C.M.D: Finally- Soundwave's 'perfect plan' from last chapter. Hope everyone's ready for the drama!

There was no time for rest.

Soundwave hurried through the halls of his estate, guided by his extensive memory, the lanterns unlit and the moon's light kept obscured by the fog. It hadn't been more than a few kliks since his return from the palace and dawn was fast approaching. The councilor knew he would have to make haste if he wished to keep Tracks' safe in the long run. His determination strong, the Decepticon turned suddenly to the left; opening a door and stepping into light. Though dim, and waning, the torchlight was dazzling after the darkness of a misted night, causing Soundwave to pause so he might adjust to the brightness. Once he could see again, the only sight to greet him was of a stoic Tracks, sitting on the chaise the same as the telepath had last seen him. It appeared as if he had not moved or slept even a moment since Soundwave's departure; flies roving contently around the platter of fruit that had been left for the slave.

A careful press along the other's processor confirmed that nothing had changed in his absence. With a silent sigh, the councilor approached the Autobot, grabbing a few ripe apples from the table and dropping them in a satchel he grasped in one servo. "Tracks: Come," he instructed, reaching out his free servo for the slave. The offer was accepted, yet it felt as if cold porcelain rested in his palm as he helped the winged mech to stand.

Soundwave stared down at their conjoined servos, maintaining the contact for much too long; his spark withering with grief. But, he reminded himself fiercely, there was no time for regrets or apologies. Dropping the servo and instead grabbing Tracks by the waist, the telepath hurried them back out of the sitting room and into the dark halls, leading them out of the estate through a side door meant for servants and slaves. Waiting for them was a mule, tethered to a nearby shrub bush and strapped with a couple travel pouches. The blue mech did not offer any sort of explanation as he gestured for the slave to straddle the creature, nor did the Autobot protest or question the manner in which things were progressing. Given the circumstances though, silence was vital. Taking a few kliks to remove the excess jewellery and fabric from Tracks' frame, Soundwave put these too in one of the mule's cargo satchels; strapping everything down securely, before grabbing the animal's tether and leading them away from the estate.

For a while, they kept to the main road circling towards the city, but then the Decepticon veered away from the barely-visible path and began a laborious trudge up the hillside. The mule kept with the pace, proving more sure-footed at times than the pampered councilor. Still, Soundwave pressed on, anxious to traverse out of the valley before sunrise. As dawn began to break some kliks later and the fog dissipate, it was then that Soundwave stepped down into untamed woodland -limbs scratched and clothing fraying at the edges- but finally free of the Empire's boundary. The knowledge instilled new strength in the blue mech and he continued onward at a steady pace. Through the bramble-like branches and over root and rocks that threatened to trip them up ever few pedesteps, the pair journeyed, astroseconds becoming kliks and the kliks becoming cycles. It was tiresome and Soundwave felt as his pedes dinged and scuffed painfully, yet still he pressed on. He stopped only once, giving them all a chance to drink something, before trekking forward again.

The orn wore away soon enough and night was beginning to peek out from across the horizon. The tangled woods had broken down into scrubby plains cycles ago; the long sweeping grass fading to be replaced with hard, cracking slabs of earth as far as the optic could see. It was not a surprising sight. The Empire had yet to claim any of these lands due to their less profitable value, the dry deserts a nuisance to cultivate, but it was known that some villages lay deep within the hellish region. Much, much farther away from the Empire. Soundwave could only hope they were not completely unreachable.

"...This is not the palace," Tracks deigned to speak, kliks after the councilor had settled on a spot to rest for the night.

He hammered at the ground with the fat end of a broken branch he'd gathered from the wood as they passed through, wriggling it as deeply as it would go between two slabs of rock, tethering the mule's line to it. Climbing to his pedes, the telepath dusted his servos off of his cloak carelessly, turning back to the waiting animal and its rider. "Observation: Accurate," he answered, untying a pack.

It was silent for a while longer as he removed a coarse blanket from the bag, spreading it over the hard ground after a quick shake; lighting a half-shuttered lantern as the whole open plain turned purple in the absence of the sun.

