C.M.D: It's been a several months since I've updated this fic as well, but I'm super excited to have a new chapter ready for a brand new year. Even more so because we're getting close to the halfway point, which means everything will be progressing faster from here on in until the end. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter as much as I did writing it!

Arcee started the orn the same as any orn before. She rose before dawn, took a quick bath and adorned her robes for that orn; then started her chores by helping the chefs clean the fruits and vegetables, before moving on and either cleaning the rooms or running deliveries all over the estate. All of this had to be done by lunch, and, after a short break of her own, she would then continue the rest of her orn with cleaning any rooms left or helping the rest of the staff with the mountains of laundry that had to be taken care of daily.

The femme had just started on her usual routine, heading for the kitchen in the dim light of oncoming morning, when she noticed one of the guards waiting at the end of the slaves' quarters. Slowing, Arcee took a moment to study the strange mech, optics roaming over the strong green frame, noble helm arch and worn but gentle grey faceplates. This was the same guard who had stood at Tracks' door, back when she had been assigned to the Autobot.

Finally coming up to the guard, the slave noticed that the stranger was turning to meet her, and she paused in alarm. As a rule, guards and slaves quarters were far away from each other. One could not trespass to the other hall without evoking severe punishment for breaching rank. Had she then committed some sort of crime?

"U-um... Hi," the mech began, coughing uncomfortably, "I-i apologize for this sudden meeting. I'm -you're not in trouble by the way- I just..."

The guard trailed off awkwardly and Arcee forced herself to calm down, realizing that she wasn't in any trouble, as he had said. If she was, he probably would have been accompanied by a second guard; plus, his failing words were doing nothing to make him seem authoritative and instead, left an undeniable adorable aura about him. Smiling despite herself, the femme was caught off-guard when the stranger smiled in return, frame relaxing in her presence.

"I'm sorry. Let me begin again," he said, bowing forward slightly. A scandalous action, for no slave was worthy of such respect from anyone of higher status. Still, his smile did not fade and his surprisingly blue optics glowed with warmth and honour as they shone on her. "My name is Springer and I've been thinking of you too long now to ignore the need to know who you are. May I have the privilege of knowing your name?"

Cheekplates flushed, Arcee could only stare back in shock as the guard spoke; touched by his words and surprised to see the tiny glint of a slave collar peeking from the gaps in his armour. Realizing she had been silent for much too long, and that her apparent admirer was beginning to tense at suspected rejection, the femme instinctively reached forward and grabbed the servo waiting suspended in the air. "O-oh!," she gasped, dropping it an astrosecond after, blushing further. "I-i apologize, I-"

The guard chuckled, rich and deep, and the slave looked up, feeling her spark thrum calmly at the glorious sound. "Please don't apologize," Springer replied, "It's a pleasure to feel the softness of your servo. One that I won't take lightly."

Optics turned down demurely, but still glittering, Arcee felt her smile sweeten even more. "You're too kind, sir. And...," she finally said, sensing the guard tense in anticipation. It was enough to make her want to giggle. "My name is... Arcee."

"Arcee...," the mech repeated, tasting each of the syllables, his cheekplates spread with a foolish grin.

A couple chuckles escaping, the femme curtsied and quickly excused herself, citing that she had duties waiting for her that very moment. She didn't glance back as she hurried on down the hall, but Arcee could feel Springer's gaze following her every pedestep and the slave gave into shy daydreams as she headed for the kitchen, unable to banish the twinkle from her optics.

xxXxXxx

Morning sunlight poured into the library, making the entire room glow with golden light. Moving about languidly, Tracks re-shelved a series of tomes, having just finished wiping down and polishing the wooden bookshelf. Setting the last one in place, the slave stepped back, unwinding the clean rag from around his servos as he admired his handiwork. It had taken some time and a fair amount of patience, but half of the library had been restored to its former glory. It truly was a beautiful room, and reminded of that, Tracks touched the key resting against his chestplates beneath his tunic.

