C.M.D: I'm feeling unwell, so update period is happening a day earlier this month. Please enjoy some Tracks and Soundwave goodness!
The following orn brought bright sunlight and even sweeter bird song, as Soundwave arose, heading straight into the task of washing himself and donning clean robes, before finally exiting his quarters. He mulled through his mental list of duties that orn and found he had little waiting on him to do. With a flash of excitement, the councilor immediately headed for the library. He passed a servant along the way and he stopped them for a moment, instructing that his breakfast be brought to the library, and extra for Tracks as well.
Once done, there was nothing stopping the Decepticon from his destination. "Greetings: Tracks," he called, rapping on the door surely, then entering. "Inquiry: How fares your morn?"
He watched as the slave turned at his entrance, standing atop a ladder, one arm laden with books and the other gripping the bookshelf. Realizing that he had intruded when the Autobot was carrying out a delicate task, Soundwave apologized; dutifully ignoring the fact, that from this angle, he could clearly see under the tunic's hem.
"My morning's... well...," Tracks replied, quickly coming down the ladder. He put the books he carried beside others stacked on the nearest table; dusting his servos off with a clean rag and facing the councilor. "Did you need something?"
Soundwave stalled. It was hard to fathom sometimes just how beautiful the winged mech was. Without the creases of rage and even in the absence of smiles, Tracks' visage was a blessing to behold. Optics the colour of a deep sky blue shone brightly behind glittery frames, rouge lip components shimmered glisteningly even without gloss... and this was with a neutral expression, no less! Gaze dropping unconsciously, the Decepticon found himself tracing down wings and chestplates, until he came to an abrupt halt at the belt tied loosely around the cocked hip.
Noticing that his master's gaze was now focused on his waist, Tracks stiffened, courage fleeing, aware that he was tip-toeing a dangerous line. "I-it's, um, I-"
The councilor lifted a servo and for once, the Autobot fell quiet at the gesture; wings hitched high and spark flaring in sickening bursts. "Status: Not an issue," Soundwave informed, "Query: Your purchase from the market yesterday?"
The slave nodded silently.
Smiling beneath his mask, the Decepticon held back his chuckles, staring at the belt a moment longer before finally meeting the other's gaze. "Fact: Matches your optics," he said with sudden realization. "Belt: Gorgeous."
Blue optics shuttered at the double compliment, shyly glancing aside as their owner tried to cool the heat he could feel rushing to his cheekplates. Clearing his vocalizer awkwardly, Tracks fiddled with the stacked books as a means to distract himself. "Y-yes, well, I enjoy the colours. Kinda brightens things up and I didn't think there'd be an issue over a little belt anyways."
"Status: no issue," Soundwave assured a second time. He paused, thinking for a moment. "...Tracks: would prefer some new tunics? In more vibrant colours?"
"W-what?!," the slave spluttered, whirling around in alarm. Seeing that the Decepticon didn't move to correct himself, Tracks had no choice but to accept that the blue mech had said what he'd said, and rapidly shook his helm in protest as response. "N-no, listen, I-i'm fine. These tunics are all I need, a-and if I really want something, I-i'll purchase it myself when I next have the credits too. D-don't be giving me any special treatment."
Unspoken and understandably ignored by both parties was that of course Tracks had already been receiving such privileges. Nodding, so as to move the conversation on to less strenuous topics, Soundwave opened his mouth to invite the Autobot to breakfast when a knock at the door beat him to it.
"Master," the servant bowed minutely as they entered, carrying two laden trays of food, "Your breakfast, as requested." Two more servants followed the first, setting the meal down on one of the clean, vacant tables and arranging everything accordingly. The first servant hung back as the other two then bowed and left, approaching Soundwave respectively.
"As well, my Lord," he addressed, pulling a sealed scroll from his tunic sash, "A message comes from the Emperor. The messenger awaits in the foyer for your response."
Soundwave held in his vent as he took the proffered scroll, knowing with great certainty that it meant another long trip from home. All the same, he did not open it then and there. "Order: Inform guest that his response will take some time. Status: Is breakfast and have not even eaten yet," he said, a little wariness seeping into his tone. "Request: Offer him some refreshment until reply has been made."
"Of course, Master," the servant replied. He too bowed. "Enjoy your meal."
"...Another message?," Tracks asked, as the staff left. "What's it about?"
