
cassetticons’ room: Carrier had just left him at the door, telling him to get
in and be nice, respectful and proper to his siblings and to not leave the room
unless Shockwave himself came to retrieve him.
 
Allowing himself in, silently, he glared at Rumble and Frenzy, playing their
PS4 without even noticing him.
 
“Hi.”
 
Screeching on his brakes at the game of Need for Speed – Autobot Ensemble, both
tapelings blinked and stared up at their sibling, holding their uncouth tongues
at Microtron’s slightly overcharged sight.
 
“Can I stay here? I won’t be a bother.”
 
The two decepticons blinked, as Microtron hiccuped to them, unsubspacing his
Ipad and sitting on a corner, restarting his game of Bejewelled 3. The two
cassettes shared a glance, about to comment..
 
“Cassettes: be nice.”
 
Soundwave’s voice of doom echoes in the room, as his twins and the avians
flinch.
 
“Damn it Sounders, you scared us!”
 
“Microtron: will behave. Cassettes: will behave. No pranks. No leaving the
room. Menace and Ravage will join soon. Copy?”
 
“We don’t really have a say in it, do we?”
 
“Negative. Soundwave out.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Soundwave, finally out of the Nemesis’ systems, was about to go after Shockwave
to enquire him why he left Microtron with his creations, standing properly at
attention the moment Lord Megatron entered the room.
 
“At rest, Soundwave.”
 
Minutely bowing his head, Soundwave deferred to his Lord, relaxing.
 
“Lord Megatron: to what Soundwave owes visit?”
 
“Are all my creations accounted for and safe?”
 
Soundwave, checking on his tapes through their bond, knowing where Microtron
was, nodded. Megatron stepped closer then.
 
“Are you done with your duties for the time being?”
 
Soundwave nodded, EM-field flaring slightly in amusement and detecting
Megatron’s unspent charge, tilting his head right as his Lord opened a wicked
smirk, hands finally resting at each side of his hips, thumbs grazing his
buttons.
 
Soundwave knew where this was going, and he liked it.
***** I like to move it! *****
“I like it!”
 
Having entered his master’s room already under the influence of his treat,
rebelliously occupying the main berth just because he could, Ratchet spoke at
no one in particular, the currently empty cube in his hands.
 
That had been a hell of a high-grade. Megatron’s best was indeed great, and he
wished he had a second cube to finally collapse.
 
Pity he wouldn’t sample the only best he wanted to have now.
 
He giggled. He was so smashed he was even imagining Shockwave just strolled
into the room, tilted his head, then slowly crawled through the berth to
finally settle straddling his thighs, Ratchet unable to contain himself any
longer and resting both hands cupping his master’s aft.
 
“Hello, beautiful. Ready for examination?”
 
Wow, that was lame: Ratchet was quite glad the silent Shockwave whose aft he
just groped with both hands, staring at him immobile, cracking with charge, was
a mere figment of his starvedimagination.
 
“I'm a fully chevroned and forged medic.They say I’m very good with my hands.”
 
He squeezed the aft, nodding appreciatively: now that was a proper behind, wide
and plentiful.
 
“Excellent.”
 
Ratchet nodded once more. It even talks, his interfacing protocols skyrocketing
and going haywire: This high-grade is amazing.
 
“Show me your prowess then.”
 
Ratchet smirked, flaring his hand’s sensors on and just feeling for the amazing
heat coming from the groped electrically charged aft, vision unfocused.
 
He had never had a flux so realistic before. Why not seize it?
 
“I’m going to melt you from the inside, you fragger.”
 
The Shockwave of his imagination minutely turned off its visor at his hushed
tone, returning it on and actually humming low his own engines appreciatively,
vibration spreading through their frames, pleased.
 
Amazing how this high-grade was being way better than any simulation, he
pondered as his array screamed to be open and his interface cable requested to
be released.
 
“Is that so.”
 
Ratchet nods at the flat reply, grinning overchargedly at the battlemasked
sight, digging his face at the crook of the vision’s neck, inhaling and
registering the scent of lab paraphernalia, medical disinfectants, cobalt ions,
heated iron and faint cybertronium laced with a slight sheen of ozone up in his
processors.
 
Fragging realistic indeed.
 
Even his sensory net was utterly fooled. He had to commend his own processors
for the realism. Or the high-grade. Or both.
 
Click.
 
Ratchet took a full minute to recognise the sound that nearly deafened him in
the room.
 
Fleeting a glance down, he blinked his optics at the sight of an open lower
interface panel between the straddling thighs.
 
“Where is the purple array?”
 
The illusionary Shockwave tilted his head.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. This port-only array came with the autobot shell, and
it was never part of the sparkbond pact with my bondmates. Logically, only I
shall dictate its use, thus I have absolutely no qualms against rewarding you.”
 
Wow: he even reasons like Shockwave: the illusionary bastard managed to find a
logical loophole to frag him without feeling like he was betraying his
bondmates.
 
“It is factory sealed.”
 
Ratchet snapped his mouthplates open, then shut them up, recalling the system
readings he did of Strongarmyears ago, immediately checking the information by
darting his right hand into the blue port’s entrance, probing it with a
delicate fingertip.
 
This illusion was getting too realistic to be truth. The last seal he removed
was an impersonal, medical procedure, requested by no one less than Prowl, so
that he would not have anything of interest to the enemy in case of capture to
be tortured with, and he had no recording of non-medical removals in his
memory. Before he could propose removing it painlessly through dissolution, the
illusion spoke.
 
“I order you to do it according to Tradition.”
 
Blinking as his whole shell burned, transfluid tank still half-full, interface
cable pledging to be let out then intothe port, the thought of breaking a seal
the traditional way making him shudder, Ratchet groaned at the mental
convolutions the illusion did just to justify fragging him.
 
“You amoral glitch. You are the most realistic overcharged illusion I have ever
had.”
 
The quite substantial Shockwave currently on his lap gave him a definite
weighty grind down, heat flushing up Ratchet’s faceplates.
 
“It is because I am not an illusion, Chief Medical Officer.”
 
Sobering up instantly, interfacing protocols stuttering his engines for a
second, then running full force at the proximity and physical touch of his
master, blinking repeatedly and forcing his own systems to run a quick
diagnostic, Ratchet smacked his lips together, shaking his head.
 
His medical scan showed without doubt that it was indeed the real Shockwave
currently grinding his open, blue-folded, female port-only panel, on himself.
 
Feeling instantly aroused and ashamed, Ratchet wanted to both break the seal in
one go and immediately frag him as ordered, and flee and hide: Shockwave was
bonded to the two most dangerous decepticons he knew besides Starscream: he
would be beaten up to a pulp the instant they found out.
 
His self-preservation protocols ordered him out of there now.
 
His interfacing protocols ordered him to stop whining and do it.
 
His morals affirmed fragging a bonded mech just isn't proper.
 
His slave coding told him it was an order.
 
Grind.
 
Frag propriety.
 
At that, throwing his leftover morals and his self-preservation out of the
window, too overcharged to not follow through the impending motions but not
enough to forget taking proper consent, he slowly gripped his hands over the
rich aft, firmly, asking for wordless confirmation.
 
His unspoken permission was a definite grind and slide of the lower plates,
Shockwave arching his back and exposing the intake’s lid at the base of his
neck, as the medic nuzzled his nosebridge against it, the lower port buzzing
with charge.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Buzzing, Menace charged against the door of their collective room, trying to no
avail to reach Soundwave.
 
They had been ordered in the room by Carrier, getting fooled: Carrier wasn’t
here!
 
Why everybody deceive poor Menace??
 
Now they were all locked in, including the adopted cassetticon Ratbat and their
half-sibling Microtron, giggling and hiccuping alone at his Ipad, single optic
occasionally turning off at random intervals.
 
How could he be so infuriatingly serene about it?
 
Ravage sent a wordless ping to the bee: he was old enough to understand
Soundwave’s motifs by now, but it wasn’t his task to explain the cyberbees and
the nightbirds to his siblings; as such, he hoped to make sure the buzzing
Menace knew Carrier was perfectly fine.
 
Microtron, on his side, completely oblivious on the cassetticon’s inner
struggle and everything else happening at large, tilting his head to the side
and turning the Ipad as well, dizzy, currently tried to beat his own Record in
Lightning.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Lightning cracked on the washracks, two white bodies slamming against the wall
inside, the solvent spray turning ON over their frames, the instant Shockwave
approached Ratchet’s audials and spoke very low through his flat toned vocoder.
 
“I recall from when I installed you the slave code that there was no need to
tamper with your preferences to complement mine.”
 
Shuddering under his plates as solvent washed them, Ratchet observed a warm
hand slide over his interface panel, offlining his optics as he felt a single
fingertip insert on his side seam, snatching the panel open and firmly gripping
the full, weighty cable slotting out of jack, pressurising into his palm.
 
“I have analysed your sample and wholly approved it. I estimate you still have
at least a half tank for me, Chief Medical Officer.”
 
Back against the wall, Shockwave released the cable and held both of Ratchet’s
shoulders with each hand and lifted himself with both legs up, feet locked
behind the medic's back, blue folded port purposefully meeting the underside of
the now fully pressurised red and white spike, sliding up until the seal met
the dripping tip.
 
“Now. I want to feel.Make it hurt.”
 
In automatic, red hands leaving furious streaks of paint scraping the sides of
the white thighs, the boxy wheeled autobot held the heavy plated heliformer up,
in one single move rupturing the seal and sliding his red and white interface
cable into the lower blue-folded port, slowly to the hilt, doing his best to
avoid inner lining damage, receiving the trapped flow of lubricant from within.
 
Shockwave actually stalled for an instant at the searing pain that a healthy,
undamaged interface array (properly connected to the neural net and with all
sensors working) could transmit, vice-gripping Ratchet’s shoulders and
offlining his visor, dissociating his analytical mind from the event and
counting the number of spins the electrons within an atom of hydrogen could
make in a click of time, locking his pedes behind the medic’s hips.
 
Fascinating.
 
Ratchet, optics offline, felt the newly-unsealed array constrict around every
single sensor in his spike, irregularly at first, unwilling to move from
position, revelling in the sensation and thinking about the medical footnotes
on the female interfacing system, recalling that it moulded its own nodes
according to the first charged interface cable that ever filled it, consciously
aware that he shouldn’t move until calibration was complete.
 
It never meant however he couldn’t snark.
 
“How do you feel, master, knowing you’ll have my imprint on you forever?”
 
Shockwave, upper processor whirring during the endless seconds the port’s inner
callipers took to adjust to the stretch and morphed their structure to fit the
irregularities and sensor clusters of Ratchet’s interface cable, merely rolled
his hips around said cable, reinforcing the location of each cluster of sensors
in his neural net, droning a not-reply.
 
“The imprint is done.”
 
Taking the cue, not really expecting a better answer, Ratchet snickered and
started moving, slowly sliding in and out, as Shockwave, mind slightly fogged,
ignoring the now barely residual pain in his newly-unsealed panels, and
registering in a heavily encrypted log all the steps required and the full
learning curve of his current experiment (since this array was similar yet so
different from his original one), portraying himself as his owntest subject,
finally met each slide with the grinding motion that from his calculations was
the most effective.
 
“Angle 21% up and ante up thrusting power in 38% from current input.”
 
Ratchet rolled his optics: he might be overcharged in every sense, but it was
already getting out of his upper processes, and he was notgoing to frag in
percentiles.
 
“Why. Can't. You. Just. Shut. Up!!!”
 
Each progressively harder thrust was punctuated by a single word, cooling fans
stuttering on and off under the cooling spray: standing on his feet on his own
hydraulics, Ratchet smirked with satisfaction at the sight of his logical
master gripping his shoulders, black paint streaks scraping his red crosses.
 
“You are not Lord Megatron and you cannot make me shut up, and I do not
authorise you to complain that I talk too much like Soundwave does.”
 
Ratchet squinted, for a second almost sighing.
 
“Be a good slave and keep going. I am taking notes.”
 
Leave it to Shockwave to take notes in a moment like this, he grinned, glaring
right into his master, both his optics and the blue visor darkening
dangerously, Shockwave droning.
 
“Now. Rough.”
 
Delivering two more thrusts and being met by two particularly voluntary grinds,
Ratchet smirked with satisfaction.
 
“My pleasure.”
 
“No, Chief Medical Officer. Mine.”
 
He rolled his hips around the cable, commanding his callipers to constrict at
the precise angles required, as Ratchet stalled, knees almost giving in,
steeling himself in his hydraulics and slamming the heliformer once more
against the wall mostly for balance, earning a genuine flare of Shockwave’s EM-
field.
 
“I swear, for all the times you almost fragged me and the synch that never took
place: when I finish,you won't be able to remember your own name!”
 
And resumed sliding, only this time maddeningly slowly, building down charge.
He had an inkling this would be the last time Shockwave would require him, but
he was making sure to prolong the moment the most he could, to the point even
his cold master would actually require a future repeat.
 
“Is this a promise.”
 
Shockwave's flat voice monotones, the charge building down enough for the heat
to dissipate under the spray and the cooling fans to dial down as well.
 
“Still too many words together. I must be doing something wrong.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Is there something wrong?”
 
Soundwave dimmed his red visor, his lord filling his navy blue port with his
overcharged grey spike, and also pumping the tapedeck’s navy blue and white
interface cable in tandem with his right hand, one datacable going down, inside
and ultimately up Megatron’s own port, felt heat brewing behind his buttons,
where he did not have any available ports or connectors, flowing upwards and
overwhelming his spark with unexpected yet welcome charge.
 
Briefly flaring his own optics at the shimmering spark underneath the tapedeck
glass, before he could ask himself anything, Megatron had his optics covered
shut by a thick navy blue datacable.
 
Click.
 
He growled, absurdlypleased as he recognised the sound: It was extremely rare
that Soundwave opened his battlemask, and Megatron certainly would concede his
mate the privacy of his forgedface whenever he felt like opening up.
 
“Negative.” hushed against his audials the natural, non-vocoded voice, the
datacable up Megatron’s port twisting and the tyrant’s field wobbling
“Everything: looking just right.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Right in the middle of the hall, Inferno pledged to the door.
 
“I need a medic!”
 
“Schedule your appointment through the Autobot Health System with
Hoist.”bellowed Blades.

“But Red Alert is glitched now.”
 
“Is he deactivating, leaking energon or had suffered spark damage?”
 
Inferno gave a once-over to his partner, sagging.
 
“If he isn’t, then outta here. First Aid needs his beauty recharge.”
 
Inferno squinted at the door, approaching his audials, listening to the light
hints of discussion within.
 
 
Within the autobot medbay, First Aid crosses his arms at Blades.
 
“Now what do you think you are doing?”
 
Blades smirked, proud.
 
“I'm making sure no one comes in to bother you at all, ever, like a caring
bondmate should.”
 
“You put our own family out, Blades.”
 
“Well, they can make better use of their time outside, and I wanted my all
alone time with you, is that a crime now?”
 
First Aid facepalms.
 
“Listen, I appreciate your obsessive care and you certainly know you way around
an ambulance, but right now I am properly rested and thoroughly defragged and
it wouldn't hurt to just take on one patient.”
 
Blades stuttered.
 
“But but... it's not a patient, it's Red Alert. He's glitched.”
 
“So?”
 
“Well, Red Alert is always getting glitched. It doesn't even count as medically
relevant anymore. If we wait enough, he wakes up.”
 
“Blades...”
 
“Isn't it what's written in Ratchet's patient files? Every time they brought
Red Alert in he just left him strapped to a slab to wait the glitch out!”
 
First Aid then rushed to silence his mouthplates with his hands, shushing him.
 
“Don't say it out loud! It's confidential!!”
 
Blades, smirking and feeling bold, captured First Aid's fingers in his mouth,
sucking slowly, optics focused on the other's dimming visor, the rotary melting
the medic from the inside out.
 
===============================================================================
 
Melting from the inside out, the medic pounded the burning rotary to the wall,
rotating and undulating the hips up and down, sliding his spikeand throwing a
punishing hydraulic rhythm, grinning widely as he slowly licked the solvent
coming down over the closed lid of the fuel intake at the base of Shockwave's
neck, eliciting involuntary shudders.
 
Suddenly popping its lid open with his dental plates and plunging his tongue
in, Ratchet was actually surprised at the unexpected guttural whine come from
Shockwave's real vocaliser, reverberating through his frame, port callipers
rippling around his cable, fans kicking on.
 
“Do I hear reactions? Real reactions?”
 
An unmistakable pelvic roll met him, as Shockwave, vocoder flat and neutral,
droned.
 
“Logical reactions. Do not change the angle.”
 
Doing precisely the opposite and changing the angling and the pounding, Ratchet
allowed for the building charge to peak, grinning and purring against
Shockwave's audials.
 
“I'm fragging the logic out of you, you slippery bastard.”
 
Angling to the side and deeply kissing his open fuel intake, Ratchet soon
rested both hands against the wall, pacing up, electrical charge cracking
through his transformation seams, hitting his windshield against the protruding
canopy, feeling Shockwave's feet scrape against his back hips, electricity
arching between their chestplates, the washrack's solvent spray still cascading
down their frames.
 
Shockwave, incapable of not taking written record on such fascinating
experiment, having the kind of pounding he liked in a healthy array fully
capable of feeling eveything, marginally aware of the staggering amount of
times his own chestplates pinged asking to be open for sparkmerge, was
instantly glad for the efficiency of his firewalls and automated medical
overrides.
 
“Overload imminent. Do not hold back.”
 
Shoving one hard thrust, not holding anything back, Ratchet this time allowed
the interface cable to slide into jack deep enough to click and lock.
 
Shockwave recorded in a logthe instant the charge peaked and fired into his own
systems, allowing the tank of transfluid to release and wash through his lower
pelvis and into his female systems, stiffening his hydraulics, locking his legs
around the medic's hips and keeping in place with the aid of both arms holding
behind the medic's nape, his own sight physically faltering, battlemasked face
silently burying against the crook of Ratchet's neck, at the same time
unconsciousness kicked in and his medical locks failed, chestplates whirring
open, spark hopelessly exposed.
 
Ratchet let himself go in overload, losing conscious motor control as
interfacing subroutines took full charge, opening wide his chestplates and
exposing his spark, filling the room with light and remaining locked on his
feet holding Shockwave up, free-floating spinning sparks merging into the
blinding light.
 
The entity previously known as Solus Prime, most precisely her warped, unevenly
split half, a truly half-corrupted counterpart, lacking all databanks that make
a Prime be a Prime, once more was awoken from deep slumber through the energy
of her host’s overload in receptive mode, and she snorted loudly for being
currently reduced to a creepy kind of interfacing-induced apparition.
 
Approving once more on this Shockwave’s variety of vigorous mates, recalling
almost sadly he wasn’t a Prime, she once more experimented with overriding
chestplate locks and exposing sparks to merge, obsessed in tampering with
creation.
 
Knowing there was even less energy this time and particularly preferring the
datacables from that other navy blue mech, she did her possible best to give a
chance to Life.
 
Humming content as the sparks indeed did, rotating and merging, the corrupted
Solus Prime, the Decepticon Matrix, thrummed deeply in the haze.
***** Smokescreen *****
Thrumming deeply in the haze, Prowl walked through the dry ice smoke-filled
corridor, past a resigned Inferno dragging a still glitched Red Alert from the
medbay's hall.
 
Calculating there would be a chance of 86% the autobots would require a
functional Emergency Room the next solar cycle, Prowl made sure to get to the
main responsible for their predicted medical crisis.
 
Stepping unfazed through the Rec Room, ignoring the overcharged glances and the
catcalls as he made his best not to flutter his doorwings, the officer moved
right underneath the glimmering disco-globe on the ceiling, prodding him.
 
“I accuse you of promoting disorder and dissent among the ranks. Again.”
 
The disco-globe stopped rotating, in a half-transformation showing only his
head towards his superior officer, vaguely recalling he had been forbidden of
partying in the Lab.
 
“As far as I recall I was forbidden of using the Lab. No one ever said anything
against the Rec Room!”
 
Prowl squinted, folding arms and looking up.
 
“Two decepticons escaped the brig, Skyfire is missing, Red Alert is glitched,
dozens of autobots are hanging around overcharged and intoxicated, Ratchet
defected to the Deceptions after Strongarm,who I predicted with 94% accuracy
would become – and didbecome –a security liability, and to make things worse,
the protectobots are on strike, which means First Aid is not working on his
medical duties – so we have no functional medbay for the time being. I am 97%
certain your partying is not being conductive to the well-being of our faction
right now.”
 
Technotor squinted as well, transforming completely and somersaulting down on
the ground, looking up to the enforcer with a defiant glare, folding arms.
 
“And who do you think you are anyway, to interrupt this high-quality,
thundering trance party so well-planned by no one less than me?”
 
Prowl kept squinting.
 
“In case you had forgotten, I am the Second in Command, Prime’s highest
Commended Officer, and I speak in name of Optimus Prime, your creator, who had
been doing a 56% less effective job of keeping up order since Ratchet left the
Autobots.”
 
Technotor scratched his chin pensively then, suddenly remembering who Prowl was
and flinching, trying to find a way out of this mess, finally nodding and
outstretching his right hand, saluting clumsily with the left.
 
“Pleasure to meet you again, honcho, I am Technotor, carrier’s self-made
creation andsecretary of extraordinaire affairs and general partying. Can I
dedicate you a song?”
 
He flashed his greatest smile. Prowl donned his deepest scowl.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Donning his deepest scowl, the screeching harpy threatened the five towering
constructicons with his irritating voice.
 
“When I say you must heedmy instructions to the detail it is because I require
the submarine to be able of properly prospecting all the trapped fuel within
the sunken squishie platform! Is it so difficult to understand??? Do not modify
my model!”
 
Scrapper, waving Starscream dismissively, staring at the blueprints and making
the correct and proper modifications on the fly, shared a wordless ping with
his team-mates, who almost immediately started working each on their own part
of the construction, functioning as a single elegant machine.
 
Except for Hook, absent on his refuelling break.
 
“Megatron's submarine will work and the Deceptions will secure this source of
fuel, Air Commander.” Scrapper nodded, folding arms and taking his place as
foreman “Your model would not withstand the outrageous pressures around the
pre-salt oil layer depth, and we are deeply motivated to get this project
right.”
 
Huffing, Starscream folded arms, observing the sunny beginnings of the
submarine's yellow plates shining underneath the dock.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Docked, plates shining underneath the sun beginning to rise on the horizon,
Skyfire gleamed, releasing electrical arches towards the deep purple shuttle by
his side, both engines silently thrumming on the vacuum of space.
 
Nothing could disturb their special space faring moment.
 
Nothing but a third shuttle.
 
Astrotrain, orbiting the planet, stopped on his motions the instant he found
the two other shuttles communingsilently, crackling charge.
 
He knew it.
 
Skyfire was playing with both of them!
 
He couldn't allow that. He had to intervene.
 
Flaring his engines into life, he aimed towards the unsuspecting duo, moving.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Moving, focusing right and left, a pair of blue optics blinked sheepishly, a
pop-up coming up his HUD indicating normal charge had been re-established in
his systems after a sound frag and defrag.
 
Slowly taking on his surroundings, he stretched his limbs, registering the fact
he was not dripping wet and dirty with paint transfers at the ground of the
washracks: he was instead clean, dry and comfortably laid on Shockwave'sberth,
with his three progress bars synced in green and mind clear of interfacing
thoughts.
 
And his transfluid tank mercifully empty.
 
“Greetings. I am not sparked.”
 
A gleaming solvent-clean black hand handed him a datapad. Ratchet blinked
repeatedly, taking it and slowly sitting, not quite understanding.
 
“What do you mean you are not sparked??”
 
He rotated the datapad in all directions trying to determine which was the way
up.
 
“It means our tryst bore no fruit.”
 
He winced, letting the datapad fall.
 
“I know what not being sparked means! I had my medical locks engaged into my
sparkchamber, of course you are not sparked! Were you expecting to be???”
 
Shockwave tilted his head, not answering, handing him another datapad with his
log.
 
“According to my personal encrypted log of our intercourse, despite both our
medical locks, our sparkchambers opened and our sparks merged. They did not
bond, but they fully merged, long and deep enough to allow for a spark to
form.”
 
Ratchet stared deadly mute at the irrefutable facts, taking the second datapad.
 
“Logically, once I was aware of the happening, I ran a medical scanner in my
own spark, and as I already stated, I am not sparked.”
 
Ratchet snapped, throwing the datapad away, for some reason feeling strangely
relieved yetinsulted at the fact Shockwave is not sparked: he had held nothing
back. How come he was not sparked?!
 
“Wasn’t the merge enough to allow for sparking? What was it I lacked?”
 
Shockwave handed him a new datapad then.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. It has nothing to do with your interfacing
capabilities, that happen to be many, or spark energy levels, that are more
than adequate. Enoughdoes not mean it has to take place. As you can see in
these sound statistics in your hands, it took me literally millions of years
and trials to get sparked with Microtron. It was only logical that this one
time would result nil.”
 
He then handed him yet another datapad.
 
“Precisely because of this medical lock failure, I have devised improved
firewalls and failsafe medical locks for sparkchambers while my spark was
scanned for stowawaynewsparks, and have already installed mine. I took the
liberty of connecting and updating yours, as I also renewed your slave synch,
just to be sure, for the period.”
 
Ratchet piled up the datapad atop the others he had been previously handed and
didn’t throw away, unblinking.
 
“Apropos, in case you are interested in future improvement, here are the
calculations on thresholds of optimal performance from my secondary, port-only
array, newly calibrated to your own specs, according to built-in charge, that I
took while I waited for the new firewalls to be compiled.”
 
Yet another datapad migrated to Ratchet’s pile at his master's berth. He merely
stared at it.
 
“On a side note, during the autobot array’s automated self-cleaning routines, I
found out it has a surprising efficiency and completely obliterated all the
transfluid injected, leaving absolutely no CNA traces or evidence. It obviously
works differently from the all-purpose spike-and-port model, which usually
requires a very thorough cleaning that I ended not needing to perform because
it was completely, utterly clean, not a single strand of CNA left. I found its
workings not only practical but fascinating.”
 
Ratchet numbly watched the new datapad migrate to his pile as Shockwave just
continued.
 
“I have also devised marked improvements on the blueprints you designed for
Microtron while I waited for the firewalls to finish installing and running.
The retro Eniac-like mainframe alt-mode is a nice touch, but can be improved to
include touch-screens, colours and a more intuitive interface.”
 
Ratchet blinked sheepishly as the pile grew.
 
“Not forgetting your personal contribution to science, I have come across…”
 
“STOP!!! For Primus sake, can’t you stop thinkingandworking?”
 
Shockwave glared, a datapad in his hand, immobile as the medic freaked out from
his spot.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. Do not make me believe I am wasting my time in
partaking of my achievements. If I had been working, instead of being here
telling you everything I accomplished while you defragged, I might have devised
one or two more interesting projects.”
 
Ratchet sighed. He knew: so much for brilliance.
 
Sagging in place, staring down, Ratchet’s overcharged, interfacing-generated
memories came up into his processor as his spark painfully tugged.
 
“What now, Shockwave?”
 
Shockwave finished handing him the previous datapad, mechanically, staring
directly at him without a single stir. Ratchet clutched the datapad against his
chest.
 
“What are we?”
 
Shockwave stared, still unfazed, finally dipping his head down in a single nod.
 
“What we are, now, is relieved of excess charge, after a mutually beneficial
arrangement. Logically.”
 
Ratchet angrily threw the last datapad right into Shockwave’s chevron, who
offlined his visor momentarily as it bounced away, not reacting otherwise, and
the outraged medic finally lunged himself against his master, both falling into
the ground, straddling the scientist and punching his balled fists against the
protruding chestplate.
 
“Curse you and your logic! You can’t possibly mean it meant nothing! You
started it, ages ago, when you first wormed yourself into my processors back
when you still were Strongarm! You… purposefully left me without synch to make
me go crazy with the need to interface then you synced me leaving me tank-full
specifically to get me readyto provide samples, gave me high-grade and ordered
me to slosh myself in it, then came back full of charge, wriggling your
plentiful aft and protruding chestplates, exposing your panels, and then we had
the most surreal, amazing frag of all my existence, and now you come to me
saying it was just a mutually beneficial arrangement?”
 
Shockwave then glared at him for three seconds.
 
“Had it not been a mutually beneficial arrangement?”
 
Ratchet gave him a final punch the face then, attempting to stand up, getting
prevented by Shockwave’s hands capturing his fists, both sharing a long glance,
the rotary finally droning.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. Be reasonable. Of course it meant something. I ranked
your efforts quite highly on my list of high-quality interfacing sessions.”
 
Ratchet lowered himself approaching Shockwave right to the level of his visor,
the rotary releasing his fists and slowly lowering his own hands to the medic's
waist and gripping on the red hips.
 
“You… a list. You ranked me. In your fragging list.”
 
“It is not a fragging list. It is a list of fragging. All my recorded sessions,
from my first ever in life, to a few mechs I met at the Senate, to the last,
ranked by participants, partner’s perceived versus advertised skill, duration,
intensity and amount of electrical discharge released during overload, properly
ordered from the most productive to the least satisfying.”
 
Of course he has a list of fragging. What does Shockwave not have databanks and
charts of?
 
“It is a very through list: I am extremely attentive to detail. Know that you
and your expertisenow feature among my three all-time best sessions.”
 
Ratchet stuttered, in between proud and outraged at being ranked and compared,
opening and closing his mouth without emitting a sound, as Shockwave finally
pushed him aside and stood up, droning as he walked to the room’s door.
 
“Believe me, Chief Medical Officer, I am highly amenable to an encore.”
 
Staring over his shoulder right into the blue optics, Shockwave assumed a rigid
stance.
 
“Just not now. I have duties and you can be distracting.”
 
Taking his time to openly rake up and down the medic, the scientist walked out
of the room's door, clasping his hands behind his back as he left.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“He left!”
 
Prowl folded arms, staring sternly at the overcharged Jazz, Technotor held by
common cuffs on his side, a dejected look in his face: how was he going to look
carrierOptimus in the optic if he keeps getting arrested like this?
 
“Jazz…”
 
“Sorry, Prowler. Ol’ Swindle sold his stuff, then as soon as he spott’d ya
threatening the disco-globe there, he made off with the merchandise.”
 
Technotor snorted at the pet name, soon straightening himself and shutting up,
as Prowl shifted a glower between his TIC and his current prisoner.
 
“Don’t call me Prowler, Jazz. I am Prowl, your superior officer, and you owe me
respect.”
 
“Yadda, yadda, mech, dontcha be boring, just relax! Even Perceptor was looking
sweet an’ got som’ action, an’ Blaster’s a tough cookie. Ya coulda learn a
thing or two. And let da poor mech go, he's just' a disco-ball, what can he do
of dangerous?”
 
An idea brewing in his processors, Technotor squinted behind his cuffs,
smirking, finally flaring his mirrors and lights in a dizzying vortex.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Dizzy, Vortex awoke to a taste of processed energon in his tanks, blinking his
visor slowly as he stared around.
 
Moving a hand towards his abdomen and lower down between his legs, he found a
heavy grey plate haphazardly welded where he once held his proudly modded
array, that for some reason still pingedhim despite his HUD's warnings about
its absence.
 
Shuddering at the painful memories amplified by the pinging, in a good way, he
found his own fuel topped to 47% of his needs. Glaring around the room, he took
sight of a recharging Brawl, and his own superior officer, Onslaught, optics
dim sitting on the ground, clearly energon-drained, a fuel line in his own arm
welded shut.
 
“So you are finally awake. Enjoying my own energon in your tanks, kinky
fragger? You are aware you will pay for your whole inconvenience to our team,
right?”
 
Vortex, amazed for tasting the living energon of his own boss in his systems,
clearly no self-preservation left in his core, dragged himself close, as
Onslaught glowered his optics darkly at his approach.
 
“Can't pay anymore until I get further fixed. You don't like me to use my hands
and I lack a real mouth.”
 
He draped himself over his boss, sliding into his lap, humming as his systems
accused all sorts of errors from his absent array.
 
“That's not what I meant, idiot!” he shook his head “Besides, you are fixed
enough as it is. In case it didn't sink on you, we couldn't get anyone to fix
that here. Apparently there are limits even decepticons won't cross.
Contemplate your own mess. Satisfied?”
 
Vortex hummed, rotors revving with charge he won't be able to dispel, mind
racing to the memory of Shockwave mutilating him, his processor titillatingfrom
phantom-array pain.
 
“I might be, Ons, I just might.”
 
Facepalming, Onslaught shook his head at the clearly insane rotary.
 
“As soon as Swindle finds a way to return to us, we are contacting Cybertron:
he said he knows an underground aesthetic body modderracer-model from
Velocitron that might be able to help.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“We might be able to help ya.”
 
“Sounders dispels our excess charge. We could tell you how he does it.”
 
Microtron turned his slightly overcharged stare at the twins.
 
“That is, if ya help us to the high-grade that fuelled ya.”
 
Blinking, his single optic dimmed as he subspaced the Ipad Air II, hiccuping
with a small crackle of charge.
 
“What’s high-grade?”
 
Rumble smirked, nudging Frenzy.
 
“Kid, we are many times your age. We sneaked past Sounders enough to recognise
when a mech has unspent charge from high-grade in his tanks, and we want some
too.”
 
Microtron scratched his head with a datacable, static fizzling. He had no idea
what they were talking about.
 
Ravage rolled his optics at them. Younglings: always thinking getting sloshed
in high-grade is a great time!
 
As soon as Microtron turned to request further clarification, the room doors
whirred open, revealing the solid faceplates of Shockwave, gleaming clean with
solvents, hands clasped behind his back, having opened it with ease as soon as
he flared Megatron’s spark frequency at the door locks.
 
(Soundwave wouldn’t be pleased once he reviewed the logs, but Shockwave was
sure the tapedeck didn’t expect him of all mechs to not have figured out how
these types of locks worked by now, anyway, so he merely left a note explaining
he had to retrieve his creation and didn’t want to disturb either of his
bondmates.)
 
