A/N: Yes, yes I know. Groan. Another one. At this point I'm crazy, I'm well aware. BUT, as of yesterday, an epiphany kind of hit me. Since I am taking a break from my longer fics "Transformers Animated: Resurgance" and "Bumblebee's Boy" (the two active ones that I am taking a break from as you all know by now) I can now use this time to explore sides of writing I haven't ever tried or even thought of exploring before.

And that's where this fic comes from.

I've always loved the character of Soundwave in every Transformers continuity. And while RID's version of him might have been the logical next step - something always made me think. Did all the 'Cons after wartime simply decide to continue supporting their faction? Could any of them - even the most evil, attempt to return to the person they may have been - good or bad before the war? This fic is sort of born from the idea of that and I really hope I can show a unique perspective on the subject.

So, groan-enducing or not, here we go. For hopefully the last time because otherwise I'll have TOO many TF fics on my plate lengthy or not. LOL

WARNING: This fic, in the first few chapters, will have depictions of abuse that some may find disturbing (and should). You have been warned!

PAIRINGS: PAST!SoundwavexOC, Mentioned SideswipexArcee

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Transformers, only my OC, Ben, and the other OCs that are shown or mentioned.

PROLOGUE
Pain

In that moment, he would have given anything to start over.

He ignored the warning signs as he fell through the portal, pain searing through all of his circuitry. He was finally free of it - that wretched place the Autoscum had trapped him in. It'd taken him the better part of an Earth year, but he'd finally made it. It should have been a cause for Soundwave to declare his victory, to continue to declare his "superiority".

But he'd forgotten about that fragging zombie.

He had managed to evade Skyquake for the longest time. But by the time he'd used items trapped in the Shadowzone with him to create an exit - that hunk of machinery had caught up with him. And of course he'd attacked: relentlessly. Soundwave had held his own, he usually could when the situation called for it, but it hadn't been enough.

Of course, he'd now escaped, out of the Shadowzone and into some desolate area on Earth. But had it really mattered? Sparks flew violently as if to tell him "Not if he didn't survive". No, he wouldn't die this way. At this rate, he'd rather die by the hands of an Autobot than die by the hands of some fragging Unicron-spawned zombie.

He pulled himself to his feet, attempting to drag himself along the grassy area he'd entered. Every movement hurt, every single part of his body ached. Soundwave knew that if he didn't force himself into stasis soon - he would most certainly die.

Where was he? His hub said it was somewhere far from Nevada, where he had once been. Farmland - or at least what he supposed must have been farmland. All the grass seemed to lead to that, and so did the farmhouse in the distance. A human habitat, he groaned, of course that would be where he'd end up.

His processor wandered as he took note of his injuries. Most of it, his self-repair systems would take care of if he put himself in emergency stasis lock. But in order to do that, he'd need to be out of sight - he'd need a vehicle to hide in, and a stealth plane was hardly going to help him there. It had been centuries since he'd been a grounder, but preservation told him that was his only choice.

The humans had better have had some form of transportation.

He lumbered along slowly to cross his way towards the dark homestead. Taking great relief in the fact that it probably meant its inhabitants were in recharge - because he'd be in far more trouble than it was worth if they saw him. The last thing he needed was to end up in the hands of the human government - who would undoubtedly hand him over to Autobots.

He nearly fell to his knees as he tried to make his way there. Every system yelling at him to go into stasis lock. But as a former gladiator, he did not know quitting. He had been raised to never know the meaning of such a word... He would not die here. No, he would live and he would escape. He refused to be taken to prison, to go there and be treated as a war criminal.

He refused to surrender to the Autobots.

He fell to his knees at last before the homestead. Behind his visor, his optics fixated upon the singular vehicle he found. It was far from the sleek alternate form he'd come to know on Earth. It was bulky, dark, and somewhat ugly... But then again, most Earth cars were. He thought it was called a van, but the name of the vehicle was hardly the first thing on his mind.

He scanned it, slowly, and deliberately while keeping a close optic on the homestead. It took longer than he wanted it to, but as soon as he was finished - he took care of the only thing that would get in his way. With one slam of his fist, he'd crushed the thing like a bug - destroying any evidence that might have alerted these humans to his presence.

Before long, he'd smashed it into a cube. Small enough that it would probably appear as garbage to the humans - or so he could hope.

Systems failure, his inner hub read. Forced stasis lock suggested, it also read.

Soundwave could feel it too, his last two actions depleting far more energy than it would have without his wounds. He knew he had only one shot at this - and whatever happened, it would decided what became of him. As he attempted the transformation, and felt the gentle embrace of darkness, he could only be thankful that if this was his end, he would not be awake to experience it.

"Get up you lazy brat!"