The councilor smiled weakly beneath his battle mask at the other's curiosity, but refrained from answering just then as he unrolled the scroll. True to his predictions, it was another summons to investigate further troubles along the Empire's borders. "...Status: Is another sendoff at His Emperor's request," Soundwave answered softly. "Fact: Will be a month-long trip."
"Ah...," the slave returned, his vocalizer flat and emotionless. Glancing at the winged mech, the Decepticon was touched to almost see a concerned gleam in the other's optics, but it was not enough to shake away the deepening sorrow taking hold in his spark.
Never had Soundwave thought he'd be leaving his home so often, and just when things were finally becoming better between himself and Tracks, it was the very last thing that the telepath wanted to do. "Request: come," he started with a more jovial tune, turning to the waiting Autobot, "Status: Breakfast is served and have not heard that you ate yet. Fact: Would be honoured if you joined me today."
"Okay," Tracks answered to the councilor's silent plea, walking forward and taking a seat in the chair Soundwave kindly pulled out for him. It was to be his last breakfast in his home for the rest of the month, the blue mech knew, but he hoped that this would just be the first of many he'd share with the beautiful slave once he returned.
xxXxXxx
Watching from his favourite spot within the library, Tracks saw as Soundwave's coach finally drew away from the estate; the horses moving quick as they raced down the winding street to the city below. It was hard to tear away from his perch, even after the carriage had vanished from view, but in time the mech did just that. He turned and studied the library, divided in its state of glory and disrepair, noting the despairing similarities between this room and his own processor.
He wanted to hate Soundwave...
He had every right to, Tracks argued. After everything that he had endured the orn of his capture, there was justification enough to loathe everyone and everything that supported a society that protected and endorsed his assailants.
Yet, when the messenger had brought a summons for the councilor to once again leave...
It had struck him alarmingly deep. There was a fear within the Autobot that flashed into life that very moment; a plea for the blue mech to decline the mission almost tripping off his glossa before he had wisely strangled it.
Why had he come to feel this way, the winged slave wondered in sheer bafflement. There was no reason for it. Not even concern over his own fate or the trepidation of being auctioned off to another master compared to the honest and true worry he felt for Soundwave and Soundwave alone. Was he...? Getting to his pedes, Tracks tried to distract himself with his chores, yet the urge to work had left him early that orn. Instead, he drifted through the stacks, optics and fingers caressing down book spines until he came across a familiar title. Holding in an intake, the slave pulled Mahabbharata down from its place, cradling the tome between his two servos.
"...it's just a book...," the mech mumbled to himself.
Yet, it wasn't anymore, was it? It was his only connection to Moonracer -from beginning to end- and now it tethered both him and Soundwave together. Strange coincidences rule our lives, Moonracer had once said to him, but at the end, they don't seem so strange.
Backing gently into a chair, Tracks thumbed the book open, startling when a slip of parchment fluttered out from between the pages. Scooping, the Autobot picked it up, flipping it over and reading the fine scrawl written in Sanskrit on its face. 'This book, along with any other favourites you may find, are yours,' the note read. 'From now, until the orn when you are ready to leave, they remain as such. I know you will cherish them well. Your intellect knows no bounds.'
Unbidden, tears rose to his optics, making it almost impossible to distinguish the name penned at the bottom. But, the slave knew it was Soundwave's signature- it always was him. To accept his brazen behavior over the belt without second thought, to grant him possessions, to allow him to work for his freedom and never once force himself upon the mech like others had...
"W-why...," Tracks croaked, swimming gaze fixed on the book he clutched to dearly, "H-how am..."
In his distressed state, he saw delicate servos appear, folding over his own where they lay like a gossamer screen. Glancing up, he saw a sweet face smiling back at him sadly and his tears swelled at the image. "I-i ca-can't...," the Autobot gasped, "I-i can't l-let you g-go... W-what a-am I su-supposed to d-do th-then?"
He could almost feel as Moonracer cupped his cheek then, his spark flaring hotly in the warmth of her imagined presence. "One path ends, as they all must someday," Tracks could practically hear her speak, "But another road always waits at the end, even if it's one you must forge yourself. If you fear you are lost, take to the sky, my love... These wings will carry you and a new path will appear beneath your unfaltering gaze. I never was afraid when I stared into your beautiful, courageous optics."