"The Emperor requested me..."

"Status: And you are not going to the palace!," Soundwave snapped at the dull remark. He had to bite his glossa sharply to keep back a slue of nasty comments that rose to the forefront of his processor, especially since Tracks was not the one his animosity was aimed at. When the councilor felt the emotions subside, he added, "Status: Shall be heading west instead. The mule will carry you to a village outside of the empire's range. Tracks: Will not be joining the Emperor's court."

"Order: Come," the blue mech urged, holding out a servo for the slave. "Fact: Need nourishment."

That was the end of their conversation that evening. It took prodding the Autobot a few more times before Tracks finally ate, Soundwave monitoring him intently until he was certain that the winged mech had his fill. Not long after, the thinner mech laid down as directed and fell deep into recharge. Once he was sure the other would not rouse for some time, the councilor packed up the rest of the items, preparing the mule for the ride in the morning. Then he picked up the lantern and started the long trek back to his estate, leaving the sleeping slave and pack animal behind.

xxXxXxx

The blazing heat of a new orn woke the Autobot from a dreamless recharge. Optics shuttering against the blinding light, the mech pushed himself up slowly, confused for a short time. How did he come to be out here in this unforgiving terrain? Helm twisting about the desert, Tracks remembered faintly that it was his master that brought him here and yet the councilor was nowhere to be seen now. The mule, still tied to its makeshift post, snuffled at the bowl of water that had been lain down for it the night prior. The sound caught the slave's attention and he stared at its swollen cargo satchels, already tied on the beast's flanks, for a long time, having yet to move.

'Shall be heading west instead...'

That's what his master had said, the winged mech noted faintly. West... away from the empire... away from...

A piercing pain penetrated his chestplates suddenly, a sensation akin to his very spark being crushed overwhelming the slave, forcing him to curl forward as the pressure became too great. It hurt, and even the knowledge of such a feeling only caused greater agony to him. For several, long kliks he endured this new torment, plating trembling hard, a sheen of condensation coating him from helm to pede, before blue optics onlined through the pain; burning orbs taking in the dry terrain with newfound sight. Clambering to his pedes with ragged intakes, the Autobot grabbed the mule's rein with a sure servo, untying the animal quickly. He took one long, last look at the unending desert to the west before ultimately tugging the mule in the opposite direction.

Back to the empire.

xxXxXxx

Sluggishly, Soundwave moved down the halls of his private area, heading to his quarters at long last. The trip seemed to take an eternity, his pedes dragging heavily across the floor, and the blue mech was certain that he might collapse before even reaching his berth chambers. Still, he pushed on, forcing himself to take every pedestep, hopeful to not arouse the concern or suspicion of his staff. He should not have remained awake another twelve cycles... Alas, what could he have really done? The matron had already caught him coming out of the bath hall after returning home and if he were to dismiss himself from his duties that orn, there would be gossip before dinner. Soundwave could not afford to have anything, not even the tinniest smidge of rumor, find its way back to the Emperor's court. Thus, the councilor had pushed himself to get through the orn, fighting off the threat of unconsciousness valiantly.

And at long last, the orn had drawn to a close.

Reaching the door to his private chambers, the Decepticon was hard pressed to feel any real relief at the fact. He had gone past the point of complete exhaustion cycles ago and was merely operating like a spectre at the moment. It was foolish of him to think he could go without rest for two orns, not to mention the strength he had put forth, twisting his abilities... Yes, Soundwave thought, walking into the darkness of his room, that especially had been a risky gamble. Gleaning processors was one thing -and one thing that the telepath knew he could do very well- but to manipulate the minds of others to the point of insinuating a false truth? It had worked though. Almost too easily, the councilor had accosted the physician before he had left his villa, plucking at the delicate strings of his processor until the good mech was congratulating the blue mech on his expected sparkling. And since it had worked with one, it was sure to work with more, leading Soundwave to blanket the minds of all under his household so that they believed what he wanted them to.

All except one.

Tracks...