“Microtron. As promised I am here to retrieve you.”
 
The kid turned on his heels, hiccuping and crackling charge. Shockwave walked
towards his creation, flaring his hand scanners on as he moved his servo above
his head.
 
Wondering how he missed it earlier and blaming his own excess charge back then
to have prevented his processors of properly reasoning, he turned to the
cassettes, minutely dipping his head.
 
“I trust you have not fuelled him with anything.”
 
Truly having not, all cassettes shook their heads as Microtron tilted his in
confusion. Shockwave, coming to the logical conclusion, held a servo to his
creation, beckoning him to hold it and come along.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Come along, yo!”
 
Nodding, Prowl and Jazz numbly followed a smug Technotor in a muted daze as his
mirrors swirled with light, hypnotising both.
 
Passing by the autobots currently ignoring them as they tried getting to their
own quarters for a sound recharge, defrag and some of them also a frag, he came
by Prowl's door, smirking a bit too wide.
 
“Officers, I detected you both have a lot of unresolved tension: you are to
remain in this room together until you work it out.”
 
As Technotor sauntered away in a glee, humming, both SIC and TIC silently
obeyed, entering Prowl's berthroom and locking themselves.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Locking themselves through his cortical psychic patch, Shockwave walked side by
side with Microtron, draining out the charge to his own frame as he took the
pathway between the cassetticons’ and his own room.
 
As the mechling slowly came to default levels and stopped swaying and hiccuping
with each step, Shockwave had already checked the logs of his recent surgery,
confirmed his suspicions that he had been fuelled with diluted high-grade after
the procedure, and finally resynchronised his systems with Microtron’s, calling
his attention.
 
“They might be your siblings and trustful enough to be around, but even they
depend on Soundwave for fuelling, so no, they cannot be trusted for sources of
energon. Especially not the twins. Do you copy?”
 
Microtron nodded, hopeful, beaming.
 
“Then should I only fuel with your processed energon???”
 
Shockwave shook his head.
 
“I do not possess the same frame type that Soundwave does, so I cannot
completely sustain you with my own processed fuel, only as complimentary
formula.”
 
Microtron tilted his head to the left, still a bit hopeful.
 
“Can I have any other mech’s processed fuels then?”
 
Shockwave stared, droning a not-reply.
 
“Once you are properly upgraded your logical craving for other mech’s processed
energon will cease, and the fuel of choice for your frame will be, as expected
for fully upgraded cybertronians, standard energon cubes provided by the common
energon dispenser or other trusted mecha.”
 
Microtron sagged then: he liked the processed fuel so much!
 
“Like who?”
 
“Logically, like Soundwave, me, and your Sire.”
 
Shockwave finally stopped before his door, opening it, the instant Microtron
disconnected himself from the cortical psychic patch and sauntered inside the
room, screaming from within.
 
“What about the medic?”
 
“The medic is a trusted adult as well.” Shockwave spoke from the outside,
pooling his medical cable in and closing his medical panel.
 
A dark grey datacable then came out, coiling around Shockwave’s right hand,
pulling him inside.
 
“I meant, what about the medic? Where is he?”
 
Shockwave blinked his visor twice, noticing Ratchet was no longer there.
Apparently unaffected, he merely caught his creation’s right claw in his left
hand.
 
“He must be busy workingat the Lab as a responsible assistant should. We are
getting your trusted energon cube. Come.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Come.”
 
The Lawyercon sighed, raising his cuffed hands at the drone First, as Mighty
Shockwave waited before the stairwell to the hallowed Halls.
 
“Please? Do you really think it’s proper that I get there in cuffs? What is
everyone going to think?”
 
First pondered for a while, turning his screen head to his master.
 
“He has a point, Mighty Shockwave.”
 
Mighty Shockwave, holding a very purple, high-grade energon cube with a huge
purple bow over it as a special gift, exasperated, sighed.
***** Desperate Times *****
Exasperated, Ratchet sighed, hastily erasing the computer files and shutting it
down with a punch at the touch screen.

Sliding slowly down on the wall and finally sitting on the ground, Ratchet felt
numb, spark tugging at long, regular intervals.

He had to get out of here quickly. Soundwave might not be able to read his
mind, and he might not be allowed to do or say anything to even remotely put
his master in danger, but he is certain that everyone soon would know.

How to get out of the decepticon base however without getting insane with the
need to specifically interface his master once the synch time was over?

Taking Microtron with him, although technically feasible as long as he never
meant harm, and permanently keeping the kid at touching range was not an
option: the whole decepticon fleet would make of him a beacon, and he would be
chased for life: there would be a hefty reward in his sparkchamber, preferably
full with his spark stillbeating.

Recalling the way Shockwave trashed Vortex, he shook his head: he certainly had
no intentions of having similar destiny, in case Shockwave found him first, and
he didn’t want to imagine what Megatron might do to him.

Convincing Shockwave to release him off slavery wasn’t an option.

Convincing Shockwave to come along with him wasn’t an option either.

Or was it?

Squinting and recalling how Shockwave actually had been an autobot once,
managed to partially fit among the autobots during his mission of taking away
the paperweight and somehow meddling with the Matrix, recalling how he
apparently could change his spark frequency, for an instant Ratchet nurtured
the notion that Shockwave might willingly return with him to the autobots and
permanently disguise himself out of reach of his bondmates, once more, and...

Shaking his head in a negative as his spark tugged once more, he held his head
between his hands.

Shockwave might deceive and even lead his bondmates on, but he wouldn’t leave
his newspark alone with the decepticon cybersharks.

Taking the newspark along didn’t seem logical: the kid wouldn’t understand.

Hell, not even Ratchet understood the full extent of the whole mess.

Since he was coded to never do anything that might remotely bring harm to his
master, he has to get out of here before…

“Medic?”

Ratchet startled, turning on his heels as he met the sight of a running
mechling carrying an energon cube in one datacable, having another slotted
inside the cracked lid of the cube, pulsing aglow with very dark purple
biolights alternated with pink energon, both arms and claws open wide,
continuously and slowly fuelling as he jumped into his lap, cackling.

“Carrier told me I can’t fuel with anyone’s processed energon but his, but I’m
hungry. Can I have yours? Just a tiny eeny bit?”

Ratchet bulged his optics, fleeting a glance between the cute little thing
asking for his energon and the stern Shockwave, hands clasped behind his back.

“Microtron. What did I say about asking mecha for processed energon? Do not
bother the Chief Medical Officer for that specific need. I shall fuel you
later.”

Microtron mumbled a sorry and stared up at the horrified medic and tilted his
head, simply hugging him tight with four datacables, optic offline, chirping
and clicking like an innocent newspark who did not just ask to have his own
fuel for mealtime, as Shockwave, paddles rotating slowly, dipped his head in a
nod.

“He said he missed you, Chief Medical Officer. I am here to indulge him.”

Holding the clicking newspark and registering his new weight, recalibrating his
pistons to hold the weight without effort, he turned to Shockwave.

“That’s unexpectedly kind of you, master.”

Without realising the irony, Shockwave nodded, staring right at his optics with
his dimming visor.

“I can be very indulgent, Chief Medical Officer, as you must know already. Now,
Microtron, be quiet and do not disturb us. We have work to do.”

Giving him a last hug and jumping off his arms, Microtron brought out a third
datacable with his Ipad and a fourth out, releasing its feelers and touching
delicately its screen, typing his code in and opening up his newest favourite
game, Hexy!, as Ratchet’s spark once more tugged.

“Do you have anything to report to me?”

Ratchet pondered for an instant, scrutinising his master’s flat glare and EM-
field, finally unsubspacing the minerals and chemicals he took from Mixmaster
right before coming to the lab this morning.

“These are the substances needed to make a protoform from scratch, according to
the analysis of non-sparked protoforms occasionally found at the Hotspots back
on Cybertron. They were purified and taken from mineral sources, except from
cybertronium, recycled from deceased decepticon frames and from waste-produce
from living mechs, having had all its CNA purged. You will notice however the
proportion required to produce a protoform is almost the same found in...”

“I am aware, henceforth the sample. It certainly deserves proper study, but for
now the crude data suffices. It is certainly fascinating to imagine the reasons
why it resembles transfluid.”

“What’s transfluid?”

Ratchet winced as Shockwave glared at his creation, who stopped playing and
turned his expecting giant optic to them.

“Microtron, you will connect your audials to that Ipad, turn the volume on on
its loudest and play whatever it is you play there. I will not tolerate your
curiosity. Do you copy?”

“But I...”

“Need I remind you of what happened when you acted on your misplaced curiosity,
or have you already forgotten about Vortex?”

Microtron shut up and shook his head with his optic cycled very wide.

“No, Carrier.”

He then instantly inserted one single feeler at the earphone plug, muting the
game’s music and turning his optic to the screen.

“Shockwave, wasn’t it too harsh?”

Shockwave then turned to him, slowly.

“Vortex was too harsh. I am being protective.”

Ratchet opened his mouth without a sound, then closed it in a very lopsided
smirk.

“So you do care.”

Shockwave blinked, assuming a rigid stance, droning.

“Continue on your progress about the protoform plant, Chief Medical Officer. I
am listening.”

===============================================================================
 

“I’m listening.”

Swindle knelt down, handing his boss part of his profits, allegedly all the
energon.

“This was our day’s fare, mine and Blast-Off’s, at the Autobot’s Techno Party.”

Onslaught rested his head on his right hand, optics weak and dim with lack of
energon, almost mechanically taking a chipped piece into his feeding intake and
fuelling on it.

“I know you profited way more than that, but I’m not capable of beating you to
a pulp for your dishonesty right now. Where is Blast-Off?”

===============================================================================
 
 
Blast-Off evaded a punch as Astrotrain flew right through where he expected him
to be, cursing all the way until he hit the International Space Station,
shaking his head with a growl.

“Do you think yourself intelligent, can’t you see this glitch had been leading
us on???”

Blast-Off turned to Skyfire, currently lounging against the spread remnants of
the MIR space station, and winked, the autobot blowing him a kiss as Astrotrain
blinked, squinting and trying to focus his defective optics to confirm what he
thought he saw.

“What can I say. I have an unhealthy weakness for upper caste Vosians.”

Astrotrain gaped.

“Please! Blast-Off! Even I am not that blind!!!”

Sagging as Blast-Off flew off to Skyfire and swept him off his feet, nuzzling
his battlemask against the crook of his neck and whispering something against
his audials that made him giggle, Astrotrain blinked sheepishly as both
shuttle-moded and left.

Finally, dejected, taking a peek inside one of the windows of the International
Space Station, his optic met a duo of scared astronauts hugging themselves in
panic, one Russian, one from USA, eyes open wide.

“What, haven’t you ever seen a couple of shuttles making outwho suddenly made
off?”

===============================================================================
 

“Made off. With that autobot shuttle that one day was decepticon.”

Swindle nodded, as Onslaught sighed.

“I see. I can understand the appeal. Blast-Off is a real upper caste
gentlemech, not a living trashed rack like our lovely piece of shareware here.”

Before Vortex could act offended, Onslaught waved his hand dismissively at him
and checked on his energon levels, sadly concluding it was still too far from
ideal functioning levels, giving a glance to Brawl, who puffed up.

“Swindle. The boss saved Vortex with his own fuel.”

At that Vortex purred, draping himself at his boss’ feet, as Onslaught, still
mad at the torturer, literally kicked him away.

“Hey! No kicking! Is this a way of treating me? I recall you enjoyedthis frame
many and many times before!”

“I did, and I will keep treating you like the piece of shareware you are, and
you know you like it. Now, shut up, glitch, and fetch me that energon.”

His EM-field flared with satisfaction as Vortex nodded, purring and getting to
Swindle, looking down and stretching his right hand, palm up.

“You heard the boss.”

“Yeah! He’s our hero! Give him more.” bellowed Brawl.

Swindle widened his purple optics, meekly giving half a cube from subspace, as
Brawl squinted sternly, shaking his head, and Swindle looked at the ceiling,
sighing and handing him now a full energon cube.

===============================================================================

 
“A full high-grade energon cube? For me??”

Mighty Shockwave nodded, as Nautica, cradling the purple cube with a fancy bow
over it, nudged Firestar.

“We are very grateful for your arrival, Shockwave. Without you, there wouldn’t
be a party.”

Mighty Shockwave stared at First, who nodded back.

“You might be thieving feeemale autobots but Sparkbonds are important. Even
Lord Megatron has his decepticon trinebond.”

The autobots shared uncomfortable glances, as First, the drone, approached his
boss and whispered that he shouldn’t be that honest in a social situation,
immediately clasping his claws together.

“Look at the time, isn’t it almost the moment to celebrate the bonding
already?”

Wheeling himself out of sight for an instant, he returned dragging the
Lawyercon, who was already beginning to chug on energon treats.

“Since all the priests are deactivated and gone...”

“Certainly. I recall I might have at least five irrecoverable carcasses of long
gone priests without hands or heads and their innards flailing out into the
West Wing with all the other hung corpses. All feeemale autobots, logically.”

The autobots gaped, glowering at the clueless Mighty Shockwave, who kept
staring at them.

“What?”

Chromia held Arcee to prevent her from attacking, as Knock-Out dragged a nearly
crying Moonracer out of sight.

“Shockwave. You are a sparkless drone.”

Turning surprised to the voice, wondering he might have been discovered, he
found Hot Rod folding arms at him, as First once more intervened, dragging the
Lawyercon back and calling everyone’s attention.

“Please everyone. Mighty Shockwave, your esteemed guest, thought about
everything and brought his own Lawyercon.”

“Excuse-moi? I’m no one’s Lawyercon! I’m my own Lawyercon, and my name is
Judgelaw!”

First shhh-ed at him, immediately turning to the small crowd.

“Precisely. Mighty Shockwave’s own Lawyercon, Judgelaw. You know, to make the
Sparkbonding Official.”

Arcee immediately turned and glowered at Reflector, who raised their hands in
self-defence.

“We were going to have it officiated by Mail Order later, but Shockwave’s own
Lawyercon is great too!”

Mighty Shockwave blinked his single optic, recalling on his automated response
program something nice to say, raising an energon cube up.

“What can the Mighty Shockwave say. Sparkbonds are important.”

First called up on the applause, everybody agreeing, clapping hands and nodding
along.

===============================================================================

 
Nodding along as Ratchet finished talking, Shockwave finally walked to the
desk, contemplating the mounted protoform plant and scrutinising the gleaming
pure minerals stored in transparent vials.

“It has been a very good progress, Chief Medical Officer and it will earn you a
compliment in my report to my Lord. As I suspected, you function better with
positive stimulus.”

Ratchet stalled, his spark tugging, as Shockwave passed by him and briefly
touched his left hand to the medic’s chestplate, grazing his fingertips down
and finally palming the red interface panel, the autobot desperately fleeting a
glance at Microtron, to find him still immersed in his Ipad.

“Shockwave! Your creation is here.”

“And not paying attention, as a proper obedient creation ordered not to listen
or look, should.”

Shockwave then recalled his hand back, walking past as if nothing happened, and
Ratchet stared around, making sure Microtron indeed didn’t see anything,
deflecting the subject.

“I worked hard at the plant. I suppose I could have an extra ration of
energon.”

Stopping by the door, Shockwave droned.

“Unfortunately you have abused my trust with the free-pass card and you are not
allowed to use it for now.”

Ratchet gaped, staring in disbelief, the instant Shockwave unsubspaced the card
and left the room, communicating that he would get it.

===============================================================================
 
 
“I’ll get it!”

Leaving the Constructicon’s Bay, Scavenger vehicle-moded and rolled out, as
Starscream, arms folded, leered.

“You dreaded peons, can’t you do anything right and just have the materials
required? Did you really have to send your buffoon??”

Mixmaster stalled, turning to face Starscream, staring down at him with a manic
glare, as the other constructicons stopped working and Scrapper lounged against
Starscream.

“Screamer, bad choice of words. Mixmaster’s adores Scavenger and he isn’t
exactly stable.”

Starscream gulped, widening his optics, as Mixmaster, unsubspacing two
dangerous-looking vials and brandishing them dangerously, growled.

===============================================================================
 

Growling dangerously, brandishing the two snipers he swindled off Swindle,
Perceptor kicked open Ironhide’s door.

Ironhide, just trying to rest away from the infernal party that had been taking
place, stared at the two red dots hovering over his sparkchamber and groaned.

“And here I thought only Blaster wanted to kill me.”

Smirking, Perceptor adjusted his monocle and cocked the scope from his
shoulder, sending him an additional red dot.

Startling, Ironhide raised his hands up in self-defence and scurried to a
corner of the room.

“Mech, what did I ever do to you???”

Looking down at the crouched arms specialist, Perceptor stepped aside,
revealing the stern faceplates of…

“Blaster. Why am I not surprised??”

Looking down, he knelt down to be at his face level.

“Thanks to Wheeljack’s latest plot device unit’s explosion, perhaps added to
some of the darkenergon Swindle smuggled into the party, Perceptor has
apparently decided to reveal to the world his unhealthy fondness for big guns,
but nothing I’m not used to by now, right?”

Ironhide facepalmed.

“Isn’t it enough that you’re suingme? By the way, where is your fragging
lawyercon??”

===============================================================================

The Lawyercon, dreading the whole situation,sighed as he sat by a table sipping
on a fancy energon drink, watching the stupidly small number of guests
awkwardly fraternising in this pitiful Sparkbonding Ceremony.

“First, my friend.”

The screen-faced drone rolled closer, tilting his screen head.

“I’m not your friend.”

“Whatever.” he waved his had at the scenery, and we see Mighty Shockwave
getting hit across his head by an apparently infuriated Nautica “Are you
serious they are calling it a party?”

“Actually a Sparkbonding Ceremony. Supposed to be officiated. By you. If you
don’t get too overcharged before the right moment, that is.”

Judgelaw, no intention of officiating anything, just raised his cube, shaking
his head and holding a smirk.

 
===============================================================================
 
 
Shaking his head and holding a smirk, Starscream hid behind a group of columns
as the enraged Mixmaster roared passing by him, his mixer drum rotating
furiously as he somehow bellowed and stuttered screaming threats against his
existence.

Aware that the Constructicons are loyal enough and the submarine would be ready
even without his supervision, especially now that Scrapper modified his plans
anyway and Scavenger left to gather whatever it was lacking, he cleaned out
some dust, deciding that he was due some well deserved rest.

Walking to his trine’s room, he got to the door just to find it…

“Locked?”

He knocked at the door, hearing Thundercracker’s voice from within.

“Busy. Warp needs me. Come back later, Screamer.”

Outraged as he thought he heard the echo of Skywarp’s giggle, Starscream,
exasperated, sighed.

===============================================================================
 

Exasperated, Optimus sighed.

“Elita, I need to refuel.”

She purred, not letting him up, placing a lazy leg over his interface panels.

“We have a whole year to make up for. Once more.”

“But I’m ravenous!”

“What a coincidence. Me too.”

She somehow wormed herself completely over his frame. He pinched his
nosebridge.

“That was not what I meant.” he slowly extracted himself from under her, as she
effectively prevented him like she possessed eight legs.

“But I miss you.”

She ran a hand over Optimus’ now closed interface panel, as he squirmed
reflexively holding both thighs closed, clearly annoyed.

“Since when I have become a synonym to my own spike?”

She ignored him, coming close to his audials and whispering.

“Primes can be so virile. My port is empty.It needs tending to.”

At that, Optimus snapped, finally pushing her out of the recharge berth to the
ground and jumping off it.

“What a coincidence.My port too!!!! It has never had any attention since we
sparkbonded millions of years ago!!! Only one of us is ever fulfilled! Happy???
Now let me go! You drained my tanks dry and I need to gather a couple of
cubes!!!”

===============================================================================
 

“Needing to gather a couple of cubes?”

Shockwave, standing before the energon dispenser, filling his fourth cube,
stopped.

“What do I owe your presence, Starscream.”

“I thought the dispenser was public. But don’t worry, I’ll wait my turn.”

Starscream smirked, openly counting on the cubes Shockwave was filling.

“One, two, three, four… five. And here I thought Soundwave was the only one
with family issues big enough to make him an energon chugger.”

Shockwave stopped filling the fifth cube.

“I also have a creation in case you forgot. He has been recently damaged,
operated on, re-plated and upgraded. His consummation is higher than an adult
frame. Not to mention my own self, housing the Decepticon Matrix. And of
course, the medic, my direct responsibility.”

“I see. He must be getting rewarded for good service. Again.”

Unfazed, he replied.

“He indeed is. My personal project for my Lord Megatron has markedly improved
because of his work and direct, personal contribution.”

Starscream snorted.

“Isn’t it interesting that you, the master, are taking the truckload of cubes
home, instead of your slave? What does it say about the nature of your
relations?”

Unaffected by provocation, Shockwave merely finished filling the fifth cube,
monotoning.

“The Chief Medical Officer is no longer allowed to use my card. It has
something to do with a certain seeker provoking him into insubordination.
Fortunately I am immune to your attempts. Excuse me.”

He subspaced the five cubes, unceremoniously turning and walking to the door,
as Starscream, hatingbeing ignored, screeched.

“Everybody thinks you are loyal, Shockwave, but I will uncover your true,
conniving self, and the day I do it to your bondmate and lord Megatron, not
evenSoundwave will be able to do anything about it!”
***** Desperate measures *****
“Soundwave: cannot do anything about it.”

Megatron pinched his nosebridge, lounging with his bonded away of prying optics
for a chance, Soundwave’s battlemask and visor on.

“But there must be a way to convey to Shockwave that he must share Microtron’s
rearing with you. He’s incapable of dealing with it in a normal fashion, namely
the way you do it.”

Soundwave sighed, not really wanting to take that responsibility for himself
too.

“Carrier coding: not equal to experience. Interference in carrier coding:
immediate conflict anticipated. Bringing conflict: currently undesirable.
Soundwave: can only help when requested, preferably not in inconvenient times
like Shockwave always asks.”

Megatron snorted.

“What you mean is you wash your hands and that you weren’t the one who finally
got sparked and is not coping. Trust me, I can totally understand.”

Soundwave remained mute, completely agreeing.

“Soundwave: never threw creations for anyone else to look. Soundwave:
superior.”

Megatron shook his head.

“I’m worried about the influence that Shockwave’s slave will have on him. I
don’t trust him. An autobot sparksitter! Sometimes I almost agree with
Starscream that Shockwave has lost his mind!”

Soundwave minutely stalled at the mention of Starscream as Megatron kept
complaining and pacing on a circle around the room.

“I wouldn’t have minded a drone. Or Scavenger, which I admit is almost the
same. But thatmedic?”

===============================================================================
 

“Medic?”

Ratchet, for the second time unable to make the protoform plant mix the
chemicals and start to create cybermatter in semi-liquid form, groaned,
observing with the corner of his optics the single dark grey datacable worming
itself through the desk, reaching its wide open feelers at the blueprints’
datapad.

“Are you aware you aren’t being stealthy at all?”

With a quick snake-like move, the datapad was suddenly snatched away, as
Ratchet attempted to take it back, futilely.

“Microtron! I needed that!”

The mechling cycled his giant optic, glowing it in a dark red undertone as the
datacable pulsed dark purple, downloading the information into his systems.

“Microtron?”

At that, he suddenly released the datapad back into Ratchet’s hand,
recalibrating his optic cycled almost shut in his version of a squint, slowly
turning to the medic.

“So this is what’s this mystery project is about.”

Immediately lunging against the medic, pushing him back to the wall, Microtron
finally trapped Ratchet’s both hands by two datacables and locked his two feet
together by a third one.

“Where is it!??”

“Where is what!!! Release me!”

That was when a fourth datacable came towards Ratchet’s chestplate, feelers
out, scraping its seams, as the medic immediately reinforced his medical locks.

“Now what do you think you’re doing, lad???”

Cycling his optic down and rotating the camera-head’s objective lens around its
axis, Microtron stepped close, standing on the tip of his blocky feet, looking
up.

“My sibling.”

Ratchet’s spark tugged and he stalled, the silence stretching between them, the
instant another voice filled the room.

“Microtron. What do you think you are doing?”

Instantly releasing the medic and pooling the four cables back into slot, he
stepped back, as Ratchet clutched against his chest and Shockwave immediately
stomped towards him.

“Chief Medical Officer. I am aware by coding you are incapable of causing him
damage, so I do not believe you physically threatened my creation. What did you
do to deserve being attacked?”

Before Ratchet could answer, Microtron released a datacable holding the
project’s datapad up right before Shockwave’s optics.

“I know everything.”

Slowly turning towards his creation and taking the datapad, Shockwave assumed a
rigid stance.

“Is that so.”

He nodded: Shockwave handed the dumbstruck Ratchet the datapad and clasped both
hands behind his back.

“I am listening.”

===============================================================================
 

“I’m listening.”

Red Alert onlined his optics at the sound of Inferno’s voice, slowly attempting
to sit and getting prevented by a fire-hose right hand.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake. The glitch took a quite long while to pass on
its own, just like Blades so carelessly spoke about as he refused opening us
the medbay’s door.”

Red Alert sighed, shaking his head.

“I’m not in the medbay then.”

Inferno shook his head.

“No.”

“So you know now.”

Red Alert held his fizzling finials, shaking his head: Now Inferno knew that
the medics just wait the glitch out, which basically meant…

“There’s no real treatment to that, is there, Red?”

Red Alert shook his head, deflated.

“One day, eventually, my processors will fry, my sparkchamber getting
irremediably damaged and unable to keep a spark-to-body connection. I will end
up locked inside my own spark casing, for life.”

Inferno pursed his lip-plates. In the event that happened, he had two choices:
either egotistically remain bonded to a sparkchamber-locked, immobile, to all
effects deadmech, or undergo a medical breakage of the bond before Red Alert’s
spark is reset into a blank slate (where he will have a new life with no
previous memories) which effectively meant Red Alert would be officially gone
anyway.

“I told you we shouldn’t have sparkbonded, you said I was being paranoiac, but
you insisted so much...”

Inferno did: taking the smaller mech in arms and holding him tight, he
whispered against his audials that it had been worth it every single day of
their lives, as Red Alert for once sunk in that embrace, letting the world and
its boisterous, dangerous, unpredictable and unsafe mechs outside, as Inferno
spoke.

“Deep down I knew you’d be the end of me.”

In the middle of Inferno’s room, seldom, very rarely, nearly never voluntarily
visited by Red Alert, Inferno lifted his paranoiac mech’s face up by his chin,
taking him in a slow kiss, both sparks spinning fast deep inside.
 
 
===============================================================================
 

Ratchet, spark spinning fast inside, held his in-venting as Microtron pointed
up to him and spoke, puffed up:

“The project you don’t want me to know about. I know everything about it now!
It’s to make new sparks! Where is my new sibling? Why can’t I see the
newspark?”

Shockwave droned, unaffected.

“Because we haven’t reached the phase where a newspark is actually produced
yet.”

Placing a hand on his creation’s back, he calmly pushed him to the desk and
pointed to the independent sparkchamber and at the prototype of the protoform
plant.

“The project is still rudimentary. Technically we could be already making
newsparks, but at the Chief Medical Officer’s request I have postponed that
phase of the experiment until the protoform plant can manufacture a viable
protoform.”

“Oh. I didn’t know sparks could exist outside of sparkchambers.”

“A normal spark can stay outside, for a short period, but sparkchambers are
fundamental for long term survival, hence the independent sparkchamber here.”

Microtron prodded the sparkchamber with a single feeler out of a datacable.

“Why is it outside a living mech?”

“Because the experiment is meant to take place in a controlled laboratory
setting, not inside other mechs, full of variables that might jeopardize the
randomization of the samples and the resulting charts.”

“Oh. I thought the medic was hiding the newspark from me. I’m sorry for the
scratches.”

Shockwave stopped, turning to Ratchet, who remained still, merely staring back,
and visually checked his slave’s chestplate to confirm the dark grey scrapes
all over it, finally turning back to his creation.

“You thought the Chief Medical Officer was hiding the hypotheticalnewspark from
you in his own chest.”

He nodded, meekly.

“Why would a hypothetical newspark we are not yet working in producing, be
hiding inside the Chief Medical Officer’s own chest?”

“I... didn’t know a spark could exist outside a mech’s body. I went right for
his sparkchamber.”

Shockwave blinked his visor, staying very still.

“I had just given you a full cube, earlier. Don’t tell me you were hungry.”

Microtron shifted on his feet.

“I was curious.”

At that, Shockwave actually exhibited a physical reaction and pinched between
his visor and the battlemask.

“You calledthe hypothetical newspark your sibling. Why?”

“Because a newspark is a creation and every single creation in here seems to be
my sibling!”

Shockwave turned to Ratchet then, who instantly started cackling, observed the
scene for a couple of seconds and once more completely unfazed, turned his
sight back to Microtron.

“Your reasoning is surprisingly logical. Since you are so curious to the point
of attacking the Chief Medical Officer for supposedly withholding information,
I presume you are ready.”

===============================================================================
 

“You’re not ready.”

Ramhorn sagged at the half-exploded sight of Wheeljack currently reading
through a datapad labelled as Project Triplechanger – Cassette: Ramhorn.

“I’m sorry, but this is more complex than I expected. Not to mention that
Perceptor is the genius between us and he’s busy on an errand on your carrier’s
behalf.”

Ramhorn shook his head, disapprovingly.

His carrier couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to busy the scientist up.
Ramhorn was hoping to finally be able to run the simulation on the proposed new
alt-mode, especially now that everyone seemed to be busy elsewhere in the
after-party.

“But hey, don’t be sad. You can help me with my plot device unit III.”

Ramhorn raised an optic ridge.

“Oh, no, this time it’s stable. I’m positive it won’t blow up like the number
one and number two did. Let me explain to you...”

As Wheeljack started babbling, Ramhorn slowly wormed himself away.

He would return later when Perceptor was back and he could feel safe at the
Lab.

===============================================================================
 

At the Lab, safely among from dangerous chemicals and devices, Microtron
revelled on his new gift, for once not thinking about processed energon.

“For me, carrier?”

Shockwave nodded. He could no longer rely on a mere Ipad to keep his own
creation busy, and decided to already start honing his future skills all the
while he also redirected his curiosity to constructive things and extended him
four datapads.

“Here you can download some instructions. These are basic projects easy enough
to replicate.”

Microtron nearly bounced up and down in excitement as he latched one datacable
at each datapad, immediately beginning to download information, as Shockwave
turned to Ratchet, handing him his requested energon cube.

“Here is your requested cube. Apropos, you cannot be seen walking around with
these scratches. People would misinterpret what happened and I do not wish to
expose my creation, especially not to Starscream. You will go straight to
quarters with your cube and you are not allowed to speak to anyone. Do you
copy?”

Ratchet nodded, subspacing the cube and stealing a glance towards Microtron, a
cackling puddle on the ground surrounded by datapads having the time of his
life.

“What about Starscream? Wasn’t the bad mech calledVortex? What’s wrong?”

Shockwave tilted his head right.

“The subcommander thinks he knows about you and I. He is wrong in believing I
might be emotionally compromised, when it is obvious it is nothing more than a
mutually, very beneficial physical arrangement enforced by slave-bonding and
your particular prowess. No matter, I know he will try to gather any evidence
he can. He derives special pleasure in making Lord Megatron’s life miserable,
and would have no qualms in making my life be no more in the process.”

Ratchet stalled then, Shockwave’s glare cutting through his spark.

“Need I remind you, Chief Medical Officer, that in the event I am offlined for
any reason, the slave coding will pass the ownership of your frame and spark to
my two bondmates?”

At that, Ratchet stalled: he hadn’t thought about it, and didn’t like in the
least the idea of belonging to Megatron, or worse, to Soundwave.

Shockwave might be a bastard, but he was yet to be left wanting for fuel.

“I will go straight to quarters then, master.”

Shockwave nodded, as Ratchet, a tug in his spark, turned on his heels and left,
for once leaving sarcasm behind.

===============================================================================
 

Leaving sarcasm behind, Ironhide listened to what Blaster had to vent about,
under the aim of what looked like a very experienced sniper.

He got to hear about his frustrations, his deception, his feeling of
abandonment, his raising the cassettes alone while he fought and fought, and
found himself feeling bad for having never valued what they one day had.

Lowering his head in defeat, he finally asked.

“I am terribly sorry for everything. I never thought it would have affected you
so much. Is there anything I can honestly do to help?”

Blaster shook his head.

“Nothing, anymore. See you in Court.”

He turned to leave, as Perceptor adjusted his monocle and the two sniper rifles
on his shoulders, puffing up his chestplate and following behind.

Once they were out, Ironhide finally snapped, unsubspacing his chainguns and
shooting at the walls, screaming in frustration.

Apparently, being sorry and serving as dumpster for you ex’s frustrations under
gunpoint isn’t enough anymore; he has to pay in Shanix for it too!

Concluding his life sucks, and that he might as well do like everyone else did
and slosh himself in high-grade all around, he left his room, intent in
locating Ratchet’s not-so-secret high-grade stash, rumoured to having been
confiscated by Prowl.

===============================================================================

Prowl asked himself why the frag he had been holding it out for so long.

“Stop’ thinkin’I can hear ya thinkin! How can’ya disrespect da mech dat’s
polishin’yer’spike by thinkin’!!”

Oh, yes, that would be the reason why.

Truth be told, they were forced inside the room by some trickery mind control
technique and for that Technotor would pay, but soon after they were inside, it
faded out and both Jazz and himself were left together, alone, no means to
escape the unavoidable.

“Can you afford to be less uncouth in the berthroom?”

Jazz answered to this by returning a particularly sweet twirl of his glossa
around the base of Prowl’s interface cable, slowly scraping its underside, the
instant his room’s door was flung open.

Freezing in place, battle computer dormant, Prowl had no reaction at all to
Ironhide, entering the room and going in a beeline at the small pile of high-
grade labelled as evidence.

