"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!" Fowler doesn't even try to glare at Jazz for that, instead sighing softly as he rests a hand on Soundwave's shoulder when it looks like he's about to try to get up.
"Stay still, Ratchet said he wanted to give you a check up when you came to." He explains when that confused visor turns to him.
"Query: Reeds' status."
Both Enforcers stay silent for a second before exchanging a look.
"Let me get this straight. You wake up in Med Bay, or whatever it is called now, and the first thing you ask is about another's wellbeing?" The Head of Special Operations questions, head cocked and visor pale.
"Damage: Repaired. Recovery: Integration of new gears. Damaging event: Accessible and revised. All necessary data available. Unknown: Reeds' status. Query: Satisfied. Query: Reeds' status."
"Minus that 'integration' thing, yeah, all clear." The smaller mech answers, blinking in his peculiar manner as he tries to absorb the rest.
"Reeds is already awake and repaired. Ratchet is with him now, helping clear some of the details of that 'damaging event'." The Commander-in-Chief adds, giving a quick look at the still closed door to the medic's office.
He doesn't know if they're being calm and reasonable, or if the whole room is soundproofed, though he's starting to lean more towards the latter, seeing how distressed the Air Commander was when he first woke up.
"Mind telling us what happened? They just said that Shockwave was trying a new method to jog our memories and that it backfired, but they're keeping all the juicy details to themselves."
"Correction: Soundwave was trying a new method." Fowler's attention goes immediately back to the still prone dark blue mech, whose visor is now offline. "Backfire: Safety measure triggered in Reeds. Result: Berserk behavior."
"So he tried to gut you?" The red visor flashes to life at those words, boring into the blue one as its owner waits for the specifics. "You looked like someone had tried to take all your inner bits out of your chest. And let me add that seeing pink blood come out of you guys is something I will never become used to. Red, I can deal with. Pink? Sparkly pink? Looks like candy."
And, to their utter astonishment, a soft low thrumming fills the air.
"Are you… laughing?" He asks slowly, receiving a nod from the dark blue mech. "Why does it sound like… that?"
"Cybertronian laughter." The Communications Officer answers at last, the strange sound finally stopping, though his mechanical voice trembles a bit with its echo.
"Whoa, hey! What are you…?" But Soundwave puts a hand on Jazz's shoulder to silence him and to help get to his feet, regardless of Fowler trying to push him back to the bed.
"Ratchet said to wait—!"
"Statement: Repairs complete. Objective: Within Repair Bay."
And, easily pushing away their hands—when did he get that strong? Or is it he never really tried to stop them?—the Military Third stands and starts to walk.
Towards the closed door of the Chief Medical Officer.
"Oh, no. No, no, no! The Hatchet told us to keep you in bed, and he's scary when you don't obey, so come back here!" The Head of Spec Ops shouts, hurrying to stand in front of the dark blue mech.
"Soundwave, please, be reasonable. You were badly hurt, so rest some more. Ratchet's going to clear you if you're as healthy as you say, so what are some more minutes?" Fowler tries to reason, and the Communications Officer actually stops and looks at him.
"Situation in Shockwave's laboratory: Damaging. Reeds: Possessing flawed information. Necessity: Full explanation."
"And that's just what Ratchet is doing, so lets give them some more time, okay, Sounders?"
With a flash of pale red, the dark blue mech turns to Jazz, still smiling peacefully with his hands up to show he's unarmed.
"Query: Sounders."
"It's called a nickname. You know, names friends give each other?"
"Acknowledged. Suggestion: Do not repeat."
"Aw, mech, come on, it's just an innocent—hey, no way!"
The scene, somehow, is not as humorous as it should, what with the Head of Special Operations trying to bodily push the larger Cybertronian back as the Communications Officer keeps approaching the door, one determined step after the other.
So, Fowler just lets out a tired sigh, the 'what did I do to deserve this' kind, and walks up to try and help his fellow Civilian officer by grabbing a dark blue arm.
"Soundwave, once again, please return to your bed. Even if it's just for our sakes, you're going to give us an aneurysm."
"Statement: Human malfunction not applicable to Cybertronian processor."
"Oh, for crying out loud—get back to your bed!" Jazz shouts, pushing with some more strength, which forces the Military Third to take a step back to keep his balance.
