Whilst Kaon could not boast the delicate architectural spires of the High Towers, or hold a candle to the smooth ethereal planes of the Crystal City, it was none the less looked upon with envious optics. The ramshackled hovels squeezed in awkwardly between gigantic workhouses, deep mines, docks, store houses and gritty factories were not eye sores but monuments to Kaon's great industrialism, the pollution of grim grime and clinging smog an unfortunate side effect of greatness, and the crime….well that was usually glossed over and tactically forgotten in favour for the promise of cheep produce.
As usual the eastern Kaon docks hustled and bustled with the busy comings and goings of everyday working life, the long stretches of tarnished metal runways, harbouring scuffed and oily docking bays and mammoth sized warehouses, transformed into an urban jungle of sounds and smells. The tang of old oil and grease, hot scorching tyres, cordite and fresh energon lingered sweetly in the air whilst the deep rumble of transport vehicles, and idle banter between co-workers, buzzed softly against the harsher sounds of screeching and stressing metal, overworked pistons, grinding gears and wheezing intakes. Cybertronians of all sizes and alt-modes worked together in a strange kind of synchrony, a Frankenstein assembly line hard at work unloading, loading and sorting through the precious cargo delivered and taken away dutifully by the flocks of tired transport vehicles. All sorts of shipments came through the docks on a regular basis; consumer goods, medical supplies, construction materials, and most importantly raw and refined energon. Necessities checked in and locked away in storage crates, the cold iron guarding their cargo with inanimate jealously, before being fed into the stratified hive of Kaon to circulated through its immense labyrinth of workhouses and factories. Raw imported goods soon found themselves transformed as they circled their way back to the docks to be repacked and exported, ensuring that the Cybertron's life line of imported and exported goods did not run dry.
Perched above the docks Soundwave heard and saw it all, his sleek dark frame regarding the cacophony of sounds and sights with a faceless omniscience, capturing the data and filing it neatly away within the black confines of his visor as it was offered up unwittingly by the workers below him. The mismatched drove worked heedlessly on unaware that they were being silently monitored and calculated byte by byte and frame by frame by a perfectly calibrated unit of master and symbiote. The steady stream of data was complied and examined in silent swiftness as Soundwave considered the noises reverberating from the docks below him. Audio receptors boosted to maximum capacity strained to catch each fleeting note and pitch, his CPU methodically translating each sharp, flat and natural into a vast manuscript which made up the core of the docks, and finding not the masterpiece of cooperation and symbioticism but the catastrophic noise of complacency and parasitism against those whom the sound belong to, the worker caste.
Outwardly he showed no compassion towards the drone like masses, nor another caste, choosing to maintain an enigmatic shield of apathy towards everyone and everything. An air of indifference cloaked him like a second skin as he watched the Elites happily playing their roles as corporate owners, judges, politicians, saw how important players became the Senate and voices of the High Council, unchallenged as they gave out orders to the rest of society. His visor showed no lust or hatred towards their extravagant lifestyles of nightclubs, theatre, high grade and freedom. Conform, submit to us and there will be peace. Nonchalantly he observed how the Middle Class followed dutifully behind, their envy congealing with aspiration and fear to form the seal of their control. No words of contempt or approval past his vocalisers as he reordered how the mechaniods built for civil servant duties, the pen pushers, medic bots, law enforcers, traders and the owners of smaller factories and workhouses, strived to own a slice of the life the Elites were built for oblivious to the plights of the lower castes. Conform, submit to us and there will be peace. Impassively he examined the working castes, those created to break their back-struts in the mines and factory workhouses, the transporters and dock workers, those who kept the energon running and commercial production flowing throughout Cybertron. Conform, submit to us and there will be peace. Yet, all the indifference veiled his true intentions and attentions, each movement and decision a carefully created construct of misdirection and fabrication, his visor a well polished mask hiding the ugly roots of discord and discontent which strangled at his spark.
Invisible tendrils of irritation burned away like hot coals under his cool exterior as Cybertron continued to revolve stubbornly on the axis of absolution, its citizens determined to stay blind and deaf to the political dogma of the caste system; the malicious coding programmed, dictated and burned into the processors of each and every Cybertronian at their point of creation- conform, submit to us and there will be peace.
Even now the aons of stagnation played itself before his optics like a bad broadcast, a dark comedy starring the working class who were too used to the hard monotonous work, the meagre payments and cramped conditions, to notice it. He knew first hand that good grade energon was always in scarce supply despite the limitless workflow of the working sectors, and how this made the lower caste ever hungry and ever willing to work and trade hard labour for credits and a tank-full of cheep fuel, or turn to darker means to survive…. the black markets, gambling rackets and gladiatorial death pits which formed in the darkest corners of the worker sectors like a cancer. Kaon and Slaughter City, the two giants of the industrial world fell the hardest, and stories of robbery, dismantlement and even cannibalism were often hot topics in the local energon slop houses- stories which were half hard fact and half hard fiction, yet a full hard truth in their own right. Soundwave had taken pride in collecting such allegories, their constructs matching his own personality like a mirror, and monitored these nasty little webs of information and fable with concealed fascination as they crept up and out of the worker sectors under his guiding hand. Yet the High Council itself turned a blind optic to most of these abhorrences, allowing the lower castes their violence and vice in order to keep the peace. We will conform, we will submit and there will be peace. So the rulers ruled and the followers followed diligently behind, blind and deaf to all than that of what they were told to be, and life repeated itself in this dreamlike purgatory.