“Nevermind me, I didn’t see anything, keep up the good work, I’m just taking
this.”

He snatched two purple cubes and turned to leave, completely not staring at the
scene, Jazz following with a slow movement of his head, his mouthplates fitting
around the spike as he rotated his head and Prowl squirmed in between shame and
delight, sight faltering as he rested the back of his head against the wall.

===============================================================================
 

Head resting against the wall, in the dark, at the storage area of the Ark,
Optimus Prime hid from the Universe, since everyone seemed to find him in his
Office anyway, and he needed peace.

After having taken two energon cubes and having topped his tanks, he made sure
to not return to Elita-1, mad at her egotistical self.

If only he could sever the sparkbond without risking his own life in the
process.

He flinched, waiting for the angry zap from the Matrix that never came:
sighing, he shook his head: even the Matrix, who used to chastise him for this
kind of thoughts before, had been quiet and rather mute, and he was starting to
miss that glitch.

Finally, at the lack of response from the Matrix, he flung his head in his
hands.

“Primus, my life sucks.”

“Join the team.”

Optimus startled at the voice, optics very wide at the sight of a very dejected
Ironhide carrying two suspiciously purple-looking cubes, then nodded, offering
the box right besides himself for him to sit.

The red mech then sat, knees spread apart, offering Optimus one of the cubes.

“Ironhide, where did it come from?”

Ironhide winked.

“It’s not like Ratchetwill return to get his stock back from Prowl.”

Optimus nearly released the cube then, automatically holding it firmer, as
Ironhide chugged a quarter of his own cube, lounging against the wall, the dim
light making out the boxy contours of his shell, and the Prime stared.

“Primes. Always so self-sacrificing. Just this once, Prime. Indulge yourself.
It’s not like your bondmate really cares with whom you fraternise. Everybody
knows Elita-1 only bonded you because of your position.”

Optimus lowered his optics to the cube, whispering.

“Is it that obvious.”

Ironhide sighed, bringing the box where he was sitting a bit closer to Optimus
and placing his left arm over his Prime’s shoulders, bringing themselves close.

“Prime. The Priests are all dead. Cybertron is dead. No one would blame you for
breaking up with that glitch. Even if the sparkbond must remain.”

Optimus gaped.

“Very well. No more moping. I am your bodyguard and will protect you. Drink
that Primus-damned cube. Now.”
***** Apocalypse Now *****
“Now. The party is awful, I’m overcharged and I still need to attend to a
cassette alimony trial. I should really go.”

First sighed.

“We should just have you sparkbonding them now so we all could head home,
then.”

Judgelaw shook his head, standing up and swaying in place.

“If you, my friend, opened the spacebridge for me, I would sparkbond the two
female autobots right now.”

First nearly glitched his screen-face.

“Mighty Shockwave is the only one who can open up the Spacebridge, and the
controls are on his Tower.”

Judgelaw smirked, fleeting a glance at Mighty Shockwave, the now slightly
overcharged, cyclopic, purple sparkless drone having his energon cube on the
background through a straw.

“Then we might have to do a little persuasion.”

===============================================================================
 

“Do you want me to do a little persuasion?”

Onslaught gave a cruel smile, as Swindle flinched.

“You can’t just force me!”

Vortex knelt down and approached the salesmech’s audials.

“Of course he can. He’s the boss. Now be a good mate and open the spacebridge.
We know you have the remote controls.”

Swindle did: it was how he got into Cybertron every time he needed done one of
his shady deals.

The controls were currently on his quarters with a load of goods; had he them
in hands when he had been arrested at the autobot bridge, he and Blast-Off
would have been out of there way earlier.

Rubbing his hands together, he recalled how he had taken a lot of millennia to
build it: he wasn’t an engineer, but was determined enough to follow on the
blueprints he copied from Reflector when they were busy photographing the
Cybertronian Landscapes and Views before they became old relics and plains
taking rust in the background.

===============================================================================
 

Taking in the background the boxy shapes of Ironhide mingling in his unfocused
memory as the high-grade met his systems, Optimus loosened his plating and for
once allowed himself to relax.

What wouldn’t he give to go back in time and tell Elita-1 and the Priestdom to
screw themselves up and just ask Ratchet for forgiveness, even if they would
never be together again, and let the Matrix to whoever else might have wanted
to take on it, for once questioning if he was indeed fit to lead on the autobo…

Suddenly exploded out of his thoughts by a gigantic black hole in the room,
pulsing green and black as it oozed pinkish energon hues, he widened his
optics, huddling himself against the protective shell and the boxy, strong arms
of his arms specialistand bodyguard.

“Ironhide! What’s happening? What’s that???”

Ironhide, squinting and holding up one of his chainguns, holding Optimus
against his chestplate with his left arm, growled at the portal, observing the
arrival of…

===============================================================================

...Ratchet, having just arrived into his Master’s room for a while, currently
grumbling on his fate, turned on his back to face the door as it whirred open
meeting the single red optic of Microtron, who carried four datapads into one
single datacable as he got inside.

“Carrier told me to return straight to the room after you! He promised me his
very ownprocessed energon if I behaved and obeyed!”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge, as Microtron sauntered in, letting the datapads
in the desk and jumping in the main berth, taking a datacable out and scanning
the surface of the berth with his feelers open wide.

“Let me guess. You’re looking for potential leftover processed energon.”

Microtron gave it some thought, nodding.

“I’m hungry.”

Ratchet, watching the mechling sweep the surface memory mesh of the berth,
shook his head, suddenly receiving an irritated stutter from his own nearly
empty tanks and, finally unsubspacing his energon cube and cracking the lid,
decided not to complain: energon was always welcome, especially now he had new
priorities.

===============================================================================
 

He had a new priority.

Starscream, leering at the memory of Shockwave unceremoniously ignoring him,
intent in proving Megatron’s Wonder Scientist was truly disloyal and actually
an opportunist, pondered on how to obtain hard evidence against him.

As he sulked at the mess hall, he noticed Hook half-hiding at a shadowed table
on a corner, certainly taking what looked like a suspiciously purple energon
cube.

About to lash on the constructicon for slacking off here instead of being at
the bay helping build the yellow submarine, the seeker squinted at the
decepticon medic, who snorted, clearly overcharged, and started talking to
himself.

“What wouldn’t I give to know which of them claimed the seal.”

Attention suddenly peaked, Starscream came closer and sat by Hook’s table:
seal?

“You. What the slag are you babbling about?”

Hook raised his cube at no-one, and downed a gulp, toasting.

“Shockwave, obviously. Can you believe Shockwave transferred his old, half-
useless, mutilated and near unfeeling interface panel from his thirty six
million year old or something purple cyclopic warframe, when he could have just
started anew with the autobot panel that came in that white shell?”

Starscream raised an optic ridge, waiting as Hook kept droning.

“The autobot array was zero-kilometre, factory sealedwhen Shockwave was with
spark and releasing his creation. I have it in registry.”

Starscream, not quite understanding yet, decided to play along.

“...was it?”

Hook nodded.

“Not anymore, anyway.”

Starscream squinted.

“...no?”

“Of course not. Do you doubt my scanners? Please. I’m a medic.”

Starscream sighed.

“Look, you delusional overcharged fool. Shockwave isn’t even here.”

Hook snorted.

“I know. I took the readings earlier, when he was taking those cubes and just
plain left you screaming to the walls, totally ignoring you.”

Hook nodded and Starscream leered, holding himself not to claw at the
constructicon before he extracted the whole story, finally smirking and
feigning interest.

“Is that so?”

Hook snapped.

“Obviously. I took the readings in seconds! I’m the best medic that there is,
better than Ratchet, Pharma, Flatline, Ambulon, First Aid, that illegal scrap
of a morticianand spare-parts dealer named Toetag and even Shockwave,who thinks
he’s a medic just because he got a fragging chevron! I could have a chevron too
if I wanted! I’m so skilled I could make my own chevron and my chevron would
make all other chevrons cry in shame! I was still a youngling and became the
gladiator’s medic long before Ratchet was even through his full medical
training!”

Starscream scoffed, recalling how Hook indeed learned everything from scratch
by opening up fading gladiators and taking his lessons with their sparks still
pulsing, having never had access to the Upper Studies the forged medics had.

Respecting a mech capable of learning by himself, even the seeker had to agree
that sometimes Hook indeed had the right to be insufferable, to the point
Starscream absently nodded, humouring the constructicon, who kept bragging.

“My improved optical scanners showed me without doubt that the female port-only
original array of the white shell is no longer sealed. Someone had fun.”

Starscream blinked, as Hook continued.

“Pity my optic scanners can’t tell who did the deed. Apparently no CNA traces
left.” he sighed. “If only I could hardline and gather the imprint files of the
female array, I would be able to tell whose spike was the first in.”

Starscream then stopped mute, thinking.

“So you are saying Shockwave kept the shell’s sealed autobot array and also
transferred his original array into it, making the shell have two interface
arrays?”

“Talk about being an obsessive bastard.” Hook snorted “Two functional valves:
old Shockwave must really love taking a spike. Can you imagine alternating
between both?”

Starscream could, and futilely tried to shoo away the mental image:the things
he never wanted to think about.

“You mentioned something about imprint?”

“Oh, it’s a function reminiscent of the Functionist Council. Female autobots
were coded to have their arrays imprint the first charged spikeever in, making
them less prone to seek for interfacing outside of their first because their
nodes just wouldn’t fit.Useful for when you want shareware slaves or a harem,
like past traditions used to hand to authorities like the Prime.”

Starscream, thinking, opened a dangerous smile.

“Then if either Soundwave or Lord Megatron had done I, or both, whatever, we
should find one of their very spikes imprinted in Shockwave’s female valve.”

Hook nodded, scoffing.

“One of them must have imprinted it. Not that you could peacefully convince any
of them to accept being hardlined to confirm who did it. It’s a bag of
cybercats I don’t want to go inside.”

“But surely you had wanted to get inside.”

Hook smirked.

“Screamer. I’m not a fan of Shockwave like Scavenger is, he has his reasons,
and I don’t hide my distaste, the fragger himself knows he’s not my favourite
and doesn’t care who he displeases, but I wouldn’t have minded taking that seal
myself, despite everything. A seal’s a seal and I collected my share in my
time.”

Starscream’s mind immediately fleeted to the possibility of a certain autobot
medic being responsible for this, an idea forming in mind.

He couldn’t get direct, physical confirmation of the responsible, but...

...if either Soundwave or Megatron had done it, then neither would mind being
complimented about a task well done.

===============================================================================
 

“Well done, you got the wrong destination, idiot!”

Swindle cursed as he contemplated the autobot storage room, one of his best
sources revealed, Onslaught pulling him by an arm back into the swirling,
closing spacebridge as Optimus just stared.

So this is how the autobot’s imported goods had been disappearing!

Groaning, Optimus sagged. Not even in the storage room he was safe. He looked
at his faithful bodyguard, still holding him like he were a prized thing,
squinting and for once trying not to feel guilty for wanting.

“Ironhide.”

“Yes, Prime?”

He then absently traced a single, unique glyph at Ironhide’s left forearm with
his right index, as the arms specialist widened his optics in recognition of
the discreet personal invitation and just plain swallowed dry, the Prime
leaning closer to the boxy red mech, the Matrixhumming approvingly.

“Do you know of anywhere else on this Primus-cursed base where we might get
away from everyone and everything just for a while?”

===============================================================================
 

“It’s just for a while. I’ll be back sooner than you can think!”

Judgelaw nodded hopefully at Mighty Shockwave, the drone, who had managed to
get overcharged and hummed non-committally.

“So you want to open the bridge I said I’d not open.”

Judgelaw nodded.

“But you promise to only go for the autobots, not to Lord Megatron or
Soundwave.”

Judgelaw nodded even more, promising anything just to get his hands on the
spacebridge controls, especially because he indeed was heading to the autobots
anyway.

“Fine. With one condition.”

The lawyercon nodded: the cyclops wasn’t that bad once you go past the
stupidity, and if he didn’t want to see his fellow decepticons, whatever reason
he had, then who were he to trouble Shockwave by?

===============================================================================
 

Who were he to trouble Shockwave by?

He was Starscream, Prince of Vos and Second in Command, obviously, hell-bent in
revenge just because he could.

Starscream inspected his fingertips: he had at first thought of going directly
for Megatron and complimenting him for taking Shockwave’s autobot seal just to
see his reaction, but recalled something the tapeglitch said.

He was not considered trustful and loyal, so there was a fat chance he would be
called a liar and schemer for trying to get Shockwave punished and would be
shot down just on principle.

So, he had to go for Soundwave. They were partners now, weren’t they?

“So, Soundwave? Had a lot of fun taking Shockwave’s seal?”

Soundwave tilted his head.

“Shockwave: long unsealed when came into bond.”

Starscream snorted.

“Sure, partner, but I meant the autobot’s shell female array.”

Soundwave actually stalled.

“Shockwave: transferred old array into new shell.”

Starscream nodded.

“According to Hook the current shell not only has Shockwave’s old array,
unsealed and half-damaged, but also has the original shell’s autobot array,
that used to be sealed until his creation was released, but not anymore as of
today.”

Soundwave’s visor blinked.

“Hook said he has everything in registry. He was wondering which of you two
actually were rewarded by taking the seal away.”

A slow smile creeping up his plates, Starscream observed the eerily still
tapedeck, continuing.

“He even mentioned something about imprinting. I’m sure you or our Lord
Megatron must be proud. Imagine, having one’s own spike forever mirrored into a
virginal valve.”

Soundwave stared, upper processor cogs whirring, visor going deep crimson.
Starscream sneered, placing a hand in his mouth-plates.

“Ops. I suppose Shockwave didn’t even tell his bondmates about the extra,
sealed array? I ask myself then who collected the prize and is now forever
marking Shockwave’s port. My, my. So old, trusted Shockwave might have been
unfaithful? I am shocked. I’m so sorry for mentioning. My bad.”

EM-field pulsing in large, determined waves, Soundwave turned his visor to
Starscream then, releasing a single datacable in the air, the SIC’s sight
fading to black as his screech was silenced in the night.
***** Silent Night *****
Silent, day and night, Ironhide would truly do anything for his Prime.

Even if it meant shielding him from his own obnoxious bondmate.

“Ironhide. What is that supposed to mean?”

Ironhide, having just found Elita-1 trying to get to the Prime the instant they
showed up on the corridor to try to leave the Ark, because the arms specialist
had no idea where on this base they could truly be on their own for a while,
made sure to stay in between them, one chaingun held high.

“The Prime does not require your presence now.”

Elita squinted at Optimus, his face visible above Ironhide’s shoulder.

“Do you really need your other dog to keep you away from me, Prime?”

Feeling insulted, Optimus placed a hand at Ironhide’s shoulder, pushed him
lightly aside and walked one determined step at her.

“I would trade you for my guardian anytime. Actually, I’m doing precisely that.
Leave our way, we are going out.”

She looked up at the Prime, defiantly, folding arms.

“Where?”

Optimus politely ignored her then, nodding at Ironhide to follow as he
transformed and headed out of the main door, the red mech following behind, as
the indignant Elita-1 screamed at them.

“I am your official bonded and you owe me at least the respect! How dare you
desecrate the vows we took before the Priestdom!!! Prime!!!”

A semi-truck’s deep double horn echoed in the distance, followed by one mimicry
from Ironhide.

“I hope you rip that valvein a way the only one able to fix it would be your
dear exRatchet!!!”

===============================================================================

Ratchet counted the minutes left before his synch bars entered the last string
of red, a mix of anticipation and dread in his spark.

Shockwave really was taking his time with the nightly routine: once returned,
he first handed his creation two energon cubes, handed Ratchet another one,
then caught on one for himself, Microtron cackling as he dug one datacable into
each cube, the scientist continuously droning about the less sensitive aspects
of his new pet project, dutifully avoiding to mention any references to
transformer’s mechly fluids that he didn’t want to explain to his kid.

Then, washrack time, with Microtron managing to pull Shockwave under the spray
and being lectured by the silent stare of doom into apologising and promising
to behave, a full cycle of events that took way longer to go through than the
simple description suggested simply because Shockwave insisted in cleaning each
of the twelve datacables, segment by segment, one by one.

Finally, after attempting to make a mechling bouncing full with the wasted
energy of two cubes to quiet down and get into recharge, to no effect,
Shockwave desisted and just finished inducing forced recharge into his creation
via cortical psychic patch, immediately opening his upper ventral plates and
jacking the reverse-fuelling processed energon line out, connecting it into his
creation and starting the ritual of providing him the complimentary ration of
nanite-enriched energon.

Obviously, having stretched slow the consumption of his own cube to have
something to think about while he waited for Shockwave to deem his carrier
tasks done and finally remember to synch his bars into full green, mostly to
avoid having ideas, Ratchet for a second nurtured the notion he might not
receive one, immediately shaking his head.

He had done nothing to not receive the synch. In fact, if he remembered well,
Shockwave said he would make a good report for Megatron for his initial
progress this morning.

Ratchet groaned. Sometimes he would have preferred dealing with the kind of
master that donned physical beatings, punished at random, handed him dull and
dangerous manual labour, denied energy and just fragged him into submission:
Shockwave had a tendency to be passive-aggressive that would unnerve any mech.

Not to mention that being a Science Caste mech (like himself) utterly obsessed
with working, having even devised a scientific workaround to not need to
control his slave by interfacing, Shockwave clearly was mostly interested in
his mind.

Mostly, he thought as a flash memory of Shockwave palming his array earlier
flooded him and he stalled at the heat that pooled under his plating, for an
instant worrying his synch time might have ran out, only to conclude it hadn’t,
and that Shockwave was still sending enriched energon to his kid, completely
ignoring his surroundings.

Focus, Ratchet, he thought, looking down absently at the dark grey scratches in
his own chest from when Microtron attacked.

The kid might be an apparently kind and sweet mechling who talked politely and
didn’t bring much trouble in public, who also had a knack for reading and
playing datapad games, but he certainly knew how to snap.

Not to mention Shockwave’s more than awful, nearly criminal parenting and his
reinforcement of the mechling’s mentally unhealthy craving for processed
energon.

Most definitely the combination of Shockwave’s absolute lack of morals and
disregard to privacy and personal space, Megatron’s paranoia and strength and
the dreaded battle program fordatacables from Soundwave, former Gladiator, made
for a terrible combination the autobots would need to watch out for in the
future.

Ratchet snorted: why he even remembered those morons??? If it depended on them
(namely Prowl) he would by now be condemned into sensorineural stasis spark
prison, and that was something he couldn’t let happen.

“Chief Medical Officer.”

Jolting up from his own thoughts, he left the still half-full cube on the desk,
standing up as Shockwave finished closing his own ventral plates, turning to
him and taking the cortical psychic patch out.

“Open.”

Without further ado, he did, as Shockwave connected into his medical port and
almost instantly finished syncing him, slightly before the time limit came
close, as Ratchet observed almost disappointed the bars shift up into full
green.

As he spooled the medical cable back in, before Ratchet could completely close
his own lateral access panels, Shockwave unceremoniously pushed him to the
direction of the washracks.

“I want no evidence of Microtron having attacked you and to make sure all will
be properly removed I am going to clean these scrapes out myself.”

What?

Getting thrown in, he observed helpless Shockwave unsubspace a new mesh and
this time dutifully start cleaning the grey scrapes; both being nearly the same
height, the scientist lowered his head and visor just a bit, the dark chevron
filling Ratchet’s sight and bringing him memories of the day Strongarm gave a
very through polish into his hands.

Stern, dutiful, stoic, passionless, and silent, this time, however: instead of
taking his time, Shockwave lavished just enough attention at each scrape to
remove it, moving forward efficiently, to the point Ratchet felt disappointed.

So different from when he fragged the fragger against this very wall.

As his memories mingled with those of Shockwave’s black hand cleaning his own
windshield, Ratchet held his will to just flop down in defeat: the slave coding
was settling in deeper day by day, making him actually feel grateful for such
an even tempered master.

Before he could think further, as soon as it begun, a still wet Ratchet stared
with a painful tug in his spark as Shockwave finished, simply turning on his
heels and walking out.

===============================================================================

Walking out of the Ark and turning on her Honda Civic SI 2.5 car mode, dark
pink shades gleaming in the night, Elita-1 rolled out of base into the roads,
completely, wholly pissed.

She could track and follow the Prime if she wanted, since they shared a
sparkbond, but she knew better than to see with her own optics what she knew
was probably happening.

Self-sacrificing, yes; masochistic, no.

Recklessly driving without her lights on, on the left side of the road, scaring
the hell out of whoever was driving, uncaring to traffic laws and ignoring the
accidents she was causing, she quickly took a shortcut, intent in getting to
the well-known and not-at-all disguised site of the Decepticon Space Bridge.

Smirking to herself, she vaguely recalled Blaster was suing Ironhide for being
a negligent co-creator.

She couldn’t help imagining the irony of it: wasn’t it just fitting that she
also happened to have bonding matters concerning the Prime?

Cackling as she forced a couple of cars out of the road into the corn-field,
beeping her horn out loud and riding out, knowing she just passed by the
general area where the Prime’s spark-frequency was located and with no
intention of getting to him right now, she sped away, intent in reaching
Shockwave’s Merry-go-round.

There was a Lawyercon out there on Cybertron and she currently very much wished
to hire him.

===============================================================================
 
“Hire me?”

Ramhorn nodded. Technotor somersaulted, flaring his mirrors open for a second,
instantly tucking them down.

“Ultra-gear! Usually it’s me that ask people to a party, not the other way
round!”

He sagged, sitting dejectedly on the ground, the cassettibot sitting by his
side and briefly touching his head on his mirrored shoulder.

“But... where? I’m forbidden of setting up the Rec Room or the Lab ever again.”

Ramhorn shook his head and stomped once with his front paws on the ground.

“Who? Prowl, obviously. I only hope he returns with a smile on his plates!

Ramhorn squinted, raising an optic ridge.

“Don’t you know? Prowl and Jazz are in Prowl’s quarters working things out for
hours now.”

Technotor nodded vigorously and bounced in place, thrumming, aching to globe-
mode and begin playing techno trance.

“In thinking it was I who told them to do it. I’m so proud!”

Ramhorn gaped.

Recalling it’s been ages Jazz had been trying to bond, court, and sometimes
just plain annoy and frag Prowl (or be fragged, no one ever knows for sure, for
not all mechs have a clear cut or obvious preference of interfacing role), not
necessarily in this order, Ramhorn nodded solemnly at the prospect of things
working between them, a slow gear rolling in his mind.

If this Technotor had such ability to make mechs to do his bidding, he could
certainly ask him to convince a certain engineer to speed up the Triplechanger
Cassette Project, pondered Ramhorn, a wide smile creeping up his plates.

===============================================================================
 

A wide smile up in his plates, Brawl beamed.

“When do we go?”

Onslaught, nodding approvingly at the Spacebridge Portal swirling before them,
depicting the ruins of the Hallowed Halls of the Church of Iacon, turned to his
hopeful team member.

“As soon as our lovely con mech gets inside. I don’t trust Swindle any farther
than he can throw me.”

Swindle rolled his purple optics, subspace full of various forms of currency
and energon, entering it, the map of the Cybertronian Sights in one hand,
certain that once they went past the Halls and reached the Velocitronian Racing
Grounds, he would find a certain red racer hanging around.

===============================================================================
 

Hanging around, Optimus Prime and Ironhide had driven by the tarmac roads as
soon as they came out of hearing range from the screeching Elita, in expectant
silence.

Having diverted from the main road into a corn field, as soon as they found
themselves away from any artificial lights, they transformed and just plain
engaged in a playful makeshift fight, literally rolling in the fields, the
Prime letting himself be easily overpowered and pined against the ground.

Looking up at the starry sky and offlining his optics, battlemask open and
feeling for the cool wind on his face, he recalled he had never had the time
and opportunity to be reckless since he became The Prime, suddenly missing that
last Senate Party as Orion Pax where he was with Ratchetand met a certain loud
and boisterous Shockwave who out of nothing mentioned he, Orion, might be in
for a surprise, before the upper class, powerful and rich science-caste mech
disappeared from sight with a lowly, masked and visored purple and lime green
construction worker, winking and claiming he was about to have a great time.

Bitterly recalling how the disappeared Senator Shockwave returned, Empurata-ed,
Shadowplayedand changed for the worse into a cold mockery of his previous self,
and how he, Optimus, now knew the Primedom turned out to be the biggest sham of
Cybertron, the corrupted Priestdom manipulating the masses with Religion,
having assigned him a proper mate and made him forcibly leave his then-to-be-
bonded Ratchet, just to keep him under control, he shook his head.

He couldn’t change the past, he couldn’t just plain decide the end of the War,
but he certainly would try for a new future, starting on now.

Onlining his optics back, he now looked straight into Ironhide’s, who instantly
angled and captured his lips on his own.

Life is good and he’s certainly going to seize it.


===============================================================================
 

Seizing the quiet of his communications office, symbiontless for the while,
Soundwave pondered about what to do next.

Of course the tapedeck had had an awful inkling of why Shockwave kept the
autobot medic, and it wasn’t only for sparksitting. He didn’t need to read the
medic’s mind to know it, and Megatron could see it as well.
 
There’s a great difference between thinking and knowing.

The point is Megatron should not be allowed to think so, much less know,
otherwise Soundwave would be in danger for not being the one to reveal Megatron
about Shockwave’s deception.

Especially if the one to let his Lord know would be his worst nemesis,
Starscream.

If Megatron heard it first from the screamer instead of himself, and worse,
decided scanning and looking for the spikethat imprinted Shockwave, Soundwave
was certain he would lose his first mate position.

That was the reason why Soundwave, good spy and communication’s master
Soundwave, had just erased Starscream’s recent memories and thoughts processes
concerning his evasive bondmate, having set him up and implanted fake memories
on the second in command.

If Soundwave knew Starscream’s outlier spark well enough though, it would be
just a matter of time before the screamer recovered however, and got to the
same conclusions over and over again.

Even if Shockwave were careful enough to not misbehave in public, even if he
erased Hook’s memory and databanks (and he did!), even if everything went
perfect, the evidence of the spike-imprinted array would always be there to be
discovered anytime.

Shaking his head, Soundwave, even wanting to turn a blind optic towards his
unfaithful bonded and actually willing to not know or confirm if the autobot
slave did it or not, found out he could not feign ignorance about it anymore.

Before anyone else found out, he would be forced to take matters in his own
hands.
***** A matter of Time *****
Taking matters in his own hands, the drone First currently dragged the
Lawyercon to the dais.

“Hey! Release me!!”

Having just captured him at Mighty Shockwave’s orders, First monotoned.

“Esteemed guests, Nautica, Firestar! Mighty Shockwave’s own Lawyercon,
Judgelaw, will officiate the bonding now!”

He planted the Lawyercon right in the pulpit, folding arms at him, as Mighty
Shockwave came by, thrumming with high-grade charge, smacking the Lawyercon up
in his head with his gun arm and slurring.

“Sparkbonding ceremonies are important! I will allow you to use the spacebridge
to go for the autobots, but first you have to bond them!”

Surrounded by all the three guests, the brides and the two drones, Judgelaw
sagged. Mighty Shockwave approached his single optic at the lawyercon’s face,
nodding solemnly.

“You promised.”

Roddy the Hot, Knock-Out, Reflector and the female autobots agreed, nodding
between themselves at Mighty Shockwave’s words, clapping hands
enthusiastically, the Lawyercon finally giving in.

===============================================================================

Giving up on trying to leave quarters, Menace, buzzing dejectedly, asked
herself why the world hated her, the instant Ratbat approached, chirping and
offering an energon chip.

Widening her compound optics and buzzing, having no outer intake and being
unable to ingest anything except for the processed fuel Soundwave’s feeds them
through the cassette slot’s connection, she shook her head.

Tilting his head, Ratbat shrugged, throwing the chip up and opening his mouth,
capturing it and munching, chirping away back to his post, as Ravage shook his
head.

Since Frenzy and Rumble started stealing high-grade, and actually got poisoned
once by a suspicious energon cube that Soundwave couldn’t prove, but was sure
came from one of the decepticon usurpers hanging around, the tapedeck made sure
to completely eliminate the cassetticon’s ability to process any energon taken
through their intakes.

As such, any ingested fuel was immediately circulating unprocessed, rendering
the cassetticons prone to overcharging easily with the unprocessed high-grade
Soundwave knew his twins often stole from other mecha, getting shut-down every
single time they did it, leaving the tapedeck to deal with the unprocessed fuel
that would invariably get rerouted to Soundwave’s waste tanks and properly
recycled by the tapedeck, who discarded any tainted samples, only keeping
untarnished energon, making sure to top his own fuels with it.

Ratbat, being the energon specialist, with no memories of his past, was the
only one actually trusted to not ingest anything dangerous, due to his honed
sensors, and was allowed to keep the ability to partially process ingested
fuels.

Ravage snorted, recalling Ratbat wasn’t really Soundwave’s creation, aware that
deep down the tapedeck might truly not care about his safety as much as he did
to the others.

For a reformatted evil autobot slaver, Soundwave’s own previous owner, Ratbat
got it pretty easy: getting reformatted as a cassetticon, receiving fuel and
protection from a full cohort and the most dangerous decepticon around…

No one in their right mind could say Soundwave wasn’t merciful.

Most definitely, there were fates worse than being a cassette.

===============================================================================
 

There were fates worse than being a cassette.

Glaring down at the exploded, coughing, living self of Wheeljack, Ramhorn
sighed, as Technotor slowly patted him on his back.

Being Wheeljack, for an example.

The scientist managed to get his plot device IIIto explode once more and this
time the cassettibot wasn’t even minimally surprised.

Observing with a squint Technotor kneel down and extend a hand to the coughing
autobot, Ramhorn took the datapad with the Triplechanger Cassette Project in
his jaws and decided trying his own paws at it, leaving the Lab before the
hypnotic music started.

Maybe his fellow cassettes will help.

===============================================================================

“Cassettes: will help.”

Ravage looked up from his recharging spot, unable to believe he missed
carrier’s spark frequency opening the door of their room and getting in,
getting caught unaware.

Frenzy and Rumble, grumbling as they yawned, blinked their visors up to
Soundwave, who knelt down to their face level and swept the room with his own
sight, pinging each single of his creations.

Widening his optics at his own personal ping, Ravage barely avoided hissing.

“Ravage: exercise self-containment. Situation: sensitive. Cassettes: must work
as coordinated team. Will follow Ravage’s command.”

Knowing he was the only one to receive the full info on Soundwave’s current
situation, squinting at his puzzled siblings, Ravage held an in-venting and sat
on his back paws, waiting for his orders.

===============================================================================

“Order! Order! I declare these two female autobots guilty!”

Judgelaw slurred and hit his hammer twice on the pulpit, as Roddy the Hot
whispered to Knock-Out.

“I wasn’t aware Sparkbonding Ceremonies start like this.”

Nautica and Firestar shared an uncomfortable glance, the purplish submarine
femme rolling her optics as the drone First finished whispering on the
Lawyercon’s audials, Judgelaw clearing his voicebox and unsubspacing a huge
black book.

“We are hereby reunited in these sacred Halls to celebrate the conjunx endura
Rite of Nautica and Firestar, already conjunx amicaaccording to the Caminian
Customs……. where before Primus and this very audience they shall sparkmerge
until both sparks will become like one.”

Firestar choked.

“What? Right before everyone?”

Squinting at her amica, Nautica shook her head, as First nudged the Lawyercon.

“You’re in the wrong page. This particular predicament is meant exclusively for
the Prime.”

Judgelaw raised one optic ridge at the annoying know-it-all protocol bot,
finally turning to the mesh book and finding a few pages magnetised together,
flaring his EM-field once and undoing the effect, finally returning to his
speech.

“...well, according to the Holy Mesh Book, yes, sparkmerging before the
audience is requirement only for the Prime. Now where was I… yes. Nautica.
Firestar. Approach the pulpit and kneel.

They did, their shiny precious gemstone-filled mods glittering in the ill-lit
Hall, as Reflector made sure to take many and many photos of them. Judgelaw,
unsubspacing a sword, immediately rose it up above their heads, as both widened
their optics and screamed.

===============================================================================
 

Widening his optics and screaming, Starscream awoke from what looked like the
outcome of a nuclear explosion in his own head, only with high-grade and no one
less than Hook dismayed by his side in what looked like the constructicon’s own
quarters...

...in a compromising position, a very sprawled hand right over his exposed
port, index and middle finger dug inside and thumb holding right over the upper
node, effectively locking the seeker in place.

Analysing the physical evidence and not knowing how the frag this even remotely
happened, Starscream, memories in a haze, recalled vaguely having joined Hook’s
meal, no, sloshing time time in his table at the mess hall and…

Fighting a bout of nausea at the prospect of having been fragged by a
construction worker, no matter he was a self-learned and self-proclaimed medic,
skilled enough not to let patients die, but without finesse or a single
official chevron, Starscream pondered about how to take the admittedly thick,
smooth, filling fingers out of his lubricated port without awaking him.

By no means he wanted to keep them inside there, absolutely not: he was not mad
at being left out of his own room, neither he was mad at Thundercracker
deciding to dedicate his spike to Skywarp instead of himself.

By no means he actually wanted to recall exactly how Hook’s hooking up with
himself went.

Minutely squirming his wallsaround the conveniently placed fingers, feeling for
their baseline charge and suppressing a full-body shiver, Starscream actually
felt heat creep up his plates, offlining his optics.

It’s not like he could undo the damage by now, could he?

===============================================================================

Could he undo the damage by now?

Not that Shockwave had suddenly developed a consciousness. He didn’t mind a
single bit being unfaithful. He only cared about not being discovered, thus
endangering his bond and his position.

A feeling of dread pulsing from his personal parasite, Shockwave recalled how
he had completely erased any and all documentary evidence of his bond
unfaithfulness, the only memories of the event remaining both in his own and
the medic’s minds, both mind-reading-proofed by his perfect firewalls, and
actually droned to his own chest.