And stops.
His visor flashes a paler red once more, fixed on the door, but, unlike previous times, stays that tone, and alarms go out in Fowler's brain.
Literally, as algorithms and almost a dozen possible scenarios flash through his mind in the instant Soundwave's hands fall on Jazz's shoulders—
Yet, despite anticipating it, his only possible reaction as the smaller mech is thrown into him is press his doorwings to his back and roll with the impact, ending on all fours, and thus, able to see the Military Third rip out the entrance panel to the office, modify something, and rush through the opening door before he's even managed more than a couple steps.
Cursing loudly, he follows, Jazz close behind—and slams into a dark blue shape, the Head of Spec Ops crashing against his back, fortunately in between the sensible doorwings, but they manage not to fall.
"I thought I told you to stay out?" Ratchet's voice hisses and, slowly, they peek out from behind Soundwave to look at the angry medic sitting behind his desk.
Reeds is standing, sensor spheres shining brightly and wings hold high and wide threateningly—
Unconsciously, Fowler lowers his sensory appendages and flares them open, allowing as much of their surface as possible to be in range for an attack in a gesture of goodwill.
If it also serves to hide Jazz from sight, he's not complaining.
Reeds, however, only hitches his own wings higher, a menacing thrumming filling the room.
"Reeds: Desist." Soundwave speaks, keeping his cool and even taking a step closer to the snarling Flier.
Who, against all that aggressive display, takes a step back.
"Go away. I don't want to have to hurt anyone." Despite the threat, Fowler frowns—or whatever approximation his current body can manage—and exchanges a quick look with Jazz.
Because that sounded harsh and menacing, yet, somehow, he has the feeling it was meant more as a plea.
"Situation in Shockwave's laboratory: Accident. Fault: Quintessons."
"I didn't see any of those Quinta-whatever trying to rip you to pieces." The Air Commander hisses, taking yet another step away to maintain the distance when the Military Third keeps getting close.
"Reeds, like I said—"
"Quintessons: Installed safeguard. Soundwave: Careless. Safeguard: Activated. Reeds' behavior: Consequence of Soundwave's actions." The dark blue mech cuts the medic, who looks annoyed yet doesn't get up from his seat behind the desk.
"Oh, of course. It was all your fault, so that just makes it all fine, doesn't it?" The Miltary SIC sneers, wings vibrating to fill the room with a low thrum nothing like Soundwave's laughter. "Well, wake up! That doesn't change the fact that I'm a fucking weapon!"
"Negative. Weaponized: Not synonym of weapon."
"For all the good it does, they may as well be! It isn't as if this is the first time I've tried to kill one of you! What is to say it won't—"
"Oh, just mute it, you Primus-damned Seeker!" The Communications Officer shouts, voice still mechanical but crackling with anger. "Are you even listening to yourself?!"
"You are the one that's not listening! If I can't keep control of myself I'm a danger to anyone involved, Quintessonian safeguards or not! Every single time I'm about to remember something I end up with blood on my hands!"
"Oh, really? I don't recall any spilled Energon from the flight practice." The Militry TIC hisses, mask clicking back to reveal a snarl. "So purge your processor of such faulty codes or—"
"I shot at you!" Reeds screeches, wings finally falling back and pressing against his back.
"Knowing you wouldn't hit us!"
"I don't remember that! I could have been trying to blast you all to pieces!"
"With null-rays?" And then, the dark blue mech lets out a bark of humorless laughter, a dangerous smile on his face. "You have never tried to hurt us, you were defending yourself."
"What difference does it make when it all ends with you injured?!"
"It makes all the difference! With knowledge of the trigger we can find other ways to help!"
"If I don't have control—"
"You don't have to be in control all the slagging time!"
"What the Pit would you know, you sparkless drone!"
The silence that fills the office is even more deafening than the previous shouting.
Reeds' murderous snarl vanishes with a soft gasp as his own words are finally processed, horror clearly visible on his face and pale yellowish eyes and shaking wings as he takes the last step to press himself against the wall.
"Soundwave I—I didn't mean—"
"You did." The Flier whimpers and looks away, hands covering his face as he curls into himself.
Slowly, the dark blue mech closes the distance between them and rests his hands on matte black shoulders.
