Lizard: I know, I know...I have bigger priorities than writing random oneshots, but...it wouldn't leave me alone. There are plot bunnies everywhere here, seriously! And since the only way to really get rid of the little Pit-spawns is to bend to their evil will, I did so, just for this one. I promise no more! *twitch* Maybe?

Anyways, this is just a really short look at Soundwave and his love of sound. The idea came to me after learning that the Earth has an actual tone, it's twenty octaves lower than middle E on the piano and when sped up into human hearing it sounds like a gong or bell. I found this fascinating and wondered what Soundwave might think of it. Please tell me what ya think!

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers, and thus am left to speculate like this.

Um...LIZARD OUT?

Connoisseur. It was an odd word, but an apt one. An Earth word, but one that slid nicely from one's vocalizer. The humans used it to describe an expert in an area of the fine or domestic arts, or somebody with discriminating taste in such a specialty, such as a "wine connoisseur." He guessed on Cybertron they would have had "energon connoisseurs," though such tastes would long be extinct.

He, however, was a connoisseur of sound.

Soundwave was always listening. Sound, vibrations traveling through some medium such as air, was his drug. The way the waves of minute motion travelled around him, creating that beautiful miracle that was sound. Constantly he was evaluating the resonating music around him, analyzing it, categorizing it. He knew the voices of his comrades and enemies, both those spoken and the ones in their minds, each a different song.

Megatron's was chaotic with madness, rough with age, yet strong. Starscream's was forced, pained from vorns of improper repair to an overworked vocalizer, yet melodic in his manipulative ways. Optimus Prime's was one of compassion and dignity, but it lacked the raw power of the Decepticon leader. And his cassettes, each of their voices was different, but each one a song that Soundwave could hear over and over again. His own voice was silent, so as to not interrupt the flow of harmonies around him, but when he did speak, it was a mix of the tones and frequencies he admired.

There were many things Soundwave knew of his comrades, just by paying attention, by listening, but they knew so little of him. Like they didn't know how much he desired, needed sound. He could not function in space, because in space there was no vibration, and there was no noise. No songs. He could not work in a silent environment; he desired the chaos of "noise" and "disruptions" they all complained about. And he didn't mind standing on the surface of this planet they were trapped on, because in it was music.

He was a connoisseur of sound. He knew true, resonant beauty better than the others. Those who couldn't silence their own, whining vocalizers long enough to just listen to the music this world had to offer. The humans themselves were often off pitch and their timing was imperfect, but the songs they created, even though rarely executed with perfection, could be magnificent. He would weave in and out of their primitive radio waves, intrigued by the varying rhythms, harmonies, and styles.

But the planet itself had a song, a deep voice, so low scarcely another being alive would ever hear it, and those who did would most likely never appreciate the excellence like Soundwave did. It was pure, resounding and rich, a clear, constant tone, unlike even the constant, sweet ringing of Cybertron. It's simplicity was something to be cherished and held in high esteem. The creatures and plants harmonized that single pitch, their lives and deaths melding into one enormous symphony only he could hear.

And he loved it.

Never would he admit this fascination to the others, but it wouldn't stop him from listening anyways. He didn't want to see the planet's destruction, or even that of its inhabitants, though he would do as commanded, but such a fantastic melody should never be interrupted. Their very prescense on the little globe was enough to interfere with its voice, their sharper, louder cries contrasting it's simple, unassuming thrum. It was difficult to know he himself was tarnishing this wonder, but if he could listen just now, then he would be content as a visitor.

So now he stood in one of these "forests," silent, unmoving. His optical visor was offline and he lounged vulnerably against a tree. To many he may look deactivated or in stasis, but he was fully aware, in his element. His world of sound. Rather than destroying and stealing as his faction so often did, he was now at a temporary, unspoken truce with the Earth. He asked for nothing other than to listen, and for now that was enough for him to be content.

After all, he was a connoisseur of sound, and Earth was his rapture.