“You are not being conductive to me finding a logical solution. Cease sending
feelings. They are distracting.”

As the decepticon matrix actually managed to whineand shut up, Shockwave stared
up to the ceiling, returning to his trail of thought as he almost unconsciously
lead a hand down his plating and between his thighs, remembering.

The only hard evidence he had was the very physical imprint of the medic’s
equipment into his unsealed autobot port.

Hindsight is 20/20, and for a brief second regretting getting carried away by
his own charge, and pondering it might have been better to just have opened the
already unsealed purple port to the Chief Medical Officer, which would have
left zero evidence of his tryst once properly cleaned up, Shockwave was
currently unable to go into recharge, imagining what would happen when(not if!)
he were found out.

Ignoring the sudden urge the DecepticonMatrix sent him of just plain
fleeingwith both his creation and the Chief Medical Officer out and away from
the decepticon base, forever, Shockwave finally came upon the logical solution.

Having firmly decided about surgically excising the autobot panel out and
melting it, before it was too late and his bondmates discovered everything, he
turned on his side to disconnect the cortical psychic patchfrom his creation,
finally standing up and clipping his helicopter blades onto the rotor in his
back as he walked out of the room, with a pair of red optics, white fangs and
silent steps following him all along.

===============================================================================
 
 
All along, followed by Steeljaw, Ramhorn took the blueprints to their own room,
dropping the datapad on the ground as the lion-based felinoid pawed it in
curiosity, raising inquisitive optics at his sibling.

Nodding and stomping on the ground once, Ramhorn actually tried turning the
datapad on with his large front feet to no avail, only for him to sag as
Steeljaw touched the screen with his significantly smaller front paws, turning
it on and manipulating the screen until he found what Ramhorn was trying to
show.

No way he would help in something like that. Was Ramhorn really that intent in
becoming a scientist afterall? To the point of changing his own body? I mean,
who needed hands anyway?

Squinting, Ramhorn scowled at his sibling. He wanted more in life than being
forever considered dumb cannon fodder. Threatening the felinoid with a swipe of
his horn, the rhino captured the datapad back into his mouth-plates and stomped
out.

===============================================================================
 

Stomping out of the room, before necessarily getting into the lab and actually
having the chance of performing the excision of his imprinted autobot array,
Shockwave was ambushed by symbionts, who abandoning discretion at Ravage’s
command, swarmed him from all sides.

Unwilling to harm them for now, knowing the consequences to himself if he did,
Shockwave tried resorting to logic, as he pushed them away and walked backwards
against his lab’s door, opening it and locking himself inside, punching his
biohazard code.

Almost sagging, once more feeling the dread from the decepticon matrix, he
turned on his back to get immediately back-handed by no one less than
Soundwave.

Getting thrown on his shelves with Soundwave’s motion, Shockwave hit them fully
sprawled, every single glassware including Ratchet’s sample vial falling over
his head, cracked glass and semi-gelled transfluid entering his seams and
spreading on his plates, the noise grating on his nerves at each single motion.

Shockwave, dazed, shook his head, trying to stand up and giving up once the
reproachful glare of his bonded descended on him.

“Shockwave: has anything to confess?”

Attempting to wipe the residues out of his visor, Shockwave stared up,
completely unfazed and unsurprised.

“I am positive you, as the master of the Spy-Net, and considering the
cassetticons mobbing me outside, already knows, and it would not be logical of
me to deny.”

And opened wide his port-only panel.

“I invite you to meet my port-only array. It is already imprinted by the Chief
Medical Officer, but I assure you it is medically clean and ready to be used.”

Soundwave, glaring down sternly, shook his head while glancing at the blue
folded port.

“Soundwave: not interested.”

Actually staring down and glancing at the very blue anterior node and folds,
Shockwave droned.

“Are you entirely sure? It is much more sensitive than my original one and
perhaps this time I might feel the feelers prodding it from inside. Who knows
how I might react. I might not even need to pretend.”

Unable not to recall the times when he tentacle-fragged both Shockwave and his
own port back on Cybertron, instant heat creeping up his plates, Soundwave
shook his head, coming back to reality as he pointed to the heliformer.

“Shockwave: knows the Rules. Will obey.”

Dipping his head in a respectful nod, Shockwave knew he lost when the tapedeck
decided calling his authority as First Mate.

“Soundwave: orders Shockwave to close plates now.”

Shockwave, still on the ground with all the muck covering his plates, closed
his plates and stared up, as the tapedeck offered a hand for him to stand up.

“Soundwave: very reasonable mech. Can understand lust. Can perfectly understand
Shockwave.”

Taking the proffered hand, Shockwave was lifted up, the tapedeck unsubspacing a
mesh and handing it to the scientist, who caught it and started cleaning his
visor and chestplates.

“Shockwave: could have asked for permission for bondmates. Soundwave certainly
would persuade Lord Megatron.”

Soundwave truly didn’t mind Shockwave’s slip; having had once desired a mech
out of his official bond, and having been granted his wish by Lord Megatron
himself when they trinebonded the scientist, Soundwave ultimately understood.

“Medic: under influence of slave code. Not punishable for acting on pre-
programmed impulses. Sole responsible for mess: Shockwave.”

Shockwave nodded, logically agreeing as he subspaced the dirty mesh back,
looking slightly more respectable now, without all the transfluid sticking in
his most visible seams.

“It was Starscream then.”

Soundwave tilted his head.

“Soundwave: optics and audials of the Nemesis. Perfectly capable of discovering
on his own. Had inferred situation long before. However: Starscream was about
to reveal possibility to Lord Megatron, who would not be so understanding.”

Shockwave dipped his head in assent.

“You might allow me to slip under the radar, but never if it meant Starscream,
the only mech capable of stealing your position, would gain any advantage with
our Lord. You must always be the first. I congratulate your logic and ability
to keep yourself in power, Soundwave.”

Soundwave tilted his head to the left then.

“Soundwave: has no wish to suffer from rupture of sparkbond with the
termination of Shockwave’s spark. Lord Megatron: does not care that much for
pain when it means revenge. Would offline Shockwave out of spite and with
cruelty despite the bond.”

Shockwave nodded once more. He knew.

“So I presume you have not ambushed me to offline me, but you can also not
offer me any more protection than a warning, out of loyalty.”

Soundwave then turned his visor to Shockwave, suddenly grappling him up with a
datacable and finally punching him once with his right hand right in the visor,
a myriad of cracks forming in its middle.

“Shockwave: does not understand loyalty!”

And threw him on a heap on the ground against the broken glassware, again, the
heliformer now partially blinded behind the cracks in the visor, slowly
standing up.

“Shockwave: must abide by the Rules. Will undergo self-imposed exile.”

The heliformer slowly stood up, finally kneeling over his right knee, keeping
his head protocol-low.

“Microtron: not guilty of Shockwave’s behaviour. Lord Megatron’s newspark: to
all effects innocent. Soundwave: will assume care of Microtron as if mine.”

Shockwave stalled minutely then.

“Microtron requires daily infusion of my processed energon. It is only logical
that we are not separated.”

Soundwave rested a hand in his tapedeck door then.

“Soundwave: capable of fully sustaining cohort of up to twelve creations at the
same time daily for all needed fuel. Entirely capable of supplying Microtron
with physiological fuel needs. Promises to be caring carrier-host.”

Shockwave should have known it would come to this: Soundwave, as obsessed over
small, cradly things as he was, had a tendency to collect stray, lonely,
potentially needy newsparks, especially one prone to be swayed by the promise
of permanent access to processed energon.

Logically, Shockwave knew Microtron, under Soundwave’s rule, would be safe from
direct harm.

The only problem in that is, for this, Microtron would need to be reframed as
cassetticon, and being reframed meant transfer of spark to a smaller
sparkchamber, meaning full reset of spark and erasing of Microtron’s self,
which basically would be his demise and the rebirth of his spark as a blank
slate and a wholly new mech.

“I cannot allow you to repurpose my creation like you did to Ratbat.”

Turning slowly towards Shockwave, Soundwave lowered his face down.

“Soundwave: surprised. Shockwave: suddenly caring??”

Three full seconds passed before Shockwave, EM-field flat - to all effects
unpredictable, in a quick move removed one blade from up the rotor hub above
his right shoulderblade and rotated down on his knee, whacking Soundwave in the
sides of his face, jumping backwards and barely avoiding a navy blue datacable
that attempted to grapple him.

EM-field flaring menacingly wide, Soundwave assumed fight stance, four cables
flailing behind his back as Shockwave returned the blade to its clip, this time
arming himself with the chain and hook.
***** Hooked up *****
Hook awoke chained to his own berth by his feet and arms, absolutely no side
effects from his regular high-gradesmashing, finding himself sprawled on his
back like a dish to be savoured, smirking.
 
“Scrapper, kinky fragger. I’m yours. You know you just need to ask.”
 
“Good to know!”
 
Stalling at the grating screech, Hook squinted and stared at his left, only to
find Starscream lounging like he belonged there.
 
“What the frag are you doing in my room?? How did you find these cuffs?” he
stared around the room, finally screaming “Scrapper!!!”
 
Starscream, having overloaded twice just trying to get Hook’s hand from the
pinching position at his node and valve, recalling the fact his two trine
members had locked him out of the room, merely smirked and claimed Hook’s
mouth-plates by biting his lower lip and sucking, shutting up the medic and
deciding to make up for his lost time.
 
===============================================================================
 
Recalling this time he was lostagainst a skilled gladiator, knowing he couldn’t
escape the Lab by the outer door, Shockwave did the logical thing, stepping
back and pretending to want to throw the hook, instead ramming against the wall
separating the constructicon’s bay from the ill-built lab.
 
Soundwave, incredulous, watched the wall collapse in a cloud of dust,
attempting to see what was happening, as Shockwave ran away between the slabs
colliding against them as Scrapper screeched that he would ruin their project,
and the tapedeck, guided by sound alone, sent datacable after datacable after
the sounds, blurting static in anger and warning his creations for them to
capture Shockwave in case he made his way out of the constructicon’s medbay.
 
Before the dust went down, Shockwave managed to collide against Bonecrusher,
who fell over the half-built Yellow Submarine, crashing it right over Mixmaster
and raising even more dust, as Shockwave disentangled from the mess and
captured Longhaul by his left arm on his way out of the lab.
 
Before the constructicon could protest, he was thrown and slammed at the door
like a battering ram as it splintered in pieces and he rolled out right like a
bowling ball over Soundwave’s twins, who were waiting at the door ready to
capture the heliformer, as Shockwave stepped over their heads and jumped,
helicopter-moding in the air, actually hitting Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw, slamming
them away into the walls with his rotating hub blades, finally activating his
comms and trying to reach Ratchet, sending him a single, urgent ping.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Sending an urgent ping, Elita-1 kept running recklessly by the tarmac,
impatient with the time it takes to travel to the Space Bridge Site and
wondering if it wouldn’t be better to take a shortcut through the wilderness
instead.
 
Afterall, all there was, is desert out there.
 
What could possibly go wrong??
 
===============================================================================
 
What could have possibly gone wrong?
 
Just awoken with a very urgent ping from his master, Ratchet subspaced every
piece of the spark-condenser project and the outer sparkchamber on Shockwave’s
desk, his half full energon cube and the other four nearly empty ones hanging
around the place, and took the recharging Microtron in arms, running away from
the room and following Shockwave’s coordinates, ambulance-moding with the
mechling fitting inside his cargo compartment along with the medical
instruments, resisting the temptation to wail his sirens and just rolling down
and below in the hull.
 
Suddenly looking up in ambulance mode as he heard the sound of rotor blades,
Ratchet, dividing space on the corridors with his master hovering above him,
dutifully followed in silence, until both arrived at the Nemesis’ escape pods.
 
“What’s wrong?”
 
Ignoring the ambulance besides him, Shockwave walked before every single pod,
finding out his own pod demolished to a pulp by what suspiciously looked like
the handiwork of Rumble’s pile-driver arms.
 
Logically, pondered Shockwave, knowing his bondmate would have anticipated his
move and certainly ordered his twins to have removed his easy way out of the
underbase.
 
Slowly turning towards the other remaining pods, however, Shockwave dipped his
head in a nod, taking a logical decision, very aware that they were running out
of time.
 
===============================================================================
 
Running out of time, Swindle now charted Knock-Out’s spark frequency with a
highly illegal, ready to install, tracking mod he owned in stock.
 
“As you can see in this fine device, that costs only a thousand Shanix, all I
need is to insert the target’s spark-frequency and voi-lá, here he comes!”
 
He beamed, showing Onslaught his tracking device, as Onslaught stared, vaguely
uninterested, and Brawl pointed at the screen.
 
“Why is it moving? Is this supposed to be moving?”
 
“Must be broken.” Vortex huffed “Swindle’s trying to sell us his broken slag.
Again.”
 
Squinting, Onslaught glared down at Swindle, as the salesmech raised his hands
up in self-defence.
 
“Ok, I’m truly trying to sell it but I swear it’s not broken!”
 
Onslaught snorted, then, and finally, pointedly, repeatedly, poked a huge,
heavy fingertip at the tracking device’s screen, asking.
 
“Then why is it moving?”
 
As soon as the last word left his mouthplates, the four combaticons were run
over by two heavily modded, glowing, running, screeching, root-moded, bridal
female autobots, followed immediately by the vehicle-moded Hot-Rod and Knock-
Out, and Swindle meekly contemplated the spark-frequency of Knock-Out leaving
site, as Onslaught growled and truck-moded, screaming.
 
“He’s going away! Combaticons, after him!”
 
As Brawl promptly obeyed and Vortex cackled, helicopter-moding and wildly
manoeuvring away, Swindle, furious, screeched to the distance.
 
“I told you it was working, but did you believe me??? Noooo!!!”
 
Dejected, he sat on the ground: just because he was a con ‘con, it didn’t have
to mean every single word he said was necessarily fake, right?
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Faking Soundwave’s spark frequency right at the tapedeck’s own escape pod,
Shockwave, observing its sliding glass door open, unceremoniously shoved the
vehicle-moded ambulance in, as Ratchet barely avoided crushing and mowing
Microtron into his own engines while transforming to root mode.
 
“Shockwave, be careful!”
 
Once more flaring his bonded’s spark-frequency at the controls, uncaring to the
warning, Shockwave tried to come inside, hitting his open rotor blades at the
doors, actually growlingand hastily removing the paddles out of his back, just
throwing them for Ratchet to hold, then immediately lunged in with all the
finesse only a stampede of an african water buffaloes could muster.
 
“Primus, Shockwave, what happened???”
 
Before he could answer the medic though, a navy blue datacable was jolted
inside the pod and circled around his creation’s neck, attempting to pull
Microtron off Ratchet’s arms.
 
EM-field actually flaring wide, visor glowing dark blue with pinkish hues
coming through the cracks, Shockwave immediately gripped and moved the pod’s
lock lever down, observing with a detached glare the doors quickly and cleanly
amputate the datacable, the very instant Ratbat arrived, screeching and braking
before he collided against the door, and a buzzing little bee fully crashed
against the sliding glass, buzzing dejectedly as she slipped down.
 
Soundwave, torn between attacking his unfaithful bonded and currently
comforting his clumsy creation, unbelieving his optics, in pain, blurted an
undignified electrical noise and recalled the permanently injured stump of his
now effectively lost cable into his back, fizzling static to all directions, as
he crouched down and cradled Menace, forcing her into tape mode and inside
slot.
 
Furious, he then quickly latched his three remaining datacables into the
computer, as the cut-off piece danced and jumped alone on the ground inside the
pod, getting finally purposefully crushed under Shockwave’s heavy back rotor
feet.
 
Shifting his glare between Soundwave, latched to the computer system and
beginning to hack his way in into his own pod, and Shockwave, currently
battling with the full absence of keyboards, touchscreens or something as basic
as a screen, repeatedly punched the pod until it finally whirred to life and
activated self-launching safety protocols, as Ratchet firmly held his charge
against his chest, spark painfully tugging moments before the pod was
waterproof-sealed, offlining his optics, the escape vessel getting instantly
launched into the ocean, only the crimson glower of Soundwave’s visor dying in
the distance as the pod bubbled away, far and wide in the dark.
***** Optics wide shut *****
Chapter Summary
     Shockwave being an awful parent, and Soundwave, a manipulative
     glitch.
Optic cycled wide in the dark, coming out of recharge, Microtron blinked twice.

“Microtron. Rise up. I require assistance.”

Chirping, he climbed out of Ratchet’s arms and through two datacables moved
towards Shockwave’s side, glancing up at him.

“Does it involve processed energon??”

He wriggled the feelers of a single datacable (undulating before Shockwave’s
broken visor), as Ratchet flushed hard trying not to recall master wriggling
his fingers before holding his spikethe fatidic day he was forced to donate a
sample to science.

“It might.”

Microtron beamed and nearly clicked his claws together as Shockwave pointed to
a jacking point in the pod.

“Notice the absence of screens, regular panelling and something as basic as
keyboards or touchscreens. This is Soundwave’s escape pod, this particular jack
meant to be filled by a datacable. It’s the only way to steer the pod and guide
us out of the bottom of the sea. Fortunately for us, thanks to Mixmaster, you
share his CNA. Plug in, access the main control program and follow my verbal
instructions on how to reach the coordinate system with written command lines
for us to get to shore. Only then, when safely away from home, and properly
fuelled, I might be able to get you some of your special energon.”

He tilted his head, staring meekly at the jack, trying to digest all the info,
then turned his optic to the grey datacable whose feelers he had just wriggled,
sagging visibly.

“Safely away from home?”

Shockwave, ever patient, spoke.

“We were in danger in the underwater base and it cannot be home anymore. Bonded
Soundwave, all cassetticons, and Sire Lord Megatron are no longer trusted mecha
in your list. Do you copy?”

Microtron cycled his optic wide.

“But… don’t they love me anymore?”

Ratchet pursed his lips, spark tugging painfully in his chestplates and
actually stalling, as unable to grasp the concept, Shockwave just continued to
drone.

“Soundwave intends to reframe you as a cassetticon, and knowing him as I do,
our Lord Megatron will certainly agree to this.”

===============================================================================

“Did I agree to this?”

Soundwave, hurting from the cut off datacable and doing his best to mask his
EM-field to his lord, having left the Constructicons with express orders for
them to not leave their bay until they had Megatron’s direct command, nodded.
 
“Shockwave: expressed wish to go to Cybertron with Microtron and autobot slave
for scientific purposes, departing this afternoon and returning his lab to the
Constructicons. Lord Megatron: agreed with bonded’s logic and authorised
leave.”

He handed him an official-looking datapad with Megatron’s own signature in it,
and the corresponding authorisation, as Megatron huffed.

“My Lord: does not remember?”

Megatron, sitting on his command chair, shifted back to the datapad
Shockwavewrote and also properly signed his requested leave in, explaining the
logical reasons for his return to their home planet, finally growling and
throwing it away into the ground, cracking it’s screen.

Soundwave on his side, made sure to keep projecting his neutral, flat and calm
EM-field, continuously deploying his telepathic, surreptitious, wireless
suggestions directly on Megatron’s spark and upper processors.

Having faked the datapad and having implanted fake, hazy memories on Lord
Megatron concerning Shockwave’s sudden departure, Soundwave finally walked to
the datapad, taking it in hands and offering it back to Megatron with a dip in
his head.

“Soundwave: understands Lord Megatron. Taking Microtron away: newspark receives
daily processed energon from carrier and they are supposed to keep close.
Autobot slave taken for sparksitting and lab assistance in what concerns
removal of decepticon matrix.”

Megatron, refusing to acknowledge the broken datapad, recalling how he indeed
ordered Shockwave to solve the problem he himself created, shook his head as he
pondered about this authorisation he signed and on how Shockwave didn’t even
bother to come in person to speak.

He did recall something about it, but it wasn’t a clear memory, and he lead his
right hand to his forehead, rubbing against it, as Soundwave subspaced the
broken datapad.

“This war is clearly taking its toll on me. I must be getting old.”

At that Soundwave came closer, left hand lazily touching Megatron’s own left
hand, walking in a circle around the throne and placing himself on its back as
his fingertips traced the scratched, battered metal surface up, palm cupping
his left shoulder as the tapedeck’s right hand also caught on his lord’s right
shoulder and he finally touched the back of Megatron’s head with his own
forehead, monotoning.

“Lord Megatron: not to blame. Leading the whole faction and the cause: tiresome
task. Soundwave: will do everything possible to ease it up.”

Clicking his battlemask open to the sides, face hiding against the back of
Megatron’s neck, Soundwave slowly, passionately kissed him, visor going off and
hands kneading on his shoulders.

As the tyrant dipped his head down, mind foggy and exposing his neck further
and, EM-field rolling warm and open at the tapedeck’s touch, Megatron adjusted
himself on a sprawled position, back against the seat, taking a deep in-vent
and pondering that Soundwave certainly knew how to properly make up for
Shockwave’s disregard.

===============================================================================

Shockwave, disregarding the incredulous glare that Microtron managed to pass
across with his widening optic, stared unaffected as the mechling managed to
look hurt, musing over what carrierjust told, finally fully registering it,
optic cycling very wide in pure indignation.

“Soundwave wants to to turn me into a tape???”

Shockwave nodded.

“Basically, yes, Soundwave wants you for his cohort.”

Shockwave dipped his head down and actually touched his cracked visor against
the decepticon brand on the left side of his camera-head.

“Logically, I will not allow you to be taken away. You are mine.”

If Shockwave’s grip on his creation became stronger for a microsecond, the
scientist would never admit: Microtron, suddenly imagining himself turned into
a tape-changing notebook, clenched his claws in anger, flailing a single
datacable out of his back and filling the jacking slot, feelers spreading out
inside and touching the connection spots.

Unable to suppress a cackle, he cycled the objective lens of his giant optic
closed, effectively blinding him to outside stimuli, EM-field wobbling as his
HUD merged with the pod’s systems, depicting a series of floating screens,
Shockwave’s voice echoing as if coming from everywhere, telling him to be ready
for his incoming instructions.

===============================================================================

“Instructions: incoming. Scrapper: ready?”

Having left Lord Megatron a literal puddle of relaxation by sending subsonic
waves through his hands as he massaged his bonded’s shoulders, Soundwave made
sure the tyrant was indeed in deep defrag state before letting Laserbeak on
guard duty: the tapedeck was physically damaged from Shockwave’s stunt and
would undeniably require at least one patch.

Scrapper, sighing as he manipulated the damaged datacable the tapedeck flailed
out, opening his lateral dataport to the TIC, shook his head.

“I’m as much a nurse as Hook is a chevroned medic, as I’m certain you know
already.”

Soundwave nodded, very aware of Hook’s self-taught skills, and his attempt of
making Scrapper his nurse by teaching him the few things he learned.

“I mean, this datacable is complex. It’s mechano-biological, has multiple
functions, and is directly connected to your neural net. I don’t think I’m
capable of fixing it, even with instructions.”

Having left Hook in a sticky situation with Starscream, Soundwave had no option
but to let himself be fixed by a very unwilling Scrapper, who still had no idea
about what the TIC did to his official sparkbonded gestaltmate, currently
attributing his feelings of dread, heat and guilt to the failed persecution
they just underwent after Shockwave’s fleeing self, under a set of
circumstances he felt better not to pry about.

Whatever Shockwave did to deserve Soundwave’s wrath, Scrapper wanted to be no
part of it, and as such, decided he had no option but to work on the third in
command, who had just had one of his four datacables messily amputated.

Shook back from his thoughts, Scrapper continued.

“However.” he analysed the datacable’s blueprints, just sent to his systems via
hardline by Soundwave himself “I might be able to re-implant it if you have it.
Where did you say the original datacable is anyway?”

Recalling how Shockwave crushed it beneath his back-rotor feet, Soundwave shook
his head.

“Datacable: lost. Scrapper: skilled enough to just finish amputating the
damaged structure and reassigning Soundwave’s neural net with three, instead of
four datacables.”

Sighing as he stared at the 3D structure and the commands on how to shut down
each neural pathway required to effectively null the sawed off structure off
the tapedeck’s systems, Scrapper, not owning a split HUD or advanced medical
sensors, turned the transmission of data off and shook his head, finally
staring at Soundwave again.

“Hook’s able to do it in a click, and with enough time he might even be able to
replicate a partially functional datacable. Why do you insist on me just
finishing to amputate it? Why can’t I just summon him?”

Soundwave, unwilling to have to mess up with Hook right now, aware neither
Starscream or the constructicon left quarters, merely stared at the architect,
proffering a half-lie.

“Soundwave: unable to wait: in pain. Trusts Scrapper’s basic skills. Promises
to be good patient.”

He tilted his head to the right, as Scrapper, suddenly feeling exhausted,
sighed.

===============================================================================

Exhausted, Hook sighed, feeling irremediably guilty as the screeching harpy
currently doze sprawled over his berth-bound frame.

No matter he had told Starscream earlier in his overcharged slur that he
wouldn’t have minded taking Shockwave’s autobot seal; it was more wilful,
hypothetical bragging than truly going to do it. He was bonded and sparkbonded
to his gestalt, most specifically to Scrapper, and wouldn’t have done anything
without informing him, at least.

Not that he had been a very active participant, he snorted as he recalled how
Starscream literally did everything he wanted, proving his mouth served for
more than screeching and complaining, as with a will of his own his spike
merely physiologically corresponded.

That was it, physiological reactions. Nothing to do with the seeker’s lower
furnace burning around it as Starscream rode him to oblivion, coaxing at least
three overloads off the constructicon.

Shuddering and immediately recalling his bonded Scrapper and how he would react
once he knew – and he would know – he had no option but running to Soundwave to
request his memories erased.

He would be owning the tapedeck afterwards, but it would still be better than
having memories resurfacing every single time Starscream spoke or screeched or
even remotely showed up.

===============================================================================
 

Showing up in the command room, Ramhorn, Triplechanger Cassette Project in
mouthpiece, futilely searched for a good soul willing to help him out.

He tried for his siblings: Rewind, currently obsessed with historical facts and
compiling a documentary on the Scientists of the Golden Age, was nowhere to be
found; Eject, manning the security cameras in the absence of Red Alert
(rumoured to have been taken away from the party, glitched, by Inferno),
couldn’t come by either.

If only Perceptor hadn’t been busy with Blaster, on that mysterious errand, the
project might have been done by now.

Sagging, he sat on his heavy hindquarters, hoping Technotor would soon prove
himself useful and make Wheeljack amenable to his request, finishing that
fragging project soon.

No matter Wheeljack told him it was a very complex modification and that it
might take years to mechanically complete: Ramhorn wasn’t the most patient of
the mechs, much less the brightest, and for him, if the project wasn’t already
done, it was because everyone was slacking off, obviously.

As a slow gear rolled up on his processors, Ramhorn stared at a datapad-sized
slot on Teletraan, pondering.

It couldn’t hurt to give it a try. Speed-crashing the thing would certainly
bring forth a solution! What kind of Scientist he hoped to be, if he wasn’t
willing to take the risk?

===============================================================================
 

“I am willing to take the risk. Run it.”

Microtron nodded, running the programmed coordinates, methodically keying every
number Shockwave slowly had spelled: basically, if they didn’t reach shore in
the next 24 hours, they would literally offline without energy under the sea,
and as far as he understood, that would mean he would never taste carrier’s
energon again.

As soon as the pod started moving, rotating around its axis, whirring its
engines and taking a definite direction, he pulled his datacable out of slot,
optic lens cycling open and suppressing a cackle as Shockwave nodded,
approvingly.

“I see I was correct in sending you to Soundwave to start learning to use your
cables. For that you do deserve a small treat.”

Picking then Soundwave’s amputated, smashed datacable from the ground, nodding
approvingly at the leftover gelled energon inside, he handed it to his
creation, who instantly beamed and wasted no time at literally siphoning every
single energon molecule from the cable, leaving it dry and clean, pinkish hues
travelling up the grey tentacle as Microtron’s single optic gleamed once the
fuel got into his systems.

Ratchet, shaking his head but unable to do anything about this terrible habit,
slightly nauseous with the sudden motion of the pod, optics dim, rested against
the outer wall of the escape pod, slowly sliding down until he sat on his own
pedes, observing with the corner of his optics Microtron nest himself against
Shockwave’s ample bosom, clicking softly and slowly drifting into spontaneous
recharge, dutifully ignored in his need for touch from the scientist’s part.

“You know, after this great meal, you could at least pet him. Like a nice
carrier would.”

Shockwave, unaffected, immobile, droned.

“Like a nice, illogical and wasteful carrier would. After the stunt of flaring
my bonded’s spark frequency twice, I am currently running at 33% fuel levels
and I shall not waste more energy than required until we reach shore. Petting
or otherwise moving without purpose is not logical under the current
circumstances. Mandatory recharge for a few hours and basic energy and heat
conservation protocols will do immense good to our meagre reserves and I advise
that you undergo it as well.”

Releasing his struts with a hydraulic hiss, sitting heavily on his own pedes
and doing his best not to crush his creation, Shockwave leaned against
Microtron and offlined all his unneeded biolights and the cracked battlemask,
eerie silence and immobility taking place, as Ratchet, snorting at the almost
sweet sight, shrugged, shifting closer and resting his frame against his
master’s, offlining his optics and biolights as well: that was an order he
absolutely wouldn’t mind to obey.
***** Remind, remind me. *****
Chapter Summary
     Starscream awakes, Ramhorn makes a deal, and Ratchet suffers.
Absolutely not minding to obey, Scavenger received and dutifully ignored the
direct orders from Scrapper to return to the underbase.
 
As far as he understood, Commander Shockwave had fled away with his creation
and the autobot slave that suspiciously looked like Ratchet, and he was
supposed to return and regroup with his gestaltmates, for no one less than
Soundwave ordered all the constructicons locked in their bay until Megatron
himself ordered them out.
 
Scavenger might be slow and dim-witted, but it didn’t take much cogs to
understand that if Shockwave was wanted, something grave had happened, and he
couldn’t simply return to his gestaltmates!
 
Detouring in an under-tunnel, he puffed up his plates as his drill bore through
the terrain: most probably his favourite commander would be needing help.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Are you needing help?”
 
Ramhorn, jumping up and down with the datapad in his mouth, unable to reach the
datapad-sized slot, stopped, shaking his head: of course not. Just a few more
trials and he was going to reach it.
 
Smirking, Astrotrain, arms folded, lounging against the wall, just counted to
three, until Ramhorn stalled.
 
Turning on his hindlegs slowly, Ramhorn looked up the towering decepticon, for
a second asking himself how the slag the shuttle came in, squinting as he found
the shuttle-sized hole at the wall, from where Blast-Off and Skyfire left,
earlier.
 
Quickly unsubspacing his hipside guns and aiming them up, never releasing the
datapad, Ramhorn gave his most menacing glare, as Astrotrain just chuckled.
 
“Kid. If I wanted to off you, I’d have done it already.”
 
Inquisitive, Ramhorn raised an optic ridge, as Astrotrain crouched down.
 
“Now. What’s it you were trying to insert there?”
 
Ramhorn crouched protectively at the datapad, to no use, as Astrotrain ignored
his efforts and picked it in his right hand, unsubspacing a pair of glasses
with his left hand and focusing on the screen.
 
“Triplechanger Cassette!” he nodded, smirking yet resigned, glasses cautiously
balanced on the tip of his nose “Now I know why Skyfire interfaced me: he stole
my very own data.” he turned a few pages on-screen “Did Wheeljack come across
the formulae and mechanical blueprints? What are you, wanting to explode?”
 
As Astrotrain read through the project, and Ramhorn sagged, the shuttle finally
delivered him the datapad back, subspacing his pair of glasses back, feeling
very amused.
 
“I wouldn’t try my hand at becoming a triplechanger this way. I’m the only
natural triplechanger. Blitzwing and his faulty triple-changing-personality
were the result of Shockwave’s attempt to mechanically imitate me. You can see
how well that went. Do you want to know the only true way to get another mech’s
abilities?”
 
Blinking and nodding, recalling Blitzwing’s insanity bouts, Ramhorn now sat on
his hindlegs, listening.
 
“Gotta incorporate my own CNA on yours for that. I can get you my ownsample.
For a price.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“For a price? For a price???”
 
First, the drone, literally glitched his screen face, screeching and repeatedly
hitting Swindle on his head with his two clawed arms.
 
“How dare you! Who do you think you are to just chargefor the use of Mighty
Shockwave’s own Spacebridge?”
 
Swindle, huddling and protecting himself against the insane drone, raising both
hands up in defeat, waited for him to calm down, and finally smirked, extending
his right hand ahead.
 
“Better. Now! I’m Swindle, independent business entrepreneur, currently owning
the only known remote controlfor the Spacebridge! But don’t you worry, it’s a
really affordable price! I’m your best bet if you want to get to your tower
really fast! So, do you want me to open it or...”
 
Suddenly mute and turning white in fear, Swindle nearly ran away as soon as the
faceplates of Mighty Shockwave entered his view, the purple cyclops stomping
his heavy frame closer, single optic shining and focusing on his face.
 
Wait.
 
Hadn’t Shockwave changed shells to that dreaded white helicopter and was
currently living on Earth with the Decepticons? When did he come back?
 
“What are you talking about.” Mighty Shockwave interrupted Swindle’s thoughts
and lowered to his level, slurring “Were you the responsible for the brides
fleeing?”
 
“...brides? Don’t you mean bridge?”
 
As Mighty Shockwave glared at Swindle, the con mech, unbelieving, glared back
wide-opticed at the towering cyclops, who spoke.
 
“Yes, brides. We were witnessing an official Sparkbondingceremony.” he nodded
solemnly, then immediately hiccuped “Right, First?”
 
The drone First rolled between both, focusing on the con mech.
 
“Or something like it.” he recalled how the Lawyercon was about to knight the
two brides with the ceremonial sword, when they fled in terror. “Anyway. You
were saying you’d open up the bridge. Give me the controls now. They rightfully
belong to my Master.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Master?”
 