"And you're right." With a shiver, Reeds looks up into the visor staring at him a deep burgundy. "I shouldn't have assumed our situations were alike."
"What…"
"What I did in the laboratory? As Cybertronian, we all have an electric field and the ability to decipher it. I'm different than the common mech in that I'm over-sensitive to such electric fields, to the point I can make sense of the impulses from the processor itself. Essentially, I can 'read minds'. I can control it now, but at the beginning… Lets just say it took time to perfect, and even now I have trouble with it some times. Nevertheless, I shouldn't have thought our situations similar without knowing the full extent of your side of the problem."
By the time he finishes, head turning away and visor going dark, Reeds has composed himself, slowly straightening until he looks his usual confident self, except for the fact he seems both embarrassed and doubtful.
Carefully, a matte black hand moves to rest on the back of Soundwave's neck, and the mech relaxes visibly before looking up.
"And I shouldn't have let my emotions get the best of me. I rant about the necessity of being in control of myself, yet I do so while letting myself get even more lost. I'm a hypocrite."
"You were always like that." The Communications Officer answers with a small smirk, and the Air Commander chuckles before resting his forehead on the dark blue mech's. "Nothing to forgive."
"Nothing to forgive." Reeds repeats softly, staying in their position for some seconds more before straightening and looking at the rest of occupants.
Mask clicking back in place, Soundwave mimics him, and his visor pales in amusement as it lands on the dumbstruck mech behind the desk.
It takes a moment, but Ratchet manages to shake himself out of his astonishment to scowl at them.
"If that's taken care of, out of my Repair Bay, all of you! Or I'll give you reasons to stay!"
As soon as a wrench appears in his hand from who knows where, Jazz grabs Fowler's arm and all but hauls him to the corridor as fast as he can, the Military officers quickly following.
When the door closes at their backs, they all burst out laughing.
"Aw, slag."
Startled by Blaster's curse, Optimus turns around, mindful of the tiny colorful strings of refracting plastic he's just finished hanging all over the Rec Room's ceiling—
And feels like cursing too when he sees Jazz, Fowler, Reeds and Soundwave in the doorway, looking at the paralyzed mechs carrying or putting up more decorations.
The Flier Cassettes land as quickly as possible, but, judging by the startled orange of their carrier's visor, he's seen the Welcome back, Soundwave! of the banner they were about to hang next.
"You guys were preparing a party?" Jazz asks, the others too stunned—or suspicious, as the Air Commander is glaring in his Trinemates direction—to make a sound. "Why didn't you tell us? We could have helped!"
"Did you read the banner?" Fowler asks tiredly, pointing at where the large white sheet is crumbled under Laserbeak, Buzzsaw and Ratbat's talons.
"Actually, no. What does it say?"
"Welcome back, Soundwave." The mech himself answers, visor rebooting a couple of times before finally settling on its usual red. "Query: reasoning."
"What better reason is there than having you back, Boss?" Rumble—or Frenzy, since from where they stand it's impossible to see the blue or red stripe along their arms that allow others to distinguish them—responds with a sheepish grin, and, when Optimus' optics finally locate him—Frenzy, if the red line is any indicator—he can see he's shrugging too.
"Designation: Soundwave. Party: Unnecessary." He reprimands without really changing his voice modulation nor giving any outward signs of it, and, slightly hidden behind the Prime's own frame, Megatron snorts.
"Told you." He whispers, and the Autobot leader has to suppress the urge to turn a deadpanned look on the Decepticon.
"So you did." He answers instead, though he does follow his first instinct when the other faction leader snickers almost inaudibly.
"Just two questions." Jazz calls, attracting their attention once more while Fowler gives the smaller mech a calculating look. "Why is there no music and where are you hiding the High Grade?"
Half the Autobots and all the Decepticons burst up laughing at that, and, pushing away the decorations they didn't have time to put up, they all get to where the Constructicons plus Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are starting to hand out cubes with purplish and bluish Energon while Blaster connects to the comm system of the room to let music spew out of the speakers.
"Now that's a party!" The saboteur exclaims happily, dragging a resigned Fowler to get something to drink.
Soundwave, meanwhile, shakes his helm with his visor offline, Reeds patting his shoulder plate with an amused smirk on his face.
