Chapter Text
A truce.
A fragile truce.
One created out of sheer desperation so as not to further damage Cybertron's tenuous future.
Of course, it was Optimus Prime that proposed such an 'alliance'. Right on the battlefield. In the middle of fighting his greatest enemy of the past several million years. Megatron had laughed in his face at the mention of such a thing before trying to blast the Prime pointblank with his cannon. Yet, what words were exchanged after as sparks flew off their plating seemed to stun and brought the warlord pause. A terse expression scrunched his features. They spoke for another click or two, brushed off the dust that coated their forms, and shook on it.
Soundwave watched the whole interaction unfold. Recorded it, too. He didn't need to wait for Megatron to order a space bridge portal back to the Nemesis or ask why Megatron agreed. With what he heard, it made perfect sense why both sides have agreed to be amicable for now.
Unicron's power was resurging. Primus' light was wavering. And no one knew why. Without Primus, there is no Cybertron and no planet to conquer for Decepticon or Autobot.
A sane bot would take such news more ceremoniously than it did aboard the Nemesis.
Vechicons and Inceticons mumbled about themselves, probably glad for the break in the fighting. Knock Out had to fake his disappointment in front of Lord Megatron just to save his internals from being rearranged. But the dazzle in his optics gave away how joyous he was to not need to tend to injuries every cycle. No one was surprised to hear Starscream screech his usual scratchy ranting about how 'this was ridiculous' and 'why should we care about what the Autobots think', only to falter and grovel once Megatron leered at him. Thankfully, the twins took this with greater honor and merely concurred. Then Shockwave—
Oh, Shockwave.
The tank didn't speak for a long time. As the rest of the high-ranking Decepticons bickered amongst themselves about the semantics and letting their electromagnetic fields buzz unfettered, Shockwave stood still like stone. His single bright red optic that defined his entire faceplate glowed with its chilling uneasy aura. Occasionally, it condensed towards the center; focused. If one looked carefully, the center of his optic flashed for a few frames as the mad scientist thought in a blur. What was running through his processor? How many petabytes of information was he sifting through in nanoclicks without a single byte being misread or falsely processed? Only he truly knew.
When Shockwave reasoned out the conclusion he deemed logical, his helm tilted up one degree, shifted the weight between his pedes, and spoke in that deep hollow tone of a vocalizer lacking color nor soul.
“We should pause all scouting missions for Predacon remains and Omega keys and divert all resources to contain Unicron’s influence. If what the Prime says is true, then all dark energon related materials must be quarantined before Unicron taints another spark. Lord Megatron, I additionally request that I monitor your frame and processor to ensure your sanity remains intact.”
Clear. Direct. Planned and executed without any flourishes or unnecessary padding. Delivered with a confidence only someone who never believed himself to be wrong yet still loyally faithful could have.
Shockwave’s words cut through the rabble like a falling greatsword lodging into the ground. Necks and joints gyrated around towards him, scratchy metallic rotations from poor maintenance dragging and creaking over. Intimidated. Lesser mechs straightened to mimic his unwavering posture. Whilst he looked unfazed, they scowled and grumbled like young sparklings who'd lost their spotlight. Hints of jealousy colored every expression, especially Starscream’s.
Megatron however exuded a milder tolerant energy, appreciative for the redirect. A resonant hum vibrated in his larynx as he pondered while picking the dirt and grime off his silver chrome finish. Soon, that iconic smile of all sharp jagged teeth split across his scarred face.
“Naturally, Shockwave. All troops in the field will be called to return except for those mining energon. As for my wellbeing, I trust you’ll do what you must to secure the sanctity of my frame. I may have Unicron’s lifeblood running through me, but I refuse to be its puppet.”
Another single-degree nod from Shockwave came and went. Still monotone and calculating, he asked; “I request to use the spare medical parts from the medical bay for my purposes.”
“Like I said, do as you must.”
“Thank you, Lord Megatron.”
With that, the warlord waved his first lieutenant of science off, motioning his servo away. The inventor didn’t need any other commands, he had full clearance. Some groans of irritation quickly filled the commanding silence, leaving the leader to quell his people again. A commotion Shockwave wasn’t going to stay to witness.
His frame shifted and oscillated to have him stand even taller if possible, recalibrating his stabilizers for the weight of his major extremities. A heavy ground-type frame and heavy mods result in a bulky shape similar to their lord. Most of his mass tipped to one side where his massive arm cannon looked as deadly as the rest of him, the treaded pipeline connecting it to his lower cortex adding to his heft. Cubic yet sharp purple metal molded over his already substantial protoform as if blasted from the front with white-hot molten lava then cooled instantly, his plating spiking out behind him like fragmented obsidian. Slate gray accents layered at the ends of his limbs and the smaller trimmings like the pointy finials around his helm. Lines of neon magenta biolights traveled and embellished themselves into the crevices and divots throughout his body.
Despite all this weight, Shockwave moved with calculated efficiency and a smoothness to match the slickest of high-altitude fliers. His pedes hit the floor with a solid thud, vibrating the floor every step — stomp — he took as he left the central chamber to presumably his lab. Even after the automatic doors closed behind him, the clunks of his movement reverberated past the walls of the Nemesis with their tremolo. Impenetrable and decisive.
Soundwave recorded every single millisecond of detail in ultra HD resolution.
Not for any official reasons. This could simply be categorized as regular surveillance. All Decepticons knew that Soundwave watched virtually everything they did, to assume otherwise is foolish and a death wish. No one would ever question why he had hundreds of terabytes worth of footage on his personnel. It’d be filed away under his own digital signature, labeled as ‘bloatware’, and hidden until he itched to see the tank again.