Onlining his visor, Shockwave slowly moved his head towards the source of
warmth on his back.
 
“Why are you not conserving energy, Chief Medical Officer?”
 
Ratchet, already awake, comfortably sprawled against Shockwave’s paddle-less
rotor hub and basking in the warmth, face pressing against the back of his
helm, whispered.
 
“Because the escape pod stopped moving and we seem to have reached shore.”
 
The spheric pod floated on the surface of the sea, the waves hitting the
sliding glass door, as Shockwave suddenly stood up, literally shaking Microtron
awake and ordering him to flail one datacable out.
 
Blurting ayelp, the mechling did, jacking it into the controls, single optic
cycling closed as he avoided the fading light of the setting sun on the west,
where the waves currently hit the sands on the relatively empty beachside, save
for a few half-abandoned fishing boats on this piece of the Atlantic bathed by
the Amazonian river, ending up in endless rainforest.
 
Had he any knack for irony, Shockwave would have snorted at the fact he reached
the same shoreline where he had ended when he occupied the half-sunken Nemesis
in first place, where he lived and learned by himself to first get by in this
world, recalling that this time he had no backup shelter to fall back to.
 
Once the floating pod was close enough to the beach, he opened the lever to the
pod’s sliding glass, taking his creation in one arm as the escape vessel filled
with salt water and slowly drowned, Ratchet following suite with the four
detachable paddles and coming out, the three mechs now observing the pod bubble
down and sink.
 
Looking up the slowly darkening sky, devising the outlines of the South Cross
constellation, Shockwave recalled his star charts from memory and triangulated
their current position, finally releasing Microtron on the ground.
 
Feet sinking on the wet sand, Microtron shook his head, tanks rumbling as he
turned to carrier and literally tugged thrice with both claws at his chain and
hook, a tilt in his head.
 
“Carrier?”
 
Shockwave stared down at him, stating matter-of-factly.
 
“I am aware you’re hungry, but I cannot provide anything now. We left without
provisions. I am positive your frame can stand a couple of hours safely, if you
undergo recharge protocols, beginning now.”
 
He pointed to a drier spot far from the shoreline. Microtron, systems running
at 59%, sagged, but shook the salt water and the sand off his feet at each
step, finally reaching said drier sand, mainframe-moding and offlining his
biolights, as Ratchet, pursing his lips, sticking the paddles in the sand like
poles, finally poked his master.
 
“I happen to have nearly a half-cube in subspace. The kid’s hungry.”
 
Shockwave shook his head.
 
“Compassionate, but illogical. Microtron is always hungry no matter how full. I
cannot provide any of my fluids unless I am fully replenished, and the crude
fuel would be wasted on him. He is far from offlining, and he will survive.”
 
Ratchet, smirking, unsubspaced said cube.
 
“Very logical. But. Need I remind you that your fuel levels are at 16% and at
the rate you’re consuming your reserves, you won’t go through the night unless
you fuel now, master?”
 
Shockwave knew. The decepticon matrixtaxed on him and he needed a minimum of
two full cubes a day, considering he didn’t use his spark-frequency-changing
abilities, as Ratchet inched closer, swirling the mentioned half-full energon
cube before Shockwave’s cracked visor.
 
“I could have fuelled myself almost to the top with it, given my own 54%
current readings, but... you know. I’d rather not belong to Soundwaveany time
soon.”
 
Intellectually appreciating Ratchet’s logical reasoning, unable to take his
sight off the swirling cube as his systems accused him of very soon entering
stasis lock, Shockwave, finally dipped his head in a nod, immediately taking
his straw from subspace and accepting it.
 
“I am satisfied to see you once again prove to be an efficient slave, thinking
through our chaotic departure and actually bringing sustenance of any kind.”
 
Ratchet, having not really thought about sustenance, very aware he only brought
the spare half-cube because it happened to be hanging around the desk with the
rest of the things, shrugged.
 
“Well, unless you want it to be your last meal, where or how do you plan to
gather energy?”
 
Taking a fleeting glance at Microtron (currently looking like a marooned,
discarded arcade machine in the sand), Ratchet watched the cube empty itself
completely into the straw, Shockwave’s cracked visor glowing faintly once,
systems now charged up to 68%, voicebox monotoning a not-reply.
 
“My paddles. Now.”
 
Returning the cube back, the scientist immediately turned his back to the
medic, who rolled his optics and quickly clicked them on, Shockwave immediately
rotating the hub, helicopter-moding and hovering above him as Ratchet blinked
in surprise, looking up, the motion of the rotors spreading the sand in a
circle around the medic.
 
“Now where do you think you’re going???”
 
Blades rotating in the air, Shockwave’s voice boomed from above.
 
“According to my calculations, we are close to a hangar that owns a source of
crude fuel I have raided a couple of times about to four earthly years ago. I
am the only one of us capable of getting there quickly enough. Microtron is
stationary in alt-mode, you require paved roads to move, and this forested
region is best suited for flight-moded frames like me.”
 
Unable to disagree with Shockwave’s logic, Ratchet sagged, the single ping of
the approaching moment of the synch getting to his systems, the last stirs of
sanity coming to his frame, as his master, hovering up, monotoned.
 
“I shall return with all my tanks full, including the main energon tank. The
natives probably still remember the Phantom Mapingüari. Do not wait up.”
 
Ratchet, optics burning and frame tingling as he tried not staring at his
master’s departure, quickly strode through the sand until where Microtron was,
alt-moding and parking at touching range right besides the mainframe-moded,
recharging Microtron, already knowing the hell that awaited him until the
scientist came back.
 
===============================================================================
 
The scientist came back right into hell and had to shake his head.
 
Strolling into the Lab at what looked like and certainly had been the epicentre
of a recent explosion, Perceptor, monocle gleaming lightly purple in the half-
lit room, holding his sniper rifles on both shoulders, placed them on his own
working bench, turning to contemplate the mess.
 
It was rare to find the Lab in such a state without the dismembered self of the
lovely mad-engineer hanging around, so the scientist concluded Wheeljack must
have been taken or took himself away in search of repairs.
 
Finally shrugging and sitting on his thinking mesh sofa, optics offline, he
snickered.
 
If he had any idea just a micron of dark energon would give him the courage to
do what he had been wanting since as far as he remembered, since the very day
he entered the Autobots and happened to come across the red plated, gleaming
carrier-host, he would have gone after some, afterall!
 
Remembering how grateful Blaster was for his interference with Ironhide
afterwards, he really asked himself what he could currently do to make the
tapedeck happy, instantly remembering a certain cassettibot and a certain
Triplechanger Cassette Project that happened to be hanging around.
 
Standing up and going to the shelf where the blueprints datapad was, or should
be, Perceptor actually growled once he found it was no longer there.
 
===============================================================================
 
No longer needing to rest after the surprisingly intense bout of interfacing he
gave himself, Starscream, optics going online, stared down right at the
constructicon still tied up and currently squirming underneath him.
 
“You. You’re aware it’s all your fault, you overcharged deuce. Had you been
working instead of slacking with your high-grade, this would have never have
happened!”
 
Not that Starscream was truly complaining, given the lack of true grating in
his voice, but habits were hard to die.
 
“Damn, Starscream, you and I know you were the one who did everything! You
might not care, but I’m already sparkbonded!To a full gestalt nonetheless!”
 
Starscream, lounging on the constructicon like he belonged there, rested on
both elbows, holding his head up and looking down the medic.
 
“Weren’t you the one slurring about wanting to take that insipid scientist’s
seal?? Now you had the taste of a seeker, which is much better than anything
Shockwave might even remotely had to offer!”
 
Hook, unable to disagree it had been intense, hastily shook his head.
 
“I don’t care. Scrapper and my gestaltmates will scrap me! Release me!
 
At that Starscream slapped Hook’s face, leering and standing up, cleaning
himself off imaginary dust.
 
“Ungrateful fool, I should have never let you comeeven an inch close to my
frame!”
 
And come he did, quite a nice amount of times, earlier: face tingling with the
taloned scratches, Hook had to instantly override his interfacing protocols,
still under the influence of the screeching harpy’s presence, as he feared it
would.
 
Not noticing the constructicon’s struggle however, Starscream, at the lack of
further snark and reaction, losing interest, shrugged, just plain ripping the
shackles out of the berth.
 
“There, free to go to your mates and just let them see your memories of me.
Good luck to you, dear.”
 
Actually waving a little goodbye, knowing he was currently full of lime green
and purple paint transfers, not to mention his port full of foreign transfluid,
Starscream knew he had to hit the washracks soon, before anyone else found him
out.
 
===============================================================================
 
Before anyone else found him out, Ramhorn agreed to the CNA exchange, wondering
how the decepticon would give him his very own CNA sample, since the rhino
owned no interface panels, imagining the worse.
 
He was aware there were perverts keen on taking younglings barely a few million
years old, like himself, despite the absence of panels, the size difference,
and all, and also heard horror stories of abused creations who had been filled
trough mouthpieces and even emergency fuel entrances: to all effects it looked
like Astrotrain could be one of those, afterall, what would be the readiest and
purest CNA source available in an adult mech, other than…
 
“Here. Take it.”
 
Ramhorn lowered his head down to the vial Astrotrain cautiously placed on the
ground.
 
“You can touch it. It’s clean. I cleaned it myself.”
 
Ramhorn leered as Astrotrain winked.
 
“Don’t tell old Shockwave I got hold of one of my three own sample vials the
first and last time I helped him, before we left Cybertron, more than four
million years ago, when he requested for a donation and admittedly I made a
mess of his lab. He had no idea I filled three and one vial remained with me.
Who knew it would ever be useful for me as well!”
 
Ramhorn, mildly disgusted imagining how old the sample was, turned it a glower
as Astrotrainlaughed.
 
“Oh, bitlet. Don’t worry about it being stale: Shockwave’s a very capable
bastard and his tech just plain works. The sample vials are self-vacuum-sealing
once closed. This is as fresh as new, if a bit gelled with the cold ambient
temperature. Getting it warm makes if fluid again. I know. I tried warming the
vial up and it became as fluid as fresh again. It’s actually fascinating.”
 
Ramhorn blinked twice, deciding he didn’t need the mental images Astrotrain was
evoking, finally shaking his head, looking up with a surprised, inquisitive
glare.
 
“My price then, since I’m not going to frag you??” Astrotrain rumbled a deep
laughter “Such a cute little thing? You offend me. I’m not Vortex.”
 
He then observed the towering decepticon with the corner of his optics, as
Astrotrain smiled.
 
“All you have to do is help me get revenge against Skyfire, obviously. I want
that scientist who thinks he’s a shuttle to suffer.”
 
Running a little, evil, slow gear in mind, recalling his carrier was currently
closely associated with Perceptor, who happened to have a feud with Skyfire,
Ramhorn nodded, smirking, raising his right paw as the towering shuttle caught
it between his index and thumb, shaking it.
 
===============================================================================
 
Shaking his head in a negative, Wheeljack actually stared unimpressed at the
disco globe rotating and flaring annoying lights and obnoxious music right
above his head, in the ceiling of the disco-globe’s own private room (that had
previously belonged to Ratchet).
 
“No, it's not working.”
 
Technotor actually growled in disco-globe mode and jumped out of the ceiling,
landing on his feet right before the engineer, looking up.
 
“How come not!!! It works with everyone! It works with Prowl! How can my
mirrors and music not work with you! What’s wrong with you???”
 
Wheeljack, side panels glowing, honestly had no idea, although he had been
asked quite a nice amount of times that same exact question, specially after
every time he had managed to explode himself.
 
“I don’t know. The music and lights just don’t affect me. Sorry for
disappointing you, I guess. In thinking I actually like to rave! Can I help
test something else?”
 
Depressed, Technotor sagged.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sagging, his right door open and actually touching the mainframe-moded
Microtron, seizing the peace of mind, Ratchet tuned his audials to listen to
the far cries of the natives screeching in a language he did not know, the only
word he actually recognised being Mapingüari.
 
Smoke detectors flaring as he knew Shockwave was certainly messily raiding the
fuel site, maybe even killing people, he actually managed to get under a kind
of uneasy recharge, induced by the complete lack of interfacing thoughts and
heat he currently had, unable not to snort recalling that this was precisely
one of the scenarios he had wanted to happen, them three running away together,
when he first thought he had to leave the decepticons.
 
The instant the petrol-dirty, smoke-smelling, stained helicopter landed on the
sand, root-moding and carrying in each hand a handful of crude fuel gallons
with kerosene and regular gasoline, he was unable to keep holding himself and
in an instant there he was, prostrate on his knees and hands, head down, unable
to voice his need.
 
Unaffected, looking down at the medic wanting yet not wanting to touch him,
irradiating heat and guilt, Shockwave deposed both loads of fuel on his sides
on the ground, droning.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I ordered you to not wait me up.”
 
Ratchet nodded, nearly breakingyet determined not to beg, as Shockwave, fully
fuelled, already processing the gallons of kerosene he dumped in his regular
helicopter tanks, dipped his head in a nod.
 
“I suppose in my need to gather fuel for us, I have unfairly forfeited your
synch. Rise up, and expose your port.”
 
Without hesitation, treating it as a proper command and able to open the panel,
he did, as Shockwave, contemplating the white folds on the red background,
actually tilted his head to the right, surprised.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. I was meaning the medical port.”
 
Blinking, feeling instantly stupid and ashamed, he snapped his mostly unused
valve panel closed, hearing it instantly self-lock, letting open the medical
port, as Shockwave took hold of the cortical psychic patch, plugging in.
***** Plug and Play *****
Chapter Summary
     Blaster regrets, The Prime rejoices and Knock-Out gets caught.
Plugging into the underbase’s comm system, Soundwave made sure every single
mecha received the vid feed he faked of Megatron informing everyone that
Shockwave was back on Cybertron with both the autobot slave and Microtron,
under the inquisitive optics of his cassetticons.
 
“Shockwave: escaped with slave and kidnapped Lord Megatron’s other creation. No
one in base is to know, not even sire, until Soundwave can rescue poor
Microtron. Cassetticons: copy?”
 
They nodded, as Ravage, being the oldest creation, just squinted: he did manage
to develop a tiny memory pocked meant for his own private memories and thoughts
to remain, out of carrier’s reach.
 
He was old and wise enough to realise Soundwave’s sometimes less than pure
motifs for doing things, and even though he knew he would always be devout to
his carrier, he made sure to not raise conflict while under their familial
cohort.
 
Knowing Microtron would certainly have a fate similar to Ratbat the moment he
were taken, for a second pondering if it would be fair, in his own partitioned
sector of memory, unavailable to the tapedeck.
 
Afterall, Ratbat had been an evil slaver. Microtron was only a kid.
 
“Mission: recognition. Ravage: must undergo reconnaissance flight with
Laserbeak and Buzzsaw.”
 
Sending wirelessly the approximate coordinates that his own escape pod, stolen
by Shockwave, was currently at, Soundwave kept monotoning in his semi-musical
tonal voice.
 
“Current general location: Brazilian Rainforest, delta of Amazon river.
Triangulating Microtron’s position: of utmost importance. Leave upper cloister
deck now.”
 
He then shifted to the other symbionts.
 
“Rumble, Frenzy: will take care of stationary security cameras. Ratbat: undergo
extensive patrol. Soundwave: has other matters to attend to now. Cohort:
dismissed.”
 
All symbionts finally leaving, Soundwave sagged, pinging his currently
recharging and self-repairing clumsy creation, Menace.
 
Receiving a dejected buzz back, he shook his head in defeat and shame, deciding
that if his next creations were to be just like the little stupid, paranoid,
glitchy insect, he would actively make sure to not get sparked anymore.
 
===============================================================================
 
“I’m not getting sparked anymore.”
 
Blaster spoke to the mirror, repeating it as a mantra, as if repeating it would
make it real.
 
Snorting, he looked down his chest, hands sliding down his frame and bringing
memories up as he contemplated the barely visible red paint transfers on his
red plates, recalling on how in his overcharged haze, deliciously taken with
more force than he thought he would, he underwent a physical overload, and
then, with more than enough energy rotating around his own spark, unable by
frametype not to comply with the tingling urge, opened his chestplates wide and
invitingly to merge.
 
No wonder carrier-hosts were considered shareware back on Cybertron: he himself
was feeling like a very cheap one now.
 
“You’re a greedy little glitch, Blaster, and it bites you up in the aft every
single time.”
 
Hadn’t Ramhorn been enough of a lesson?
 
At least this time he had been sober enough to not forget who did it.
 
That’s it, no more irresponsibly getting sparked, this time he would finally
install the dreaded anti-sparking protocols.
 
Obviously, however, only after the hundreds of years needed to get his newest,
recently generated, orbiting newspark out.
 
He certainly would need spark energy for the next hundred years or so, and had
currently no reliable partner to go for.
 
Smirking, feeling for the orbiting little thing around his own spark, he
pondered about how to convey the news.
 
How was Perceptor going to react to it though, he had no idea however,
recalling that in case the sniper scientist didn’t want to take responsibility
too, he had a Lawyercon on hold.
 
===============================================================================
 
Holding out of reach from the purple cyclops and his protocol-bot, currently
taking Swindle away to their Tower, Judgelaw, the Lawyercon, followed them,
making sure to remain at a safe distance.
 
He needed to get into the tower and reach the Primus-damned Spacebridge,
otherwise he would never get paid!
 
Very glad he no longer had to sparkbond the two glitches, even if he had to
fake being stupid enough to knight them for that, he imagined himself
permanently moving to wherever that carrier-host that hired him, what’s-his-
name (Buster?), and making loads of cash from prosecuting other mecha!
 
Who knows, he might even manage to rescue that con mech Swine (or something
like this) that was screeching to be freed and asked for his call, with
himself.
 
Imagine the Shanix they would make together!
 
Actually rumbling a cackle, then immediately shutting his mouth not to be
discovered, he nodded evilly like only a good Lawyercon could, tip-peding after
them towards Shockwave’s Tower, foggily showing up in the distance.
 
===============================================================================
 
Distant, detached, the kerosene and gasoline-soaked Shockwave actually stared
at his cortical psychic patch, intrigued, as Ratchet, optics very wide,
reigning himself in not to lunge at his master, shook his head, nervously
fidgeting with his hands, not knowing what to do with them.
 
“Shockwave, it’s not working. Why is it not working??”
 
Shockwave, disconnecting himself from the medic, now inspected closely his
cortical psychic patch: it glowed as usual, it looked sound and showed no
visible cracks, so…
 
Actually stalling, the scientist lead a hand to his own visor.
 
His very cracked visor.
 
Remembering how he connected his main hacking tool to work with his visor, and
through it to his systems, he immediately stored the cortical psychic patch
back, leading both hands to the damaged visor now, messily digging his scalpel-
bladed fingertips at the sides.
 
Ratchet, very worried about his current state, momentarily jolted out of his
thoughts with medical protocols flaring, just to glare at Shockwave’s face the
instant a ripping noise filled his audials.
 
“What the fragare you trying to do???”
 
Fresh energon dribbled from the sides of Shockwave’s real optics, visor now
grossly removed and fused sides dribbling fresh energon, as the battlemask
remained fused closed in place, Ratchet unable to stop staring at the
mismatched blue optics and the visible silver scarline from right optic down
into the unseen face.
 
He wanted so bad to touch it.
 
He wanted to immediately fix it, making all the damage and hurt go away.
 
He shrugged the last thought away, for Shockwave wouldn’t care to be comforted
or healed anyway.
 
He then instantly wanted to lick that falling energon, rip out master’s mask
and locate his hidden mouth, invade it with his fingers until he could make
Shockwave suck his highly sensitive plating, EM-field wobbling at the thought.
 
He wanted to plunge the blue lips with his glossa and show his stupid master
how much he had been missing in not letting his mouthplates out.
 
He wanted to whine, prostrate himself and beg for permission to..
 
“Soundwave broke my visor. I should have anticipated the cracks would make it
useless.”
 
Brought out of his interfacing haze by the monotone, Ratchet blinked and
actually whined.
 
“Don’t tell me you won’t be able to synch me.”
 
“I will not be able to synch you.”
 
“I asked to not be told!!!”
 
The medic shook his head, optics turning off as the image of Shockwave’s fuel-
stained self burned his retinae in the back of his optics, the heliformer
wholly ignoring his slave’s conflict, absently glaring down at the cracked,
broken visor, slowly turning it in his hands.
 
Ratchet, now semi-hypnotised back, looking down said pair of black hands, heat
rolling out of his plates, immediately imagined himself kneeling down and
taking them to his face, nuzzling against them, kissing and nibbling at each
single fingertip, literally worshipping them, and...
 
Shockwave, ripping the congealed streaks that dribbled and dried down the sides
of his face, popped his own emergency fuel dump open and just plain started
throwing them in his own tanks, the medic once more jolting back to reality and
gawking at the gory imagery he was being subjected to, as his master faced him
for a full second and droned.
 
“I might be fuelled now, but it is not logical to waste energon in any of its
forms.”
 
And went back to self-fuelling, his hub engines working in processing the crude
fuel into energon, as Ratchet blinked and felt for the heat emanating from the
heliformer, mingling with his own heat, immediately unable to keep holding it
anymore.
 
===============================================================================
 
He couldn’t hold it anymore.
 
Crashing down with the deepest, strongest overload he ever had in all the
millennia since he bonded that glitch, Optimus Prime literally melted down,
both knees up in each of his bodyguard’s shoulders, the blunt, scratched,
charged fingers working their way into his transformation seams, grounding him
by his hips and finally filling him with the unadorned, just plain thick and
fully pressurized and slightly bent up spike, hips rolling to meet all possible
nodes and maximise their contact, Ironhide’s mouthplates never leaving his
neck-cables as he was taken like a turbofox in heat against the corn field, on
the ground.
 
Completely understanding why Blaster managed to continuously get sparked, for
Ironhide was just that damn good, he instantly received the unwelcome ping of
the Matrix requesting to be let out in the open.
 
Pushed out of his bliss for a second, he looked down his chest, snapping.
 
“Who commands who here? Who??? Tell me!”
 
As the Matrix whined, getting properly overridden by a real Prime, and Ironhide
whispered You, and only you, my Prime, Optimus most definitely crashed into a
second, prolonged overload now, finally his guardian growling against his
audials and finishing himself into the thirsty, greedy valve, the Prime’s
newest mate of choicewholly approved by theMatrix pulsing in his chest.

===============================================================================
 
Decepticon Matrixpulsing in his chest, warped and greedy, Shockwave barely
noticed the instant he was attacked.
 
Currently crashed on his back, sand caking on his oily seams and stained
surfaces, rotor hub digging in the sand with the weight of his heavily armoured
frame, paddles going bent with the impact, Shockwave actually glared down at
his slave, a tilt in his head, the autobot having migrated to between his legs,
currently sitting on his own knees and pining his master down in the ground
with one red hand by each side of the white hips.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. You are depicting inappropriate behaviour.”
 
The interface-driven Ratchet, reasonably reigning himself in despite the
situation, took his own mental notes of the fact that despite apparently
complaining, so far Shockwave made absolutely no move to remove him from where
he was or to make him stop, finally resting one hand in each of the
heliformer’s thighs, slowly spreading them apart with a smirk.
 
Unafraid and unworried, the decepticon activated his medical sensors, systems
running at 95% percent efficiency and processing fuels for his creation,
dipping his head in a detached nod, actually impressed at the self-control the
medic was depicting, as comprehension kicked in.
 
Due to his now useless cortical psychic patch, the Chief Medical Officer had
not been synced before the time limit, and thus the interfacing protocols were
activated in full force, waiting to be soothed by the master’s will and
command.
 
Detachedly letting his legs part, then, deciding he required the medic to
remain useful and sane, not to mention they had no fuels to spare with
frivolities like foreplay, Shockwave just plain snapped the autobot panel open,
exposing the blue bi-folded port and droning a single warning.
 
“If Microtron comes out of recharge you will stop.”
 
At that Ratchet fleeted a glance at the marooned mechling apparently recharging
in mainframe mode, biolights off, out of reach and far from sight, snorting.
 
“You, master, worriedby the possibility of him seeing us?”
 
Shockwave, unfazed by irony, merely lead a lazy fingertip towards the blue
upper node, pressing slowly against it until it glowed, then sliding his middle
finger between the folds, as Ratchet jolted his optics to the scene and
swallowed very dry at the finger burying itself inside the now biolight-glowing
valve, the first droplets of pre-transfluid coming from his slotted interface
cable, locked behind his plates.
 
“I am willing to indulge your need and I strongly advise against attempting to
provoke me, for it will yield no favourable results: You are running out of
time, Chief Medical Officer.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Running out of time and space, the Chief Medical OfficerHook sagged in relief
once he was off the washracks, fuel topped, scratches and paint transfers
buffed out, and not a single molecule of Starscream up on his shell.
 
Off with the physical evidence, now onto locking then erasing medical files
away!
 
If Hook did it right he might only need Soundwave to make the spark memory go
away for good, and then, only then, he would be able to return to his bonded
and his gestalt.
 
Thinking of them, now he wasn’t that desperate to get rid of evidence anymore,
his mates didn’t call him a single time since he left to his leisurely high-
grade sloshing time, and it wasn’t like them to send nothing at all.
 
Shooing the bad impression away, actually believing this time it had been a
blessing in disguise, for he would have no face to meet them right now, he
nearly jumped out of his plates the instant his room’s door whirred open,
slowly turning on his back to see…
 
“Commander?”
 
Stepping inside as he recalled a datacable on his back, Soundwave stepped
close, inspecting the room, as Hook, unblinking, fidgeted with his hands,
nervousness rolling out of his plates.
 
“Hook: needing help?”
 
Releasing an in-venting he wasn’t aware he was holding, he nodded, instantly
prostrating himself on Soundwave’s feet, letting out everything that happened
and on how he had no idea how to rectify things with his gestaltmates, for he
truly didn’t want to upset Scrapper and…
 
Stopping deadly mute as Soundwave raised a hand up asking for silence, Hook
glared at the datacable slowly flailing out of the tapedeck’s back, as
Soundwave monotoned.
 
“Soundwave: can offer erasure and relief of guilt. Hook: will be indebted with
a single, easy task, nothing Hook hadn’t already provided to my ever growing
cohortin the past.”
 
Nodding and agreeing, opening up his main medical dataport, Hook, acquiescent,
felt the datacable probe and approach his connection, feelers crawling in and
mind instantly going dark.
 
===============================================================================
 
Darkness engulfing her, sparkspinning down aswarnings filled her systems,
Elita-1 had no time to brake or avoid the fall.
 
Having been running nearly blinded with rage through a shortcut gladly provided
by Google Maps, she never knew she would befall so low.
 
Or so deep.
 
As her Honda Civic SI 2.5 mode rotated down the sudden cave-in and she
transformed, cursing the complete absence of a flight mode in her autobot
frame, ancient, thick cobwebs were dragged down altogether with the fall, and
the sound of millions of scurrying little legs crawled over her frame, her pink
plates going down the hole and disappearing into the dark fog.
 
===============================================================================
 
Fogged dark, visor blinking on, mask closing in place, First Aid slowly awoke
and even slower, extracted himself away from under Blades’ heavy, possessive
arms, doing his best not to awake his bonded.
 
The chopter, now on his front, face muffled down the mesh to all effects
looking like a sprawled starfish with paddles, alone in the berth, rotated his
hub and his rotor blades slowly, as First Aid contemplated his bonded with a
warm dark royal blue tint to his visor.
 
No matter how much he loved the heliformer, sometimes too much was too much,
and he ought to reopen the medbay, at least partially, sometime.
 
Immediately recalling that Red Alert had been brought earlier by Inferno,
knowing the details of his condition, he felt obliged to ring a comm.
 
===============================================================================
 
Comm line ringing, Knock-Out braked, putting a halt to his persecution of the
two brides, getting nearly rammed in the back by Hot-Rod, following up close
and yelping as he braked to avoid collision.
 
“Watch out!!”
 
Ignoring his loud, obnoxious racing companion, Knock-Out actually root-moded
and strutting his hip to the left, answered it while checking on his
fingertips.
 
“Knock-Out, Fashion Mods and Body Shop, speaking.”
 
He rolled his optics up, as Hot-Rod root-moded too, approaching and managing to
listen to the apparently despairing con-mech screeching on the background.
 
“Swindle, ray of sunshine. How much I hate hearing you again.”
 
Knock-Out snorted.
 
“Arrested? By Shockwave and his drone in his Tower? I told you all those
illegal things you sell would eventually get you locked up. Were you really
stupid enough to waste your only call with me?”
 
Hot-Rod sharpened his audials then, inching his face closer as Knock-Out kept
speaking and gesticulating.
 
“Please. Swindle, you don’t have any friends! Why don’t you try bribing your
own team or something to get out for a change?”
 
Knock out actually growled then.
 
“So Vortex had his spike and valve ripped apart and in pieces by Shockwave. It
must have been deserved. You thinking they might help you out of Shockwave’s
Tower if you help the fragger? I’m impressed. You are actually managing to
grasp the concept of teamwork. At least partially.”
 
Hot-Rod then poked Knock-Out, getting his hand swatted at as the red racer
still spoke.
 
“Listen. Don’t call me again. I don’t want to know. What part of I’m not
interested in being part of your slag anymore did you not understand?”
 
Hot-Rod poked Knock-Out, this time a bit more urgently, as Knock-Out ignored
him completely, screeching against the comm.
 
“And who in this forsaken planet would force me into cooperating with you and
your disgusting team?”
 
As soon as he proffered these words they were surrounded by three distinct
transformation sounds, stalling rotor blades and a tank and a 4x4’s engines
following suite, as Knock-Out and Hot-Rod, standing up, back to back, ready to
fight, heard with dread Onslaught’s rumbling laughter filling the Emptiness
around.
 
===============================================================================
 
Emptiness all around, coming to a halt and stopping to run, Nautica and
Firestar huddled together, fancy mods being the only source of light all
around, the wails of half-dead banshees echoing in the dark.
 
Plating on her back raising at the unnatural sound, Nautica was currently very
worried at knowing nothing on this particular planet and missing Caminus, as
Firestar was completely terrified, precisely because she knew enough.
 
“Where are we?”
 
Placing a hand at her amica's mouth-plates, Firestar made a sign asking for
silence, pointing at the half-demolished portal in the distance from where the
sounds came, an ancient fallen sign in the road reading Polyhex.
***** We ain’t in Polyhex anymore *****
Chapter Summary
     Soundwave plots, Ratchet theorises, Starscream thinks he's smart, and
     Scavenger tracks.
He wasn’t in Polyhex anymore.

And for that Soundwave felt truly glad.

Having previously come to his own quarters to rest from his newest hacking job
on Hook, Soundwave, just awoken from a flux from his own ancient memory banks,
literally deleted the memory file of the flux away, shaking his head.

He would never go back there. None of his creations would have to go through
what he did.

Much like Vos belonged to the fliers and seekers, Tarn was home to heavy-duty
and workload frames and Praxus had the doorwinged grounders, he recalled
bitterly how communication-oriented tentacled mecha, from a single appendix to
multiple ones, populated Polyhex back in his time there, in the time before.

Shooing away the memories of citizens succumbing to madness once their rumbling
tanks ran Emptyand they started turning to frame and fluid’s cannibalisation
for survival, effectively turning his home-city into part of the wastelands and
permanently associating the tentacled mecha with sparkeaters, processed-
energon-suckers, and all sorts of mythological demons, Soundwave couldn’t help
snorting at the sheer irony of the combination of the multiple-tentacled
Microtron sharing his CNA, with Shockwave mimicking his own spark frequency,
and thus, together, both having managed to steer the pod away to escape.

Checking his systems and for an instant remembering the three datacables that
had remained after Shockwave’s escape, mourning his fourth one, he growled,
glad Scrapper had properly provided its amputation and only his own spark-
memory of it remained, absolutely no phantom-limb feeling left in his neural
net.

Very aware that only the Constructicons currently knew Shockwave was being
chased, having managed to keep five out of six of them under his direct
control, locked inside their own bay, he immediately flailed his three
datacables out and latched them on the underbase’s systems, very intent in
locating Scavenger: the stupid lug was the only one left that could ruin up his
plans for good.

===============================================================================

“Good riddance to you!”

Swindle spat from behind bars as the drone First took away his comm, ignoring
the salesmech’s tantrum: as far as he understood, his teammates had managed to
catch on to the underground body modder doctorKnock-Out, and basically that
meant they would be too busy getting to fixVortex, most probably leaving poor
Swindle to rust in his cage, locked away for a long while.

Sulking to himself and starting to take account of his recent financial losses,
he couldn’t help jolting out of place the instant a pitch black mech with
burning red optics, a black mesh toga over his shoulders and a frilly white wig
atop his head lounged from outside his cage against the energon bars.

“Hello, Swine. Needing help?”

Swindle, groaning, never raising his head off the account’s datapad, snapped.

“It’s Swindle! Primus, don’t call me that, it might give my customers a bad
impression!”

The instant Swindle actually looked up, widening his optics to a slight purple
rim, he slowly took on the mech’s upper-class attire, sight lingering on his
large shoulder-blades adorned by the black toga, chestplates marked by the
Quintessons’Juridical Caste’s brand, and as recognition kicked in, immediately,
interest picked, almost fanned himself: the Lawyercon, unaffected, side-
smirked, his immaculate white dental plates shining in a killer smile.

“Whatever-your-name then. Looks like we both have customers we need to keep up
to. My name is Judgelaw, I’m the last Lawyercon, and we could make a sweet
deal. I free you off the cage, and you open up the Spacebridge for me to reach
the autobots on Earth. What do you think of it?”

Swindle, shaken back to reality, snorted and blurted a cackle.

“If I had it, do you think I’d be locked up now? That screen-faced drone took
my comms and my remote control away!”