"Lord Megatron, Prime, want some of these?" A voice next to them calls, and Optimus turns around just in time for an eerily grinning Skywarp to push a cube of fuchsia Energon in his servos.
Before he can find an answer, the Seeker bounces away happily to where his Trineleader is watching Soundwave scold his creations, judging by their bowed helms, with Thundercracker following more calmly after the purple-marked Flier.
"I'm a happy drunk." Megatron lets out seemingly out of nowhere, and when the Prime turns to him, he sees his cube is already half empty. "Any warnings to give yourself?"
"I… don't think so?"
After a moment of silence, the Decepticon lets out a roaring laughter that has the whole room turn to them and make the blue and red mech wish he had Mirage's ability to make himself invisible.
"We'll have to solve that, then! I'm going to make sure tomorrow you're able to give a proper answer."
If he was human, Optimus would be pale as a ghost.
He takes a small step away when Megatron turns to Mixmaster, who is doing something with a large cube of High Grade that is making it turn a sickly green shade, but before he can make himself scarce, he almost bumps into a widely grinning Ironhide and, to his utter surprise, Shockwave, both carrying a cube of normal High Grade each.
"And where are you going?" His Weapons Specialist asks almost menacingly, but, instead of trying to reason with the dark red mech, he turns his attention to the Decepticon scientist.
"Isn't it illogical to get overcharged?"
"It is illogical to overcharge when there'll be need of a mech's full faculties the following work cycle." Shockwave answers calmly, and Optimus lets out a sigh of relief— "But it is also illogical to not know the limits of one's own frame. Taking into consideration any posts needing attention tomorrow are already covered, there's no reason not to indulge in High Grade." And, that said, the scientist clinks his cube against the one in the Prime's servos before bringing it to the intake tube opening just below his optic support and emptying it.
Almost beyond horrified, he turns to look at Ironhide, who has dealt with his own cube while Shockwave was talking, and is giving his leader a grin so wide that his faceplate should have cracked.
"I managed to teach ol' Shocks some things." He lets out with a too calm voice, before the both of them walk away with a wave.
When he manages to get his frame working again, the Autobot leader looks down at his own cube and, without further thought, drains it in two large gulps.
"Good. Now, this one." He startles at the voice, but, unlike before, the cube is being handed to him instead of pushed into his servos.
That doesn't mean he accepts it.
The poisonous green liquid Megatron is offering him doesn't reassure him any.
"Oh, come on. It's Mixmaster's special, and I can promise you I've ingested it before without any serious side-effects."
"Any serious side-effects?" He repeats, mildly horrified, and, with a huff, the Decepticon leader presses the cube against his chest plates, forcing him to take it.
"Just mute it and drink." And, no sooner are the words out, the purple and silver-accented black mech drowns his cube in one go—
And starts coughing as soon as the recipient is away from his lips.
"That doesn't convince me." He deadpans, but, when the Decepticon straightens, it's with a wide grin on his faceplate.
"Does that?"
It takes him a second to notice the pointing dactyl, and, suppressing a shudder, he turns around—
And feels his mouth fall open in surprise, because those around the table in a drinking contest are Jazz and Blaster, along Reeds and his Trinemates, but the ones trying to out-drink one another are Fowler and Soundwave.
A nanoklik later, the Autobot SIC raises a hand to stop Skywarp from refilling his cube, and the Decepticons cheer as their Communications Officer finishes his, lowering it with a wobbly arm and a smug grin on his uncovered faceplate.
A tug on his arm makes him look back at Megatron, whose smile is smaller and more calming than one would expect from the ruthless leader of the Decepticons, before he points one black dactyl to where Shockwave and Ironhide are sitting with the Aerialbots and the Stunticons, all of them gesturing wildly for them to approach, pointing at two empty seats next to the temporary Seconds in Command.
On the table are quite a lot of flasks full to the brim with the green High Grade.
With one last look at where the drinking contest has now turned to Jazz and Thundercracker, Optimus lets a small smile appear on his faceplate with a resigned sigh.
"Very well. But I'll let you know I'm not exactly pleasant when I have to deal with processor-aches." He relents at last, allowing Megatron to softly push him to the table.
"We'll deal with that in the morning." The Decepticon leader chuckles, cradling his empty cube.
