C.M.D: Despite my best attempts, it seems I'm only going to have one chapter prepared for update period this month. Ah, well... Next time, I'll have more for sure. For now, please enjoy the drama as it continues along its apex and Happy Valentine's Day, dear readers!
The change was quick.
Dawn had barely peeked before two guards knocked loudly on the door, striding inside not a moment after, grabbing the slave and marching him from his room. He was not allowed anything but the clothes he still wore -dusty from his escape attempt yesterday and wrinkled from a night of restless sleep- and it did not seem as if he would have any replacements any time soon. Mute, Tracks allowed himself to be led from the halls of Soundwave's personal areas, through twists and turns unknown to him within the estate, to a small door tucked out of sight between two pillars. The room behind it was equally tiny, if not more. Easily several times smaller than the place he had just come from, this new space was only as long as eight short pedesteps and two miserable shuffles left to right. It had no furniture, no decoration, and only a slit -thinner than his forearm- to let in dim light to fall upon the pitiful mat eating up most of the floor space.
It wasn't even a proper cot...
But the Autobot said nothing of this miserable prison. He didn't even deserve a room, in all honesty. So Tracks sat himself on his little berth, compiled of one, single dried layer of hay, and said nothing when the guards closed the door; their armour rattling as they took up position outside. His optics aching, the winged slave decided there was nothing more for him to cry over this time.
xxXxXxx
It had not been hard to make his decision. Though anger motivated all of his choices, it did not erode away his sanity completely. There was nothing that could be done with Tracks, Soundwave knew, that did not ultimately lead to death. Yet, he could not abide by the slave's behaviour no longer, nor could he stand to be so close to the other mech. So he summoned a few guards from his personal unit, set them with strict instructions and sent them off before the sun had fully risen. In a couple short cycles, the room Tracks had occupied was stripped of its effects, scrubbed and returned to the static state of a place waiting for a new inhabitant. On his orders, materials were either thrown out, divvied up among the attending servants as rewards or to be sold -all except for two items: a smooth prayer token and the library room key.
These Soundwave kept for himself, put in a little laquered box on the desk in his private quarters. One was his own property -justifiably reclaimed- the other he had yet to decide what to do with. The moment he closed them within that box though, the telepath was determined to forget about them. And with that determination, he did. The next couple of orns were spent travelling around the city, performing his annual duties, filling out his reports to the Emperor. The work felt good, helped Soundwave push through the still-hot embers of rage and betrayal, making him confident that he could finally approach his Emperor without causing any incident.
Away went the messenger.
The next orn, his request for an audience granted.
xxXxXxx
"Ah, Soundwave," Megatron beamed, the silver mech turning to face the councilor as he approached.
The shorter Decepticon was slow in his stride, not enough to be disrespectful, yet enough to allow him to gaze upon the gilded room he now was in. Much of the inner sanctum to the Emperor's palace remained a mystery, even to those closest to the Warlord, and as such, Soundwave had never seen such splendor! Surrounded by a mix of pillar and wall, the circumference of the room was tiled in deep gold, four waterfalls of jade and silver sat in equal space across from each other, pooling streams of crystalline water to a spouted fountain in the center of area. The structure of the fountain was formed by a divine blend of the same gold and silver set around the room; the bowl comprised of translucent jade, whilst precious diamonds and emeralds brought forth the detail of the flora laid into the rising branches of metal weaving above the fountain's pool. Bouquets of colourful splendors -ranging from white to purple and even splashes of navy blue and pink- spilled over the rims of wide vases, hand-painted with some of the finest creations that the councilor had ever seen. They matched perfectly against the drapery of rich silk cascading down from the ceiling and around pillars, in tone with the few murals crafted on the larger walls.
Covered in spots of sparkling light pouring down through the dappled ceiling, which had been created specifically to look like golden, woven tree branches, the entire place had an ethereal feel to it. Almost... magical and peaceful.
"I see you are in awe of my 'gazebo'," the Emperor chuckled deeply, drawing his servant's attention once more.
Soundwave came to a pause, falling on one knee as he quickly bowed his helm. "Apology: Was marveling-"
"Yes, yes," Megatron interrupted, pausing to sip from his goblet, "I'm well aware, Soundwave. I had demanded such a result of this place when I summoned the slaves and tradesmiths stellar cycles ago. Seeing as I have no time for pointless fauna and am no fool to allow such a large, open entry point to the recesses of my home, I did think it too challenging for the lessers to grant me a chamber of divine tranquility. They surprised me with this, thus they were rewarded with keeping their lives. So!"