===============================================================================

All controlhaving been remotely taken away, inhaling the smell of the wet sand
and the brine, so familiar down the underbase and on this beachside, added to
the kerosen and gas, the scent of the pinkish lubricants hitting his sensors
full force, optics going nearly glassy and warmth pooling down his plates,
Ratchet focused into the black finger buried into the glistening folds,
pondering on how slagged he would be if the little cannibal really awoke, until
Primus-knew-when he would decide to get under recharge again and Shockwave
might allow him to proceed once more, deciding he could for once let the snark
go.

“As you command,master.”

And dipped his face to the right, parting his mouthpiece with a slack glossa
and tracing a long and slow strip of a lick at the inside of Shockwave’s left
thigh.

Shockwave, following with his optics the medic’s motion, not a stir showing in
his frame, slowly inserted both the right index and his middle finger into the
blue folded valve, twisting his hand and crooking both fingers up in a hook,
pressing against his upper sensors, a single cooling fan clicking on.

“Do not bother. Foreplay is wasted on me.”

The flat vocoded voice droned, stating matter-of-factly, as the glassy opticed
Ratchet stared hypnotised at the moment when Shockwave removed his fingers out
of the wet folds, sliding them up slowly into the glowing upper sensor and
keeping their way up into his abdominal plates, gliding over his chain and
hook, idly tracing his chestplate glass, finally reaching the base of his neck
fuel intake, popping its lid open and actually filling them in and twisting
both slowly, optics flaring almost white for a second.

“As you can see, I am sufficiently lubricated.”

Hypnotised as the black fingers came out of the fuel intake smeared with
kerosen, Ratchet swallowed dry for a second, his regular ambulance tanks
rumbling once, then blinking back to reality, now looking at his master’s
expressionless and unblinking optics, Ratchet smirked, teasing.

“Are you calling my attentionswaste? Do you want me to stop?”

In one single, brutish move, moving his lubricant and kerosene stained hand and
fingers against the ground and gripping on brine-soaked sand, Shockwave raised
his left leg up on his slave’s right shoulder, letting it weight down for a
click, the medic nearly buckling under the sudden drop of mass, bracing himself
not to fall.

“Is my creation awake?”

Ratchet, adjusting his hydraulics to hold the weight, glanced at the immobile
mainframe far from sight, shaking his head.

“Then you will not stop, Chief Medical Officer.”

Contemplating the massive split tail rotor slowly rotating within its socket at
the foot, Ratchet dipped his head down in a nod and then deliberately, slowly
licked his way towards the hip joint, reaching the edge of the ventral plating
where he placed a sinfully long stripe at the exposed articulation underneath
three visible layers of plating, noticing the black and blue undertones of what
could only be the original covering of Strongarm’s leg.

“No wonder you have very few feeling. There’s armour enough to shield a small
tank here and I can’t even imagine how you still manage to fly, master.”

Shockwave nodded, uncaring to be considered heavy, unaffected by irony, charge
crackling, heat giving off his frame as his systems overflowed with processed
energon in storage, droning.

“Helicopters are supposed to maintain vertical flight and haul cargo sometimes
apparently excessive to their structure and the main and tail rotors are
calibrated to the added weight; I took my medical rescue helicopter model EC130
from a from a military facility. Strongarm’s shell was chosen on purpose to
withstand a set of variables including height, weight, base strength, and
obviously, a main neural net capable of withstanding a battle computer as
powerful as the one in Commander Officer Prowl, or in my specific case, the
addition of two medical processors working in parallel. It gave me a superior
processing power 86% more efficient than Strongarm’s upper neural net could
previously achieve without resorting to the temporary trick of system
overclock, which admittedly would force me to remain locked in cooled up rooms,
which would just not be either practical or logical.”

Rolling his optics at the endless speech, Ratchet suddenly bit on the less
protected area of the exposed strut, holding the plating between his dentae and
smirking like a lazy cybercat, as Shockwave instantly stopped speaking, EM
field flaring for the duration of a second, quickly returning to default
levels, no outward reaction except tilting his head right almost in bovine
passivity, inexpressive mismatched optics boring into the medic’s own.

“I expect your reasons for biting me are logical.”

“Sorry, master.” said the sniggering, clearly not-sorry medic “I was just
testing a little theory.”

Actually blinking, now two cooling fans clicking on, Shockwave had to make an
actual effort not to let his EM-field loose at the mention of a theory being
tested, tilting his head down, optics now glowing dark royal-blue.

“And what would that theory be, Chief Medical Officer? Do you have the
calculations for the variables involved?”

Nibbling lightly the same plating and this time earning himself absolutely no
reaction, Ratchet actually nuzzled his face and nose against it, optics
offline, whispering.

“The nis completely representative, and the p amounts to less than 0.0001.”

Dipping his head in a visibly awednod, Shockwave actually revved his engines
out loud, rotor hub (buried in the sand) unable to move, giving off heat in
large waves and stalling noisily, as Ratchet basked in the heavy, heady gravity
pulling him closer, optics going dim, his own electromagnetic field replying.

“Theorise for me then, Chief Medical Officer.”

Shockwave let the weight of his leg go, Ratchet instantly bracing himself under
the heavily armoured underside of his master’s left knee weighting down on his
shoulder and pulling him down through gravity alone, his hydraulics nearly
failing, cooling fans fully clicking on, a very lopsided grin in his face.

“Start taking notes then, master. I intend to be very thorough.”

And succumbed under the weight, meeting the blue folds with a slow, prolonged,
vosian kiss, glossa plunging in and charge immediately peaking between both,
the heavyweight leg reflexively, instantly, locking around the medic’s neck,
Shockwave’s neck arching back, hands gripping against the sand on the ground as
if his life depended on it.

===============================================================================

Gripping against the ground as if her life depended on it, Elita-1, having lost
track of time, optics onlining instantly as heat crept up her pink plates,
unable to stand up, stared up into the dark of the cave-in she fell into,
completely alone.

Except for those fragging insects surrounding her, that is.

Most definitely, the instant she managed to get out and return to base she was
going to give Optimus fragging Primea piece of her mind!

Quickly running diagnostics and receiving a myriad of errors from her many
turned-off systems, unable to track on the oil or even the fuel of her alt-
mode, minutely aware of all the dents and twists and cracks in her armour and
struts, paralysed from the waist down, she snorted the instant she knew her
best chance of being rescued lied on The Prime,as sparkbonded, actually wanting
to locate her.

Attempting to revert to alt-mode in hope of getting to use her tires to move,
her parts shifted awkwardly and actually got into a shape.

Just not the shape she was accustomed to.

===============================================================================

Accustomed to shaping and controlling his life’s events to the T, Soundwave
currently stood annoyed at how he apparently was wholly unable to track
Scavenger.

Sending a message through Scrappervia their gestalt bond yielded no results: so
far there had been no reply.

Not even summoning Mixmaster and latching his three leftover cables into the
chemist’s head, using his own shell and spark-connection to ping for
Scavenger’s current location, worked.

One way of avoiding detection was to purposefully block the sparkbond.

The other two sure-proof ways were, either the scout was too far away, or
unlike all expectations, he was only gestalt-bonded, not truly sparkbonded to
the chemist, and that left Soundwave at a loss.

Mixmaster had even thrown a major tantrum forbidding Scavenger of donating
transfluid to Shockwave’s experiments back on Cybertron once he found out
Shockwave had a habit of aiding the constructicon.

Obviously, the constructicons complained directly to Megatron, who in turn went
after Shockwave, who happened to have very logical reasons for providing said
aid, namely the scientific need to keep the samples as sterile as possible.

As such, Soundwave, always interceding in favour of the purple cyclops, to keep
his main source of sparkmerging for the sake of his own tapelings and
creations, once more did, and with no more than a warning to his scientist,
their Lord finally let it go.

Shaking his head, Soundwave facepalmed, not believing his lack of luck.

After all the ruckus Mixmaster provoked, it seemed so obvious the insane cement
mixer had to be personally sparkbonded to the stupid lug!
 
How did Scavenger manage to keep this kind of secrets from The Master of the
Spy Net?

It was more than obvious that Shockwave must have shielded his mind from
probing, somehow, afterall.

Groaning, considering the tapedeck had never truly cared enough for the
materials-retriever, to keep a full watch on him, despite the obvious
preference he had always had towards Shockwave, Soundwave decided it was no use
being mad now, and visor dim, could only hope his creations would be aware of
Microtron’s whereabouts anytime soon.

===============================================================================

Dimly aware that anytime Microtron would wake upand come to his whereabouts,
Shockwave, half-lost in the drowsing physical sensations his autobot port could
provide, having separated half his processing power to analyse and chart the
event, lazily rested his left hand atop Ratchet’s head, tracing the back of his
helm and wholly approvingthe medic’s way of delivering lip-service to a thesis,
almost letting himself go...

… suddenly shifting his hand into a punishing grip on Ratchet’s right shoulder,
instantly pulling him up and away from the fluttering, nearly overloading
valve, bringing the medic’s face to his battlemask, black right hand sliding
down towards the front of the red interface array, a fingertip reaching the
lateral seam and manually unlocking it, then literally grabbing the panel in a
vice grip, droning.

“You passed your thesis with honours but you still need to submittheabstract
into analysis.”

Not missing the faintly glowing lubricants shining up on his slave’s slowly
smirking lips and chin, he had no time to react before he was literally flipped
onto his front, optics going offline as the right side of his mask hit the
ground, elbows digging on the sand, having each of the bent paddles roughly
removed and thrown away, instantly feeling for the medic’s thighs invading the
space between his legs and forcing his knees apart, the weight of Ratchet’s
large windshield bumping against his rotor hub, followed by a click and the
feeling of the red and white interface cablepressurising and drippingagainst
his aft as a close, heated whisper reached the back of his neck.

“Is the Cybertronian Medical Board acceptable for publishing on the back-
cover?”

Shockwave’s only hazy, ready response was to strut and roll his hips up, knees
down on the sand now, EM-field let loose and large, his blue folds meeting the
underside of the medic’s spike with a full, slow slide, shuddering as he was
instantly filled from behind in a single move, all sensors flaring to life at
once into the perfectly mirrored valve.

Were he still the pre-Empurata Shockwave he would be feeling disgusted at this
function the Council instituted to all females, so that they would never truly
stray.

As it was however, hips gripped by the medic’s red, abused hands as he
mechanically pounded without mercy against his folds, each motion making his
mismatched optics minutely flare white, Shockwave, absolutely not caring as
long as this function just plain worked, finally let his control go, slipping
under a thrumming, rumbling overload as his back arched against the medic’s
front and his legs slowly gave in, sitting on his own pedes as electricity
passed in large crackles through their entwined frames, spreading in a radius
around them.

Feeling for the rippling contractions of the autobot panel hungrily directing
the valve’s sucking motion in, Ratchet moved his right hand down his master’s
exposed port to press on the glowing non-pressurising upper node, left hand
moving up to grip against the protruding chestplate’s cockpit glass, face
burying against the decepticon’s neck, hips jerking one, two, three…

===============================================================================

One, two, three...

Starscream, hiding behind a column down the grunt’s sector, sighed, watching
the personality-shifting Blitzwing slowly pass by (heatedly discussing with
himself and himself!) without noticing him, having so far successfully remained
out of everyone else’s sight until he could safely reach one of the public
washracks.

Afterall, his two idiotic trinemates were still in his room, but even if they
weren’t locked, it obviously wouldn’t do to demand them open the door while he
retained all those unsightly lime green paint and purple paint transfers
littering his frame.

Having practice in keeping thoughts hidden from his trinebond and from
Soundwave, he knew he would be fine, as long as he had managed to make all the
transfluid and the paint scratches go.

As he made sure Blitzwing had really gone, the seeker hastily got into the
public showers, immediately turning on the seawater-plus-solvent spray and
swiftly letting his port out in the open, draining all the phosphorescent-
green-tinted fluid away as it swirled down the grater and he couldn’t hide a
semi-disgusted snigger, hips strutting up and hands aiding for the cleaning
solution to slide in and take the evidenceout.

Starscream did quick work of the paint transfers, literally shaking the solvent
out of his frame like a cyberwolf would to his fleas, then thumped out of the
public washracks, feeling victorious and smug at having sneaked in and out
unseen, a smirk in his plates.

Now, to his dearest trinemates: he was dying to get his petty revenge, and
could barely contain himself in place.

===============================================================================

Barely containing himself in place, Scavenger, just out of the tunnel he opened
underwater, walking away from the ocean, full of seaweed hung on his shovel,
seawater dripping from his frame, nodded to himself, feeling smug and
victorious!

Having been the one responsible for gathering the materials in Commander
Shockwave’s cortical psychic patch, he knew precisely how to track him, as long
as he still had the patch, adjusting his mineral sensors to find precisely this
particular combination.

As soon as the beacon for the location of the one and only cortical psychic
patch on Earth came to his mind in his 3D-layered underground and surface map,
he made sure to come by the fastest he could.

His favourite commander was somewhere very close now, and he could barely wait
to meet him again at last!

As such, checking up on his coordinate system for the cortical psychic patch,
he immediately jolted his visor and mask to the right, intent in running
towards the commander, being instead blinded by a shimmering, violent source of
light.

Protecting his face from the pulsing source, he adjusted his visor to focus on
the exposed thing coming out of Shockwave’s chest and glowing white,
unbelieving his optic system as the surroundings became clear.

His favourite commander was getting attacked and it was his duty to help!

Immediately angry, he lunged against the duo, hands balled into fists and ready
to attack.

===============================================================================

Hands balled into fists and ready to attack, Starscream viciously punched the
door of his own quarters.

Deciding he had shielded his mind and thoughts enough, all he had to do now to
hide his cheatingwas acting in rightful indignation with loads of screeching,
guilty-tripping his trine.

It always did the trick against them, afterall.

Inside, Thundercracker came out of recharge immediately and groaned as the
screeches sept through the door, fleeting a glance at his purple, peacefully
recharging companion, listening.

“I’m the leader of this trine and I deserve respect! You’ve been there for too
long! I’ll shriek and pound against this door until your audials burst and your
internals collapse in a blubbering mass and you’ll get to grovel beneath my
feet for forgiveness for millennia to come! How dare you two lock me out and
away!!! I’m the Prince of Vos! I’m…!”

The door instantly hung open, as Thundercracker flung his hand right over
Starscream’s trap, growling and visually scooping his frame.

“Skywarp. Is. Recharging.”

And pulled Starscream in, locking the door and lunging the obnoxious seeker
against the wall with a thud.

“Hmmmpf.” the dark-faced seeker snorted, nose-up and being the smallest of his
trine, glared up “And I bet the warping fool is tired of all the attention you
gave him, when you should be giving it to me.”

Thundercracker squinted, EM-field flaring large once, then rose his left hand
to Starscream’s neck, optics crimson, spatting.

“At least I had been with my own trinemate.”

Scrapping his right index’s claw on the seeker’s own lip-plates as Starscream
hissed and threatened a bite against it, Thundercracker raised his finger up to
Starscream’s optics.

“And you, Screamer, where had you been all this time?”

Optics widening slowly at the phosphorescent-green paint chip tinting the tip
of Thundercracker’s fingertip, Starscream, grimacing as he braced himself for
the worst,EM-field shrinking in dismay, led his right hand to his own lips, in
a light touch.

===============================================================================

Light touching the edges of his view, mid-overload, Shockwave, chestplates open
wide and decepticon matrix jolted to the outside, EM-field rolling out of his
plating in waves, felt for the heat and light coming from the medic on his
back, his parasite whining at their current placement.

Cease meddling with my frame. I do not aim to merge. You are being distracting.

Solus Prime, in her momentary élan vital, renewed by the overload, snorted and
just because she could, managed once more to disrupt her host’s control and
advanced locks, rotating the jolting mechanism and now exposing the bluish
spark to the air, in hopes of a sparkmerge.

She didn’t like in the least being scolded by that non-Prime, afterall.

Were he a proper Prime, he would have known that this was her frame as much as
his and that he needed to learn to compromise!

Sending a zap of electric charge to her host’s own sparkchamber, she brought
forth what Shockwave could only define as a spark overload, his back jerking
involuntarily, electric energon crackles spreading through the white shell and
his own spark thrumming with excess energy, all his upper processors
connections immediately shutting down, the only thing preventing him of
collapsing down right away being Ratchet’s right hand currently vice-gripping
right under the protruding cockpit, the left one keeping their hips joined as
his transfluid tank finished emptying itself into the blue folds.

Hoping to have sent the message across, Solus Prime drifted out as well, as
Ratchet, his own chestplate open, facing the rotor hub, spark-light coming
through the narrow space between the two shells, face buried against the left
side of Shockwave’s neck, lost in overload, was wholly unable to help getting
snatched out of master’s back.

Dimly aware of his surroundings, chestplaces and interface-panels closing
immediately as safety measure, Ratchet felt all conscious motor control leave
his frame under his fading optics, last image reaching his retinal scanners
being that of the fading spark-light as a lime-green and purple decepticon
rushed to cradle the now slumped, offline heliformer, Shockwave’s chestplates
closing under the starry sky.
***** My God. It's full of stars! *****
Chapter Summary
     Shockwave gets help, Microtron wants to make science, Optimus does-
     not-want, and Scavenger does his best to impress.
Under the starry sky, Scavenger lightly patted on Shockwave’s battlemask.
 
“Commander? Commander? Commander Shockwave?”
 
Cradling him against his chest, knelt down on his own pedes, the constructicon
turned a glower to the fallen Ratchet, torn between ripping the other’s
internals and keeping the offed heliformer in arms, the instant a pair of
mismatched, expressionless blue optics flickered and bore into him.
 
“Constructicon Scout Scavenger.”
 
Instantly cradling Shockwave’s face against his own, mask to battlemask,
Scavenger nuzzled against him.
 
“I was returning from gathering materials to build Starscream’s Yellow
Submarine and then Scrapper pinged me asking for me to return to base because
CommanderSoundwave was requesting your capture, then Mixytried pinging me for
the gestalt bond and I decided not to reply before I got to you, and I wondered
if there was anything I could do for you since you are the best commander
and...”
 
Scavenger kept talking as he held his favourite commander way too tightly until
the cold vocoded voice droned.
 
“Constructicon Scout Scavenger. It is not logical to crush me.”
 
Loosening his grip, Scavenger mumbled one sorry, as Shockwave unsubspaced his
broken visor, the constructicon fleeting his own optic band to it like a moth
to flame, his HUD immediately starting to analyse the combination of materials
within it.
 
“Soundwave broke my visor and I require that you retrieve me an adequate
substitute that can receive a direct connection with my cortical psychic
patch.”
 
Scavenger, taking a hand towards his favourite commander’s face and mask,
briefly traced the previously fused sides where the broken visor used to be.
 
“What happened, commander?”
 
Shockwave glared with the expressionless optics and dipped his head in a nod.
 
“Soundwave, as you know, usually turns a blind optic to my rendezvous and faux
pas, except when it finally meant endangering his position with Lord Megatron,
which is very logical and I do comprehend: however, he intends to reframe my
creation into one of his own cassetticons, like he did to Ratbat and I cannot
allow it to happen.”
 
Scavenger nodded, recalling how the ex-senator was converted and erased, as
Shockwave continued.
 
“Which is why the new visor is a very urgent need: without the use of my
cortical psychic patch I am little better than a lab assistant and nurse,and
I’ll need it to properly escape Soundwave’s grasp.”
 
Scavenger nodded and briefly saluted, his optic band going glassy as he pulled
to the forefront of his mind the list of materials for the cortical psychic
patch as well and compared the compound substances of the visor that were
chemically compatible with the patch, the scientist still droning.
 
“The Chief Medical Officer, Microtron and I shall be on the move as soon as you
leave to retrieve it, and I expect you will be able to track my position,
wherever I leave to.”
 
Scavenger nodded, then stood up and helped bring Shockwave to his feet, glaring
down at the unsightly red paint transfers and taking a slow glower at the
closed, transfluid-stained white interface panel, turning his optic band to the
slumped out medic.
 
“Do you want me to take care of the slave that was attacking you, Commander?”
 
Shockwave, EM-field flat, tilted his head to the right, briefly analysing the
offlined Ratchet and giving an evasive reply.
 
“Do not bother. The Chief Medical Officer is physically incapable of hurting me
or my creation. I am not bodily harmed.”
 
In a calculated move, then, fleeting a side glance to check if Microtron was
still recharging, Shockwave looked up at the constructicon, raising a hand to
his mask.
 
“Know that I always prized your precise retrieving abilities and your
spontaneous willingness to serve. Do not fail me, Scavenger: I may even reward
you later.”
 
Scavenger, insanely proud, beamed and leaned against the proffered hand, almost
purring in delight, head tilted to the right, visual band going offline as his
processors tracked for compatible visors located worldwide, as the
constructicon quietly nodded.
 
Commander Shockwave specifically requested for his special abilities and it was
his duty to help!
 
===============================================================================
 
It was his duty to help.
 
A semi-truck and his guardian braked nearby the sinkhole where they had managed
to track the location of the Prime’s sparkbonded.
 
Did he want to help?
 
Root-moding and showing off unsightly red paint transfers all over his
windshield, and black scrapes on his aft, Optimus Prime stared down to the
darkness, sighing, as Ironhide, bluish-like streaks similarly littering his
frame, scooted close.
 
“Do we really have to get her out?”
 
“Ironhide...”
 
“Just imagine it. We could schedule for mecha to come here and drop energon
cubes to her. She would remain alive. Just like a caged, exquisite, poisonous
thing. But alive. And getting visitors. Maybe they would even be willing to pay
for the right to take pictures.”
 
For a second Optimus almost smiled, entertaining the notion of Elita-1 in a
kind of zoo, getting stared at as a rare specimen, namely a female
cybertronian, with himself and Ironhide throwing energon chips for her to fuel
with and taking pictures of her with Reflector, as instantly the Prime shooed
the mental image away.
 
Autobots weren’t supposed to think things like that.
 
Giving Ironhide the look, then, Optimus spoke.
 
“We are getting her out of there. No matter how much I wanted to see Elita-1 go
away for good, I am still the Prime and supposed to care.” Said Optimus,
sighing and observing from afar.
 
===============================================================================
 
Observing from afar Scavenger disappear in a bubbling sinkhole at the wet sand,
under the watchful optics of carrier, Microtron, all biolights off but not
recharging, was pissed.
 
Once he mainframe-moded, his sensors were focused into the datacable’s feelers
and his optic was in a fixed position, greatly limiting his ability to see what
was happening around, as such he indeed dropped into a light recharge, that
lasted until the medicleft his side,when carrier returned with crude fuel.
 
Out of nothing, then, carrier explained how and why helicopters fly, and as far
as he understood, from his far away position, the medic gave carriera
scientific thesis to be posted into the backcover of the Cybertronian Medical
Board’sjournals, but the papers still have to be submitted into analysis and
what the well it had to do with an attack anyway, and why was Scavenger so
mad??
 
Maybe the constructicon wanted to publish his own thesis too?
 
Confused and angry, EM-field now flaring in pulses, Microtron didn’t even
notice the instant Shockwave approached.
 
“Microtron. I have freshly processed energon for you. I am properly fuelled
above 80% and I can now indulge your very logical needs.”
 
No reply: Shockwave, standing rigidly besides the mainframe-moded mechling,
flared his hand sensors open and scanned him, droning.
 
“You are not under recharge. Cease pretending.”
 
Instantly root-moding and cycling the closed optic lens wide open, he flailed a
single datacable out and repeatedly poked carrier’s chestplate, red optic
glowing dark crimson.
 
“You ordered me out of sight so you could make science without me!! It’s not
fair! I can never have any fun! I want to make science too!”
 
Realisation kicking in, Shockwave opened the purple interface panel and took
from jack his modified reverse-fuelling energon line out, briefly waving it
before the red giant optic of his creation, deflecting the subject.
 
“You are not ready yet to make science. In any of its forms.”
 
Still pissed but also hungry, Microtron followed the moving hand right and left
with his optic, almost wobbling, finally whispering.
 
“When will I be?”
 
“Do not worry about it now.” not sure if he meant science or Science, Shockwave
slowly led his left hand to his kid’s emergency fuel dump, poking it twice “You
are running on 41% fuels and shall have a full ration of processed energon,
since I have no cubes available and your alt-mode cannot process crude oil or
aviation kerosene like mine.”
 
Cycling his optic closed, he let his tanks open as carrier plugged in, starting
the meal time, systems accusing the positive flow of energy-rich energon, his
EM-field wobbling as he flailed three datacables out to hold himself standing
up against Shockwave’s waist, the heliformer finally sitting on the dry sand
and pulling his creation on his lap.
 
“Eww. It tastes funny.”
 
Dipping his head down and meeting the giant, glassy optic, Shockwave nodded.
 
“Aviation kerosene leaves residues on my systems and on my own processed
energon. Not good for long therm survival but it will have to do for now. Do
not purge: we cannot afford to waste anything.”
 
Microtron nodded, making himself comfortable, optic cycling closed, nearly
purring as four datacables circled around carrier’s waist; Shockwave, logically
missing his hacking tool, had no option but to indulge his creation since he
couldn’t force him into recharge anymore, and actually brought him closer,
absently caressing his camera-head as the kid clicked in delight, optics
glaring at the fading night, stars by now long disappeared over the ocean and
under the rising sun.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sun rising, Elita-1 squinted on her new, strange form, looking up to the
beginnings of daylight seeping through the trap she was at, feeling for the
unmistakable spark energy of her bonded up there, and activated her comm.
 
===============================================================================
 
Comm activated, Inferno jolted out of recharge, instantly standing up, only
sparing a glance to the recharging Red Alert before he spoke.
 
“Inferno speaking.”
 
The hesitant voice on the other side of the comm replied.
 
“How’s Red Alert???”
 
Passing his good hand on his face, he groaned.
 
“As well as he will ever be, doctor. Not thanks to you, anyway.”
 
First aid flinched on his side of the comm, as Inferno kept speaking.
 
“That’s fine. Since I now know everything, he confirmed the permanent and
eventually deadly nature of his glitch, and on how neither you or Ratchet can
fix it without resetting his spark.”
 
First Aid hesitated, fidgeting with his hands.
 
“So you aren’t mad at me?”
 
Inferno smirked.
 
“Oh, no. You’re a sweetie. I’m mad at that bonded of yours, Blades. When I put
my hand and my fire hose on reverse flame-throwing function on him, he will
burrrn.”
 
At that, Inferno cloud swear he hard the noise of someone tripping on his own
feet, so he just smirked further and continued.
 
“Oh, yeah. With a charred sparkchamber, you’ll have to summon Toetagto gather
parts for Flatline to provide him a new body. If the spark survives.”
 
Holding his laughter as he heard First Aid scrambling to get up, he kept his
cool as the audibly nervous medic spoke.
 
“What can I do to make sure you won’t have me recycle Blades???”
 
Cackling, Inferno shook his head and wiped cleansing fluid from his optics with
his forearm as Red Alert stirred in the berth, then rolled on his side and
returned to recharge.
 
“First Aid. I’m a firefighter. Do you really think I’d burn your bonded?”
 
Blinking his visor and fleeting a glance at the starfish sprawled heliformer,
First meekly whispered.
 
“...yes?”
 
Shaking his head, Inferno facepalmed: as if he would ever go berserk and start
burning people for no reason!
 
He wasn’t a decepticon, for Primus sake!
 
===============================================================================
 
“I’m not a decepticon, for Primus sake!”
 
Knock-Out, screeching from the stasis-cuffs he was placed into (that were
regulated to not let him run, and only walk very slowly, removing the strength
to lift anything heavier than a wrench), made sure to get his point across.
 
“So you are saying you don’t have anything with which to repair Vortex?”
 
Knock-Out glared up at the towering Onslaught.
 
“I’m not a chevroned doctor! My hands transform into saws.What kind of doctor
has hands that turn into saws???”
 
Vortex, leading a fingertip to his mask, sniggered.
 
“A decepticon doctor!”
 
Brawl, staring at the shelves on Knock-Out’s Mod Shop, wholly agreed,
inspecting closely the little red button on the main counter.
 
“What does this button do?”
 
Knock-Out then stiffened, as Hot-Rod widened his optics.
 
“No, please, whatever you do, don’t touch the red button!”
 
Knock-Out instantly glowered at his racing companion, who flinched at him as
Brawl, EM-field large, just plain punched it, Hot-Rod’s and Knock-Out’s screams
filling the room.

===============================================================================
 
Screams filling the room, Prowl came out of recharge full of black paint
transfers, his battle computer completely online,weapon-ready, taking on his
surroundings.
 
Immediately fleeting a glance at Jazz, screeching and clutching against his
face on the floor, he turned in time to see the lime-green and purple
decepticon subspacing a certain blue visor, and instantly leaving through the
hole on the ground he came through, the upper part of the tunnel collapsing in
rubble as he left.
***** Left to my own devices *****
Chapter Summary
     Ramhorn and Perceptor join forces, Prowl exerts his authority,
     Soundwave provides help, and the autobot brides finally succumb to
     love.
Left to his own devices, trying to hide his excitement, Ramhorn, currently
holding the Triplechanger Cassette Project datapad in his mouthplates, nearly
rammed against the red-plated legs of no one less than Perceptor, that happened
to be searching for…
 
“I was looking for that. And for you.”
 
Looking up and beaming, Ramhorn also nodded, vigorously.
 
“What a fateful coincidence then, that you were also searching for me.”
 
He knelt down to the cassettibot’s height, extending a hand.
 
“I recall you wanted to get scientifically-able, but you and I know Wheeljack,
as well-intentioned as he is, will probably blow up your chassis a few times
before getting it right. Do you want me to give it a try?”
 
Ramhorn nodded, handing him the datapad and immediately unsubspacing
Astrotrain’s sample.
 
Squinting and adjusting his monocle, running a quick scan with it, Perceptor
caught the vial, an awed glare in face.
 
“It will certainly do! How did you come across this?”
 
Ramhorn stomped on the ground three times and raised his left optic ridge,
tilting his head right with a dark smirk, as Perceptor’s s monocle also glowed
dark blue.
 
Apparently Astrotrain exchanged his sample for help into getting revenge
against Skyfire, and that was a subject at which Perceptor absolutely wouldn’t
mind helping.
 
===============================================================================
 
Helping Jazz? Following after the fleeing decepticon?
 
Torn between both wants, Prowl finally threw his weapons on the ground and
turned towards the saboteur.
 
“Jazz. How damaged you are?”
 
Screeching that he was blind, hands covering where his visor used to be, he
avoided at all costs showing his face to Prowl, who simply removed them from
his face, staring.
 
Nodding in grim comprehension at the two empty sockets, crude wiring coming
from inside and previously directly linked to the blue visor, now ripped apart,
he stood up, Em-field flaring large and menacing for once, his battle computer
starting calculations for a different kind of battle.
 
He’s going to get medical aid, even if it meant blasting through the medbay’s
door.
 
===============================================================================
 
Blasting through the medbay’s door, Thundercracker dragged the screeching
Starscream, intent in asking the constructicons to find who the slag fragged
his trinebonded, only to stare flabbergasted at the five constructicons sitting
on a circle like a five-pointed star formation, drone-like, staring at nothing,
completely dazed.
 
“...What the slag...”
 
Flickering his fingertips before their optics and visors, Thundercracker
immediately turned to Starscream, glaring past him and protecting his face as a
single datacable fit against his forehead and he finally collapsed offline on
the ground, the screamer turning to meet the faceplates of Soundwave and
glowering.
 
“What the slagdid you do to my bonded?”
 
Soundwave, just arrived, tilted his head to the right, walking in a circle
around the seeker.
 
“Starscream: now cares about being bonded?”
 
Stalling for a second as he recalled the leftover paint chip Thundercracke
plucked from his lips, Starscream blinked.
 
“For Primus sake. Is there anything else showing???”
 
Soundwave, stoic, just stopped before the screamer, looking down at him.
 
“Soundwave: telepathically detected Starscream’s lack of sense of guilt.
Thundercracker: intent in offlining all the constructicons one by one until one
of them confesses.”
 
Starscream, unblinking, briefly recalled how he rode in reverse-cybercow, wings
at full display for the physically bound Hook to admire, Soundwave picking
telepathically on the memory sequence, EM-field flaring satisfied, as the
seeker finally shrieked.
 
“Fine!!! So I interfaced Hook!! He said no but his spike didn’t! Technically
that counts as consent! I’m not the only one at fault. Besides, why do you even
care?”
 
Dipping his mask in a nod, Soundwave raised a second datacable, hovering it
before Starscream’s optics, slowly.
 
“Soundwave: has already removed memories from Hook, for a price. Has just
erased Thundercracker’s memories of loose, lime-green paint chip. Offers to do
same for Starscream.”
 
Starscream, immediately glaring at the dazed Hook, swallowed dry.
 
Primus only knew what Soundwave asked the medic in return, and Starscream was
damned if he wouldn’t have to pay a too high price for it.
 
“What would you possibly want from me??”
 
===============================================================================
 
“What would I possibly want from you?”
 
Hot-Spot, currently dejectedly sitting on the Rec Room and having his morning
energon with Streetwise and Groove, looked up to the stern faceplates of Prowl:
what else would he want from them, given the circumstances?
 
“I mean, Blades put us out of the bay. He’s the problem, not our ‘Aid!”
 
Having applied a quick mesh over the place where Jazz’ visor used to be, for
the energon to stop leaking, the saboteur tatted and scooted closer, clutching
against him and actually whining, as the SIC did his best to ignore the hug and
coldly replied to the protectobot.
 
“You’ll make your insanehelicopter open the medbay for methen. A decepticon
infiltrated the Ark, stole my TIC’s sight for no apparent reason, and now he’s
literally running blind.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Running blindly away from the wailing banshees down on old Polyhex, Nautica and
Firestar made sure to hide underground and barricade the building’s entrance
out.
 
As well fuelled as they were, compared to the empties, not to mention their
gigantic, purple, high-grade cube with a fancy bow over it, a gift from the
Mighty Shockwave, they knew they would be an easy target were they found.
 
Sending a distress signal to the other female autobots, Firestar hoped they
would be rescued anytime.
 
Damn crazy Lawyercon! As if Firestar would let herself be beheaded by the
knighting sword. Old sod must have been too drunk to boot!
 