The Autobot, the subject in all this, was the only one that the telepath had not converted into this lie. He had remained untouched, and though Soundwave felt filthy after the way he had plundered the processors of all those that trusted him, he would gladly do it all again to protect Tracks. Falling into his berth, beyond the point of caring about undressing or washing up, the councilor smiled faintly. He would surely be tortured horrendously before being executed for this most heinous crime, yet he did not care. Every single action had been part of his plan to get Tracks away from the empire and the disgusting life that awaited him; now, the winged mech was far from Megatron's reach and a slave no longer. Soundwave could be content that, in the end, he had done right by the poor Autobot. Venting deeply, the telepath was just toppling over the brink into recharge, when there came the soft click of the berthroom door opening.

His mind stretched to scan the intruder, yet didn't have to wander far before a familiar blankness enveloped the dark room. Lunging up from his berth, the councilor grabbed for the lantern at his berthside, almost sending it flying in his haste to get the wick lit.

"Alarm: YOU!?," Soundwave seethed, the sudden flash of light confirming Tracks' presence. "Query: What are you doing here?"

Makeup smudged and clothes tattered from travel dust, the Autobot appeared absolutely miserable before his master; his expression noted that he either wasn't aware of his state or didn't care. Dull optics shuttering slow, Tracks silently closed the door after himself, stepping toward the Decepticon. For every step that the slave took, Soundwave was certain to mimic it, always keeping them at a distance.

"...you left," the winged mech spoke, finally coming to a pause. The telepath was so grateful for the end to this awkward dance, that he nearly missed the airy, dead-like tone in the other's vocalizer.

"Fact: Tracks was not to follow," Soundwave scowled. In an embarrassing spark of realization, the councilor threw a servo to his face, groping about desperately to cover himself. His sleep-addled processor was sluggish to catch on that his mask and visor were in fact still in place; he had not had the chance to remove them as per his night time routine before his unexpected guest arrived. Shrugging it off, the Decepticon turned his burning face back towards Tracks... and the ever present blank and empty view of a broken-in slave.

He'd gladly take some queer looks over his strange behavior than this alternative any orn...

The Autobot continued to speak. "You said we were going west... You vanished in the night."

"Status: That..." The blue mech could only grunt in aggravation. Of course, Tracks had misunderstood his orders. He hadn't meant to include the pluralization of 'we', but that's what the slave had heard all the same. Thus, Tracks had travelled all the way back to the villa, effectively undoing everything that Soundwave had hoped to do. Even if the telepath could press on the Autobot's processor, manipulate him to do as he wished, it was too late. Surely Shockwave would have increased the guards along the city's borders, changed up their patrol patterns for mass effectiveness and altered the times that they were out. With all these unknown variables, attempting an escape from Iacon would be stupid as it was deadly. Not to mention, Soundwave couldn't possibly fabricate another lie for the entirety of his estate to believe in, without the current one unravelling at the slightest mistake.

No, the councilor had really been driven into a corner this time and he had no solutions to grasp at.

"You said we were going west, but you came back here...," Tracks mumbled. Even without inflection, his words sounded almost accusatory. "You said Megatron summoned me, but wouldn't let me go to the palace..."

A processor-ache was coming on, sharp and quick, causing the Decepticon to cringe in growing pain. Adding the slave's vocalizer to it only grated on already open and raw neural sensors.

"I do not understa-"

"Status: Of course you don't!," Soundwave bellowed, ripping away the servo that had risen to brace his throbbing helm. The telepath stormed forward until he fully towered over the Autobot; his index finger jabbing against filthy plating with every accentuated word, threatening to knock the smaller mech to the floor. "Fact: Have never seen reason. Tracks: Always willing to accept some miserable self-deceit than believe anyone of Decepticon kin may have good intentions! Nothing was ever good enough for you!"

"But-," the other tried to intervene softly.

"Excuses: Unacceptable!," the councilor snarled. "Addition: Have even handed you freedom on a silver platter and still you return to slander me?! Imbecile! Megatron: Wishes to use you for himself then toss you to the mercy of multiple others; breed you as if you were just cattle. Status: Bought time for Tracks to escape under the guise of a falsehood and instead you work to undermine me!"