Sniffling, Tracks onlined his optics, not knowing when he had closed them nor how the time had flown in his absent-mindedness. Staring out into the orange horizon, the slave rose to his pedes, glancing down at the book and note clenched tight in each servo. His spark still ached, but the cracks in his mind had lessened. He longed for Moonracer, every orn and every night, and might still for the rest of his life... But, his delusions had been correct. It was time the Autobot release her, so her spark might rest peacefully with Primus, just as it was meant to. In the mean time, fortune had shined down upon him in his darkest hours and had delivered him to a place that, without him noticing, had slowly started to heal Tracks of his most grievous wounds.
"...It always starts with a book," the mech smiled minutely, thumbing Mahabbharata's worn cover, "Funny, isn't it Moonracer?"
A lone bird chirped cheerfully into the dusk and Tracks quickly tidied up the library, before leaving the room for the night; processor already lost in thoughts and musings about the weeks to come.
xxXxXxx
"Inquiry: Where are the bodies?," Soundwave asked flatly, coming over the rise. His entourage, of personal assistant and several of the Empire's soldiers, followed. The chief of the squadron kept with the councilor's stride, pointing ahead to the large pit dug earlier by his subordinates.
"In here," the mech answered, going right to the edge of the hole. "We started collecting the bodies as per routine. After the third dozen, we decided one large burial compared to a hundred smaller ones would be more effective. We stopped the moment one of our seniors noticed the wounds on the dead."
Soundwave peered into the hole, truly not caring. He didn't want to be here, he sensed in the others' minds that they knew that, yet the telepath wasn't one to care for his reputation at this moment. What was the point? It was already apparent that this was another raid by the Autobot outcasts and the only thing demonstrated in this case was that they had been getting better at their rescues. Better, stronger and more skilled. Visor flashing in the bright sunlight, Soundwave quickly noted the types of wounds visible in each of the grey frames filling the bottom below, reluctant but aware he had a report to prepare for his Emperor by the time he returned home.
"You may want to see this too, sir," the soldier interrupted respectively, one servo pointing to the gathered bodies waiting behind him, to be tossed into the hole with the others after the councilor's visit. Following his fellow Decepticon over, Soundwave took to one knee and rolled the frames over himself.
He could hear the soldiers begin to protest, but he waved them off, not in the mood to put up with ridiculous etiquette and hierarchy status scrap. The sooner this mission was complete, the sooner he could return home. Pulling back a dead guard's armor, the blue mech paused, alarmed by the broken staff in the corpse's abdomen and the slash through his neck cables. Moving with purpose, Soundwave checked each and every single one of the bodies in queue for the pit, before stepping back -robe and servos covered in blackening energon- staring in quiet horror at the dead. There were shards of spear heads and staffs, the remains of arrows and fletchings, and most predominantly, each grey frame carried one, or two maximum, killing blows.
There was nothing haphazard about this slaughter, nor anything sloppy; this was tried and true tactics. Empire war tactics. "...Query: Remaining supplies discovered?," Soundwave asked, nausea stirring his fuel tanks.
The soldier straightened to attention at the question, squeezing his helmet tightly as he answered crisply. "Our men have searched every inch of the village and even its borders, sir, while we awaited your arrival. Every kinsmech of the Empire is accounted for in these piles," he said, "And the only remaining supplies discovered were of few clothe, steel and masonry work, sir."
"Status: Slaves?," the blue mech asked, facing the younger Decepticon. He was certain of the other's answer even before he spoke, but he needed to hear his suspicions confirmed aloud from someone else.
"...Gone, sir," the soldier was hesitant to answer. His stance loosened and his optics stared back at the councilor disrespectfully, his mind flaring with anxious thoughts. "We have checked the registry and every slave is unaccounted for -dead or alive."
"Sir...?," the soldier started hesitantly. He paused to lick at his lip components, fighting back nerves. "There have been... rumors... of an uprising by the slaves. With today's death toll, and the missing slaves and guard weaponry, are we facing a... a possible... war?"
Without a second thought, Soundwave shook his helm, gesturing for his attendant to come forward and taking the waterskin from him to wash his servos. "Rumors: insubstantial poppycock," he lied, sensing the gathered soldiers' disbelief and suspicion, "Status: Emperor oversees all and no army -slave or otherwise- has been detected by his Lordship. Army: would be summoned and collected for preparations, if such arose."
"Understood," the soldier replied quietly, "Sir." He looked at the rest of his men and began ordering them to shove the rest of the dead into the pit, while Soundwave finished cleaning his servos and headed back down the hillside. His carriage waited for him at what once used to be entrance into the village, yet the councilor did not walk for it.