His processor itched often.
As he stood as the silent sentinel next to Megatron, still manning the ground bridge control station, Soundwave pulled up a select dozen favorites to browse through in his internal UI. They covered his vision in windows as he carefully flipped through each, eventually settling on one.
One of Shockwave in his underground laboratory; diligently working on the start of a new Predacon clone. The dripstone cave he chose for his experiments rumbled with promise, the hum of machinery echoing throughout the spacious caverns where rows of giant bioluminescent-filled vials were anchored to the ground connected to each other with sheeted tubing. Cameras zoomed in on Shockwave slaving away at the center console next to a lab table piled high with big bones and scientific instruments.
The text on the holographic screen sped past at lightning speeds, far too fast for even Soundwave to read, but it was the optimal speed for Shockwave to absorb all the information in a joor. His optic eagerly ate up any data that crossed his sights while simultaneously typing at an equal pace with clawed servos—mismatched servos. His left was a huge thing even by Decepticon standards, six silver digits sprouting from the distorted palm with far more joints than necessary. It dwarfed his main right by a size class or two yet moved equally synchronously like the water that flowed down the crevices of the cave walls. A new addition cut from the barrel of his fusion cannon.
Shockwave had effectively made a crude mod out of his left arm while he was stranded on Cybertron. When questioned, all he replied was to maximize efficiency since his regular configuration and workstations were unavailable to him. Sure, it appeared odd, but its existence fascinated Soundwave.
To have repaired himself blinded on the desolate wasteland of a planet was impressive as is. To also make body modifications so seamless he could transform his servo back into a working armament then go on and break ground on cloning technology using nothing but busted debris? What stunning ingenuity.
Soundwave watched as the Shockwave in the video lit up his keyboard with inputs, flooding the screen with something pertaining to Predacon CNA. Never pausing. No breaks. Until the console angrily beeped in warning, more holo screens appeared in the air with streams of numbers. Shockwave’s helm tilted sideways two degrees, his finials jerkily flickering up and down; displeased. Maybe a little more than just dissatisfied based on how his optic glowed a brighter red and pulsed unevenly.
His optic’s brightness would always waver whenever he hit a roadblock in development. A difference of 0.862 lumens, to be exact. Soundwave replayed this scene more than he’d admit to himself to denote such a tiny detail.
Shockwave froze in place as his genius whirred in his helm. For five uninterrupted kliks, he hovered over the console. The light from the holograms illuminated his frame with its gentle blue that defined his wide chassis. The mirrored surface of the flat enamel over his spark chamber reflected the color back out in softer shades while the rest of his glossy amethyst purple plating shone in reaction.
He looked ethereal. The security cameras could only observe so much before the resolution got blurry, but Soundwave had the pleasure of getting much closer to the enigmatic bot than any device could. Pictures taken with his own optics of Shockwave layered over the playing footage. Quick snapshots when Shockwave was busy and the lighting was just right. He’d lost count of how many he had taken just to admire. Soundwave could almost feel the chiseled seams slipping against metal planeling as he moved.
A faint click of Shockwave’s thick neck ticking left the photos forgotten. Soundwave’s interest reabsorbed back to the video again—his favorite part forthcoming. The abrupt finial twitch, a 1.3-degree tilt of his helm, and prompt flicker in those red optics: Shockwave typed exactly 17 inputs in smooth order, and the console beeped back pleasantly. Flashes of numbers and text condensed back into one screen while the cave groaned a sonorous growl. The robust pumps activated with a reverberant bubbling of liquid, transporting neon green substances into each massive test tube in turn. Green met light blue and frothed. The instant chemical reaction boiled the combining liquids, fizzling into condensation as microscopic mineral deposits coalesced into a tiny irregular sphere. The beginnings of CNA growth.
Success.
Breakthroughs in science were par for the course when it came to Shockwave. The Decepticon force had long gotten accustomed to his casual advances that would’ve revolutionized Cybertron if they weren’t at war millions of light-years away. Yet Soundwave found himself enamored every single time. Not just with scientific endeavors. No, it was the personal reaction afterward.
Turning around to witness the first blooms of the fruits of his labor, Shockwave took in the now alive lab. Vorns of work are now materializing in real time. He glanced about, flicking between each tube starting to bubble and swirl. Gingerly, the tank walked towards the closest one, letting its warmth seep into his armor. Shockwave lifted his main hand up carefully — as if fearful of damaging his ambitious work — and let the tips of his digits tap the glass in a gentle glide.
Steam that’d been held in escaped through his vents in one loud hiss, the internal pressure forcing some out from tiny gaps in his armor. Shockwave’s frame relaxed in nanoclicks. His bulky shoulder pads rolled and lowered as the tension released in a flagrant show of discipline. He leaned back, somehow making himself stand taller and more intimidating with the light and shadow enhancing his frame.
His helm lowered a notch. Shockwave spoke at a low frequency, clearly not meant for anyone to hear. Soundwave honed in on it anyway, even after hearing it several times over. One word, four syllables.
‘Fascinating.’
Soundwave replayed it again in his audial, savoring each beat of Shockwave’s deep cold voice dripping with a glee rarely shown outside his lab. The recording abruptly ended after that, so Soundwave rewinded the last bit over and over, trying to soak up every moment of his fellow high command’s reaction.
Why did something so minute and fleeting give him such joy? Soundwave couldn’t give a precise answer. Maybe it was the simple satisfaction of sharing in another’s happiness. Or was it how Shockwave could experience such emotion for someone that claimed to be purely logical? How about the fluttery feeling in his spark whenever Soundwave thought of Shockwave growing more intense at any hint of goodwill? All three and more, probably.