Having some form of physical labour brought some meaningful and long-missed familiarity to the slave's life, that at a moment like this, he sometimes forgot that the library wasn't just a task he had to complete -it was his very own property, or so Soundwave had said. The very idea was incongruous to the core definition of 'slave'. Not just that, the Autobot reminded himself quietly, he also now had his own personal garden nook for reading. It was a gorgeous spot, filled with light, sweet perfume and the gentle babble of its little pond. Another illustrious location privy to a wild and unmanageable serf...

If Tracks wasn't so fond of his latest treasure, he may have been more suspicious.

Yet, for all his vile thoughts and cruel assumptions, Soundwave had still not used his position to extort anything out of the Autobot in return. Things had truly taken a strange turn.

Stroking the spine of a recognizable book, Tracks almost missed the door creaking open behind him; a gentle knock echoing in the stuffy atmosphere. "Greetings: Tracks," came Soundwave's vocalizer.

Turning, with book in servo, the Autobot faced his visitor neutrally, setting all his things down on the nearest table. "Hello," he replied, "I was wondering when you'd stop by."

The moment the words left his mouth, the councilor's visor flashed in shock, and even Tracks realized how surreal the situation had suddenly become. Silence fell between the two mechs, and not knowing what to say at the strange comment that had just escaped him, the slave turned away and tidied up his cleaning supplies distractedly.

"A-anyways...," he finally forced out, when Soundwave continued to say nothing in response, "What brings to the library today?"

The telepath drew nearer, taking care to not pry into the forming gaps appearing in the other mech's firewalls. "Status: Wished to invite you to lunch again. If you were willing," he announced, circling about and allowing the table to stand between the two of them. To give the Autobot his rightful space.

"Oh?"

"Affirmative. Unfortunately: not plausible. Status: Running late in a few meetings and must head into the city to finish estate business," Soundwave finished, trying to hide the tinge of disappointment he felt. He'd really wanted to spend what precious time he had with Tracks, even just to bask in the consistently growing comfort and silence.

Tracks hummed, but he still didn't turn about, instead moving on and even wiping at already clean shelves. "You must be awfully busy then. I hope it doesn't become a burden."

The councilor smiled under his battle mask, chestplates swelling out a bit. Though probably just said for convenience than any sincerity, it was still wonderful to hear such kind sympathies from the winged mech. Enjoying himself and trying to keep the conversation going for at least a little while longer, Soundwave glanced at the table, studying its possessions as he said, "Fact: No task too burdensome to..."

"...To?," Tracks asked, glancing back when the Decepticon did not continue after a klik.

The Autobot stiffened when he noticed that the telepath was holding the book he had pulled earlier, thumbing through the pages. "Inquiry: ...you read Sanskrit?"

"Yes," the slave was hesitant to answer. He played with his polishing rag idly, watching, curious yet anxious to hear what the blue mech had to say.

But Soundwave was not even looking up. His visor glowed softly, focused intently only on the tome he held. "Mahabbharata... Status: Is the oldest of collection and favourite," the councilor said. He spoke low, almost gentle, and Tracks wondered if he was even being spoken to. When the red glass lifted and focused on him, the Autobot felt struck by a strange sense of deja vu -wide, blue frame and pleasant rumble, transforming to a tiny, slim build and sweet melody.

"I think I've read this a hundred times," echoed Moonracer's vocalizer within a smile, "And no matter what, Bhagavad-Gita is by far my most favourite of the tales. Wouldn't you agree Tracks?"

"...Tracks?"

"W-what?," the Autobot choked as the vision faded, finding the councilor standing unnaturally close; the light of his visor looking strangely concerned. "I-i...I'm fine. Um..."

Soundwave stood there awkwardly, uncertain about what to do. He had just been sharing with the slave how the book he held was one of his favourites, when Tracks' mind had darkened with a sudden stab of despair and unsettling loneliness. Despite not meaning to pry, the telepath could easily glean Moonracer's presence in the miserable slave's spark and the unsuspecting connection that one of his coveted reads revealed between the three of them. Nervously, the blue mech set the book aside and blurted out the first thing that came to his frazzled processor, "Offer: would you like to come to the meeting with me?"