The Warlord set his drink down on the small serving table, paying Shockwave no mind as he appeared from the shadows to refill it. "Has all been well in my city?," the silver mech asked, one servo held out to Soundwave.
The councilor rose, tipped his helm forward respectfully again, moving forward to set the scroll in his Emperor's grasp. As anytime before, it immediately disappeared into Shockwave's claws. "Status: Citizens obey as his Lordship desires. Business: continuing forward, though lack of slaves has slowed monetary gain," the telepath informed, stepping back his usual three paces. "Fact: no Autobot slaves have come in or out without your Emperor's knowledge, and those currently employed continue to abide submissively."
Megatron hummed as he listened, the smile on his face growing as Soundwave finished his summary. "That is excellent. Just what I wish to hear! You've worked hard for me, Soundwave, and your report has only confirmed what others have shared with me as well. Thus, I must request something of you," the larger Decepticon said, reaching again for his goblet.
"Query: Yes, my lord?," Soundwave asked, hesitant but attempting to hide it. There was a certain vulnerability about not being able to glean one's processor and rely solely on the physical, but the councilor believed his Lord's calculating smile meant no good no matter what was spoken next.
"As the winter has ended," Megatron began, staring into the rich colour of his drink as he twirled it gently, "All reports have shown that the daring, few Autobots are no more. Starved and scattered to the four winds, as I knew they would be, the thorn in my side exists no longer. It is a pleasant thing to know. Alas, I understand my people have been quite despondent since they lost such a viable resource and Shockwave has been diligent in finding a solution to this problem as well."
The blue mech glanced at the cyclops warily before turning his gaze back to the Warlord. The beauty of the room could grant him peace no more. "Question: What is solution, my Emperor?"
"Why, the Autobots, of course," the other Decepticon replied, as if it was the simplest answer in the world. With a chuckle, he drank from his glass, smacking his lip components momentarily as he took his time to continue. "The Autobots that still remain under my legacy have been purged of all bad seeds and strays. They are the tried and true wealth of the Empire. So rather than let that stock waste away and be forced to substitute it with my own people or other, more undesirable specimens from uncharted lands, I think it prudent to begin breeding new slaves immediately!"
Shock froze Soundwave for a few, short astroseconds as Megatron paced a little around his indoor "garden". Had... Had his Emperor really proposed what he think he just had? And how did that tie into the favour that the silver mech wanted from him?
"Shockwave will be in charge of building the facilities by the next lunar cycle," the Warlord announced, "And also hand selecting the physicians that will attend him. Together, they shall survey every household and select only the fittest slaves worthy of breeding. With time and effort, we shall have a whole new generation of slaves to meet the demands of my people -genetically crafted for utmost subservience and loyalty to their rightful betters."
"Status:...and me?," the telepath inquired meekly.
Megatron paused, seeming utterly surprised by his servant's response but laughing anyhow. "I should of thought it obvious, Soundwave," the silver Decepticon chuckled. "We shall need slaves of every fit and make; a match for every manner of labour -both in the field and in the berthroom. As it stands now, you have one of the most beautiful and exotic specimens that exists. Tracks would make a suitable breeder for a new line of pleasure slaves... Of course, I require a personal showcase of his abilities before I make my final decision. Surely that won't be a problem for you... Will it, Soundwave?"
Red optics were fixated on him, cutting deep into his spark like two poisoned daggers. In that moment, Soundwave thanked terror for locking his limbs in place, otherwise he would have collapsed to the floor then and there. His processor was still reeling from the sudden news of Megatron's intentions for the current Autobot slaves, that this additional stress -involving Tracks no less!- only delayed reason from returning. He should have known that this one orn might happen... had even expected his Emperor might... yet he'd hoped-!
Common sense nibbled at the back of his processor, where the horror hadn't full reached. It reminded him that a couple astroseconds had already passed; reality would wait no longer and Megatron could not either.
"Fact: All is at my Lord's request," the councilor replied, his vocalizer strong and unwavering. "Plea: If I may, Emperor, keep Tracks at my estate long enough for one final appointment from the physician. Status: Has been not his usual self these last few orns and am concerned he may be suffering still from the winter."