He couldn’t help it. Soundwave was utterly enamored with Shockwave.
Restarting the video, he eagerly watched the movements he’s engrained into his memory banks by now, every bit of behavior more addicting than a sip of high-grade energon. When the digital Shockwave encountered that error again, the communications officer found himself waiting to say—
“—Soundwave.”
Ripped out of his wanton daydreaming by his own designation, said mech’s processor scrambled back to reality. Everything cleared from his vision in an instant to be met with Megatron’s imposing silhouette right in front of him. He wasn’t worried about being caught creeping over their teammate; no one knew what hid behind his full-face visor. Just a little stunned.
Soundwave tilted his helm up in both recognition and query at his lord. Out of the corner of his optics, he spotted Knock Out shooing all the grunts back to their normal duty, then eventually focused back at Megatron. Skyquake and Dreadwing were gone. Evidently, they’ve come to some veritable resolution if Starscream’s belated sulking and sullen EM field held anything of note.
Megatron let out a tired grunt, crossing his arms behind him. “It’s been an eventful day, Soundwave. There’s much to be done.”
A faint nod of acknowledgement from his right-hand mech turned his weary grimace into a dull smirk. There was an exhaustion in the warlord's eyes that he hadn’t seen since the early days of the revolution. Uptight strain radiated off his frame.
“I’ll need you to lock down the dark energon stockpile and quarantine any labs that have handled dark energon crystals. We cannot risk any contamination aboard the Nemesis, lest another possessed mutiny happen again.”
Another nod.
“There will be new security protocols in place until we find what’s causing Unicron’s sudden power surge. Dreadwing and Starscream will handle the change in patrols. You will do extra surveillance over the dark energon mines.”
Soundwave already started remotely locking doors and sealing off empty hallways from the central console. The mines already had some cameras installed; he’ll dispatch Laserbeak to survey the area after the minicon finishes recharging.
Megatron huffed, aware that all his orders were already underway. He knew Soundwave well enough to read the blank expression on his visor and silence as acceptance. “Well done.” His liege commented. “After I get myself cleaned and go over plans, I’ll retire to my habsuite for the rest of this cycle. Understood?”
Before Soundwave to reply with nothing as usual, Megatron’s voice came through his private comm line in a lower chilling pitch. [I’m expecting a private call from Optimus within the next joor. See to it that I’m not interrupted.]
Ah, that’s interesting. It’d be the first time in some million years they’ve spoken privately over frequency. Best to also secure Megatron’s chambers and prepare the construction crew if anything were to be destroyed in the process.
“ Understood .” Soundwave answered in a random Vechicon’s voice.
“Good.” Megatron gave a toothy grin as he began to leave, a grumbling Starscream in toe.
Massive footsteps accompanied by lighter clacks reverberated through the central chamber while the first lieutenant of military affairs murmured under his vent something about complete annihilation and the frustrations of armistices. The metal doors slid open with a ‘shirk’, yet the steps paused before they were muffled by layers of sheeting. Must’ve been Megatron that stopped first since the pained yip emanated from Starscream sounded a lot like him colliding with the lord’s back.
“Also, Soundwave,” Megatron turned around briefly towards his spy master. “Go accompany Shockwave when you’re done. Assist him with whatever contraptions he has planned for me.”
Accompany Shockwave? Soundwave’s spark soared at the mere notion of spending time in the mad inventor’s presence. Watching him work quietly — helping him if he was lucky enough — never failed to make his circuits tingle. If he was swooning too hard, it didn’t show on his faceplate. The rest of the world just saw the black screen where his facial features would be; empty and unassuming.
Seeming pleased with the lack of a response, the pair finally left through the awaiting door, and Soundwave was left alone. That fact didn’t register until his audial noticed the sudden silence.
The stillness was a familiar velvety cloak that enveloped his sensorium. Muddling it. His processor hasn’t been as sharp lately like it skipped a couple of frames. A defragmentation was perhaps in order. No matter, there were assignments to be handled. Then he could be around Shockwave; observe, experience, and silently admire.
Soundwave couldn’t have worked faster.
His digits flew over the keypad of the central console. His interior UI, once filled with still pictures, now had windowed pop-ups of ever-flowing text and commands. Contacting troops about locked-down areas. Putting a notice for the worst-case aftermath of that call. Outside of orders, he set up a careful and secure procedure for daily dark energon transport to Megatron’s habsuite. Their leader still required fuel, even at the behest of their current predicament.
Faint melodic hum of technology resonated through the empty room as he performed his duties. The normal quiet Soundwave lived in. But such stillness doesn’t remain eternally as Laserbeak eventually arose, letting out a series of beeps from his slot on Soundwave’s chassis.
[Master!] The minicon chirped through their shared frequency, too tiny for a proper voice box.
Endeared, Soundwave gently scratched the minicon’s flattened wing tips. [Laserbeak: Fully recharged?]
His response was an eager and affirmative ping with a string of happy noises after, Laserbeak vibrating in contentment from his master’s affections. To think, this small gray bot had once hissed at and attacked the very servos now petting him gently. Not to blame the poor thing; he’d been struck in the rudder by a stray shot trying to escape an explosive firefight. He was scared.
It took Soundwave a while of cautious nursing, patience, and a willingness to care despite the harm to build trust. He still had minuscule scars from constantly getting bit while trying to feed said biter energon. He regretted none of it, ‘cause the minicon was online and healthy, serving the cause loyally alongside him.