However, Soundwave refused to be blinded or deafened by the paralysing propaganda of caste. He could hear it, the hum, the low and steady pitch of the something else in the background, a rising disturbance rippling through the echos of the Golden Age. He could see how the long suffered looks of resignment were slowly becoming tainted with resentment. It had become an addiction; he wanted more, more of this feeling and discordant sound, longing for change and to be an integral part of a movement. But first something needed to give, a small event which with given time and patience would crack, splinter and spread like a chip on a window screen.
A soft ping of HUNGER signalled in the back of his CPU, breaking him from his musing. HUNGER. DATA FEED READY TO TRASMIT. HUNGER. REFUEL. HUNGER. TRANSMITTING. Turning his attentions towards the eastern docks Soundwave focused on the information feed which began to worm its way through his mind, allowing it full access to his systems as it probed his firewall, whilst simultaneously pushing the insistent HUNGER pings from his symbiote to the back of his processor. Visuals depicting a group of four mechaniods unloading a warehouse and doing a last minute inspection of the goods looped through his internal screen. The crates gave off an angry purple crackle as their lids were rudely prized off and contents inspected, the inanimate boxes seemingly offended by the intrusion of rough digits and the descent of beeping scanners before they were repacked and loaded onto a cream and purple triple changing transport vehicle. HUNGER the symbiote persisted as it recorded and transmitted images and data about the treasures inside. An innocent HUNGER was also tacked haphazardly onto the end of a secondary data feed, disclosing the triple changers face and personal signal, when it was ordered to do so.
'Arrival; Confirmed' Soundwave reported to the empty air, adding a timely 'Inspection; Grade C energon confirmed and noted' as his internal messaging system received the quality scanners update from his symbiote, choosing to omit the FUEL LOW-HUNGER information as he was updated from his report.
More boxes appeared from the warehouse and the deft digits of the workers tore lids asunder with surprising dexterity, eagerly discovering and checking an assortment of machinery and raw materials.
'Inspection; machinery for mine work. New destination; Energon mine #Alpha/SRB72/97465?' Soundwave enquired to the air, carrying on ignoring the HUNGER pings to his CPU pointedly. A nanoclick passed in a sluggish silence before his internal com link hissed to life with an air of superiority and taint of the upper class.
'Ah good,' it responded haughtily, 'All accounted for I see.'
'Confirmed', Soundwave replied emotionlessly whilst he pulled at his symbiote through their shared connection.
'Good, good. Monitor communications to make sure the cargo gets there, under the radar of course'.
'Confirmed', he replied as the comm died brusquely without warning, used to the rude behaviour of the Elite he was dealing with.
Senator Ratbat had been buying up a lot of raw materials and new technology as of recent, not a strange event as Ratbat was a big player in the mine corporations, but it left an uncomfortable itch in Soundwave's codes which begged to be scratched. There was information there, something hidden which needed to be found and exploited if possible. Information which could be sold for a price on the balckmarket or used somehow... ….HUNGERHUNGERHUNGER!. Soundwave tipped his visor serpentine towards the small flying symbiote buzzing beside him to regard it. Slowly he unfurled one long digit and press into the mechaniod's avian faceplate, a touch infinitely firm but not hard enough to break. It could have almost past for tender.
'Lazerbeak,' he acknowledged with a blank sort of irritation, 'information received. Refuel request: accepted'. With those words said the small metal creature latched onto and twisted into his body, its gears grinding and shifting until it was housed securely in Soundwave's chest. Contentedly it dug into a fuel vein and leeched at his energy reserves, the act sending tingling sensations throughout his body. Warning signals flashed in the corner of his visor, stating that he was down to 30% energon reserves and falling, before being dutifully documented and dismissed. Silently Soundwave dropped from his hiding spot and transformed into his alt mode with effortless grace, his mind churning out new plans and wondering if this Ratbat and his schemes would prove to be the stone he needed for his figurative windscreen.
Author's note: Transformers belong to Hasbro.
This isn't exactly set in any of the canon Transformers Universes, its more of an accumulation of them. It is strongly influenced but the Transformers Prime Universe, War for Cybertron (even though I haven't read Exodus so hurm... moving on) and by the Megatron Origins continuity- so should, in theory and luck, fit in with them. This is supposed to be a oneshot but man there are ideas creeping up on me like nobodies business so this may transform into something bigger.
Also incidentally this is based on my earlier story about Soundwave and noise, but has hopefully been improved tenfold haha. Please tell me what you think :)
Cross posted to , LJ and A03 under Kankon.