A frown graced Megatron's face as he crossed his arms behind his back thoughtfully, staring off at something in the distance. "Ah, yes... He was quite ill this winter, wasn't he?," the larger mech grumbled. "Very well, Soundwave. Tend to your concubine and ensure that all is fine. Should he be fit, I expect that you will bring him to the palace at once."
"Status: agreed," Soundwave replied, bowing at the waist. He waited until his Emperor had properly dismissed him before heading back out to his carriage. He walked evenly at first, then the telepath moved on swift pedes once he could no longer feel the immediate presence of Megatron's mind, feeling a distinct need to flee from the palace.
A breeding factory for Autobot slaves?
And Tracks to join it after Megatron had his fill of the winged mech?!
This seemed like genuine madness. Worse, it was... it was demeaning. A fate too cruel for anyone, but especially for the damaged Autobot Tracks. Though... Hadn't he decided that any punishment other than death was befitting of the slave cycles ago? Hadn't he already stripped him of his rights and possessions, objectively returning him to a state of "broken accessory". Tanks churning wildly, Soundwave climbed up into his coach, urging his servants home as he fought to keep down the nausea. The depth of his actions weighed heavily in his conscience, pinned up alongside the intentions of his Emperor, and the blue mech felt even sicker.
There was nothing he could do now that his Lord had spoken.
He was trapped.
xxXxXxx
"My lord, the physician has arrived."
Soundwave set down his utensils, having been simply sitting there for a while, unable to bring himself to eat. Venting softly, he turned to the servant standing at the foot of the gazebo, speaking. "Arrival: acknowledged. Order: Direct the physician to the guest chamber and provide his every need. Status: Shall see him shortly."
The femme bowed as she took in her master's command, before turning and moving through the gardens to the nearest doorway quickly. Taking a moment to gather his strength, Soundwave rose, leaving his untouched meal and heading back indoors via another route. He stopped in to see the seamstress first, confirming that her and her assistants had received the sudden delivery of silks, then directing the servants to the bath hall to await further instructions, continuing on his way shortly after. The riches of his estate waned as he delved deeper through the long halls, vastly approaching an area simple and clean: the servants' areas. Around the next corner, between two pillars rested a single door nearly invisible to the passing optic, with only one guard before it.
Though the mech said nor did anything out of turn as the councilor approached, there was an aura of guilt around the guard, causing him to give the other Decepticon a suspicious glance; striding forward and shouldering through the tiny doorway impatiently. There was a strangled gasp and the subtle thuds of the pteruges' strips as they swished in sudden motion, before the sight of his second guard standing over a kneeling Tracks met Soundwave's vision.
Rage erupted immediately, rocketing upwards in less than an astrosecond, bubbling wildly as it waited to spew forwards. With a jerking motion, Soundwave silently demanded the guard leave, and the mech did so in a muted panic, nearly forgetting his sword as he fled. There would be time for punishment later, but right now the blue mech had other issues beside insubordination to handle first. The telepath barely waited for his servant to be gone before he slammed the door shut, rounding on the distracted slave with all the force of an erupting volcano.
"DEMAND: WHAT IMPUDENCE IS THIS?!," he bellowed, reaching down and yanking the Autobot to his pedes by the neck of his tunic.
A wooden cup fell from the quiet mech's fingers, clattering to the floor and spilling a line of rich-coloured wine. Its presence was so astonishing, that for a moment, Soundwave was speechless. It did not last long.
"Query: You have been DRINKING?! Demand: Who gave you this?," the councilor shouted, shaking the still-complacent Tracks, "Status: Despite all your prior protests, you would sell yourself out now for simple addictions?!"
The slave's helm snapped back and forth a few times at the Decepticon's force, before Soundwave finally paused in his assault. Optics clouded with intoxication, Tracks looked up at his master; a drunken smile spreading across a joyless face. "I was merely making trades," that lovely mouth answered, sweet even when distorted by a slight slur, "Seeing as there was no indication that I would be fed or hydrated. I didn't think Master would care."