Tracks was silent for a lengthy time, in the kind of way only dolls were good at, before he stared Soundwave head-on, his gaze unfaltering. "Why?," he asked, in one, soft vent.

The Decepticon practically scoffed in the slave's face. "Reasons: irrelevant. Situation: too l-late-" The second wind he had garnered in the heat of his outburst had finally waned, leaving the councilor even weaker than before. He only had astroseconds to note how very sore his knee joints felt at this exact moment, before they crumbled beneath him, dragging the blue mech to the floor.

It was only thanks to the quick, albeit disconnected, actions of the Autobot that Soundwave did not hit the floor. Frame shaking with the sudden exertion, Tracks awkwardly pushed and pulled the councilor's bulky form to the berth; many times the sheer mass of the other threatening to trip the slave up and crush him. In the end, the winged mech successfully fumbled Soundwave onto the berth, the plush mattress swelling out at the ends with the sudden drop of weight on its rumpled surface, before everything settled and the councilor sank comfortably into the silken folds. Who knew how long Tracks stood there after the fact, simply watching as Soundwave slept a dreamless recharge, a flicker of undefinable emotion crossing the Autobot's face.

Drawing closer, more silent than a whisper, the slave loomed over his helpless master; servos reaching out for that golden mask. All these orns, the winged mech had known nothing but this fanciful facade and curiosity gnawed at the worn traveller to see what sort of face lay beneath that would even give a possession its own identity. Slender fingers grasped about the edges of the golden surface. One, simple dig between the seams and the metal, warmed by the intakes of its host, would pry away easily. It was so simple...

"...you lied," Tracks mumbled in the darkness, white digits falling away from the battle mask, "To your Emperor. For my sake."

Even without the Warlord's reputation, the winged mech knew that was treason. And yet Soundwave had done so. Such an idiotic thing to do. Like shadows crossing the moonlit garden, sensation brushed along the slave's spark, bringing awareness to tired limbs and an aching sensory grid that the mech had all but forgotten had existed. Fluidly, Tracks crawled on the berth, pulling up his tattered skirts as he aligned himself beside the Decepticon. There was no hesitation, no thought at all, as the Autobot curled up against Soundwave; his lower half nestled in the empty space between arm and torso, his upper half draped across the councilor's chestplates. This close, he could almost feel the heat of the spark whirling from deep within...

Straining to listen a few kliks longer, Tracks finally shuttered his optics, spark and processor relaxing as one.

xxXxXxx

Tracks awoke to the harsh, late afternoon sun, finding himself laid out in his master's berth alone and undisturbed. Lip components parted as if to speak, the mech slowly pushed himself up, his searching optics re-confirming that no other presence was in the room with him. Despite the musky atmosphere kicked up by the thrumming of a hundred insecticons, inside his chestplates, the Autobot was chilled and he draped the tattered shawl closer to his frame in a poor attempt to get warm again. This, he thought faintly, was not the wake-up he had anticipated, despite knowing how great of a possibility it was. Rubbing at tired optics, Tracks rose to his pedes fully, heading for the door. The sounds of faraway activity echoed down the hall and, as if lured, the slave headed towards them. He did not get far before the matron, in passing, noticed him.

"My goodness," she huffed, striding directly up to the Autobot. "Were you out in the garden? You are absolutely filthy!"

The winged mech turned his helm slowly, lifting an arm and staring at the fabric of his robes. Indeed, they were quite a mess; ruined, really, if one had to give a more candid assessment. He had not given them even the faintest thought once when leaving and returning to the villa.

"-good robes ruined," the matron was mumbling to herself, her ring of keys clacking lightly as she pulled and prodded at sections of the robe. "Well," the femme continued, louder, as she addressed Tracks directly, "Come along now. You need a proper washing and some fresh robes. After that, you're getting a full meal, I'll be making certain of that! A carrier must be properly fed every few cycles and I won't let our Lord's heir starve while I'm around."