And, in a 'why the Pit not' momentary decision, the Prime pulls his own cube to his lips and drains it.
Megatron has to literally carry him the last steps to the table as he almost coughs his fuel tanks out through his intake tube, but he immediately joins the raucous laughter as soon as he's sitting down.
Well, this might be fun after all…
His processor is pounding and some of his tensile cables are cramped because of spending a lot of time in a weird position, but that isn't what has woken him up.
Battle protocols up and running even before his targeting systems can come online, he can only recognize enemies all around him, the sounds filling his audials distorted and sounding too much like pained moans and—oh, Pit, is it a battlefield? Was he knocked into stasis in the middle of a slagging battle?
He needs to get away, before the other side comes to rescue their wounded and pick up the deactivated, he needs to get back to his own, to—to—to whoever he's aligned with, and why won't his processor reboot properly so that he can access his slagging databanks?!
The being under him shudders, and he softens the tight grip he keeps on the other so as to not increase the damage, but doesn't release it, no way, they're not going to take them apart, there's nothing that would—
And there it is again, the wrongness, the foul enemy he can't even touch, can't even see, least of all fight and—hands on his shoulder plates, tugging him away from the other and the rasp of a damaged voice box and shuddery moans and the grip on his frame tightens, straining to break his hold of the damaged one, but he can't, he won't, he—he can't hold it anymore, and the warm frame is pulled away, Energon on his chest plate and his arms and he barely stops himself from howling from the helplessness he's feeling, but bright ruby optics keep him immobile and silent, even as they grow smaller—
And they finally know what the vertical operation table just outside their cell is for, as the other is forcefully strapped to it, their captors not even caring about the groaning of already ripped metal as the restraints bend it inwards, more sparkly pink liquid dripping from the reopened wounds.
Stay strong. It'll be over soon.
Yes, it will. And once it is, he can take care of the other, and they can keep planning how to escape their prison and extinguish as many of their captors as possible in one go.
That possibility vanishes as soon as their torturer steps inside, for this time it's not their usual one, just as it's not the normal treatment of taking them to their laboratories what is happening now.
It's different.
New.
It's going to be their end.
Hold on! I know you can!
He grabs those words almost physically and clings to them with all his spark to suppress the urge to cower in the farthest corner of their cell when the large being goes past it and towards the table, a laughing face turning to stare at where he's still sitting against the wall.
He can't keep the shudder inside, nor stop his legs from pressing against his chest plate in a vague effort of protecting himself.
Their torturer laughs, and he shivers again.
But the one strapped to the table snarls—and spits a clog a brownish Energon that slams on their captor's raging face.
"You dare, you lowly drone!" It shrieks with multiple voices, still laughing in his direction even as it snarls at the other prisoner's smug grin. "You shall suffer even more for this."
"As if. I won't break for a real Cybertronian, so what makes you think a tin can such as yourself will manage it?" And the mocking look turns bitter as their torturer laughs at the arrogant immobile being.
"You were made to obey, slave. And to that you will return."
I need you to do something.
What…?
I need you to do something!
What is it? I can't… I can't help from here!
You're going to help if you manage this. So, stay strong.
I… Alright. What can I do?
"Oh, I'm shaking so hard in fear that my armor is falling off. Release me and you'll see it, piece by piece clattering to the ground." The captive deadpans, and laughter turns to wrath even as the frowning face staring at him cracks into a large smile.
While I distract them—
What?! No!
"Your voice box would have been the first thing to go, but I will relish your screams." Their captor returns, laughing at the one strapped on the table while the bitter face is once more starting at him through the invisible electrified force-field of their prison.
While I distract them, I need you to make up some kind of trigger.
A… trigger? For what?
For your memories! Our time's run out. We won't be able to get out of here unless we have inside help—
But there's no one who would do it, so we need to create an inside agent.
I knew there was a reason you—
The shriek crackles with the same static as the unvoiced words, and he flinches, though doesn't look away from where their captor has ripped off the immobile prisoner's chest plate.
"Such primitive bodies! Our creations were superior in every sense, yet you lower yourself to being tools of those disgusting maggots! Well, one more reason to recover our wayward slaves."
"Ah, but… you are the inferior ones… for you must not have any… kind of reflective surface if you are… calling other races… 'maggots'." The grin on the prisoner's faceplate is so mocking that laughter turns to the face of Death itself, rage freezing him to the wall he's pressed against despite his urge to plea for the other's well-being.