Shock, once again, but this time accompanied with crippling remorse. Soundwave realized he had forgotten to include any instructions for Tracks' care beyond his imprisonment, but starving the Autobot had never been his intentions! He'd assumed his staff would ensure Tracks would be properly fed every meal, whether or not he ate of his own freewill, and obviously they had taken his lack of reminder to mean something else. His tanks squirmed uncomfortably as this revelation washed over the telepath, and he quickly dropped the slave back to the floor, turning away from him as he tried to process this unexpected information.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Tracks laid out on the floor, grasping his empty cup with one servo while his index finger on the other swirled about the glass, searching fruitlessly for any remaining beads of wine. "Inquiry: How can you bear to disgrace yourself this way?," Soundwave asked, the words coming out more acidic than he the casual tone he aimed for.
For a lengthy time, Tracks was silent and a brash probe at his processor only brought forth a grey image to the telepath's own mind, alongside a spark-deep sensation of miserable acceptance. Nausea was on the rise again and Soundwave hurried to stamp it down with irrational anger. "Status: Perhaps I should leave," he spat, "Allow you to return to your new 'duties'. Tracks: Clearly happy with this arrange of events!"
"So noisy...," the Autobot sighed, twisting his cup about drunkenly in one final search for a drink. Still, there was nothing to be found, and concluding such, he finally let the cup fall free from his grasp. "Getting jealous when I must work to eat. You put me here after all."
"Fact: Then it is a good thing than that the Emperor has summoned for you," Soundwave retaliated, remembering the reason he had even deigned to come see Tracks in the first place.
Hazy, blue optics shuttered at the announcement, rolling up towards the Decepticon. The telepath could sense as the winged mech's inebriated processor slowly absorbed the news, a spark of understanding reflecting in his otherwise dull gaze. "The Emperor...," Tracks mumbled. "Okay."
The councilor watched, ire brewing away under his quiet facade, as the slave slowly pushed himself up off the floor and onto his pedes. With all the grace of a poor marionette puppet, Tracks smoothed down his short robe, allowing Soundwave to grab him roughly by his forearm and drag him from the room. He made no comment about the fact that Megatron had supposedly asked for the Autobot himself, exuding an aura so blank, that it wasn't for the blue mech currently holding onto him, Soundwave would be hard pressed to believe that Tracks was actually there alongside him.
It is the fault of the wine, the Decepticon thought, escorting the winged mech to the bath hall. Terror would return once the intoxication wore off, and it was a sensation he well deserved he argued, handing Tracks over to the waiting servos of his staff. After all, who was not afraid of the Emperor, in some form or fashion? Megatron had not made a reputation to be so easily dismissed by any living creature and fear was only a natural response when one learned that the Warlord had specific interest in them. Yet as Soundwave oversaw the Autobot's physical, then his bath and finally the seamstress' preparations for his journey to the Emperor's court, there was no change in the slave's attitude. Tracks responded as if he were a doll; moving when forced, lifeless until addressed. His expression lay void of any emotions and he was without opinion -vocally or internally- even as the servants fitted him with gorgeous silk and jewels. Usually this sort of treatment would have the multi-coloured mech seething but there was... nothing.
'Why are you not afraid?,' Soundwave questioned to himself, trying to pry deeper into the haze that was Tracks' mind. Unlike earlier orns, there was no wall, no fence, to keep him away from the slave's true feelings because this time there was nothing to grasp. Just an endless grey abyss, swirling through his unseen servos like smoke, intangible and hollow. And an acceptance... A cold, profound understanding of what being summoned by the Decepticon Emperor meant, yet only the presence of resignation to counter such knowledge.
He swayed for a moment, his optics flared in alarm, but the blue mech managed to catch himself on the wall before any one could notice and was thankful that he did. His legs felt like they would crumble under him any astrosecond and his spark struggled to embrace any ember of emotion that it had carried before. Across the room, Tracks stood as instructed, transforming into a symbol of beauty and desire under the diligent attentions of the other staff. The passion -his fiery will to freedom- was vanquished. That's why he did not curse or fight, even silently, Soundwave bemoaned, feeling as if blinders were suddenly being ripped off of his optics. There had been no grief when the councilor had walked in on Tracks about to prostitute himself to the guard for a meager meal; no fear when Megatron's name had been brought up; no outrage when his valve had been poked and spread by an invasive physician and his spark casing scanned for any faults... Concern had no place within the slave any more, nor did despair. Tracks was so far beyond those points -he'd crossed an unseen threshold where life itself mattered no longer. Now he was just acting out the impulses of others, accepting this cruel fate, stuck in a state of "unliving", the prospect of death a nil concept.
