C.M.D: Update period is back again and once more I have only one new chapter... But, I suppose, one chapter is better than no chapters. So now we're back in the thick of things -Soundwave shoving Tracks away, Tracks finally forgiving him- but imminent execution is still looming! Time to buckle down, dear readers, and see where their misadventures takes them this time~

It had been a joyless night following yesterorn's confrontation, sleeping on feathers and silk instead of cracking rock, but when the sun rose the next morning, Tracks rose with it a new mech. He washed up diligently, picked out a simple tunic and tethered his colorful silk belt tight around his waist before sitting at his vanity again in thoughtful silence. How often had he sat here prior, loathing every klik, of every orn? Staring into the glass now, the slave was slowly becoming aware of the things surrounding him that he had never noticed before. Such as the way the dawn light pooled into the room past the garden's many trees and shrubs, brushing a lovely glow across the Autobot's rouge face. Or the birdsong that echoed sweetly on the cool currents as they tousled the sheer curtains, sweeping the pleasant perfume of the villa's flora into the room. Mixed in with the gorgeous hues and patterns along the room walls, it created a comfortable atmosphere and Tracks could only witness all these wonders surreally for the first time.

He had been so blind before...

Blue optics bright as he rose from his seat, the winged mech stepped out into the halls, finding a few servants at work. They spared fleeting glances at the slave but Tracks didn't mind, moving on, each step lighter than the last as the final strands of sleep fell from his helm. "Excuse me?," he paused, gently touching the shoulder of a young mechling polishing the hallway decor.

"Y-yes, milord?," the youth stuttered, flushing at the beautiful Autobot's attention.

Tracks smiled sympathetically at the servant, understanding his feelings. It escaped his notice that he did not feel the need to rage over someone else's adorations. "Can you tell me where I might find the matron this morning?," he asked.

The mechling pointed further down the hall, swallowing shyly. "S-she be in the k-kitchens, milord, n-noting today's meals and food stores as she does this orn, every week. T-that's two lefts, a right, then a-another left."

"Thank you," the slave replied kindly to the youth, patting his shoulder and following his directions. It was simple enough to find the kitchens, as mentioned, and he arrived just as the matron was finishing her duties there.

"What are you doing here, my lord?," the old femme asked, lip components pursed slightly in confusion. "You should still be in your room! It's not proper that you wander these parts."

"I apologize," Tracks said, not at all put off by the servant's blunt disapproval. He spoke evenly and calmly, no longer frustrated but confident in what he was doing. "I thought I'd like to eat my meals here, in the kitchen, instead of waiting for the staff to bring it to me elsewhere. I... I would prefer to spend some company where there is some busyness... Granted that I am not a hindrance to anyone else."

The matron's expression grew stern and it looked as though she was going to refuse the Autobot but, oddly, she hesitated and glanced back at the kitchen full of hard-working staff, then glanced at the halls also filled with various servants with their own individual tasks, before returning her attention to the waiting mech. "...I suppose the master is too preoccupied quite often to sit down for his meals," the femme sighed, a note of silent comprehension in her vocalizer.

"Come," she ushered, gently pulling the winged slave into the kitchen. She escorted him over to a long, plain wooden table, set a good distance away from the rest of the prep areas and stove kilns; wiping it down with her apron, before nudging him into a seat. Immediately, a younger femme rushed over with a platter of food and drink. "You may eat here, anytime that you'd like," the matron continued, shooing the other servant back to work. "No one will bother you and if you choose to eat elsewhere, just relay your desires to any of the staff around the estate and they will inform the kitchen promptly. Now, I have to get to other things but... is there anything else I can do for you before I go?"

Tracks, having already started popping a few grapes into his mouth, stopped temporarily, looking at the old femme. "Yes," he answered truthfully. "I... Could I have some parchment and ink brought to my room? I have not written in so long, not since..." He trailed off, a servo raising a few inches quietly towards his slave collar. "Anyways," he coughed, optics to his breakfast as his servo joined its twin on the table top, "It's been a long time. I miss it."

The matron quickly wiped the look of surprise from her face, dusting her servos off on her apron distractedly. "I will be glad to bring those things to your room personally," she replied. "Now, please, eat. You must be starving."

And he was, the Autobot realized. He thanked the older servant, turning and tearing off a piece of the freshly-baked bread as the femme left. Surrounded by the kitchen staff as they worked away tirelessly and with warm food in his tanks, the lingering cold that had followed Tracks from his recharge the night before began to burn away entirely. Here, he thought, was a comfortable place to be.

xxXxXxx

The next orn brought a second surge of strength to Tracks.