Speaking of, Soundwave had an assignment for his little companion. Through the hardline in his chest, he relayed Megatron’s orders, coordinates, and directives straight to Laserbeak in binary. His fellow Decepticons always murmured, wondering how Soundwave communicated with his minicons without speaking; this is how.
When the last of the ones and zeros finished in a crisp end marker, Laserbeak transformed off into his alt-form, unfolding like origami. He trilled and nuzzled against his master’s helm in a soft gesture of thanks, then zipped off into the air for the dark energon mines.
The visor hid the slight smile on Soundwave’s face. Proud.
Fondness quickly wore aside since the returning thought of ‘help Shockwave’ jarred Soundwave’s systems wide awake. After double-checking his efforts, Soundwave internally pulled up a map of the Nemesis that tracked all movement aboard. Simple white dots were grunts, bigger ones were guards. High-ranking officers were tagged with their names and Shockwave’s icon headed towards his personal lab.
Soundwave’s vents hummed a mournful tone as he took one last look at the pictures that framed his UI, filing them away deep in his personal archives. There’s little reason to protest when he’ll see him in person within a bit.
Walking would take too long.
.
.
.
Soundwave opened a bridge portal from where he stood. The boom of swirling green welcomed the flier, engulfing him for a nanoclick then disappeared as fast as it came when he exited the other side.
His pedes hit the cool metal floor of the extensive hallway right as much heavier steps rounded the corner. Shockwave turned his hefty frame on a dime. The moment his big optic noticed the sudden presence of the communication officer, Shockwave’s helm snapped up to meet the blank visor, the menacing red glow now directed at him.
Every step closer made Soundwave’s spark spin faster. The vibrations from those thumping strides were doing unfortunate things to his struts. Many a time he’s been on the receiving end of that unblinking look. Scary to those who first witnessed it, yet Soundwave learned to take it at face value; a simple recognition of his existence.
Shockwave stopped a meter before him, towering over his fellow Decepticon. Second largest after the lord himself.
“Soundwave.” There was that cold deep voice. “Why are you here?”
Straight to the point. All work. No fuss.
And still Soundwave wanted to melt into a puddle. Why am I here? Oh, just to bask in your presence and beg for an extended audience. The flier didn’t waste words, replying succinctly as his visor flashed on to replay the clip of Megatron’s order.
“ ‘Also, Soundwave. Go accompany Shockwave when you’re done. Assist him with whatever contraptions he has planned for me.’ ”
No reaction. At least, no reaction to the passing observer. Soundwave wasn’t a passive observer.
His optics concentrated on the subtle twitching of Shockwave’s finials, the ticks as he tilted his helm to further regard his teammate, and the gentle ripples from his biolights. A digit on his cannon hand curled in slightly. Appears like he developed a new reflexive movement. Duly noted.
Soundwave tried to accept as much visual input as his processor would allow without moving his helm. Simultaneously overkill and insufficient. No number of videos or images taken would satisfy this greedy impulse. His archives could be filled to the brim with the bot's purple hues and wide contours, warnings flashing about limited capacity, and he'll still find a way to store more. If Soundwave could, he’d stay this close to the brilliant inventor and record every little inch of his—
“Ah.” Shockwave mulled.
Jolted out of his thoughts again, Soundwave soft reset his graphic processing center to clear his peripheral vision. His wistfulness was getting out of hand. Since when did he become so disoriented with his reality? Venting carefully, he pinged a questioning sound.
Shockwave didn’t respond immediately. If he had optical ridges, they’d likely be crinkled. His burly shoulder pads slipped forward a smidgen in a slouch. The tank wore that same faceless expression from just earlier; intense thought and consideration. A slight lean left then right implied such calculated decision-making, the interrupted silence split by his low tone stunned the hapless flier.
“Lord Megatron is correct. Your assistance would be helpful.”
The word ‘helpful’ alone ought to render Soundwave’s systems unresponsive. Be still his veering spark. He hit the manual control button over his fans right before they could betray his awe and whine. All he could manage in reply was a meek nod, the rest of his sensors split between capturing Shockwave’s magnificence and trying not to fall flat on his faceplate.
“Let us continue this conversation in my laboratory. It’s not far.” Shockwave intoned none the wiser, straightening his posture once more. “Please, follow me.”
With those two sentences spoken, Shockwave started walking again, steps purposeful and assured. Soundwave promptly followed down the intricate angular halls as soon as the other brushed past him. They moved slightly out of sync, the smaller of the two needing to stroll a hair quicker.
Soundwave didn’t mind. His processor was too fuzzy to think about semantics. Being around Shockwave seemed to compromise essential functions in his frame, like he was a new spark learning the world again.
It’s odd.
They’ve known each other since the waning end of the Golden Age of Cybertron. Soundwave, a talented gladiator from Kaon, ruled the pits whilst dazzling crowds with his agility and dexterity. Shockwave, the pit’s ruthless surgeon from the outskirts of Iacon, gruesomely repaired the injured to the point of mutilation. They met as doctor and patient, then as mutuals through other mechs. Then, as Decepticons, they followed their soon-to-be fearsome leader into battle, lost or won, and watched the revolution burn the planet into ash. Millions of years of history between them and not once did Soundwave ever feel like this.
Sure, he’s respected Shockwave for that time. One would be hard-pressed to not find a sliver of intrigue with the brilliant mind in his helm. His ambitious inventions and experiments never failed to concern half the High Command, only to further their cause by leaps and bounds. Much of their victories were attributed to him developing a new toxic weapon, testing explosives on unsuspecting Autobots, or the like. Shockwave's accolades unroll out on the floor if listed and read aloud.