It had finally happened...
Tracks had broken.
And it was completely his fault.
'I didn't wish for this, I-,' Soundwave pleaded wordlessly, unable to watch as the servants dressed the slave for his 'execution' but with nowhere else to turn his gaze. Oh, what even was the point of guilt?! It would not restore Tracks to what he was before -a handful or not- and it certainly couldn't deter the Warlord from forcing the subservient Autobot into his berth. The telepath was as much to blame as the slave was for ever allowing such a twisted state of affairs to unfold between them both and nothing he did would save Tracks from the degrading life he'd been selected for in less than a month's time. Better that the councilor kill the poor mech now and try to garner his Lord's favour after! This was the last orn Tracks would ever truly live...
His helm dropping in shame, it was only through routine that the blue mech did not fall to his knees to weep the tears he felt building behind his visor, from a deep well of sensations he knew were not all his own. He should never have bought Tracks... As Soundwave reflected on bittersweet orns, a sudden thought came to him through the wild trails of his current, wretched ruminations, striking him with violent force.
Perhaps...?!
Tumultuous optics flashed around the room lightning quick, ensuring that nothing had changed in the few kliks he'd been lost in his processor, as the councilor hurried from the room unnoticed.
xxXxXxx
He was waiting.
Bathed and waxed and dressed up and laden with enough gems to mimic a treasure chest, he sat, waiting in a lavish seating room, one of many just off of Soundwave's private chambers. Torches in overtly decorated brackets of brass had been lit, hovering like untamed sparks in the growing shadows. Past the stiff arms of thick, embroidered curtains, the bloody skies could be seen threading into a navy black, and yet no one had come to collect him still. How odd, the mech would have thought, if he had any to begin with.
Indeed, the matter of time was one concept that barely was remembered now. From the moment Soundwave had shown up unexpectedly, the slave's processor had been purging everything... Throwing out every emotion and opinion in an attempt to escape the humiliation, and then deciding to abandon his spark completely at the mention of his selling. What need would a slave need of a spark anyhow? As Tracks, he'd been an individual: alive, free thinking and aching from a torturous past. He'd had his chances at redemption and happiness, yet he'd thrown them all back in the face of his benefactor, not able to see them for what they were due to anger and fear. He could never go back to that now... He was only just an Autobot from here on -a possession, lower than cattle under Decepticon rule- and the ruler of them all wanted to bask in this toy's presence.
It meant certain death... But, alas, was the life of a slave -scorned by the only good person in his life- not its own demise?
Thus, the mech hadn't cared when the leering physician had played with his valve, testing its suppleness and ensuring there were no open tears that could warrant an infection. It was why he remained lax as the servants scrubbed him down from helm to pede, using roughened sponges, smoothing out the scuffs and dings in his plating with a never-ending string of dissatisfied tuts. They had been especially disapproving of the state of the Autobot's worn out fingers; the result of his mindless scrubbing of walls and floors in his prison to pass the time. Like a magic trick, all present parties had took the second-hand slave and transformed him into something new. Something worthy of standing before an Emperor... even if in a matter of cycles, he'd be on his knees well beneath the Warlord.
This was his future.
And that was all.
Optics glancing aimlessly about the room, they stopped as they finally took notice of the star-lit sky showing through a window; the change of scenery processing into some form of information a century later.
How unusual, was the thought.
Or it would have been, if such words like 'unusual' could be known to a slave. Which of course, they couldn't. So the mech simply continued to sit there, posed prettily on the edge of the chaise as he had been by the seamstress cycles ago, waiting to be collected and sent swiftly off to the Emperor as dolls were expected to do.
Waiting and waiting.
Morning was quicker to arrive before any one ever did.
xxXxXxx
The early cycles just before dawn were cold and misty; a queerly befitting atmosphere for the events that were to follow. Soundwave attempted to pay them little mind, his sensor net already sparking with uncertainty as he focused on his task, his carriage hurrying through the morning fog toward the palace. Guards with torches stood stationed in even paces up the staircase; saluting the councilor as he stepped down from the coach, but otherwise remaining immobile. The sight of so many of them was daunting and the telepath quickly flitted through their processors as he marched up to the palace doors. Nothing unusual could be gleaned and so, Soundwave told himself to tuck away any further fears. If he were to be executed, he would not be able to defend against so many soldiers anyhow.