"Order: Stand by the carriage," he told his attendant, visor surveying the rest of the dilapidated houses, "Status: Will inspect village further before leaving." The servant nodded and did as the Decepticon commanded, while Soundwave wandered off into one of the many rubble-strewn streets.
Away from the company of any prying optics, the councilor felt his knees almost buckle beneath him and his spark drop to his roiling fuel tanks. It was with a horrid certainty that he knew his Emperor would not take this report well. For who in their right mind could read that an inevitable war was upon them, and still act as if all of that had transpired recently was a disobedient child's game, taken too far?
More than anything, Soundwave realized just then and there how much he had to lose should war descend upon Iacon.
xxXxXxx
The orns grew warmer as the week wore on and by the time the second week came, Tracks had finally tired of his disgusting, muddy tunics and craved for something more vibrant. It was a sort of an awakening, he recognized, as his spark began to lighten from its constant burdens, it too wished to shed these primus-awful colours and don something more akin to the life burning in the Autobot's chestplates. Thus, Tracks found himself in a hard place. A servant, especially a slave, were not allowed to wear colours deemed above their station... and almost everything that could be considered a real colour was above his "status". Soundwave was not here, so the winged mech could not receive his due credits nor could he get down to the marketplace to buy more clothe to make new tunics with. And without his master's say so, any action taken by Tracks otherwise would be considered thieving and would land him in prison or worse.
Unless...
Tracks pondered and dithered for the longest time, remembering that he did actually have more colourful clothing... that he had refused and spitted and shrieked about until they were taken away from him and these distasteful tunics replaced them. In hindsight, they weren't awful, those robes, and the colours... Oh, the variety and texture of that luxurious clothe.
Silently, the mech began to long for his previous clothes back, and he decided one orn, he would get them back.
Skipping breakfast, the slave immediately began his hunt to find where his things had been taken. Too proud to ask for assistance, nor wanting to admit to anyone that now he wanted those "whorish things" -his previous statements- the Autobot decided to start in all the known storage rooms on the estate, before circling back to the bathroom and his room hallway. Every room, every wardrobe and trunk, had so far led him nowhere and it was with growing frustration that Tracks finally stumbled upon his discarded possessions.
Sitting alone, in a sparse room filled only with a spare table and couch, sat the large trunk; covered in a layer of dust, having been untouched for so long. Cautiously, Tracks undid the straps and lifted the lid, sighing in relief when the rainbow of silk met his optics. Not a single moth or any other creepy crawly in sight! Fingers brushed over the first layers of clothe and a shiver of anticipation ran through the slave. This was it, he remarked to himself, no going back after this.
Despite his hungry search for personality, to wear these again meant...
Tracks didn't even bother to give it a second thought. He made sure the clothes were tucked inside properly, then he shut the lid; attempting at first to lift the trunk, before that proved too difficult and opted to drag it out of the room by one handle. His mind was set and his spark was at ease for once. There was not a thing in the world that could make the Autobot regret the decision he had made.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
...Well, maybe not regret, but still cringe like a guilty child. Gathering his composure quickly, Tracks rose to his pedes, facing the guard as he slowly approached. The Decepticon was scowling, one servo on the pommel of his sword as he strode forward, eyeing the trunk by the slave's pedes. "What's that?," he demanded.
"These are my things," Tracks replied smoothly, arms crossed loosely over his chestplates, "I'm merely relocating them to my room, where they belong in the first place, but I'm having trouble with the weight. If you'd be so kind, take this to my room immediately."
The guard stared at the brazen slave for a long moment, long enough for Tracks to feel his courage begin to slip, but in amazing response, the Decepticon actually bent and lifted the trunk in one easy swoop. "As you wish," he said to the surprised Autobot. "Master Soundwave wishes that all your needs be met when asked, but perhaps next time summoning a couple of us ahead of time would spare you any impatience or injury."
Tracks could only nod his helm, completely mute, even to the obvious annoyance in the guard's tone. He followed, belatedly, after the guard's heels as he began to carry the trunk to the slave's room, marveling at how much stature he held -over a guard, no less! In the back of his processor, Tracks recalled Arcee commenting on how much power Soundwave had given the other Autobot, and here in this moment, it revealed itself to be true.
Status, work, respect, dignity...
'You've given more than I even deserved,' Tracks thought to himself, his mind flashing to the councilor. 'Will I ever be able to repay you...?'
No answers now, but it would give the winged mech something to think about, when he began to worry about the telepath's status on slow, dull orns.
C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?