Tracks paused, and even his tumultuous thoughts stilled, as he absorbed what had just been said. His expression matched Soundwave's: shocked, curious and a touch suspicious. Yet, despite not meaning to make the suggestion, the councilor was loathe to retract his invite. It was actually a brilliant compromise; he would make his appointments as necessary and still partake in the company of his much beloved slave.

"...Status: Do not have to accompany me personally to meeting. May browse marketplace with an attendant on hand while busy and, afterwards, catch a bite at the local thermopolia," he elaborated as the other's silence kept, his own tone sure as his eagerness grew. "Fact: Has been a while since you have last left the estate."

That last part was true...

It had been decaycles -no, almost two whole stellar cycles really- since Tracks had been purchased by Soundwave. And in all that time, he'd only been outside of the compound once, very early on in his transfer here. A trip out on the town was a highly tempting idea and the slave was having difficulty finding reasons as to why he should reject the proposition. At the very least, it would allow him a good distraction from what had just taken place and the aching in his spark over long-ago losses.

"O...Okay," the winged mech breathed, the words almost silent as they escaped him. No other words had ever felt so heavy, but as they left, they took with them an unfathomable weight; leaving behind a stirring hope and a small spark of excitement.

The Decepticon puffed out his chest, equally as joyous, reaching into his robe and pulling out a satchel. "Some of the wages you have made," he explained, holding it out for Tracks to take. "Status: so you may buy whatever you like while at the market."

The slave's optics flared even brighter than before. This would be the first time that he had seen, let alone possess, any credits in a long time, since his capture. The sight of the small satchel, and the clinking weight of its leather hide as it was set into his outstretched servo, cemented the possibility of a future without masters or slave collars. He could really one orn soon be free. "T... thank you," came the soft-spoken gratitude, "For keeping your promise. You didn't... you didn't really have to."

If it had not been for his battle mask, Tracks would have seen the loving smile that spread across Soundwave's face or how his optics dimmed into an expression of empathetic sympathy. "Assumption: incorrect," he replied. "Status: Had to keep promise. Tracks: Worthy of nothing less."

"Suggestion: Perhaps would like to bathe and refresh before our trip?," the councilor added quickly, needing to leave the other mech's presence before he did something out of turn, such as cup those gorgeous cheeks.

At the mention of a bath, Tracks looked himself over, suddenly noticing how filthy he was. Servos were stained in varying patches of dark brown from the wood polish, tunic grimy in places and bearing stringy wisps of cobweb, and a film of dust covered the slave from helm to pede. A bath and fresh clothes sounded wonderful about now. "Y-yeah, I think I will do just that," he said, blushing a little in embarrassment.

Soundwave nodded. "Status: Will inform servants to draw a bath for you, while the carriage is prepared in the meantime."

Getting to his pedes, the Autobot stared at his master, feeling the words rise unbidden within him. "T...Thank you." But even after they were said, he didn't feel a need to take them back. Not this time.

The blue mech jolted a tiny bit at the appreciation, having not expected to hear such a show of gratitude again a second time in an orn. He could only nod his helm foolishly at the slimmer mech, inform him that he'd be waiting at the front of the estate when he was finished getting ready, and then walk weakly from the room like a love-struck fool.

xxXxXxx

The marketplace was a lot busier than Tracks ever remembered. People packed in from almost all sides, stalls lining every available wall and some even erected in the middle of the streets and squares, back to back and side to side. Wares were swollen on tables and hanging from tiny canopies set over the stall to provide shade and comfort; there was so much merchandise that some of it piled up or spilled over onto the street in front or beside each booth. The stone street beneath could hardly be seen amidst the tromping pedes, as their owners weaved back and forth in a never-ending procession of coming and going. One could barely move without being stepped or stepping on, and with all the noise, being heard especially was a task best left forgotten.