The blanket was thrown unceremoniously off of Benjamin Carter's body. It was only barely the crack of dawn when he felt the tight grip around his leg that followed. He gave a soft whimper, pulling away - he shot up in his bed to face the man. "I'm getting up! I'm getting up!" he tried to explain, leaping out of bed. "I set an alarm sir, I swear!"

His foster father wasn't having it, but when did he ever?

In all three years he lived on this farm - this had been his wake-up call whenever he did not set his alarm for exactly three o'clock in the morning. Because if he did - well, then, Semore Platts got angrier than a bat outta hell. He hardly wanted to wake up at that time of day, as he'd often put it, that's what he'd taken his "scrawny little no good butt in" for.

It was about as much of a living hell as it sounded.

At twelve years old, Ben had made no friends, had fallen behind in school, and worked harder and longer than most people did at a nine to five job. His foster father called it paying his weight, doing him favors because he wasn't going to take in any "lazy kids". He didn't care that he was only nine when he got there, and he didn't care that he was too small, and too young to be working up to fifteen hours a day. And don't even tell him what he was doing was illegal, or that his stipend check wasn't for him.

No, as far as Ben was concerned Semore was convinced he had signed up to house a slave.

His brown eyes barely lifted to look at the man, who was carefully holding a belt in his hands. Clearly, ready to teach him a lesson if he made any sort of excuse. Not that he needed the belt, as he was about two hundred and fifty pounds, and close to six feet tall... No, he just took great pleasure in making sure that Ben remembered who was in charge here.

His cold green eyes stared him right in his own now, wrapping up the belt around his hand. "Are you going to take your pajama shirt off? Or am I doing it for you?" Ben shrunk back, afraid of that. "Don't give me that look. Maybe next time you'll remember to set your damn alarm!"

Ben was silent as he did as he was told, pulling his shirt off slowly. Tears cascaded down his face before he'd even hunched over his bed, pushing his back out to expose it to his foster father. The pain came before the sound of leather lashing his back. But unlike most might, there was no break. Each whack of the belt came in precision, three times, four times, five. Finally, it stopped as Ben felt his legs give, barely able to hold himself up by the bed.

Semore shook his head, looking over his bloodied back with indifference. But as he always did after "disciplining" him simply told him: "I take no pleasure in that, you know it. If you were any good at what I kept ye for I wouldn't even have to," with the darkest sneer he could manage. "It's now three-fifteen. Which means you have two hours before the bus gets here. Before you leave you're going to scrub down the van - got a date tonight. You're going to do it all, interior and exterior, until I can eat off the thing. If you slacked off..."

"No farm work, sir?" The last part Ben said with as much contempt as he could manage.

The man sneered, spitting off to the side and letting out a chuckle as he slapped him on the back. Tears stung Ben's eyes as the pain seared through him again, this time ten fold. He'd learned not to scream, as much as he wanted to - it just made the man more mad. "That'll give you something to do while I'm gone tonight. After yer done figuring out what you're gonna feed yerself," the man noted, patting him harshly twice more on the back. "Now get to work, lazy ass."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't back talk me!" Semore snapped. "I know sarcasm when I hear it."

Ben's eyes lowered to the ground his voice catching in his throat this time. His eyes traveled for a moment to the belt, which the man hadn't loosened since starting their chat that morning. "Yes Mr. Semore. I'll be right on that," he started for the door as quickly as he could. "Can I at least get something to eat first?"

"Shoulda thought about eatin' when you were settin' the alarm," Semore told him without even missing a beat. "Yer wasting my time, boy, get on it!"

Ben didn't argue, struggling to make his way down the steps. He knew that he was right - he had barely any time to get this work done, dressed, and looking semi-decent. If he could even do the latter two, given the last few days Semore had been in a "mood" and he'd had to go without the shower... He didn't expect to get one today either, but he could dream.

When he'd reached the front door of the farm house - he found his tools. A bucket with soapy water, a cleaning rag, a small hand vacuum, and a duster. A part of him wondered if today would be the day - the day he just ran... The day he didn't do anything.

But even now, with his back to the stairs, he felt those cold, piercing eyes baring into his back. Watching his every movement to make sure he took his supplies and went. He'd already missed the alarm by accident - anything else was playing with fire.

And so he did as he was told, just as he had for the past three years.

Picking up his supplies, he carefully exited the home and towards the van. The thing was Semore's baby, and he treated it like it was a king. So he knew that this was one job he could not simply do half-way, as much as he wanted to. Though his mind ran wild with fantasies of taking one of the nearby tree branches to it, or better yet a baseball bat.

As he set his supplies down in front of it, and took his first good look his face changed - his mind perplexed. He'd been there three years, and cleaned this van a thousand times at least...

So when did Semore get the purple and black paint job?

A/N: Welp, there's the start of this little experimental fic of mine! I hope you all liked it, hopefully I can come up with something really special here like I have been trying to recently!