Weary servants opened the door for the councilor when he knocked, one guiding the Decepticon through the darkened hallways with a lantern. It seemed none had yet woken in the palace or they were simply adept at staying out of sight, even when the likelihood of guests was so rare this time of orn. Soundwave decided to tuck the information away for another orn to analyze; he could not allow himself to get distracted over trivial matters right now. The servant led the blue mech towards the east and through narrower halls that Soundwave was sure that he had never traveled before. As he began to grow irritable, aware that they would have reached the main court by now usually, his guide increased his pace suddenly, quickening towards what appeared to be a deadend. There was, in fact, a door hidden in the deepest shadows at the end of the hall, and it was this that the servant opened, directing the councilor to step through. Soundwave did so, hesitating when he found himself outdoors once more, the pale fog almost up to his waist.
"My Lord," came Shockwave's vocalizer through the mist, "It seems we have a visitor."
A lantern, much larger than the one the servant in the hall had carried, flared to life, revealing the hazy courtyard that Soundwave stood in. The bones of stable stalls could be barely seen through the grey; not too far, the shape of one colossal cyberhorse pawing at the ground impatiently, while two thinner frames stood at its flanks.
"Soundwave," Megatron spoke in mild surprise, only his optics really visible in the dimness. If not for the thick, purple cloak that draped down his backside, one would be hard pressed to believe the Warlord wasn't merely some spectre in the night. "Your presence is... unusual. What brings you to my court just before sunrise?"
Soundwave bowed, despite the fact that such deference might be lost in the fog, quick to reply, "Update: the Autobot Tracks has been seen by the physician. Status: His report should be forthcoming soon, but felt it prudent you be made aware of things."
"Oh?," was the curious hum.
Soundwave rose to his full height again, yet kept his helm tipped forward slightly. "Answer: Yes. Tracks: Is carrying," he informed. "Assessment: Little over a month now."
Though it couldn't be seen, Megatron's annoyance was more than easily heard. "I see...," he responded, turning as he finished pulling on his riding gloves. "I suppose it should be expected. This comes at a good time for you, Soundwave. Unfortunately, there are matters at the borders that require my physical attention, so I will not have the time currently to waste on lesser enterprises. Preparations for the Empire's future can continue once I return."
"Acknowledgement: Y-yes, my Lord," the blue mech quickly said, his glossa almost failing. It was shocking to hear that the Emperor was leaving the capitol city for business; even more alarming that he was so dismissing of Tracks' "sparking". It seemed the silver Decepticon cared not whether the slave was bred now or later, he still had plans for the Autobot in his factory.
"If that is all councilor, I believe you'd best be on your way," Megatron announced, swinging up onto the mighty steed. It huffed unhappily at the Warlord's weight, but Shockwave's surly claws on the reins kept it in place. "You could use a heir in your household and as you now have the opportunity, I suggest you take great certainty that the slave does not lose the new spark."
"Status: Agree, your majesty."
"And, Soundwave?," the Emperor called as the telepath turned on his heel. Pausing, he looked back to his ruler, finding himself pinned by that malevolent gaze. "My absence is not one the people need to be aware of, understood? Shockwave will remain in the court to oversee and resolve any... complications. Should something arise while I am away, he is the one that you are to defer to."
"Command: Understood, my Lord," Soundwave said. His spark was swelling in his chestplates, threatening to explode if its pulsing grew any more erratic. The councilor was certain that its secrets were flaring out from within his plating, painting his crime in a detailed image for his Emperor and assassin to see. Then the cyclops turned away, taking final instructions from the silver Decepticon, before he too inevitably disappeared into the fog.
Knees shaking hard, the telepath decided now was the best time to slip away. He pushed through his aching joints, back into the palace, through the darkened halls and out the front doors down to his waiting carriage. The mech collapsed almost the instant his frame touched the plush seating of his coach; little shivers racking his entire frame. The adrenaline had faded, leaving a hollow space in his tanks that only further irritated his nausea. Yet, there was some sensation of relief in the Decepticon. He had done the unthinkable and it seemed fortune smiled on him by drawing Megatron's attention elsewhere for a couple weeks.
Good, Soundwave thought, as the carriage rolled homewards. There might be time for him to correct things after all.
C.M.D: DUN-DUN-DAH!
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