Stepping down from the cab, Tracks pondered just forgetting his excursion altogether in favor of staying in the safe and cool carriage. But the attendants that Soundwave had left behind for him were watching, and the slave was loathe to have them think him a coward nor undergo their scrutiny up close. Immediately, a few glances were sent his way, and Tracks tried to hide his scowl as much as possible from the prying optics. It was obvious that he was garnering some attention in front of the carriage, dressed in his flat brown tunic and bearing a slave collar for all to see, but that didn't mean he cared for the disdainful looks he was receiving.

He was here to enjoy himself and Unicron be damned if the Autobot was about to let others take this rare pleasure from him. Strutting proudly forward, Tracks weaved into the hustle-and-bustle seamlessly, moving like a dancer to keep from getting jostled by another 'bot or have his wings accidentally clipped. It did not escape his notice though, as he looked through each of the stalls and their wares, that people were pausing in their shopping, turning to stare. An Autobot slave alone in the marketplace was rare... one with wings, even more so.

Realizing this himself, Tracks felt a chill run down his backstruts. His last trip to the market had ended horribly... With clawing servos grabbing at his frame and slipping under clothing. Vagabonds had called him beautiful and had paid little notice to his master's high ranking. Would simple civilians do the same for a chance to have such an exotic creature the likes as which Tracks' poised?

Turning and staring back at each member of his audience with a mean optic, the slave hurried on his way; chin held up vainly and wings flared stubbornly. He wouldn't be cowed by strangers, he decided. He'd refused to take any flak from Soundwave and that went the same for the citizens of his cruel and vile empire.

A flash of colours caught the edge of his peripheral and slowing, the Autobot circled and weaved through the crowds toward the source. He found himself before a stall boasting a large and varied selection of colorful fabric. One such roll of clothe called to the mech and he stepped closer to the stand, unable to look away.

"What do you want?," an impatient vocalizer snapped, and, glancing down, Tracks was met by the sight of a tiny femme glaring up at him from behind the counter. "I have no time for mischievous, lil' serfs," she started viciously, "So you just-"

"I want to purchase some of your wares," Tracks interrupted. The Decepticon vendor shuttered her optics in surprise, before her face tightened again, servos propped on her hips.

"Oh? And with what credit might I ask?," she snidely demanded.

The Autobot scowled back, but only pulled out his coin purse, the one Soundwave had given him, and shook it before the old femme. "The credit that I earn as allowance for my work," he answered. "Now, I'd like to see that roll right there." A slender finger pointed behind the merchant, to a slim reel of vibrant turquoise, that shimmered in the light like gentle lapping waves.

"That be silk," the femme informed crisply. "There be no way a serf have credit enough for a shawl."

"Surely I must have enough for that," Tracks quipped back, holding out his purse for the vendor. "Count it! I know I have plenty enough."

The Decepticon only narrowed her optics, but she took the purse, and before the slave's gaze, counted out each coin. At the end, she tossed it back into the leather pouch and dropped it to the counter, crossing her arms over her chestplates. "Aye, you have enough... for a straggly strip no bigger in length than your forearm."

"Fine," the winged mech seethed, having grown tired of the femme and her discrimination. Though he detested her attitude, he would not give up his quest to owning even a swatch of that beautiful fabric. He had a right to buy it, slaggit! "Cut it for me then."

The femme jolted in surprise, but as Tracks did not back down, she had no choice but to turn away and unroll the silk. Her dagger cut true and clean, creating a swatch eleven by fourteen inches across; true to her word, about the size of his forearm and hardly of any use. Tracks took the fabric as the merchant counted out her take, mulling over what to do with the sheet. As she handed him his purse back, three times lighter than it had been previously, an epiphany came to him.

"...Do you have any smaller swatches for scraps that I may browse through?," he asked. "I will pay to take them off your servos."