The femme grabbed the slave's arm, yanking him along to the bath hall. Tracks followed, only tripping twice, his sluggish processor absorbing what the servant said, until it finally made sense to his frazzled mind. "C... carrier?," his dry glossa fumbled.

"Aye," the matron replied, as they drew up to the bath hall doors. She shoved them open one-handed, pulling Tracks in after her; releasing him only then to draw on the braided rope hanging from the ceiling near the door, summoning more servants. "It's an adjustment, I understand, but you'll be fine," she soothed half-heartedly, coming up behind the winged mech and starting to tug the dress from his rigid frame. "The master's needed a few sparklings to his name for a while anyhow. If only you weren't so skinny though..."

Was... Was she implying that he was sparked? The slave attempted to address the old femme, but the clattering of the door as more servants filed in distracted him from his increasingly anxious thoughts. A single glance toward the small group revealed that they too tittered in barely-contained excitement, sparkling optics and ecstatic smiles directed towards the Autobot. Tracks felt the corner of his lip components drag downwards a centimeter.

"Quit that now!," the matron chastised the group, stepping away from the winged mech and shooing the servants into action. She huffed irritably, fists on her hips as she watched the younger ones scatter to their designated spots; a single servant taking over her duties to undress Tracks. "The Lord is sparked, yes, but he isn't glass! Tend to him as you usually do and don't dawdle about. The kitchen will have his supper ready for him shortly."

The servants nodded their helms briskly, hurrying to fill the tub and gather lotions and soaps for the washing. The web of lethargy had yet to break and Tracks felt his processor rolling about in his helm, like a wild tumbleweed in a chaotic breeze, trying to keep up with everything happening around himself and at the same time impose his own course of actions. "W...wait!," he managed to force out surely, helm facing towards the matron as she was heading out the door.

The servants, having nearly disrobed him now, paused; their uncertain faces flickering between the old femme and the slave. "Yes, Lord Tracks?," the matron asked, turning back to the Autobot.

"I..."

Why did she believe he was sparked? Did everyone in the estate think that? Was anyone else, out in the city, aware of this lie? Was it even false? Or did Tracks really carry Soundwave's heir? Is this the falsity that the councilor had fed to Megatron? There was a million questions to demand from the servant, but not a single one could reach the tip of his glossa first. Swallowing as he fell back into a forced neutrality, the winged mech settled on another, more worthwhile inquiry. "Where is Master Soundwave?"

The femme seemed to relax a little at the question. "He is in the library at this moment. Once Lord Tracks has eaten, I will be happy to have someone escort you there."

"No," the slave replied flatly, turning his helm forward again. "I know the way." Nodding, the matron left the room completely this time, shutting the door behind her as she went. Smiles plastered back on their faces, the servants continued in their duties, ushering a silent Tracks into the hot bath water.

xxXxXxx

Despite all attempts, Soundwave could not focus. Sighing heavily, he set down his book, laying his helm in his servos as exhaustion swelled. Of course he couldn't focus! He'd slept only a few, poor cycles and even those had been rendered useless when the telepath awoke to find Tracks in his berth. Tracks, of all people! Curled against his chestplates, his processor blank as he slumbered pleasantly within his master's arms...

But that was the problem! The slave should not have been here still. Soundwave had taken a gamble and managed to sneak the poor mech out of Iacon; provided him with the means to take hold of his own freedom, minus the removal of his collar. It had gone spectacularly well, as if Primus himself had opened up the path for them. Yet barely a whole cycle later and Tracks was standing in his room, a pitiful doll mimicking words he did not understand. Lost within his own self-absorbed world, the Autobot had once again cost himself his freedom.

Soundwave felt the tears of frustration rise. These last few stellar cycles had been an affliction upon his spark, and just when he had finally learned to let go... This had to happen. The Decepticon tried not to recall his rude awakening this morning, but his thoughts kept slipping back to the softness of silk in his servos and warm plating melded into his side.