Don't you dare make a sound! You need to work on the trigger!
And how the Pit should I make it?!
You're the expert!
Another shriek shakes the air as more armor is ripped off, the macabre procedure continuing to the point there's barely more than the protoformal circuitry attached to the struts, the abused voice box having shut down halfway through the process, though the screams have not gone silent.
He forces himself to watch, to not move again, to hide his shivering and his horror—
And to devise a viral programming to infect himself with, one that would reboot his whole processor bit by bit and erase any modifications implanted by external sources.
The virus itself is simple, but the challenge lies in how to hide it from their captors.
Because, if what has been said is true, they will get in his processor—
Stay strong! Your processor is your best weapon, and they don't know about it. You can do this!
Once more, he clings to the words like a depleted mech to the last of their Energon, and focuses once more on the virus—
And the murderous face is staring down at him as their captor analyzes the strapped mech with something akin to doubt.
He can't think, he can't move, he can barely let his spark pulse as those deep space black optics look at him, and he can feel his terror sky-rocket—
I'm here. I'm here. They won't get us, they won't break us. They can't stop you.
Still staring at Death itself, he ponders his next step.
Eventually, they will get them. Eventually, they will force them to bow. But they can't stop them. Not if, when they think they've managed to subdue them, they stand up again.
"Curious. Perhaps we should look deeper."
And metal shrieks as the spark chamber's cover is pierced and ripped off—
Pale, too pale, too pale blue—
Concentrate!
Quarantine and slip into the recharge protocols, the protective coding set to erode slowly with the use of the lines it is hidden amidst, the virus in temporary inactivity until its casing is gone—
Tools lift as the face of Death gives way to one frowning down at him, their captor's laughter growing stronger as panic and horror distort what little he can see of his fellow prisoner—
"This should be interesting…"
The unknown item in their torturer's hold flashes to life with the glow of Energon before disappearing between its handler's body and the one strapped on the table—
"No no no nononononono—" The voice grows louder, crackling wildly from being forced through an abused voice box—
Too pale blue light flickers and flashes and dims and crackles and the scream grows louder and far more agonizing than any being can be responsible for before the voice box explodes in a flash of sparks and electric bolts, the torturer moving away until the sputtering stops, just to grab another tool and step closer again, another he hasn't seen enter joining the carnage while carrying some cabling—
The integration of the virus-case pings its completion, and he jumps to his pedes and runs to the force-field as fast as he can, for he can no longer ignore what they are doing, they don't listen no matter how much he screams and begs and shakes, for the strapped one's voice box is no longer functional, so he starts shouting for his companion, but it's of no use—
Another tiny explosion, another flare of electricity, and the Energon that until then just dripped from open wounds starts to boil out of the prisoner's lines, splashing everything to the point it's covering the body, the floor, the tools, and the wailing and screaming never stop, just grow weaker, and he only shouts louder in response, begging the torturers to stop and willing the other to stay strong, just as he himself had been doing—
A stronger flare and the voice stops, their captors finally stepping away so that the bulky guardians can release the immobile frame, a too small pure white spark sputtering in its Energon-stained chamber, ripped open for all to see, and—
He shrieks as electricity courses through his wires, forcing him to the ground and unable to stop twitching as the force-field vanishes and a guard kicks him to the back of the cell for the other to push his fellow prisoner in, unable to speak, not strong enough for anything, but he still manages to meet his optics, now pinpricks of white nestled in crystal-less sockets in a sea of dead gray, but he manages to stand long enough for him to get to his pedes and rush to his side—
A crackling sob escapes his voice box as he grabs him and they slid to the floor, too weak to stay upright, but not defeated, never broken, even if they are going to reprogram them into mere drones, slaves to those disgusting masses of psychopathic canned meat, for he has just deleted something from his databanks that has to be important, for he would still keep the records otherwise, but no matter, because whatever it is, it will help them be free again—
The spark sputters, and, even as he cradles the frame closer, memories pop up of better times, of sitting in a soothing dark room while monitoring a whole race's communications, of smaller beings happily singing along one of the melodies he tuned in from those alien comms, of two others ceasing their bickering to listen to the younger ones' antics—
And he finds himself willing the other to remember, to join him in that better time, to forget the pain, so, despite his voice box's protests and his crackling voice, he sings along the small ones of his memories, and his fellow prisoner chuckles and joins him with a voiceless voice—
The servos on his sides tighten their grip and push, strength the other should not have left forcing them apart, and he finds himself looking into a deadly worried matte black faceplate with pale amber optics searching his visor.