Soundwave remained cordial with the bot from the beginning. Maybe a few misgivings from being operated on and marred because Shockwave got too curious about a stray cable during the procedure. Playing an anatomical dummy for a first impression irked him. Otherwise, as equals, he had little to complain about. The inventor completed his work on time, executed orders with efficient grace, and his data entries were immaculately organized. They rarely clashed but also didn't interact outside of duty.
So what changed?
Easy.
Shockwave died.
Well… Not exactly. Shockwave was perfectly fine. Clearly. The tank was right in front of him, online and well. But they thought he perished. Gone. Defeated by the Autobots when he charged into that space bridge never to come out.
In hindsight, Starscream’s panicked boasting should’ve flagged his statement of Shockwave’s end as fraudulent. That seeker’s pitiful shows to gain Megatron’s favor know no bounds. However, what information did they have to disprove his claims? There wasn’t a frame left to scan, communications were severed, and not a sign of life anywhere in the universe.
The Decepticons mourned his death. Megatron stayed bitter for an entire orbital cycle, any and all troops subject to his prickly temper. The High Command strained under the loss as the mantle for lead of innovation remained empty. Knock Out held his glossa from swinging more snark at random Vechicons. Dreadwing, upon his return, spent time with Skyquake at the defunct lab to pay his respects. Starscream tiptoed around the subject, dramatically feigning grief, though there's a tinge of regret only detectable when the seeker was alone. Outwardly, it looked like Soundwave had taken the news the best, his performance and expression unfettered.
Internally, Soundwave crumbled into a pile of scrap. After vorns of constantly being on each other’s radar, the lack of his intense presence felt disorienting and wrong. Cut out too abruptly. Amputated out of his life. He couldn’t shake off the acute absence of the brilliant mind that ran parallel to his own. Not when every single deviation from what he knew as norm reminded him of such. No longer did the ground shake from his steps. The whir of his many workstations—alive and active—silenced, collecting a thick layer of dust. His comm frequency went inactive, no longer calling to open a ground bridge anymore and Soundwave found himself staring waiting for it to light up again some cycle.
He’d find himself in the empty laboratory, doomed to repeat the same steps every cycle. Half expecting the block of purple mass to turn around only for it to be some offline machinery. His splayed servos would glide over the tables where the scientist once touched. The control column optimized for Shockwave stood too tall for Soundwave to comfortably type on it. The room was too spaced out, yet he remembered them being closer when the tank was here. A red light alarm blinked and he thought Shockwave turned to look at him.
The lab's door became a haunting reminder of his once coworker and teammate. Soundwave's frame rattled, unable to bring himself to walk within visual distance of the blasted place as his tanks wanted to purge at a mere glimpse. But not seeing the remnants of the tank also felt like this irrevocable betrayal. A vicious feedback loop. So the last vestiges left to console him were nine pictures and one video of their younger years he found backed up deep in his personal archives. They had different frames then, the war hadn’t worn on their processors yet. The video was crudely filmed. It'd been a test to see if he could record with his optics, Shockwave’s design. The audio didn’t work and it skipped frames, but he could still see that single optic looking back.
If Soundwave imagined hard enough, he’d superimpose the faint visage of violet and red into reality for a klik before it disappeared like the real thing.
This hollowness ate away at his spark. Missed couldn’t encapsulate the feeling in its entirety. Everywhere he went, Soundwave wished Shockwave were there too. If they snatched their victory from reality's jaws, he wanted to see the purple frame ease and nod with a clap or two amongst the celebration. If defeat befelled them, he longed to hear metal screech again from that lab while the tank burned time and energon trying to develop another scheme. Most of all, the flier craved the company of Shockwave—the silent, unyielding amity he'd taken for granted. As if the very core of his being was infected with a virus of longing. Memories of them quietly working in the same room resurfaced like unwanted corrupting bugs and taunted him with the peace he couldn't have again. Each time the thought crossed his mind that this ache could be soothed, it returned anew with a relentless vigor.
Soundwave had never known such loneliness. It tore and ripped the little anima he'd scrupulously protected for so long. Hydraulic coolant shed and dripped from his optics, a function he forgot existed, filling the gap between faceplate and visor. Cloudy fluid leaked out of the crevices. So that’s why issues were invented.
Eventually, the flier learned to ignore this despair. Grieving only hindered his work. The irony that it sounded like something Shockwave would say wasn’t lost on him. So inspired by the same mech, Soundwave returned to his duties and post. Those around him noticed a hint of a change, as was the intention. No one would know the premier spymaster held an incomplete spark and a permanent sullen gaze.
That’s how it stayed.
Decepticons and Autobots continued to fight. Megatron came up with more and more plans to restore Cybertron only to be foiled by Optimus Prime over and over. Starscream screeched like his namesake and annoyed every mech possible with his prostrations for their liege. Knock Out’s sass laced his voice, tripling when Breakdown was around. Dreadwing reunited with Skyquake and the two happily sparred side by side. The drone of Vechicons and Inceticons filled the Nemesis during peak hours.
And Soundwave monitored their forces with a small clipped picture of Shockwave in the top right of his UI.
Until that fateful day.
Knock Out and a ragtag crew had been sent out on a salvage mission to recover what was left of the Omega Lock on Cybertron. They returned with some scrap, a few Iacon relics, and a giant purple mech powerwalked out of the space bridge.
Shockwave. Alive.
