Chapter II

Lockdown had no idea what he was doing at first.

He took the fembot to „The Death's Head" and told her to stay on the bridge. Now, as he rummaged trough the shelves to find something, anything to clean the unfortunate stranger on his bridge up, he was certain that he was severely glitched in the processors and was pretty much going insane.

He found what he needed, which was a cleaning solvent and at least a dozen of these fluffy organic sheets found all around the Earth...rowels...no...Towels! Yes, towels. Of all the things that could be found on the tiny, pathetic backwater planet, towels were one of the few things Lockdown truly enjoyed. He would never admit it, of course. Lockdown the bounty hunter, ruthless and merciless mod thief and a neutral trash, enjoying fluffy drying tools, hah!

Tha's it. Ah'm goin' crazy. Crazy. Why'm Ah not suprised?

He sighed, gathering all he found in his mismatched arms, and stomped back to the bridge. The fembot was still there, looking around from her vantage point, exactly where he left her. She snapped her visor back at him as he came around, carrying towels and solvents.

„C'm'ere kid, ya gotta git cleaned up."

The fembot eyed the things uncertainly, but reluctantly approached him anyway. Lockdown motioned for her to sit on the chair he brought, and after the purple-green fembot was comfortable, he dumped the solvents not-so-gently over her. He took the first towel and brushed it over her helm. The moment he pulled away, however, he swore, shielding his optics.

„Frag! Where did ya git the paintjob kid! Yer practic'ly a lighthouse!"

He growled, getting up and strolling over to the shelf which contained many mods.

Lockdown was a modification colectioner. They were his fix, an unhealthy obsession. This particular one allowed him to look at the most brightest of colors, without hurting his optics or flinching away. It was shaped like the flat visor, only dark in color and covering his optics, forehelm and inked cheekplates. He turned back to the femme and resumed cleaning her up. He let her have her privacy, gruffily turning his back to her while she cleaned herself from wait down. After that was out of the way, Lockdown led her to his workshop, planting her on the surgery table and gathering necessary tools to repair her vocalizer. Only, after further inspection, Lockdown realized that the vocalizer was beyond repair. He took it out carefully, and wondered what to do with the now completely mute fembot.

Finally Lockdown snapped his digits, and, looking down at the bothered fembot that stared at her vocalizer like it had become organic, turned on his pedes and rummaged and looked for a particular mod. He found it after sometime, and turned back to the fembot to install it. The neon fembot looked absolutely spooked and Lockdown rolled his optics.

„Is a vocalizer kid, not a turbolion. It belonged ta Songstream, she gave i' ta meh after she gave vow o' silence, rite after her bon'mate offed. Yer gonna have yer voice back."

Songstream was a top Cybertronian singer. She had a voice that melted the coldest of Sparks and was one of the Cybertron's favourites. The first time Lockdown laid optics on her was during the hunt, when he was catching the serial killer gone rogue. Her bondmate, Greenvoice, was her manager and a singing partner. Songstream's voice was the only thing Lockdown truly heard, with Spark and nonexistent audios alike. Further scans proved that Lockdown actually had a half melted processor motherboard and a functional, albeit damaged, wire connected to the peripheral chip of his right audio that only processed one frequency. Needless to say, he was overjoyed. Songstream was a flaw sympathizer, and she was the one who took him to Magnificus, who gave him the scans. They were inseparable during his hunt. He catched the killer in the end, but Greenvoice was killed in the final chase. Songstream was beyond sparkbroken, and gave a vow of silence right after her final performance on the burial. Many claimed it was her greatest moment. Songstream gave her vocalizer to Lockdown as a thank you gift and a prize. That vocalizer meant to Lockdown more than any trophy in the world ever could.

Now, six million years later, he was installing it into the strange fembot with vibrant neon paintjob. It was rather fitting – vibrant armor, vibrant voice.

666

The process of the installation was long and delicate. More than a few times did Lockdown snap at that crazy fembot to hold still, or he would by all means rewire her into a bomb. After that particular threat was growled out, she gave one last flinch before forcing herself to relax and stilling.

Her neck was awfully sensitive and the spot where Lockdown was touching tasted numb and tingly at the same time. All she wanted was to duck her helm and hide. There she was, letting a stranger poke around her throat. But, she figured, she did weirder things in the past. So she held still. She really did not want to become a walking bomb.

Finally the installation was over. Lockdown closed the panel on her neck and she allowed herself a slight shiver.

„Try it outta kiddo. Can't know if i' worked if ya'll gonna be silent all tha time."

The fembot almost fell to the temptation of cutting him in half with her katanas for bossing her around, but figured it was not the greatest start. Thus, she gave him an unimpressed stare.

She tried saying „thank you", but all that got out was static. She tried a few times more, variating between saying her designation and random thoughts. Finally, the only sound Lockdown has ever know and been itching to hear again rung trough The Death's Head, as vibrant and clear as ever:

„Synaesthesia."