Perfect Harmony.
Summary: A Cybertronian former composer/musician steals a short interlude to indulge himself in the performance of his art.
Rating: T due to mild violence and undertones of adult themes.
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro and DreamWorks/
Paramount, not me.
A/N this is about a canon character, but he's not named until the end. Did you ever wonder what the Autobots and Decepticons did on Cybertron before the war?
There was no comparable instrument on Earth, and as a result, there was no translation of the name of the Cybertronian instrument the master composer held delicately, almost lovingly, in his hands.
Part stringed, part-percussion, part keyboard instrument, it was an instrument which required much patience to learn, for even learning the basics took years, and the path to total mastery was one that only ended when the composer ceased to function. This composer/musician was no exception, for although he could play the instrument beautifully, no two playings of his composition were ever the same, as he experimented with the instrument's valves and keys, locking some down and releasing and opening others.
The instrument was a well-kept piece that only rarely needed tuning, and although humans could hear and enjoy many of the notes it played, many were above or below the normal range of human hearing. Despite this, many humans would have found themselves enthralled by the notes that they could hear, if this individual had wished to play for the entertainment of humans, which he would never wish to do.
In the hands of an amateur, the instrument could be played in a manner to soothe and please. Played by a master, the music could influence the emotions of a crowd, quelling a riot, promoting harmony, or whipping them into a joyous frenzy of excitement. An amateur could play something that could be described as 'beautiful.' A master could, using his instrument, figuratively take his audience to the Matrix and back.
This individual had been picked out and rigorously trained when he had shown an unusual aptitude for not just the composition of the music, but for playing the instrument when he was just a sub-adult.
He had never tired of playing, but recent events had meant that he had not recently had time to spend doing so. He was lucky that his instrument had survived the journey to Earth, he reflected.
As just the tips of his digits began to stir the strings of the instrument, and he used the digits of the other hand to press and release valves, the strains of his last composition began to fill his room. As his digit tips gently tugged and stroked the strings, his optics half-shuttered as he began to immerse himself in the calm and peace the performance of the music brought him. The movements of his digits became more sure and confident as he easily got back into the rhythm of playing. He lovingly shifted his grip on the instrument, cradling it lovingly as he teased the pure notes from the fine strings.
The music swelled to fill the air and carry beyond his room, as the composer surrendered to the creative process that stirred within, and the familiar strains of his last composition blurred and shifted as his fingers picked out a new composition as he touched and stroked the keys and strings as gently as he might have once touched a lover, had he allowed himself to take one.
This musician had become a famous composer back on Cybertron, as he played his own compositions, and thrilled his audiences. His fame had quickly spread, and he had gained a legion of fans of his compositions. Of these fans, there were many whom he could have chosen as a lover, either a mech, or even one of several of the prized and rare femmes, for he had fans among both genders, and had received offers from both mech and femme more than once.
He had received offers, and spurned them all, for his art was all he needed then, and he resented the prospect of anything that might pull him away from his beloved music. He had only barely registered the change in the atmosphere, the rumours of dissent, the odd scuffles reported in the newsbytes, for they concerned him not at all. As long as he had his music, little else mattered.
His reflections faded and he became lost once more in his music, and he could have been playing for seconds or centuries, the composer would not have noticed the passage of time. He surrendered totally to his composition, changing notes and tempo, recording for future reference as he played, for this was the first time in thousands of years that he had produced a new composition.
The notes flew up and down the scale, a scale far wider than the range of a pitiful human's audio receptors. For a time, composer and instrument seemed married together, the composer not caring or realising where his hands ended and the instrument began. They coexisted, producing the music, in perfect harmony.
It was when he shifted his grip, felt the tiny imperfection in the instrument's frame, the only sign that it had ever been broken, that his concentration was broken and he was pulled out of the beautiful, harmonic haze he had been in. He managed to hold the mood long enough to create a small ending to the piece, and he saved it to memory. He was satisfied with his new composition.
He sighed. Briefly, the Autobot/Decepticon war had ceased to exist, and he had been at peace in a way he had not experienced since he had been forced to realise that the conflict had started, and had chosen his side.
He carefully took the instrument apart, storing it carefully in its protective case. As he put in one piece, he again felt the imperfection of the mended break in that part of the frame, and he remembered how he had become involved.
He had gone to perform, but there were so few attendees that he thought he'd be playing to just a handful of fans. That was no problem for him-he would fill the hall with his music whether it was packed with people or completely empty. Then the management had stated that, as a major conflict had broken out between the two opposing factions nearby, to go ahead would be too dangerous. Some of the weaponry being used could damage the performance hall if they struck it, and the performer and audience could be harmed or destroyed. The audience was sent away, and the composer advised to take his instrument and head home. He agreed, annoyed that this ridiculous conflict had interrupted him in the playing of his music.
He had barely made it half-way home when he ran into a battle in the street. He had tried to go around, but the combatants ranged right across the street he was in, were constantly in motion, and suddenly the battle was all around him. He tried to dodge out of the way of the fighters, but it was difficult, and even as a non-combatant, he was hit by stray laser fire. For the first time, the conflict was directly affecting him, and it was as a particularly painful bolt hit his arm that everything went wrong.
It was the arm holding his instrument case, and as he cried out in fear as much as pain, one of the combatants, who had spotted that he wasn't involved and had despatched an opponent, headed his way, as the composer lunged for the case.
The case fell open, and the composer put his hand out to stop the pieces of his instrument falling out. He succeeded in doing so for all but one piece. As the mech who had seen his plight turned to guard the composer from another laser blast, his foot very briefly landed on the instrument piece. It was only down for a fraction, but the pressure was enough to crack the piece and it split into two pieces.
The composer picked up the two pieces, put them in the case, and swung the case to his back. Then he turned to face his would-be protector, rage filling his Spark.
He still didn't know where he had got the strength required to break the Autobot's back in two. Throwing the broken mech aside, he had finally managed to flee the battle, and headed home.
He found that the instrument piece was not as badly damaged as he had at first thought, the break was clean and easily mended. He mended it, and then looked at his hands. His hands, which had created music that had been described as "being able to make Sparks sing."
It was the first time they had been used to destroy.
The composer had left his home for the last time, with his mended instrument, and then never heard from again.
He shook his head, dispelling the memories. He should play more often, but would have to find a way to avoid thinking of the circumstances that had led him to the position he was in now. It was over and done, and he had killed many more since that first. He had changed his name when he had chosen sides, for he saw the creator and the destroyer as two separate parts of himself.
He stood. Maybe he would play again later, and try not to think too hard. Maybe he could find a way to smooth away the edge of the break, which had always destroyed his peace before he could compose a new piece of music. That was later, however. Now, he had work to do.
Barricade stood and left his room, to go and carry out his latest orders.