He looked as if his frame had been thrown and dragged through the Rust Seas. The general shape remained the same old silhouette but dents, cracks, and scraps littered his violet plating dull. His arm cannon was a battered instrument of his one-sided confinement, slices in it oscillating with newfound mobility. An angry shade of red in his sole optic echoed the deadly reputation he killed thousands for. It brightened evermore as Shockwave found his footing on the solid platform of the Nemesis with a wearily precise thud, his engines blaring out grand clouds of ruddy sand. Loud and potent to shake the room.
Soundwave’s spark and processor were accelerating too fast to hear whatever elaborate excuse Starscream was desperately contriving to cover his aft and the interactions after the fact. His optics glued onto the bot he’d convinced himself was forever offline. Had his graphics center broken and hallucinated this elaborate ruse? Was he still recharging? Are his systems that glitched?
He must’ve blue-screened for a joor as by the time he handled his bearings, they were all walking after Megatron through the long metallic halls. Before Soundwave could extrapolate the why, that hauntingly familiar clunk of heavy footsteps resounded right next to him. Rust was in the air. Suddenly, he was hyperaware of the towering presence far too similar in stature to the bot he mourned. The corporeality clashed with the engrained but unlasting truth he had reiterated to himself for orbits. Yet without thinking, his helm tilted up oh so carefully and his fans hitched.
Up close, Shockwave felt like an unearthed archaeological wonder. The passage of time was not kind to him, weathered by the storms and winds of their barren home planet. Scratches and scuffs in deep purple enamel patinated with oxidation spoke of a long arduous time endured alone. Rocks and pebbles were pittering onto the floor from the buildup of grime clogging his joints. He carried a gait different from his usual steps—no longer graceful but labored and deliberate. His movement was stiff, in need of a good oil treatment, but he was indeed moving. He was here.
Really here.
And he looked… Soundwave’s CPU was too jumbled to define it.
As if sensing the staring, Shockwave glanced back at him with an eerie situational awareness, faint fractures in the glass lens of his faceplate. The reticle’s glow, initially brazen and piercing, dimmed to something softer like it’d been tempered. The tender hue that painted his iris softened too. Like someone poured pink syrup over his optical fibers. With that gaze, he held his attention for five nanoclicks, nodded a degree, then looked away.
Just like that, the fog of grief dispersed.
In its place, a tingly floaty feeling blossomed and rooted itself into an aching spark. Off a simple glance — for the first time since Shockwave’s disappearance — Soundwave felt light again. Whole. Unknown static that had laden the majority of his RAM cleared instantly, allowing this new heady sensation to flood his circuits. It was a rush of electrifying joy awakening dormant and withered synapses with a thousand volts licking underneath his wiring. Oh Primus, he’d forgotten how colorful life was.
Actually, it was more colorful than before. The full gamut of vibrant hues revivified his neural net, unlocking a vast spectrum of depth Soundwave hadn’t realized could be viewed, starting with the rich tones of purple right there. It shimmered despite the damage to it, hints of a pastel magenta and deep sea navy aglitter as the ship lights illuminated the enamel. The grime encrusting the ridges and nooks of that sprawling build gave the rather monochromatic palette a timeworn antiquated charm. He hadn't noticed when he crossed the line into voyeuristic territory but found himself absorbed by how the chiseled frame appeared rendered in high definition against the gray backdrop, almost hypertactile in detail. It was—
Ah, so that was the word he was looking for.
Shockwave looked magnificent .
And Soundwave was utterly giddy and melted by the revelation. He imagined this is what the stories meant when describing adoration as being coated with luxurious warm oil. If not for vorns of discipline, he’d be a fidgety fumbling mess. He must stop gawking like a fool or else—
Shockwave briefly paused for a step, noticing the flier lagging a bit behind. His helm peered back, the magnified ruby glow now like a halo, twitched his finials once, and returned to loyal formation as they continued to walk ahead.
A firestorm of glee, captivation, and what could only be described as euphoria blazed across every byte of his being, bordering on explosive. Soundwave forgot how to think, too focused on that one split klik moment: Shockwave had thought to check in on him. A silent giggle hid behind a blank visor. What an exhilarated feeling.
Soundwave has been chasing that high ever since.
The empty halls echoed back their monotonous pace. No chatter nor small talk, just like old times. The scientist kept a steady stride forward, his footfalls vibrating the metallic ground. His follower eagerly stayed close by minding not to stray too far. As they trailed along, Soundwave lifted his servo up into his field of vision, stretching and scrunching it in observation.
His digits were so much thinner than those of his fellow lieutenant, spindly even. Of course, his entire frame was thinner and flatter than all those in the Decepticon ranks. Sleeker. A high-altitude stealth flier required slimmer features. However, the difference felt extra stark when the second largest tank on this ship was a meter out. His entire build was about the same size as just the fusion arm, without the extension cord. In their servos alone, Shockwave's doubled his in width and thickness. His grip would engulf Soundwave's if he chose to.
A bot could dream. Touch was a forbidden indulgence.
That did not stop him from wanting though, and Soundwave was fortunate enough to have experienced it twice since then. Once was accidental, when they’d bump into one another while going in opposite directions. His spark tried to lurch out of its chamber and he thought his chest had shattered. The second time, he'd found a Predacon fossil, a spinal ridge of some kind, on a surveillance trip and came back aboard to personally deliver it to Shockwave. For secure transport, his excuse to Megatron. When he held it out in offering, the scientist took it just as gingerly and their digits brushed in passing.