“Firestar.”
 
“What!!!”
 
Firestar spat, her thoughts getting interrupted as Nautica lunged against her,
viciously punching her chestplates.
 
“It’s all your fragging fault!!!”
 
Firestar blinked in surprise as she held the purple female’s wrists, which
didn’t prevent the caminian from still trying to hit her, still screaming.
 
“If you hadn’t forced the issue, insisting on officially bonding, we wouldn’t
be in this mess! Why the slag couldn’t you be happy with an informal deepening
of the amica bond into conjunx just like everyone does anyway since every
single fragging priest is gone? Why couldn’t we have stayed on Caminus, a much
more civilised place than this blasted rock? Do you have any idea on how much I
hate you now and...”
 
Firestar instantly shut up her complaints with a fierce, overcharged kiss,
instantly straddling her lap, arms languidly locking behind the other’s neck,
as slowly the shocked expression in her purple companion’s faded, melting under
the embrace and the charge-crackling flow.
 
===============================================================================
 
Crackling charge flowing through his frame, Ratchet onlined in a jolt, lunging
against the first thing he saw and vice gripping against the heavy pede close
to his face.
 
“Chief Medical Officer. Finally you are out of recharge. I took the liberty of
opening your emergency fuel dump and filling your ambulance tanks with
gasoline.”
 
Sitting on the sand, warm in a good way from the petrol slowly getting
processed in his systems, he tried to get up.
 
“Couldn’t you wait for me to properly awake first?”
 
Literally shaking the sand off his plating, Ratchet finished getting on his
pedes, looking slightly down at his master, who droned.
 
“Scavenger was here. He informed me that Soundwave is still giving chase.”
 
Looking around and finding only Microtron absently running in the sand and
playing with the seawaves, Ratchet snorted: he did remember getting literally
snatched out of master’s back by a greenish frame, and for once he was glad he
had never installed any knotting mods on his frame.
 
“Don’t you fear Scavenger might reveal your location?”
 
“Scavenger loyally joined the Decepticons after me.”
 
Shockwave not-replied, as if it explained everything.
 
“Loyal enough not to tattle?” Ratchet teased.
 
“Loyal enough to allow me to install mindproof-reading on him immediately
before he joined. Soundwave never got a true reading of his mind, and that had
been my parting gift for him. He requested to keep the memories of me from
before.”
 
“Before the Institute.” Ratchet supplied.
 
Shockwave nodded, Microtron giggling and throwing seawater up his own frame in
the distance.
 
“I was no longer the same Shockwave he met back in the time I was a mercurial-
tempered senator, yet he would cling on to me, even after I became my logical,
improved self, and thus I was logically obliged to end our relations.”
 
Ratchet nodded, feeling a slight pang of jealously at imagining Shockwave as
someone capable of loving.
 
“So, not only I let him keep our memories by making his mind unreadable, since
he cherished them so, I made sure to include him in the formation of
Devastator. He is an emotional creature and requires constant connection, so it
would only be logical to gift him five individuals with which he could
eventually bond and maybe even illogically love.”
 
Ratchet blinked in surprise, sniggering.
 
“How uncharacteristically kind of you to care for another being’s emotional
well-being, master.”
 
Shockwave stared at his creation, unreadable.
 
“As I say, I can be very indulgent.Keeping Scavenger sane and useful was my
main objective. Know that the making of Devastator greatly benefited the Cause,
with the added benefit of me keeping Scavenger close, as a permanent, loyal,
dedicated source of high-quality materials for my labs and experiments.”
 
Why wasn't he surprised, Ratchet shook his head, immediately snarking.
 
“Like donating certain fluids.”
 
“As I said, an ever useful source of materials. In all of its forms.”
 
Before the Chief Medical Officer could snark further, the scientist walked to
the sea and started scrubbing the sand-caked grime away.
 
“You should wash as well. I sent Scavenger on an errand of utmost importance.
He is to retrieve me an adequate visor for me to get the cortical psychic patch
working: we waste too much energy with slave bonding, and the functionality of
my hacking tool is paramount to the improvement of our survival. Meanwhile, we
shall be on the run.”
***** Runaway *****
Chapter Summary
     Skyfire muses, Microtron remembers, Ironhide wants, and Elita climbs
     up.
On the run, from both factions, Skyfire and Blast-Off had left the last
atmospheric layers in search of a quiet place to spend their time together,
currently having landed on the side of the moon turned to planet Earth, now
contemplating the darkened continents with its millions of spots of light
blinking like stars outlying their shapes.

As they sat in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder, head resting on
Blast-Off’s shoulder, leaning lazily against him, Skyfire made sure to get
himself comfortable.

Skyfire, having finally found the only Vosian that not only understood him
(although not agreeing) on his reasons for choosing the autobots, but also
interfaced like a pro and treated him like a gentlemech, snorted.

Not only Bast-Off was spec-to-spec with his own panels, a true fit both ways,
but also he had the ability to undergo space-fearing bonding times, and for
this fact alone, Skyfire felt in heaven.

If only he could get Blast-Off to defect from the decepticons and the
combaticons, then he could sport his superior arm-candy and make a load of
autobots envious, specially a certain microscope who thinks he’s a scientist
just because he’s got the alt-mode of a laboratory instrument!

So typically functionist of him.

Scowling at his memory of the entitled Scientist feeling superior to everyone
and just pedantically correcting Wheeljack every single time the inventor blows
upor blows up with a project, Skyfire recalled on how he was often deemed no
better than a taxi by the autobots, most not even acknowledging he was a
scientist too!

Why didn’t Skyfire chose Astrotrain, then? A shuttle is a shuttle, right?

Skyfire instantly rolled his optics, recalling the main decepticon cab:
Astrotrain’s single sin was the fact that apparently Perceptor had an interest
in his triplechanging mode.

If Perceptor wanted it, then Perceptor wasn’t going to have it!

As such, it was Skyfire’s duty, out of spite, to get the decepticon’s files and
keep them away from his fellow scientist, afterall.

===============================================================================

Away from his fellow scientist, followed by the curious tapeling, Perceptor
entered the lab, choosing an empty working bench and sitting at it, Ramhorn
sitting on the feet of his stool, excited.

He was finally getting his triplechanging mode and he couldn’t be more excited!

As Perceptor pulled out of subspace Astrotrain’s CNA sample, safely locked and
conserved within Shockwave’s self-vacuum-sealing vial(note to self, replicate
materials on tube later), storing it into a locked up, safe shelf, he turned to
his little helper, looking down and extending him both hands.

“Up here. If you really want to be a scientist that won’t simply blow up
things, then I’ll take you under my scope.”

Opening his left hip panels, Perceptor unspooled a red, biolight glowing cable,
showing its connecting end to the symbiont.

“Do you know what it is?”

Ramhorn shook his head.

“This is a Scientific Hardline Connection cable. Every Science-caste mech has
one version, according to its original function. It’s rumoured that Shockwave
exchanged his standard cable for a sinister, evil version that not only
displays and allows for the exchange of knowledge, but also permits him of
hacking a mech at will, altering memories, invading databanks, installing
viruses… it’s said he has adapted ancient slave coding to work with his tool,
but no evidence was found yet.”

At the mention of Shockwave, hacking and slavery, Ramhorn nearly jumped out of
his plating and ran away, getting frozen to the spot and widening his optics in
near despair, yet unable to flee.

Taken by the scientist in his hands and lifted up, Ramhorn fully expected to be
hacked, with not a single one of his battle protocols flaring to life, which
was weird and only served to panic him further.

Before the rhino could protest, however, Perceptor, feeling for the little EM-
field flaring in irregular waves, minutely held the symbiont in arms, very
close to his glass chestplate, and couldn’t help a flutterof his own spark as
he placed the scared Ramhorn over the working bench.

Staring a second too long at the now wide-opticed symbiont, Perceptor
immediately dismissed the feeling and microscope-moded, mass-shifting to a size
at which the Rhino would be able to make use of his alt-mode, the
Triplechanging Project datapad fitting under his focusing lenses.

“Since you are my apprentice I will not overwhelm you with info via hardline,
so do not expect one. Instead, I’ll let you personally see my mind and upper
processors working as I extricate the project’s details.”

Perceptor moved his scope to the level of Ramhorn’s sight, as the symbiont,
relieved for not getting hacked, glad for being considered officially
Perceptor’s apprentice, and feeling completely, utterly safe by his side,
couldn’t help an excited squeal, closing one optic and approaching.

===============================================================================


One optic approaching the degraded wooden boat half-sunk in the sand, Microtron
lifted it up with the use of three combined datacables, a fourth one probing
underneath it: he was bouncing full with the complete charge of Shockwave’s
processed fluids, unstoppable on the beachside!

Giggling stupidly as a crab crawled up his datacable, uncaring to his
surroundings and shaking it vigorously as the tiny beast managed to avoid
getting thrown out and climbed up his back, picking at his transformation seams
and shifting from his back to his chestplate, Microtron was lost in happiness.

As the crab moved down his abdominal plating, a sudden flash memory of Vortex
ripping the plating out and standing too close, attempting to claw his way
inside his emergency fuel intake instantly hit him full force.

Lunging the rotten boat away from him into the ocean as it splashed away, EM-
field flaring wide and crushing the crab with the feelers from a datacable
alone, the dark goo from its insides reaching his taste sensors, irked in more
than one way, Microtron swung the cable to the right and the left, repeatedly
hitting the remains of the crab against the sand, disgusted and literally
blurting static, stomping, and without any semblance of coordination flailing
erratically the other eleven datacables on his back.

As Ratchet blinked, frozen on spot at the nightmarish sight, Shockwave, in root
mode, just walked at his creation, the already repaired and unbent paddles
clicked on his back, watching reactionless for five seconds his creation snap.

Concluding Microtron’s behaviour was not conductive to their survival,
Shockwave intervened.

“Microtron. You are being wasteful of my processed energon. Cease fretting.”

Microtron, suddenly snatched out of his murderous-stance, stopped, glaring
right at his goo-covered, sand-caked datacable, instantly the flailing ones on
his back recoiling as he mainframe-moded and powered down in obviously fake
recharge.

Shockwave, satisfied at obtaining the expected result, even if he knew the kid
was not under recharge, uncaring to the reasons why his creation reacted so,
nodded approvingly at the obedience, turning to the stunned Chief Medical
Officer.

“Vehicle-mode. I am fitting Microtron inside you and will haul you up to the
next fuel source, which should not be far from here according to my
calculations. My creation wasted energon with his useless and incomprehensible
fretting and my own reserves will not stand without frequent refuelling.”

Out of shock, sighing, Ratchet, a sudden pang in his spark, did, opening his
back doors wide as Shockwave simply shoved his creation in and closed the
doors, unsubspacing his hauling platform (actually one of the few things that
fits his minimal subspace, being part of the alt-mode) and observing, detached,
Ratchet roll over it and park, then finally mounted his hook and chain over it,
helicopter-moding and going into a brief reconnaissance flight.

===============================================================================

Under reconnaissance flight, briefly thinking he saw the beachside showing in
the distance, Laserbeak started recording, following behind and slightly to the
right side of Ravage (flying with his hipside thrusters before her) with
Buzzsaw following on the left, the three in triangle formation just like a
proper seeker trine.

Glad for the chance to leave base and sharpen her eagle sight, Laserbeak
chirped happily at Buzzsaw, who grumpily ignored her: stupid cheerful,
Megatron-devoted, autobotish thing!

Buzzsaw, having never received a single glimmer of spark-energy from Lord
Megatron except for the one needed to first generate his spark, knowing from
his earliest memories that it had been solely Shockwave who complied with his
carrier’s needs and made sure to supply the adequate amount of energy, didn’t
feel any particular attachment to Lord Megatron, except for the second-hand
loyalty to Soundwave.

Obviously, he had been scolded many times for his opinions: it didn’t make him
feel any less sullen. The fact that the Slagmaker had chronic pain during
sparkmerge was a convenient explanation, logical even, enough to convince both
carrier and Shockwave, but it didn’t diminish the fact that Buzzsaw felt singed
out.

To make things worse, carrier didn’t share with him the reasons for them to
track Shockwave and the autobot slave who spark-napped Microtron; all Buzzsaw
could gather was the uneasiness that Ravage would exudate at each mention of
Soundwave wanting to get Microtron home, and the fact that Lord Megatron’s
other creation would eventually be part of the cohort.

Having a slight grudge against his own sire for not feeling like sacrificing
comfort for his own rearing back then when he was just a tiny binary system
within carrier, Buzzsaw, having grown old enough to make a tiny memory pocket
for himself, away from carrier and his siblings, couldn’t help favouring
Shockwave just a tiny bit, if only for doing his duty as bonded, allowing
Buzzsaw proper spark development, and for that he was grateful.

Shaking his head at having had need of discovering on his own how to minimally
shield memories and thoughts, he concluded that at some point in development
every single symbiont-bound creation ends up figuring out how to live within
the cohort, at the same time remaining as an individual capable of surviving,
and thinking on his own, finally smiling.

Of course he wouldn’t question carrier: Soundwave was indisputably their
superior, but Buzzsaw knew very well which sire(the one who merely gave him his
first spark energy, or the one who followed through the centuries powering his
development) he would choose over the other, should this day ever come.

===============================================================================

Which would be chosen over the other, should this day ever come?

Ironhide, very aware Elita-1 was sparkbonded to Optimus Prime, had a faint fear
that should Optimus ever have to chose between rescuing him or her, even hating
her struts, he would take the female.

Her demise would certainly mean the Prime’s own, so it was a no-brainer.

Ironhide sighed heavily, sagging as he watched Optimus Prime unsubspace his
trailer, then take from inside a huge, very safe and thick sailing camel-rope,
holding one tip and throwing the other inside the hole where Elita-1 was,
screaming down to her.

“Elita. I know you’re down there. Can you take this rope and hold it?”

As the Prime’s voice echoed down the hole, Ironhide, sullen, observing the
rescue, instantly imagined himself sparkbondedto the Prime, immediately shaking
the notion away since it would mean getting also bonded to Elita-1.

Not to mention that the Prime entering a decepticon-like trinebond would
certainly be the ultimate Heresy.

With no priests left to care, however, Ironhide smirked widely, a little evil
idea brewing in mind.

Maybe First Aid, as a medic, knew something, anything, on breaking a sparkbond
without killing the mechs involved, afterall.

===============================================================================

How to sever a sparkbond without killing the mechs involved?

Soundwave, currently entertaining this age-old question, very aware that
officially sparkbonds were forever, actually imagined himself finding a way of
rupturing Shockwave’s bond to them.

Afterall, how did he intend to properly dispose of Shockwave if he risked dying
and killing Lord Megatron in the process?

Who would fight for the Cause, who would risk his spark for them all, who would
be their Leader?

If only Soundwave could inform his beloved leader of all the times he
intervened with Lord Megatron’s own choices just to make sure only the best
decisions were taken.

For an instant absently glaring up the most protected shelf of his TF Toys
collection, Soundwave couldn’t help fleeting a glance at the mint-in-box Deluxe
BW Megatron toy, wishing things had run out differently, sighing heavily.

===============================================================================

Sighing heavily, Elita-1 slammed her defective, useless comm against the
ground, the instant a heavy camel rope fell over her head.

Cursing, she instantly put her brave new appendages to work and found out it
would be much easier to get out of the hole in her new shape, smirking and
expertly climbing up, the light slowly warming her faceplates, dying to see her
beloved sweetspark.
***** Sweet spark of mine *****
Chapter Summary
     First Aid takes responsibility, Knock-Out deflects blame, Skywarp
     worries, Microtron tries to understand and Elita-1 makes sure Optimus
     suffers.
Light slowly warming his faceplates, First Aid expertly climbed up his bonded.

“Sweetspark? Beloved?”

Blades never awoke, still to all effects rattling and stalling his rotors,
sprawled on his front at the berth and First Aid sighed, settled by his side
and angled towards the back of his head, near the audials he had just whispered
at: damn heavy recharger.

He had to rectify that.

Feeling responsible and ready, First Aid briefly nuzzled his mask at the left
side of the heliformer’s helm, visor glowing indigo blue.

Climbing off the berth and stretching his hydraulics, still facing his beloved
Blades, First Aid nearly swooned, running his highly sensitive fingertips at
the berth’s mesh, gripping it lightly, quite enamoured at the sight for two
seconds, then instantly clawed the mesh and pulled the soft, pliant red covers
off the berth.

Jolted awake out of his dreams, literally pulled out of the berth with the mesh
into the cold, unforgiving ground, the heliformer blinked stupidly, rubbing his
aft as he stood up.

“Primus, First, what the slag is on? Are the decepticons attacking??”

Summoning all his willpower, visor glowing royal-blue, flaring his EM-field
wide, First Aid unsubspaced his wrench and held it with his right hand, slowly
moving it up and down, hitting it against his open left palm, and speaking.

“Nurse-in-training Blades. As the Prime-appointed Chief Medical Officer, I say
the strike has gone too long and as such, I order you to open the medbay.”

Blades, flummoxed, gaped.

First Aid, determined and very proud of himself for actually exerting
authority, for once understanding Ratchet, pointed his left hand to the door,
menacingly holding his wrench up.

“Now. I gave you an order! Get your head out of your aft and go!!!”

“...Aid??”

Who exchanged my sweet Aid for an evil version of himself?

Instantly taken out of his thoughts by a certain wrench getting thrown into his
head, Blades yelped and instantly scurried away.

===============================================================================

Scurrying away from the overcharged, purple cyclops, pondering that Shockwave
must be some kind of drone to not fall under recharge after having drunk so
much energon, Judgelaw inched his way to the scrren-faced drone, a heavy
cybertronium pipe in hands, ready to knock it out cold.

The dreaded protocol-bot, apparently very engrossed with a datapad doing
whatever it was drones do, had something he wanted, and he’s gonna get it, one
way or another!

Thrumming in excitement as he approached the drone, currently revising Mighty
Shockwave’slist of things to do with Megatron’s Energon, Judgelaw wasted no
time in jumping over the drone’s back and getting ready to swing the pipe over
his screen-face, squinting as at First’s ‘nape’, there was a huge, purple, ON/
OFF button, ready and waiting to be pushed.

===============================================================================

Ready and waiting for the worse, Knock-Out cursed as the walls on his shop
rotated against themselves, all other mecha present in the room gaping.

Whispering a very low Holy Primus, Hot Rod had no words to describe the sight,
as Vortex’ red visor glowed and Brawl nearly bounced around the room, awed.

Onslaught, watching his two subordinates gawk at the shelves, gave a single pat
in the red medic’s right shoulder, walking around the room as well, nodding
approvingly.

“You have taste, doc.”

Knock-Out, beet-red in shame, and glad his plates were already red, feigned
innocence and stared at his fingertips.

“I swear I have no idea what all these spikes and valves are doing in this
room, hiding behind the rotated walls.”

===============================================================================

The walls rotated in the room as Megatron groaned, a heavy helm-ache brewing
behind his optics.

He couldn’t believe he had fallen under recharge like this.

Out of nothing a huge VOP altered the fabric of space and sucked the air around
a spot in the room as the tyrant was volleyed out of his throne into the
panels, a tiny voice finally hitting his audials.

“Lord Megatron?”

Slowly trying to stand up, dizzy, the tyrant felt a warm hand touching his left
shoulder, meeting Skywarp’s worried faceplates.

About to lash but recalling Skywarp was the loyal seeker, Megatron just batted
the seeker’s hand away, slowly standing up.

“What’s it you want, Skywarp? I’m in a terrible mood.”

Skywarp fidgeted with his hands, now staring up at his leader, leaning against
one console for support.

“I… Starscream and Thundercracker won’t answer my comms, and our trinebond is
muted from their ends.”

Megatron, having his own shared of problems with a particular scientist and his
own trinebond, walking past the seeker, sitting on his throne and scowling.

“Well, as you can see neither of them is here.”

“Starscream’s a glitch, but TC never mutes me. I’m worried.”

Megatron sighed heavily. Since when he sparksits seekers?

“You worry too much. They must be unconscious after fragging. Sooner or later
they’ll show up littered with paint transfers.”

Skywarp, nodding weakly, still hurt from being muted.

“M’a feeling lonely. Can I stay here until they return?”

Megatron glowered: Did he look like good company???

Skywarp gave him a huge puppy glare, then.

“...please?”

“...fine.”

Pumping his fist up in the air, screaming Yes!, Skywarp all but launched
himself in the tyrant’s lap, crooning and clicking like a newly released
newspark, almost dozing in the light swing.

===============================================================================

Almost dozing in the light swing, right and left, of the hauling platform he
was parked at, Ratchet was jolted awake by the light probing of datacable
feelers into his inner panels, sending a definite pingand requesting a hardline
connection.

Surprised at the fact Microtron did not just hack his way in, like a creation
of Shockwave was supposed to, Ratchet upped up his firewalls and pinged in
positive, letting open a minor comm port, the dark grey datacable ghosting over
his panels and finally inserting its feelers in.

Warmth slowly filling his upper processors as the mechling’s systems and
sparkpulse synced with his own, very much unlike Shockwave’s cortical psychic
patch, Ratchet for an instant pondered on what it would be like to have an
orbiting creation rotating around one’s own spark, getting immediately
questioned.

How do I obtain the most representative n for the cohort now that I am
forbidden of going to Soundwave’s cohort of cassetticons for help?

Squinting, Ratchet for a brief second pondered if Microtron had by any means
listened to…

How do I calculate the variables meant to be put into the charts?

He had! He had!!! The sleek glitch had!!!

What’s p, and why is it important that it results less than 0.001, when more is
always better than less?

Ratchet suddenly choked on air, almost turning his sirens on in exasperation.

Where else besides the Cybertronian Medical Board can I send an abstract for a
very thorough analysis?

He immediately flared his lights in shock, as the mechling continued.

Why the preference for publishing on the back? Shouldn’t the front cover give
more visibility?

Feeling suddenly hot at the memory of Shockwave’s blue folds glistening from
behind, Ratchet would have fanned himself weren’t his hands locked in his alt-
mode.

Is giving lip service to the board a requirement? I hope not. I don’t have
lips.

Fairly sure his faceplates were autobot-red by now, Ratchet was instantly glad
for being in vehicle-mode, as Microtron took it as implicit permission to keep
asking.

Carrier seemed very satisfied with your theories. Can you theorise for me too?

Primus, thought the medic, make him stop.

===============================================================================

Primus, make her stop!!!

Screeching, Optimus Prime fell on his back as an eight-legged thing came out of
the sinkhole through the camel-rope, launching itself right over him.

“What the frag!!!”

Big enough to lock its legs all over the Prime’s chestplates, shoulders and
battlemask, the mechanical arachnid,much like an Alien Facial Parasite, would
have suffocated him had he any need of breathing.

“Ironhide! Help!!!!”

Ironhide, an unsubspaced chaingun already in hand, had to override his battle
protocols: shooting the thingwould have meant shooting the Prime!

Not to mention killing the thing would have meant killing the Prime.

“It’s all your fault, Optimus Orion Pax Prime!!!”

Elita-1, sporting her shiny new mechanical black-widow mode, hydraulics
whirring under her chrome struts, pinkish plates shining under the sun, made
sure to nip and mercilessly attack each sensitive seam in the Prime’s armour,
Optimus trying and failing to get out of her grasp, writhing on the ground.

“Release me, you insane glitch!!! Is this how you thank the only mech on Earth
that would even remotely bother to come at your rescue???”

Elita, knowing very well he only came after her because of their sparkbond,
opened her chelicerae wide, approaching his face, corrosive fluid dripping from
within and reaching his battlemask, bringing greenish, hot smoke up.

“If you hadn’t gone out to get fragged by your watchdog, this would never have
happened!”

“If you had just installed a spike mod when we bonded, like I asked, I might
have never gotten to the point of despair that I did!!!”

“Then you should have bonded Arcee, at least she had been a mech before and
might appreciate the change!”

Shaking his head, Ironhide sighed, the Prime and the scurrilous spider
catfighting on the ground as the arms specialist, blinking stupidly, merely sat
back, watching.

===============================================================================

 
Watching the drone First power down silently, screen face off, arms flung
immobile by its sides, Swindle blinked as Judgelaw rummaged through the drone’s
subspace, pulling out the remote control for the spacebridge and raising it for
the con mech to see, winking.

Purple optics glowing, watching intently the Lawyercon rummage further through
the drone’s subspace pocket, Swindle cheered the instant the Lawyercon gathered
the energon keys for his energon cage, finally walking close, hips swaying
lightly and rotating the energon keychain around his index.

“So, Swindle.” the all-black plated mech rested close to the cage, his
decepticon-red optics lingering on the con mech’s frame “What are you willing
to give for me to free you of this cage?”
***** The Birdcage *****
Chapter Summary
     Shockwave indulges, Scavenger remembers, First Aid worries and
     Ramhorn dreams.
The caged platform landed with a muffled thud, suddenly, against the broken
trunks of the thinner trees, disappearing under the green canopies, as without
finesse Shockwave root-moded and pushed Ratchet away from the platform,
immediately subspacing it and droning before the medic could complain.
 
“I detected Buzzsaw’s spark frequency flaring wide andapproaching.”
 
All protest dying from his vocalisers, Ratchet, on his side in ambulance-mode,
slowly root-moded holding the mainframe-moded Microtron under one arm, a single
datacable connected to a comm port, as Shockwave tilted his head, optics
zooming on their connection in silent enquiry.
 
“Microtron requested connection, started making questions about making science,
I had no idea under which rock to crawl, remaining mute, so he finally got
bored and drifted into recharge. Real recharge. I confirmed the readings.”
 
Shockwave nodded, for once impressed, taking on his own creation in arms and
setting the recharging mainframe aside, optic facing away where he intended to
sit, finally looking around the green hell of the Amazon rainforest, tree
canopies taller than most cybertronians, making up for good cover as the rain
started falling from the darkening sky.
 
“The next source of crude fuel is not far away, but with Soundwave’s
creationssearching for us, I cannot get there for now.”
 
Ratchet nodded, agreeing, as Shockwave inched to the medic’s side, pulling him
down as well, both now sitting shoulder to shoulder as the rain poured down.
 
“I am positive resetting the progress bars now will allow us to postpone the
deadline for the next synch in a full day, which will leave us the night free
to get into the fuel site in time to refuel before dawn.”
 
Raising an optic ridge, Ratchet glared at his master for a full minute until
realisation kicked in.
 
How could Shockwave even think of interfacing in a moment like this??
 
Before he could snark however, a hole opened on the ground and Scavenger came
out, a triumphant EM-field flaring wide, with mud, broken roots and rotting
leaves littering his frame.
 
“Commander Shockwave.”
 
He knelt down before the sitting Shockwave, all knightly, extending the blue
visor he ripped off Jazz’ face, with both hands palms up, the optic wiring
still hanging from it.
 
Running a wireless diagnostic, Ratchet gaped as he found out from where the
visor came, about to snap the instant Shockwave took the visor in hands,
inspecting it.
 
Shaking his head and pondering they would all be doomed, because you do not
mess with Jazz, since it would mean messing with Prowl, he couldn’t help
staring as Shockwave unsubspaced the cortical psychicpatch, disconnected it
from himself and rolled the visor in his hands twice, slowly, finally turning
on his back to face Ratchet.
 
“Chief Medical Officer: your new orders are for you to make this visor
compatible with the cortical psychic patch.You will not turn the patch
ineffective or tamper or damage it in any way, much less lose it from sight or
allow any other mech to take it away from your possession. You are to deliver
it to me and only me, with the visor, even if you are unable to put them
together, with no forms of tampering whatsoever. There will be no changes to my
orders, not even from myself. Any change of orders for me shall be treated with
suspicion. In case you are attacked and risk offlining, the patch should be
destroyed. You shall begin working immediately. Is it understood?”
 
Ratchet blinked, finding no plausible loopholes in the orders, as Shockwave
instantly ignored him, turning to the constructicon.
 
“You have done excellent work as usual, Constructicon Scout Scavenger.”
 
Attention picked, the constructicon looked up, hopeful, as Shockwave stepped
close.
 
“How do you wish to be rewarded? I have no leftover energon cubes in my
person.”
 
Scavenger, running his visor up and down the commander’sshell, fidgeted with
his hands, managing to blurt undignified static, shaking his head and sagging.
 
“I… it would be taking advantage.”
 
Tilting his head to the right, Shockwave stepped close, under the angry,
horrified optics of the chief medical officer, looking down to the knelt
constructicon and extending a hand to pick on debris littering his frame,
absently taking the leaves and roots away from the grime caked seams, as
following the black hand picking on dirt with his visor, Scavenger held tight
his EM-field, rooted to the spot.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Rooted on spot, Prowl blinked as he stared at the prompt, open, functioning
Medbay.
 
Mean satisfaction didn’t even start describing what he felt at actually seeing
Blades get ordered around by a very determined First Aid.
 
“Prowler?” asked Jazz, clutched against his arm “What’s on??”
 
Blades groaned carrying boxes of spare parts to the deposit, as a very smug
looking First Aid came close, visor darting to Jazz, panic brewing behind his
plates as he pulled the technician’s specs to the forefront of his mind.
 
“Holy Primus, who did that???” he instantly snatched Blades close, a box of
spare hands falling to the ground, the hands bouncing away all over the place
“Get me all the visors you can find!!”
 
He shoved Blades away as he hurried to pick on the saboteur and literally threw
him into a slab, Prowl nearly growling at the sight of the helplessly yelping
patient, the medic transforming one hand into a welder and the other into a
pince, ready to go.
 
===============================================================================
 
Ready to go, Swindle was tackled mid-air by the lawyercon, who had just freed
him off the cage at the promise of…
 
“I’m not going to pay you any percentage of my sale’s fees! Neither now, nor
ever! Never!!!”
 
Shaking his head and seating the combaticon on his lap, a hand firmly clasped
in Swindle’s waist and keeping him in place, claws digging on plating and
turning Swindle’s face towards the silent, drone-like Mighty Shockwave absently
reading a datapad not very far away, the lawyercon whispered against the con
mech’s audials.
 
“Oh, Swindle. What’s a 20% fee from every single businesstransaction you do,
for life, in exchange for a lifetime not being able to sell anything. I don’t
think MightyShockwave would let you keep your business at the same time he
keeps you around as a subject for his experiments.”
 
Swindle writhed on Judgelaw’s lap, where he had been adjusted nicely and neatly
against the cold, all-black plating, heat pooling down his own plates.
 
“Why can’t you ask for something more acceptable, like my aft, than extorting
my hard earned shanix?”
 
The lawyercon spared a glance at Shockwave, blissfully ignoring his
surroundings, then flipped his hapless victim to the ground, instantly
straddling him with a slow hip-roll, hands ghosting over Swindle’s chestplates
and moving down, the lawyercon’s all-black mesh toga flowing lightly as he
strutted both shoulders, framing his back and aft and covering up the con
mech’s thighs.
 
“Oh, Swindle. You misunderstand me. Be generous for once. Giveit to me. I love
the feeling of loads and loads of hard earned liquid dividends cashing deep
into my vault.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Vaulted deep into the rainforest, under the protection of the canopies, Ratchet
did his best to keep working on repurposing Jazz’ visor with Shockwave’s
cortical psychic patch, vowing not to look.
 
Shockwave was obviously willing to pay for the visor with his own shell.
 
All Scavenger apparently wanted however was a heavy hugging and petting
session, in the name of old timeswhen both had been autobots.
 
It should have been a relief to hear that.
 
Only it wasn’t.
 
Scavenger held Shockwave like he were everything, literally sweeping the
heliformer off his feet and right into his lap, squeezing so hard he would
certainly leave paint-transfersafterwards, nuzzling his mask against the
scientist’s face and neck, almost purring in delight, and seeing this
absolutely hurt.
 
Rationally, Ratchet knew his master is an amoral glitch, with no true
attachment to anyone but his own motifs and logic, a true psychopathin the
purest sense of the word, seeing everyone as a tool, as an end for a means.
 
They why did he want to be in Scavenger’s place, even though nothing Shockwave
was doing could be even remotely be considered true? He should be loathing the
fake display, not envying the constructicon for being the recipient to it.
 
Ratchet, absolutely furious and getting errors directly from the slave-coding
in his own HUD for currently hating his master, tweaked with slightly more
force than needed into the visor’s wiring, redirecting the pathways to keep the
glass clear enough to allow for Shockwave’s true optics to see through, trying
to make sure thecortical psychic patch’s functions would be displayed into
Shockwave’s systems once it was properly installed back.
 
He should be the one there holding the bastard! He, not the stupid lug! He!…
 
“Chief Medical Officer.”
 
Jolted out of his thoughts, holding his EM-field tight, he turned slowly to
contemplate his lime-green not-from-interface paint-transfer-littered master.
 
“How is the progress on the visor going? It is not a difficult task.”
 
Ratchet then spat.
 
“If it’s so easy, why didn’t you overtake the task then?”
 
He threw both visor and patch by Shockwave’s feet, as the scientist followed
the motion.
 
“Because I had to indulge Scavenger as a reward for good service and you might
have been able to complete it in the meantime. I see now I was wrong.”
 
Shockwave knelt down to take the patch and the visor in hands, storing both
into his arm-mounted non-subspace storage.
 
“Indulge.”Ratchet scowled, jealous “I wonder what did you truly treat your dumb
favourite with!”
 
Shockwave glared blankly between the lime-green paint-transfers and his own
shell, not-replying.
 
“Scavenger is an emotional creature and requested physical touch: for that, he
even gave me energon.”
 
He unsubspaced a full-to-the-brim energon cube, offering it to Ratchet, who
glared in dismay.
 
“He paid you with one full cube. For hugs.”
 
Shockwave glared between the cube, his dirty shell, and the medic.
 
“Actually, for giving me hugs and nuzzling against me. I was given five full
cubes that I intended to share with you later.”
 
The medic glowered and Shockwave, unaffected, subspaced the cube: Ratchet
snapped.
 