Standing to his pedes angrily, Soundwave vocalized a curse to Primus as he shoved his abandoned book back onto the shelves. He was so tired of this entire drama! And on top of it all, he couldn't even retire to his own room due to the troublesome Autobot currently haunting it. He would have to air out one of the dozen guest rooms for the night -and probably indefinitely. At least until Megatron returned. He was just turning to leave when the library door to take care of that horrid task when it opened for Tracks' entry. It did not escape the telepath's notice that the slave had freshly bathed in the time since he'd left his room that morning and, as per usual, he looked gorgeous.

"Demand: What are you doing here?," Soundwave asked coldly, fists curling at his sides.

"I came to talk," was the doll's flat reply.

"Status: Do not wish to talk to you. Tracks: Is ordered to return to his room and-"

"Am I really sparked?," Tracks interrupted. The councilor nearly bit his glossa clean in half at the question; hastily, he scanned for any other minds aside from their own and felt a touch of relief when he sensed no one else nearby. All the same, Soundwave crossed the room, slamming the library door shut once more before facing the silent Autobot. "Am I?," Tracks repeated, his optics fixated firmly on the councilor.

His unfaltering gaze no longer unnerved the blue mech. Now it only annoyed him. "Sparking: False," the Decepticon answered in blunt honesty. There was no indication that his response had made any impact upon Tracks' sanity but Soundwave wasn't going to delve further to confirm that. He didn't have the patience or energy anymore.

"So...," the Autobot continued softly, "You fabricated my pregnancy... to keep me from the Emperor. But when I fail to produce a bornling, you will be executed. Correct?"

Silence was his only confirmation. Quietly, Tracks surveyed the room; finding himself a seat a klik later. "Why would you do something like that?," he asked, glancing at the councilor.

Soundwave tensed at the question, thrusting a finger toward the multi-coloured mech as he growled. "Intent: To give you the freedom you desired in the first place, by removing you from the Emperor's reach! Instead, Tracks shall suffer in extension of my crimes once Megatron learns of this treason."

Rouge faceplates laid vacant as Tracks stared up at the irate telepath, optics shuttering closed for a moment. "...you could have left with me entirely," came the slave's enigmatic whisper.

The Decepticon didn't know how to feel. Soundwave floundered at the reasonable suggestion, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, while also ignoring the implication hidden in Tracks' statement. Why hadn't he just left as well? Because... because... he had duties, he argued to himself, and responsibilities and... The household! He couldn't exactly sneak away in the night with a couple hundred or so servants and slaves, yet to leave them behind meant dooming them.

"Action: Not possible," the blue mech huffed, looking away.

The chair groaned slightly as the Autobot shifted, a soft vent escaping him. "The same could be said for me, I suppose."

The councilor deliberated for a long moment, before finally returning his gaze to the winged slave, finding that he had turned away from Soundwave. Now, Tracks' optics roamed from one end of the library to the next, a vibrant hue of blue shining from the wide orbs. "I'm... tired of running," Tracks shared breathlessly, "Perhaps there really is nothing here for me, but I... I don't want to keep doing this. I have nowhere to rebuild, even if my spark could bear another such journey. So, despite the fact it may only end in death, I'm staying."

"Though," the Autobot added, an optic moving to glance at the silent Decepticon, "You could always make a falsehood into a truth, and give yourself a heir at the same time."

"Objection: NO!," Soundwave snarled indignantly, hem of his robes snapping loudly as he straightened up quickly. "Status: Want nothing to do with Tracks in that capacity! Ever!"

A smile cracked the vacant facade, startling out of place on red cheekplates after so long. It curled crookedly at the corners, the spark dancing in the corner of Tracks' optics fading from sight again. "But of course," he chuckled mirthlessly, resuming his study of the library. "That's fine; it only means I'll be reunited with Moonracer sooner."

The telepath had heard enough. Spinning on his pede, he stormed from the library, slamming the door at his exit. He did not care for the scene he was clearly making or that he had not solved any of his problems involving the winged mech. There was only rage thrumming hotly in his spark at the slave's audacious remarks as he stomped through his estate; hidden away, deep beneath the flames of ire, a rattling fear at the smile Tracks had worn so blissfully at the thought of his own execution.