A tiny current jumped through the air at the contact and Soundwave had to stun-lock his joints to keep his frame still. He swore to Primus that Shockwave felt it too if for the nanoclick where the faceless helm infinitesimally jerked. If they did exchange a look, it was immediately ignored for normalcy and the two split ways without a word. The memory, though, stuck in the ridges of the security commander's processor like the sweetest energon candy. How he longed to feel Shockwave undulate under his touch.
Soundwave’s servo slowly reached out, about to graze the jointed tubing connecting his cannon and back, but stopped a centimeter short. Waving his arm in hesitation, he couldn’t help noticing how cold the air around the tank felt and his frame wanted to shrivel. The usual prickles of mutual sensation that surrounded a mech since birth didn't exist. No electromagnetic field. No sensory net for him to interact with. Not even to his hypersensitive sensors.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Shockwave never had an EMF.
Soundwave’s own field has been locked away for the bulk of his existence. An eremitic bot to begin with, after becoming Megatron’s closest confidant and spy master, the decision to jam it permanently proved obvious. Other mechs varied in EMF strength, some choosing to keep theirs close and others expressing it as far as feasible. But even the most reserved bot still had faint signals Soundwave could read, since all Cybertronians felt something akin to emotions.
Shockwave’s lack of an EMF doubled as a clear explanation and cruel reminder of why he’s the great inventor of the Decepticons. He was the textbook definition of a psychopath.
Rumors of the mad doctor spread long before the war. His notoriety among the gladiators for the borderline barbaric practice leaked into the public, painting a picture of a mech that butchered those who lost and used their spare parts to weld onto unwilling winners in a twisted award. The truth was vaguely less gruesome, Shockwave simply wanted to learn about the Cybertronian body by using live examples. He didn't truly hurt his patients; he merely terrified them screaming because he ignored their pleas for mercy. Though throughout every interpretation of him, one specific characteristic remained constant: Shockwave didn't feel slag.
The limited times Shockwave talked freely, he lamented in short simple sentences the frivolous nature of feelings, calling them unnecessary and crippling towards the goal of complete efficacy. Logistics powered the tank because it’s the only thing he’d allow to. Although it’s not written on record, Soundwave suspected for a while someone performed Shadowplay on Shockwave long ago because that made more sense than Primus allowing a mech this devoid of emotions to be forged.
Empathy didn't exist as a concept in his processor, bots insisted under hushed whispers. Morality had been deleted entirely early in his life, others alleged. Whatever made him tick, Shockwave proved them right as when asked by Megatron — then Megatronus — to demonstrate his loyalty to the upcoming revolution, he revealed that he’d planted remote bombs in the spark chambers of Autobot sympathizers and detonated them on the spot. A third of the room exploded. Limbs from fondly known comrades blew open into bits. Helms covered in soot hit the floor with their last expression forever paralyzed in stunned horror.
Amongst the carnage, Shockwave stood calmly unbothered. Poised.
Once taken in as an inventor, freedom to pursue experiments to his spark's content from the top, the ruthless attitude only cemented further. Shockwave slaughtered Autobots with an unholy performance. Nothing stopped him from completing his objectives, least of all the emotions that plagued the rest of the forces. When confronted about his latest creation blowing a crater into their base, he shot the accuser pointblank then told him to stop caring about minor casualties if they wanted to win. He didn't care. He will never comprehend the full ethical weight of his actions for the statistics mattered more.
Soundwave has known this fact for eons. He was there when the room erupted with their former allies' corpses. Knew that his longtime compatriot who’s saved his aft on several occasions did it out of duty, not worry. He’d lived almost millions of years with such information and wasted little processing power on the implications.
Yet now, that same info stung like being doused in the acid pits, the burning sensation filtering through his fluid lines.
No. Shockwave had to experience some kind of emotion.
How else would he explain the anger in his tone when berating Starscream, the betrayal of being left for scrap and abandoned by those he trusted lingering well past the event in question? What was that featureless expression he had when his experiments went right if not pride and joy? When he murmured ‘fascinating’ in the clip earlier, why else did the declaration sound so profound?
But as Soundwave held his servo up a breath away from Shockwave’s armor, his spark twisted tight as he felt just the wind flowing past.
He reminisced on their long storied history. From their first meet in the gladiator pits to the budding promise of revolution, spiraling into a seemingly endless war, till now. Next to Megatron, whom he follows out of rational devotion, he’s stayed courteous to Soundwave throughout their relationship. Not once has he shown an inkling of fondness or anything more than respect.
And so a painful thought hooked into Soundwave’s processor:
If Shockwave did perceive a tiny semblance of feelings, none were directed towards him.
The sting in Soundwave’s systems suddenly scorched hot and abrasive. Warnings of gibberish began to pop up in his UI and crowded his vision. His spark blazed in an amalgamation of protest and hysteria. Primus, not this again.
Before he could resolve anything, a sharp searing pain stabbed every inch of his frame and his vents sputtered as the fans jammed. Heat flared in a crash of internal programs, systems struggling while condensation formed on his plating. His pumps hissed desperately trying to circulate fuel and coolant, but it was like sucking sludge out of a straw; too thick and muddy to budge. Unable to decipher the why, his circuits freaked. Soundwave tried not to panic, attempting to force his autonomy back. His frame instead overrode all manual inputs with its own misfired signals at random, making him jerk violently and spastic. Uninterpretable data flooded his overwhelmed processor until the mech floundered in a haze.
That caustic prickling scorched his intake lines. A desperate bid to alleviate this fervid onslaught; purge whatever it was inside trying to scald and inflict as much damage in the process. In one powerful sweeping motion, Soundwave hacked up his tanks viciously for an entire klik, though little noise emitted from him. Instead, thin wet crystals escaped his lips, blocking up the little space between his visor and face.