“Primus! You… got paid for paying him for his service! I can’t believe it! You
opportunistic, overpriced... huggableshareware!! No wonder Soundwave is hunting
you! He must be finally done with the millennia of cheating!! I hate you!! How
unfair that it is tha Scavenger still loves you?!!!”
 
Shockwave stood immobile for three seconds, unable to relate to the insult, not
a flicker in his EM-field.
 
“I do not understand why, since I was the one to end our association in first
place, and he should have been mad at me for life, but Scavenger seems to still
harbour illogical feelings for me. I merely used his misplaced affection as a
means to an end when I made sure to tell him the undeniable truth that I was
under risk of offlining due to lack of fuel and suggestively offered to take on
any form of sustenance he deemed granting me.”
 
Ratchet, furious, scowled from his sitting position, as Shockwave kept droning.
 
“Any decepticon would have used the other as transfluid dump before such an
offer, event that I was expecting and even anticipating, but Scavenger
illogically surprised me taking from his own stock the five cubes and handing
me them, saying he could always coax more out of Mixmaster anytime, gave me a
final hug, whispered against my audials that he would always remember me as I
were, then saluted and left.”
 
Ratchet, unsure if he felt mad or relieved at knowing his master had not
interfaced that green and purple idiot, was surprised by his master
unceremoniously straddling his hips.
 
What?
 
“Now. I believe I was earlier talking on how we should reset your bars into
green, so we can glide towards the closest fuel source during the night time.”
 
Stuttering as the hands roamed down his chestplates and rested on the sides of
his hips, Ratchet glowered at Shockwave, who ignored him and locked both legs
behind the sitting mech’s back, wriggling his aft and making himself
comfortable.
 
===============================================================================
 
Making himself comfortable, Ramhorn literally dove out of Perceptor’s working
mind when it suddenly became too much.
 
The mech was a pool of knowledge! Poor Ramhorn was already tired by the moment
the scientist started tapping into the CNA reactions necessary to mingle the
triplechanging strands of CNA with his own, once these were properly isolated
and replicated ad nausea as well, and could barely wait to see the end results.
 
Would he ever be able to get even close to this performance? Would he become a
worthy scientist?
 
Would he help trampling Skyfire’s pride when the moment came by??
 
Hell yeah, yeah and yeah!
 
Currently sitting on his hindquarters and resting against the oddly comfortable
presence of a microscope-moded Perceptor, feeling the thrum of cogs turning and
processors whirring, Ramhorn, almost lulled into recharge, never noticed the
instant his own processors powered down, the other mech’s spark rotating and
slowly singing him into sleep.
***** Sleep tight, don't let the insecticons bite. *****
Chapter Summary
     Blaster speaks, Nautica and Firestar bond, Ravage scolds, Buzzsaw
     doesn't care, and Mighty Shockwave has a new problem to mind.
Sung to near sleep by the other mech’s rotating spark, Ratchet actively fought
against the recharge that threatened to shut his systems.

He had expected to be viciously ridden, not to be given a lethargic, almost
autobot-like interface.

“Did I ever tell you how much I hate you?”

Shockwave, uncaring, remained in place, helm resting against the medic’s
shoulder, face hiding at the crook of his neck, optics offline, arms holding
him loosely by the red waist.

“Three times only in this session.”

A full set of valve callipers rippled around his spike, no other significant
motion taking place otherwise, as Ratchet, optics flaring bright for an
instant, watched the progress bars slowly receding towards the green zone.

“Primus, this is torture.”

“No: this is interfacing.” came Shockwave’s deadpan reply, one slow hip-roll
taking place.

“Boring interfacing, you mean. Why can’t you do it like a proper decepticon??”
Ratchet spat.

A ripple of callipers met him, squeezing very tightly, his own hands flexing
against the paddled rotor hub.

“I am energy deprived. My current method is the most logical.”

The callipers released then gripped back then, a full-body shudder spreading as
Ratchet was edged and his own hydraulics twitched, master’s legs keeping him
absolutely in place, hilted, red hips moving once up fruitlessly, overload
evading him as he hissed against the heliformer’s audials.

“You would have plenty of energy if you took one of the cubes your
dearestScavenger gave you.”

Charge threatening to fill his systems, Shockwave started a sluggish ripple of
port callipers around the edged, dribbling spike.

“Wasting a cube is not necessary. According to my calculations your progress
bars have already receded into green and you are going to overload now.”

The barely-there not-touch of mirrored sensors finally tipped him over and
Ratchet crashed, optics flaring on, autonomic systems taking over and hands
locking the heliformer in place, transfluid greedily sucked inside, not a
single drop dribbling out, as the low released charge flowed through
Shockwave’s frame, sending him into a silent and brief overload, from which he
quickly recovered, taking one single, relevant note:

The dreaded contraption in his chest, the decepticon matrix, did not flare to
life much less managed to open his chestplates this time.

Interesting.

Idly pondering he would have wanted to have a proper lab to go back into
researching, Shockwave, energy levels at 36%, optics dimming, barely registered
the moment Ratchet slumped ahead and rested his head in his shoulders, making
himself comfortable, still buried inside,the duo ready to recharge just like
this.

===============================================================================

“Just like this!! Like this!!”

Judgelaw rode and literally milked the combaticon’s purple and yellow spike,
callipers mercilessly working as he smirked at the con-mech, frilly white wig
bouncing on his head as he went up and down, as Swindle underwent a battle of
will: unwilling to give anything away, not even his own transfluid, the shady
dealer delayed the moment of overload the most he could.

Focus on the wig. The ridiculous wig!!

So far it had worked: the ridiculous bouncing wig had been enough of a
distracting sight to prevent him of tipping over the edge, until the moment it
wouldn’t be anymore, and he knew the instant was approaching, a tightness
coiling deep down his spinal strut, as he sent his right hand towards the
burning hot frontal interface panel and palmed it.
“I’m not giving anything without repay!”

Afterall, if Swindle would have to give something, he wanted itback too.

Judgelaw, blissfully rolling his hips, flashed his best smile and winked his
left optic, letting open the other half of his interface panel, revealing a
glossy black, red-biolight glowing spike, instantly pressurising right into the
con-mech’s waiting hands, charge transferring between the two frames.

Cursing as the spike’s charge entered his plating and triggered his own
overload, Swindle stalled and gripped the lawyercon’s spike, sending a surge of
charge spiking up the all-black plated mech, who also immediately tipped over,
dark-tinted, metallic glowing transfluid shooting out and dribbling between the
salesmech’s fingers like liquid silver.

Purple optics wide, Swindle could barely move, the moment Judgelaw picked the
con-mech’s hand in his own and led the transfluid-filled fingers tpo his own
lips, sucking them.

As if he would let Swindle have any of his own fluids!

Swindle, currently too drowsy to truly care he didn’t have a complete payback,
for now idly pondering the white wig actually didn’t look so ridiculous
anymore, turned a slow stare at the immobile and uncaring Mighty Shockwave,
ignoring their noisy exchange, and pondering the cyclops certainly was a drone
to have not noticed them interfacing right under his proverbial nose.

Judgelaw, having drained Swindle dry, and licked his own fluids away, red
optics dim, shook the aftershocks and the drowsiness away, recalled they still
had a Tower to flee from, pulling the still half-sedate combaticon into a
sitting position and approaching his audials, whispering.

“Now, little one. Are you ready?”

===============================================================================

“Little one, are you ready?”

Perceptor, in microscope mode, actually stopped his equations as he noticed his
mind was slightly too silent.

Analysing his surroundings, as just like this, under ready recharge, Ramhorn
blissfully recharged, laying on a side and dreaming of electric cybersheep,
Perceptor insisted.

“Ramhorn?”

No reply but a loud snore and the rhino shifting on the other side; immediately
mass-shifting and transforming into root-mode, Perceptor glared down the
tapeling, shaking his head and taking him up in arms.

“This is not a good place for recharging, little one.”

Intent in taking him to Blaster – which would just be the perfect excuse to
talk to him again! - Perceptor was about to leave the lab, the instant no one
less than the object of his obsessions himself stepped in.

Blinking in surprise as he cradled the recharging tape, Perceptor dipped his
head in a respectful nod.

“I believe thisbelongs to you.”

He motioned with his optics to the recharging Ramhorn: Blaster, unblinking,
merely nodded, extending his hands.

“Ramhorn’s past his recharge time. He’s become obsessed in becoming a
scientist. Can’t imagine why.”

They exchanged the bundle, Perceptor’s hands touching his for three full
seconds, optics meeting as Blaster manually folded Ramhorn into tape-mode and
opened his tapedeck to fit him inside, not missing the minute widening of the
scientist’s optics at the brief sight of the open deck.

“You do know he wants an upgrade, don’t you?”

He nodded, very aware, his carrier subroutines analysing the microscope-mech
before him, resting against the lab’s door frame.

“Something about becoming bipedal, getting opposable thumbs and ability of
speech in a triplechanging mode. Quite ambitious of his part, if you want me to
say.”

Perceptor nodded, optics mentally tracing the squareness of the red and yellow
largetape deck approvingly.

“I am coming close to a solution that will keep both his rhino and tape mode
intact. I think you’ll be... satisfied with the results.”

Optics instantly dimming, Blaster nodded, stepping into the lab, the door
closing behind as Perceptor turned to get the datapad with the project he had
already started to modify.

“I’m actually surprised to see a creation of Ironhide trying to become more
than a mindless shooting brute, no offence intended: I myself quite like
precision guns. It’s so anti-functionist to take on more roles than you had
been designed for, don’t you think?”

Blaster nodded, deciding not to break to the apparent oblivious scientist that
it’s been no secret for a while anymore that Ramhorn had no identified sire yet
and probably never would have, stepping ahead and now standing shoulder to
shoulder with the still speaking scientist and sniper.

Listening to the endless speech of how he intended to make the triple-mode
work, Blaster zoned out and focused on the tiniest sparklet orbiting around his
old, weary spark, pondering on the best way possible to convey this kind of
news.

“...so, with the CNA sample Ramhorn obtained from Astrotr...”

“...I’m just sparked and you’re the sire and you’re expected to comply with
sparkmerging and interfacing for the next hundred years or more, then supposed
to help raising the bitlet until maturity.”

Stalling at the sudden, bluntdeclaration, Perceptor released the datapad on the
desk.

“I… beg your pardon??”

“I said I’m sparked and you’re...”

“I heard that!!!” he immediately grabbed Blaster by both arms, looking slightly
up at him. “Are you certain of what you’re saying?”

About to get offended, Blaster had no time to retort, getting instantly pushed
against the lab’s door and floored with a very eager kiss.

“Bond me.” he spoke in the tapedeck’s lips “Primus. Bond me now!”

===============================================================================

Bond me now.

Between the dark recesses of two joined chestplates a pair of blue orbs rotated
in binary conjunction, tendrils of light coming from one to the other,
electricity crackling in the atmosphere of Cybertron and spreading in a radius
through the entwined frames, lips desperately trying to mimicry the merging
sparks, in a daze.

Purplish hips undulate in a grinding motion against a fire-red thigh, in near
slow motion, bared interface panel exposing a purple and dark blue valve, upper
node aglow, overload just one grind and one slide away.

Naughty Nautica.

Locking both legs behind Firestar’s filling thigh, sucking on her lower lip and
strutting her back as both of her fiery companion’s hands grabbed the sides of
her hips and held her in place, Nautica crashed in overload.

Set my spark on fire.

Spark spiralling wild and enveloping the other in its own light, Nautica’s mind
rippled in a smirk as Firestar’s own EM-field and spark energy flared wide,
optics shut down and holding her counterpart, mental pathways clearing up,
their innermost energon reserve opening for their permanent bond, their deepest
ever sparkmerge, locks clicking lowly like a freshly released newspark.

===============================================================================

Like a freshly released newspark, a clearly not-sorry Buzzsaw wholly ignored
Ravage as he hissed and scolded him.

Who that bird-brain thought he was to break their stealth and just flare his
EM-field wide and large like this??

Having landed underneath the canopies as soon as Ravage detected his sibling
actively flaring his EM-field, before Laserbeak could have noticed anything and
just plain reported Buzzsaw to carrier, the three symbionts now rested on the
large tree branches above the ground level.

Ravage knew about Buzzsaw’s clear preference for Shockwave, which was why
Soundwave tended to deploy the two avians together: Laserbeak was an absolute
Megatron loyalist and her presence was supposed to serve as deterrent for their
sibling’s potential treachery.

Buzzsaw, aware of Laserbeak’s slightly dim intellect, compared to his own,
cleaned his plating pretending not to hear Ravage’s ranting: of course he would
give Shockwave any advantage he could, and of course Laserbeak wouldn’t even
notice: her lack of intellectual power came precisely from the fact she
received a less than ideal amount of spark-energy from Megatron, and Shockwave
hadn’t been into carrier’s trinebond until near the end of her sparking cycle,
to help.

Laserbeak on her side, blissfully unaware, also cleaned her plating, Ravage
glumly glowering at nowhere, deciding to try his luck on his own and prowling
away on his own in the shadows of the rainforest, pondering on how to solve the
current situation.

===============================================================================

Pondering on how to solve the current situation, Prowl, waiting for news on
Jazz, was holding his chin with his right hand and thumb, currently staring
very focused at a fancy table with the Cybertronian Strategy Map of Earth ®, a
battleground map version of Earth with all geographic points of interest
showing, miniature versions of every single autobot and decepticon scattered on
it.

As Inferno and Red Alert equally stared down at the map, all three mechs
equally pensive, the very bright and reflexive silvery plated head of Technotor
came into view, the Prime’s creation opening a large smile.

“Ultra-Gear!!!”

Before Prowl could do anything, the shiny mech snatched in hands the Soundwave
miniature, converting it into a microcassette recorder, actually pressing play,
the Decepticon Remix(from DJ Starscream – google it!) music filling the room,
as Red Alert fizzled his finials and Inferno folded arms, and a million of
scowling Prowl’s faces reflected in his mirrors, the SIC finally twitching his
left optic and glowering.

“Technotor. This is not a toy.”

Getting solemnly ignored as the minibot jammed to the song, Prowl actually
sighed, and about to snatch the miniature back, stopped dead on his tracks as
his personal comm ringed.

===============================================================================

Personal comm ringing on his desk station, Mighty Shockwave literally jumped
out of his seat as his datapads scattered to the ground.

“Aw, shit!”

Kneeling down and grumbling as he awkwardly caught the datapads in arms, the
comm rang again.

“First!!”

Silence: the comm rang once more.

“First!!!”

As the absence of his faithful drone stretched and the ringing comm finally
died, Mighty Shockwave started visually searching for it, until his single
optic zoomed into the offline, lonely First, deadly still in the middle of the
room.

Optic cycling wide, datapads falling to the ground once more, Mighty Shockwave
did nothing but stare, as behind him, the paint-transfer littered, transfluid-
stained Swindle and Judgelaw both seized the opportunity and scurried away
towards the door to the spacebridge in the background.
***** Cat people *****
Chapter Summary
     Ironhide tries to be the voice of reason, Swindle is outraged,
     someone chimes the autobot female's door, Skywarp for once is right,
     and Ravage found what he was looking for.
Scurrying in through the door on the background entrance of the Ark, Ironhide
made sure to remain between Elita-1 and the Prime, one hand holding each of
their forearms by the wrists, like a carrier would do to a pair of rambunctious
creations.
 
Recalling how they had been photographed and recorded by human media all the
way from the sinkhole, the arms specialist smirked widely at the memory of
human-manned vehicles screeching tires and running away the instant he glowered
at them and raised his chainguns up.
 
“Ironhide. Stop smiling. You’re doing it again. You shouldn’t feel proud of
scaring the humans.”
 
Taken out of his thoughts, he squinted at his right to the Prime, immediately
wincing then grimacing at the snort that came from his left.
 
“In thinking I have been bearing his overly paternalistic attitude on my own
for millennia! Being witness to it for once is so much more fun!”
 
“Elita...”
 
Optimus gave her a weary look, the royal consort immediately starting to poke
him in the chestplates with all the back appendages of her brave new alt mode,
the couplesuddenly exchanging cybertronian clicks and whirs in the middle of
the corridor.
 
Before the Prime and his bonded degenerated from gloweringand growlinginto a
catfight, Ironhide strongly gripped on their forearms and dragged them through
the corridors towards the Prime’s very own private quarters, chiming in his
security override and unceremoniously shoving them in, following behind and
slamming the door shut.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Slamming the door shut, Onslaught made sure to lock it before he walked to
Knock-Out and dialled down the stasis-cuffs to a minimum.
 
“You will fix Vortex and install a functional arrayorI will be tempted to take
away yours.”
 
Looking up the hulking brute, Knock-Out eschanged a brief glare with Hot-Rod,
who shrugged: like they had another option.
 
Vortex, thrumming with energy on the operating table, refused anaesthetics and
waited eagerly for the painful procedure to come, almost giggling: nothing like
being subject to a pair of skilled hands intent in making him suffer, in that
good way only a medic knows how to do.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I’m a medic. I know how to do it. Now lay still, the painkillers will soon
take effect and I’ll start the operation.”
 
“But but.” Jazz spoke, nervousness coming out of him in waves as he stared at
the generic blue visor First Aid had in hands “How will I be sure the
replacement visor will work? Will it access all my functions? Will it give me
temperature readings, x-ray vision, view-in-the-dark features, access to a
mech’s level of fear, and ultimately allow me to access my files with an eye
blink?”
 
First Aid immediately stalled.
 
“...did your other visor do all of this?”
 
Jazz, meekly shrugging, flashed a smirk.
 
“...nope, but'a mech can'hope, right?”
 
As First Aid merely blinked, Blades finally snapped out of his punishment of
sorting replacement hands by type and size class and came to the berth with a
hand in hands, poking Jazz in the chest repeatedly.
 
“Stop being a smartaft and stay put now!”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Stay put now!!!”
 
The door slammed shut on his face and Technotor pouted: having been expelled
out of the Strategy Room by a very furious Prowl, he glared down at the
transformedSoundwave miniature for a full second.
 
“At least he forgot I got you! We’re having so much fun now, aren’t we, evil
Blaster-looking guy?”
 
Instantly the door opened and Prowlunceremoniously picked the tapedeck-
transformed toy as Technotor gaped, dipping his head in a nod.
 
“Excuse-me.”
 
Blinking, surprised and outraged, Technotor stared at his empty hand as Prowl
flashed a wide smirk and locked the door back.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Locking the door, Ironhide had shoved both mechs in a sitting position by the
feet of Optimus’ very large, autobot-red meshed berth with a whoomp, and now
glowered at them, sternly.
 
He recalled Optimus’ wholly surprised glare, and Elita’s smirk, from before,
both now replaced by something new he was not paying attention to, because he
was too mad at their sparklet behaviour to care.
 
As such, ignoring their matching, dark demeanour, and the pair of optics sizing
him up and down, Ironhidesnapped, pointing his scratched and roughed out hand
at each of their faces.
 
“For Primus sake, I’m tired of you two feuding and exchanging insults like two
newly released sparklets! What do you have to say in your defence?”
 
===============================================================================
 
What do I have to say in my defence?
 
“I’m so guilty.”
 
The lawyercon purred, walking with Swindle through the timeless walk of the
spacebridge, remote-control in hands, able to control the flow of time and
observing the infinite possible doorways as time flew slowly to the point of
nearly stopping, and Swindle rolled his optics.
 
“I did not forget you tookthat purple transfluid sticking out of your plating
from me and I will want to be repaid back.”
 
“Boo-hoo-hooo. Twinkle did not profit from a transaction. Sue me!”
 
“It’s Swindle!” he groaned “And I would if you weren’t the last Lawyercon.”
 
Judgelaw flashed a side smirk then, winking.
 
“I only charge 20% for service. According to my calculations you actually owe
me.”
 
Swindle blinked stupidly then, as Judgelaw flashed a few portal destinies
before his optics, unable to decide on one.
 
“Hey. I’m the only one here who pimps. Everybody in the base knows it.” he
recalled Vortex “How dare you pimp yourself to me without asking for my
permission.”
 
Suddenly letting go an aha!, the Lawyercon waved a hand towards the greenish
swirling gateway, inviting his unwilling companion in.
 
===============================================================================
 
Inviting his unwilling companion in, Skywarp actually waved a hand towards the
inside of his very empty quarters.
 
“You see it? They aren’t here.”
 
Megatron, having been dragged by the seeker against his will through nearly
half a ship, shook his head.
 
“Skywarp. How many times do I have to tell you I don’t care.”
 
Looking hurt for a moment, Skywarp rushed to the berth, raising the standard
decepticon-purple mesh.
 
“But. The berth is the way I left it when I came out of the room looking for
TeeCee. He never returned.”
 
Megatron sighed, not really wanting to be there. He was so tired that all he
wanted was to collapse and go to recharge again, unable to understand why he
was feeling so mentally drained.
 
“I told you. Starscream is an exhibitionist glitch. They are probably fragging
somewhere very public in the ship and amassing an audience while they are at
it.”
 
At that, Skywarp’s face lit up, and he captured Megatron’s wrist, pulling the
unresisting tyrant out and blabbering about getting to the security room to
check up in the cameras to see if they could find where they went.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Can we find where they went?”
 
Chromia shook her head.
 
“I never had any kind of bond to Firestar, so she is untraceable as it is.”
 
Arcee, back with Chromia and Moonracer on their not-so-hidden-anymore hideout,
nodded: they had no idea on where the two brides left once they got out of the
bonding ceremony, and knowing the dangers of Cybertron, they had a very grim
prospect of never seeing them again.
 
“You know, we could always ask for the help of a certain cyclops.”
 
Moonracer widened her optics, as Arcee smashed a fist on the table.
 
“What, are we just walking to his Tower and asking that he puts his drone army
into finding them?”
 
At that the door chimed, and as Arcee growled and Chromia facepalmed, Moonracer
literally jumped to it.
 
“Hi!!!”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Hi!”
 
Ratchet came out of recharge slowly, taking a shameful amount of time to gather
his bearings together, and stopped very still thinking he saw a dark-grey
datacable inching close.
 
Fully focusing his blue optics on the cable, he finally met Microtron’s giant
cycling optic, the kid standing up behind his master, staring back, tilting his
head and waving a hello with the datacable.
 
Taking on his position and realising he was still buried deep into the port,
having fallen under recharge just like this, he depressurised his spike back
and closed his own plating, for once amazed with the autobot female port for
not letting out a single drop of transfluid, and very glad for not having a
complete mess to clean up.
 
Summing then all the energy he still had, Ratchet raised his right hand to hold
Shockwave’s head close and whispered.
 
“Master.Guess who is out of recharge.”
 
Shockwave, unfazed, onlining, taking a second to understand his port was empty
and clicking it closed, turned his head to meet Microtron in a silent staring
match for three full seconds, finally asking.
 
“Since when are you there?”
 
What did you see?
 
Microtron lead a datacable to the base of his fuel intake and tapped twice,
pensive.
 
“I’s been a few hours you were recharging. I tried not calling, but… it’s
getting dark. I’m scared. And going hungry.”
 
Shockwave nodded, in understanding, finally leaving Ratchet’s lap and turning
to the mechling.
 
“It is now late enough for us to gather crude fuel. The fuel site is close
enough that we can walk there.”
 
Microtron beamed, jumping into Shockwave’s arms and holding himself firmly
through datacables against the huge protruding bosom, clicking and purring
against it.
 
Detachedly nodding to his creation yet not helping him stay up, very glad he
had the handy appendages and did not require any of his hands to be busy to be
kept in arms, Shockwave triangulated his mental map of the area and chose a
direction, disappearing between the leaves and the trees with the finesse of a
strolling pack of african buffaloes, as Ratchet sighed and merely followed
behind, a pair of golden optics glowing minutely from the canopies above.
***** Scream and Shout *****
Chapter Summary
     Ravage strikes down, Swindle gets swindled again, medics show their
     prowess, Soundwave gets aid and Mighty Shockwave asks for help.
From above the canopies, pain and mayhem flew right into Shockwave’s battlemask
and face.

Fangs digging into the mask’s armour as the four claws held him in place,
Ravage made sure not to let go: sending Laserbeak a ping of his location, it
would only be a matter of time before he had Soundwave making sure Skywarp
warped him here so that the recapture of Shockwave would take place.

Releasing a static blurt as the symbiont’s fangs dug through his vocoder
underneath the mask and literally muted him, suddenly unable to emit a single
cry or request for help, Shockwave literally ripped Microtron off his frame,
two datacables fizzling wildly and without control as they clung to his frame
and were plucked out of their sockets at his own creation’s rotating back hub,
processed fluid flowing out of the empty connections in pulses.

As the mechling blurted static, instinctively trying to clutch against the
holes in his back with his claws with no success, Shockwave, now half-blind as
Ravage ripped out one of his optics with a claw, flung his his damaged creation
at the medic, hoping to have gotten the message across that he wanted the slave
to immediately run away.

Ratchet, torn between the damage warnings coming from both master and the
mechling now in his arms, immediately turned a hand into a solder and without
any sort of anaesthetics, eliciting a pained wail from the little cyclops, just
fused the open gauges in Microtron’s back, stopping the processed fluid flow
finally giving Shockwave a quick glance before taking the expected, logical,
decision.

===============================================================================

Taking the expected, logical decision was easy enough, as soon as Prowl
finished receiving the comm line from no one less than NurseBlades- and wasn’t
that a surprise to see the mad helicopter following orders for once! - that
Jazz had been cleared out of surgery and was trying to leave without
permission.


As such, feeling like being an aft just because he could, Prowl had absolutely
no qualms against keeping certain rebellious newsparks away from his prized
tactical board, so, placing with eerie calm the Soundwave miniature back into
the board under the worried glare of Red Alert and Inferno, the SIC finally
excused himself and went to the medbay, arms folded, looking down a clearly
amused Jazz, who immediately spoke.

“Heya, Prowler. I’d recognise yer mad, sulkin’, outraged EM-field anywhere.”

Blinking his new, fashionable visor on and off, flaring it suddenly with
multiple colours in a kaleidoscopic haze, Jazz finally winked one side of it
back into default blue, as Prowl simply glowered.

“What is that.”

“It’s a fancy party mod! I gotch’t from’Swindle.”

“Then it’s an illegal mod.”

Jazz shrugged.

“The visor works, ma’mech. I can’even see bene’th yer armour!”

Getting suddenly slapped in the face, Jazz yelped, as a wrench flew right into
Prowl’s head.

“You won’t ruin my first work as Chief Medical Officer First Aid!” he walked
past the verysurprised Prowl and caught the wrench back “This is a harmless
modification, it properly functions and even does a few extra, and it will
stay!”

===============================================================================

“This is a harmless modification, it properly functions and even does a few
extra, and it will stay!”

Onslaught squinted at Knock-Out, who folded arms, feeling particularly
offended, as Brawl fidgeted with his hands, both staring at the exposed, brave-
new, just installed array between Vortex widespread legs.

“It isn’t looking that bad, boss! Lookit! It glows!”

Hot-Rod nodded in approval: Vortex, still tripping in the post-surgical,
painful haze, had no idea yet the array was even installed, and he frankly
didn’t care, as long as he could still be pimped and used without a single
ounce of respect, and obviously, would be able to hack mechs and access their
files like a proper interrogator could.

“How is he going to interrogate without a modified spike?”

Knock-Out, having learned his craft from the best, just smirked and captured a
fake spike, lubricating it and slowly inserting it at the valve mod as Vortex
writhed and whined, taking Onslaught’s hand and placing it at the end of the
contraption.

“Hold it in place.”

Going to Vortex’s audials then, under Onslaught’s watchful glower, he
whispered.

“Now. Do it. Lockdown.”

===============================================================================

“Lockdown? Lockdown???”

Judgelaw, the lawyercon, just out of the green swirling portal, was followed by
a very angry Swindle back into Earth, at the Combaticon Base in Guadalcanal.

“Why not? It sounds better than Swingle.”

“It’s Swindle!!!”

“Whatever. Unlike you, I have the Juridical Permission to alter my own
denomination. Besides, I always wanted to become a bounty hunter...”

He then turned a stasis-gun right before Swindle’s now pallid face and equally
dismaying optics.

“...and an Intergalactic Mod Collector. I’m glad I can begin by just plain
taking everything that was ever yours.”

The gun’s pulse zimmed loudly then, ready to shoot.

===============================================================================
 

Zimming loudly, the pulse hit, readily spreading a dampening field around a
radius, instantly knocking-out Ravage, about to claw out Shockwave’s remaining
optic, and the heliformer himself, both collapsing immobile on the ground.

Very aware that where Ravage was, Soundwave soon would be, Ratchet simply
released Shockwave’s creation down and walked to his master, pushing the
knocked-out Ravage aside and immediately assessing damage.

Right optic beyond repair, hanging out of socket with fluid dribbling, left one
scratched, requiring a cosmetic glass repair, battlemask ripped out exposing
one old grey scar and now a fresh claw mark plus a split lip, Ratchet just
shook his head, taking the similarly knocked-out Shockwave over one shoulder,
adjusting his hydraulics for the weight and turning to Microtron.

“Can you climb up? I expect you have a load of leftover cables?”

Still aching from the crude soldering he had been submitted to, collecting his
now lost datacables for the potential leftover processed energon in them,
Microtron nodded, released four cables out of the ten left in the hub, quickly
scanned the area for all spilled energon and started to vacuum the ground with
them, finally pulling himself up in Ratchet’s back.

Literally kicking Ravage out of sight and making sure to destroy his trail as
he walked out, Ratchet focused on the direction they were following earlier:
fuel was still a requirement and he had to keep Shockwave online if he wanted
to never belong to Soundwave.

===============================================================================

Soundwave instantly knew the moment Ravage was knocked out by the field
dampener: it muted the carrier-creation spark-link, rendering their mutual bond
blocked, and there was only one forged unit he knew had it in function on
Earth, and his name was Ratchet.

Still dazed on his struts however, sending a direct spark ping to Laserbeak, he
got back the news that Ravage left on his own and had just sent her a request
for help, but she had no idea on how to find him, for the next instant his
continuous spark pulse was muted, and that she was very glad carrier called
back, because Buzzsaw was being difficult and stubborn again!

Getting instantly Buzzsaw’s even, flat, Shockwave-like ping telling he was
notbeing difficult, rolling his optics under the visor, Soundwave stood up, as
soon as he regained balance, determined to comm for Skywarp to get VOPed to
Laserbeak’s coordinates.

Suddenly, the world cracked around them and a VOP echoed on his audials,
filling the room, a lapful of the warping buffoon just falling on his arms in
bridal style, followed by his beloved leader and mate Megatron showing up
literally aft on the ground.

Blinking stupidly as Skywarp giggled, Megatron, feeling very abused as he
looked up from his position, stood up and flung the seeker out of his mate’s
arms: Soundwave, deciding Skywarp was harmless and loyal enough, decided not to
get paranoid at them being together for once, dipping his head in a respectful
nod to his leader.

“Lord Megatron: enjoying a ride?”

Growling, clearly unamused after having been subjected to successive VOP’s
around the ship (because Skywarp insisted on trying to convince him that
Thundercracker’s silence was worrisome enough), Megatron literally dusted off
his frame from purplish sparkling powder from the alteration of the fabric of
space, and spat.

“You will put your spies to locate Thundercracker or I will make sure Skywarp
remains as your personal, constant fixture and permanent aide for the next
hundred megacycles!”

Soundwave, minutely stalling as he processed what he heard, made sure to remain
with his EM-field absolutely reigned in: Thundercracker was as dazed and under
mind control as the five constructicons he captured and even Starscream
himself, all of them kept out of the way while he searched for the runaway
Shockwave, Microtron and a certain autobot medic.

As such, taking the only decision he could, since he could not fail at finding
Thundercracker the moment he put himself to the chase, he instantly walked to
the seeker and turned to Lord Megatron.

“Soundwave: will take aide.”

“WHAT?”

Skywarp blinked, alternating his glare between the outraged Megatron and the
stoic Soundwave, slowly fidgeting with his hands as Soundwave droned.

“Soundwave: will not waste time searching for Starscream’s trinemate: reason:
no interest in walking on Starscream and Thundercracker fragging.”

Skywarp was about to stutter in protest as Megatron turned to him with a I told
you so glare, then immediately sagged, turning to Soundwave with a very
dejected glare.

“What do you need my aid for?”

===============================================================================
 
 
“What do you need our aid for?”

Arcee folded arms and looked up at Mighty Shockwave, just leaving a huge tank
followed by hundreds of his screen-faced drones, bringing in arm and gun-arm…

“My First-drone is offline for no apparent reason and I can’t seem to bring him
back.”

He glumly deposed the turned off Firstinto Arcee, Chromia and Moonracer’s
pedes, as the three looked down, then up to meet the single optic.

Chromia gaped and Moonracer, circling around the drone, quickly spotted the
huge, unmistakable ON/OFF button in the back of the drone’s neck, instantly
poking her and pointing at it.

Arcee, arms folded, also staredat said button, instantly understood what
happened and immediately squinted and defiantly looked up the cyclops.

“You. You, the Mighty Shockwave, the Amoral, the Mad Scientist, the Master of
Drones, the inventor of the cortical psychic patch, the creator of the Seeker
Army, the developer of the Space Bridge, the Cloner of Predacons, the Spark-
Splitter, the Collector of Corpses, First-Spawn of Unicron. You are telling me
you can’t seem to turn your own drone back on.”

Mighty Shockwave meekly nodded. Arcee cleared her vocaliser.

“Coincidentally. We are under a predicament too. As it is, both Firestar and
Nautica disappeared during the failed bonding ceremony. Something to do with
that incompetent lawyercon of yours trying to behead them with that ceremonial
sword.”

Mighty Shockwave nodded, recalling the brides and the fact that lawyercon
wasn’t even his, as Arcee continued.

“So, Mighty Shockwave. We might have go into agreement. We will help turning
your drone back online, but you have to promise to put that beautiful drone
army of yours into finding our mates. Deal?”
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