The Decepticon gave him a weird look but hauled a woven basket up onto the table from her side of the stall and said, "Knock yourself out," before deciding to ignore the slave. Paying her no mind, Tracks sifted through the cut up fragments with one servo; the other holding on tightly to his purchase and his leftover coin. It took a bit of searching, but he eventually found two small swatches of equal size, in pale yellow and coral dyed wool. It cost him the rest of his credits (the thieving glitch) but the Autobot walked away, content still with his finds. The merchant may have thought she had given him useless material, but with the right seamstress, Tracks could fashion a slim belt out of his clothe.

And that was good enough by him.

Weaving back through the crowds, Tracks made his way to the carriage, eager to get out of the sun and rest his pedes for a bit.

xxXxXxx

The end of an orn came with exhausted relief, for though she would never complain even once about her work, it still was taxing on small frames. Alone in the slaves' bath house, Arcee quickly stripped and sponged down using the water in the waiting buckets, before throwing a fresh tunic on for the night. Her clothes from the orn were carried to the basket inside the main house, where it would be washed along with the rest of the slaves' and servants' clothes the next orn. It was seemingly never-ending work but the femme was safe, fed and privileged, and thus content in the routine.

Of course, there was something a little extra to be happy about.

Cheekplates glowing with an impeding blush, Arcee tried to hold in her giggles, eager to return to her room and the flower that was pressed beneath her sleeping mat. Springer had come to see her once every orn thus far, usually before her work began and his had ended, and though their time was really short together, the guard tried to make the best of it. He spoke to her sweetly, softly, and though it was his intent from using too many notes of affection in his words, the slave could still hear them resonant in his vocalizer. It was sudden and unexpected, but Arcee was just as caught up in the pooling love quickly filling her spark.

There had never been a time in her life prior where she had been given the chance to feel this way before and the femme was loathe to let it go to waste so soon.

Caught up in daydreams about what tomorrow's meeting with Springer would bring her, the maidservant missed the mech approaching her from the other side of the hallway. It wasn't until they said "Wait" that Arcee realized with a frightened jolt she wasn't alone. Turning, the smaller Autobot looked to see her visitor, jolting again when she saw that it was Tracks looking down on her.

"T-tr-tracks, s-sir-!"

"Before you say anything," the winged mech spoke up quickly, servo lifted in placation, "I just... I-i'm... Sorry. About before. I..." His optics glanced down and away from the femme, dim and contrite. "I was in a bad place. I shouldn't have treated you that way or did any of that."

The way the other Autobot looked, more than his apology, shocked Arcee. Deliberating, the femme thought about what to say, before smiling kindly and stepping up under Tracks' line of sight. "I-it's, um, a-alright. Did... d-did you want to see me about something?," she asked.

At her offered distraction, Tracks leapt, holding out a small leather bag. Taking it and pulling open the drawstrings, Arcee saw that there were a few bits of folded fabric within. "Would you... Can you sew?," the mech questioned, while the femme was still baffled at the sight of the items.

"U-uh, yes, I can," the maidservant replied, looking up. "You wanted me to sew this?"

"Yes," Tracks nodded, "I know there's not a lot of material, but if you cut the silk into thinner strips, you should be able to fashion a nice belt or sash. You can use the wool to connect the strips."

"Oh!," Arcee exclaimed, shuttering her optics in surprise. The suggestion was different, but not outside of her comfort zone. A seamstress she wasn't, but the femme did know how to sew. "Um, yes, I can do that! Easily!"

Tracks finally looked her back in the optics and the relief was so apparent, it was almost sparkbreaking. "If... I'm sorry, I know you were going to retire to bed, but would you mind making this for me tonight?," the mech asked. "I didn't know who else to ask."

The femme nodded and gestured for the bigger slave to follow. "Sure," she answered. "We'll go to the seamstress' shop and make it there; she has everything we'll need. This colour will look fantastic on you by the way! Blue compliments you so nicely."

Tracks said nothing about the remark, staring at an oblivious Arcee as they walked, with a queer expression on his face.

C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?