As fast as it developed, the pain dislodged itself. His fans finally spun at their maximum speed, allowing Soundwave to vent out accumulating hot air in bursts, watching his temperatures slowly return to acceptable levels. The coughing ceased and his systems stabilized, recovery protocols running as soon as control returned to the bot's consciousness. Streaks of energon smeared his intake. He harshly shook his limbs as if it'd throw out the lingering ache that remained in his ducts. It won't. Neither will it dampen the throbbing traces of agony in his spark.
Soundwave already knew the results of the automatic diagnostics. The same set of glyphs every time. 'Troubleshooting Completion: 100%. Status: No issues were detected.'
To an outside viewer who didn't witness the total operational meltdown, they'd assume a lesser evil. Something clogged his vents. It was time for a maintenance check. He thought so too at first, thinking this was a one-time fluke, a random unexplainable event that’ll never happen again. Oh, how wrong he was. His servo still wavered from the fit as he reached up to his helm and manually unlatched his visor, lifting it up just enough until the shards fell out from the crevice.
Lavender crystalline flakes trickled into his awaiting palm, all sparkly and iridescent like the flowers back home. A thin film of unprocessed energon coated their surface and pooled on the flat surface of his servo under the ever-growing pile. They’d be a pretty sight if they didn’t directly come out of him.
When Soundwave first spat these damn crystal chips several orbital cycles ago, dread consumed his circuits. The implication gutted — annihilated — the safe certainties of his life into an unrecognizable wreckage.
He was dying. Dying of his obsession with Shockwave.
The disease went by many names, none were recorded in the archives saved aboard the Nemesis nor could he recall it by memory. Yet he remembered the folktales that told of this disorder; every bot knew. A rare spark sickness. One as fatal as it was notorious. An afflicted mech whose affections were unshared by their infatuation would be poisoned by their own spark, crystallizing from the inside out. Eventually, they'd shut down from their systems solidifying until their sentiments were reciprocated. If not, the afflicted would suffer a slow painful death.
It’d been the subject of many romantic and tragic media during the Golden Age. Now, Soundwave has become its obstinate subject to degrade.
To think, he of all bots developed this godforsaken condition. The silent cunning right-hand mech of Lord Megatron. The Decepticon's true second in command. Once a Gladiator of Kaon that had once nearly defeated their leader in single combat. He got it. All because he’s hopelessly smitten over a mech who wouldn't flinch if he vanished tomorrow.
The initial shock of the impending end rattled Soundwave for cycles. There was still so much to do, a war to win, orders to follow. He vehemently refused to believe — to accept — such a terrible fate. Said belief shattered when his frame again hurled up those fragments once more, bigger pieces cut up his intake with sharpened edges. The truth tasted bitter and metallic: his time was irrevocably numbered. His life's countdown ticked away with an unknown amount left. This sickness was unpredictable and had mortality rates between a couple of solar cycles to several vorns depending on severity. Maybe he could squeeze out another year from the hourglass.
Soundwave stared at the hauntingly beautiful pile in his servos. The brittle flakes' glass-like clinks chimed a fragile somber melody as he quivered. At this rate, with how much he spit out this time, he might only last a few more months.
A gangly digit scraped the last of the purple off his face. His visor reattached with a click then Soundwave merely held the evidence of his lethal illnesses. He had multiple responsibilities to handle, even more he wanted to say. Someone will have to take his place in the chain of command, another to cover security duty. His minicons will need a new caretaker. Hopefully, Laserbeak and his siblings will kindly take to them without much fuss.
Megatron is going to find out eventually. Soundwave wanted to delay that inevitability as much as he could. The last thing he wanted was infighting due to his declining health. If he knew the cause, Megatron would not stop until Shockwave returned—
Shockwave?
Snapped out of the fog, Soundwave darted his helm looking for the tank. The physical frame had left but he could hear the stomps of Shockwave who rounded a corner still walking farther away toward his lab. No pause, no delay, not even a sense to turn around to check if his friend was still there. Not a clue that Soundwave was suffering because of him. Why would he? It wasn’t logical.
Soundwave stifled the urge to cough again, cringing at his limbs curling in on themselves, irritated from the inside out. The faint flavor of energon persisted on his glossa like the harsh truth.
Shockwave wouldn’t save him. That, he'd have to accept.
With one heavy deep vent, the flier centered himself; rebooting and soft resetting all systems. Soundwave wanted his last memories to have Shockwave in them, even if it burned his spark from the inside out. He'll join the Allspark, a selfishly content mech. The one self-serving thing he's done for himself since joining the Decepticons. He crushed those damn shards into crumbly dust, letting it slip out of his grasp, then stomped on it for good measure. Silently as usual, Soundwave moved as if nothing had transpired.
By the time Shockwave finally turned around, Soundwave was waiting patiently right behind him, not a scratch out of place. They were halted at the entrance. Shockwave paused then; his finials flicked, his red optic pulsed a hypnotic hue, and his main hand went to unlock the laboratory door with the keypad. A cool breeze swept past when hydraulics opened the bubble of positive air pressure and hissed as the heavy doors slid away. Inside was that once barren lab, alive again after the rightful owner had returned.
“Please.” Shockwave spoke in that cold uncompassionate voice. “We must begin soon.”
His main arm motioned for Soundwave to go in first. He regarded him with that look again, simultaneously intrigued and deadpan but never truly discernible. Yet it was mesmerizing enough to make Soundwave forget about the very reason why his spark would soon be snuffed out.