And only then, for the first time since he got out of recharge, does Soundwave realize he's sitting on the floor of a party-adorned Rec Room with almost all of the Autobots and Decepticons in the Resistance base looking at him in horrified disbelief as he clings to Starscream as tightly as he did—
"Sorry." His voice is chocked and pained and broken, and his visor goes offline as he presses himself tighter against the Seeker's very much alive chassis, spark pulsing strong even through the layers of untouched metal as charged Energon courses through lines and softly warms armor plates and sustains healthy color nanites. "Sorry sorry sorry…" His whimpering becomes lower and harder to hear, until his voice box stops as it reaches pitches even it is unable to produce.
But Soundwave continues to apologize, because his virus worked in the end, and they managed to get free of the Quintessons, but he couldn't help the other in that cell, and as much as that scarred and hurt him, he knows it will be impossibly worse for the one who suffered it.
"Please don't come back… Starscream please don't come back…"
AN: And finally we get to the explanation of what happened in the very first chapter of the fic, of why Soundwave suddenly woke up one day remembering his real name. Took long enough...
By the way, there are some lines in there that should be recognizable. Guess from where?
Happy Halloween!
Angel Heart: To your review to Chapter 29 (Synchronization): I'm glad you liked the interaction between Reeds/Starscream and Thundercracker. I felt it had been long coming, and I couldn't leave it out. And yes, Jazz is great, no matter how little part he has in any chapter XD
I was a bit worried about the camera bit with Prowl, but I'm happy you thought it fit. I thought it may have sounded to OOC for him, but then, my reasoning was that Jazz wanted him to participate in some way, and if it was by holding the camera, so be it (and who can deny Jazz anything? ;P).
And yes, Jazz's answer to Soundwave stating his designation was a reference to James Bond (forgot to put that in the AN, going to correct it now...), so great job spotting that! (I thought it was pretty obvious, but only you mentioned it... guess the rest were too shocked by the fact Soundwave was back XP). And yes again, I wanted to make it sound like a joke at first, glad that worked too. *insert evil grin*
I'm going to tell you the truth. When I first read that the 'game of tag' was cute because 'can you imagine Prowl and Starscream playing around like they were younglings?' my first thought was 'what's the difference?' That's because in my HC, as I've hinted at before, a newly created mech is one that has data but not experience, kind of like a recently awakened amnesiac, that knows some things (speech, walk, use of the toilet, previous acquired knowledge) but no people or is lacking some experience. Then, though, I tried to imagine them as the most widely spread version of 'younglings' in the fandom, the one where they are like human children in terms of size and all that jazz (no pun intended)... and I found myself squealing. So, yes, I can see why so many people thought they were 'cute'. Thanks for explaining!
To your review to Chapter 30 (Bridging the Gap): Couldn't not write smug Megatron, I just physically couldn't. Curse him, he always gets away with what he wants. *pout* And same for the Stunticons. Is there any other way to write them?
I'm happy Reeds' development and thought processes made sense, it's hard sometimes to find a point between 'Starscream's way of thought' and 'explain things so that they can be understood by everyone, damn it!'. I'm also glad my explanation for Soundwave being how he is also fits, and that my headcannon (mixing 'verses and OCs included) doesn't throw things out too much.
'The best type of the worst cliff hanger', I love that sentence XD
I'm happy that chapter wasn't too... I don't know, overwhelming? Confusing? There was so much going on that I almost cut it in two, but then it wouldn't have had the same kind of impact, so I left it as it was. Glad I did.
A bit more of Prowl and Jazz here, but Soundwave wasn't done yet, and Optimus and Megatron wanted some spotlight too... (how come what were 5-6 chapters in my mind have become 13 and counting? And there are still so many more waiting to be written... is this ever going to end?!). Oh, well, lets see what next chapter brings up... (lets hope they decide to collaborate...)