He woke feeling better, faster, lighter -all the things he had forgotten existed and had once been an ingrained part of him. There was still the nagging reality in the back of his helm, reminding him constantly of his highly probable execution, but the slave was determined not to fall victim to those emotions again. For too long he had been someone other than himself. If he were to die, he wanted to go knowing that, in the end, he had been true to himself and to the two that he cherished deep within his spark.

That alone gave passion to his once lifeless frame and the Autobot threw himself into a number of activities. First, he scrubbed his room from top to bottom; polishing the rich, wooden furniture and snapping the dust from the linens with a growing flourish. Then he fluffed the mattress and pillows, organized the armoire's contents to his preference, and oiled all the hinges so they would no longer squeak faintly. Tracks proceeded to the library and continued his work there until lunch had passed, then reasoned to take a refreshing bath once finished, to clear away the grime and condensation he had worked up while cleaning. It was pure chance that the slave happened upon the gardener through the window, carrying a bundle of trimmings to be thrown away. Tracks didn't even hesitate in calling out to the other mech.

Now he sat, gently pushing the vase of beautiful -if slightly nibbled and wilting around the edges- flowers across the vanity top, so that they could be admired without obstructing his view. Pleased, the winged mech took a delicate sniff at the flora's heady perfume, meanwhile, laying a sheet of parchment across the vanity and uncapping his new bottle of ink. With skilled precision, he dipped the feathered pen into the coal liquid, wiped the excess and rested tip to paper. Then he paused, quietly alarmed. It had been so long, Tracks bemoaned, and he'd never really taken to fanciful scritching... Well, until Moonracer. But that was neither here nor now, and honestly, the slave had no one to scrawl roughshod poetry for anyhow. Yet, he was determined to do something -something that was him; something higher than his forced station- and so Tracks took to the parchment, etching first the alphabet, then childhood phrases and doctrines, moving on to classical quotes and half-remembered tales. There was nothing more liberating, the winged mech thought, than to see one's own cursive font birth onto the virgin papyrus: confident, flourishing, captivating. It brought his spark to a vibrant thrumming.

The moment was only darkened, for a touch, when Tracks turned and recalled belatedly that he had no one to share this with; the lonely walls of a beautiful room staring back at him. A resigned smile on his face, the Autobot tidied away his supplies, blew out the torchlight and climbed into the berth alone. Yesterday had been a new orn. Today had been even better. Tomorrow, and every orn after he resolved, would be equally the same.

And with that, the multicoloured mech shuttered his optics, drifting into an easy sleep.

xxXxXxx

Soundwave staggered down the hall, tripping occasionally over his leaden pedes. He cursed each time he caught himself, wondering in his drunken stupor when the halls of his home had lengthened. Perhaps it would just be easier to lie down and sleep on the cool, cool tile floor... But that would be so unsightly, the Decepticon tried to reason through the high grade. Foolish wants like those were from the mulled energon- the delicious, warm, flavoured high grade that cost mere pennies, promising to fill a 'bot before it ever drained his purse. Soundwave grunted as he stumbled to a knee, his visor winking blearily in the dim torchlight.

Where was he again? Right, his estate. There was a door to his right. Was that his room? The councilor shuffled over on his knees, crumpling against the door with a muffled thud. The moment he touched the door, a hypnotic vocalizer drifted forth, burrowing deep between the spaces of the telepath's high grade-addled processor. This clearly wasn't his room, Soundwave noted faintly with a displeased frown. Tracks resided here and his thoughts were awfully chatty. He should move, the Decepticon mused lethargically. It took an unfathomable amount of time before he realized he couldn't remember how to use his legs.

I was born in winter, after the frost had set in...

Tracks' vocalizer was growing stronger... or Soundwave was beginning to lose consciousness. Either way, the soothing narrative of the slave's tone pulled the councilor deep within the realm of the other's dreams. His vision of the hall started to wane; ghosts of figures he did not know and never likely would, moving to a line of story only the blue mech could hear.

My creators were farmers. My carrier, a merchant's heir who abandoned her legacy for love.

A femme, of gorgeous red and silver, walked by as the decorated halls cracked and aged in front of the telepath's dazed optics. She wore shabby robes in a colour best described as clay, with a history of hurried patch lines, servos busy with menial chores. Her beauty could almost be missed while she toiled, then she paused, and the smile she shared down upon the viewer was the most dazzling sight ever to be seen by a heretic's optics. Awe flooded the blue mech's spark; excitement and joy to be so tightly tied to this femme, resonating in softer tones in the background.

They agreed to take me further than the fields I slept in. Even if not much. A neighbour took me and my satchel of credits across the river, to the school house I would live at while I learned.

Soundwave watched as a crowd of young 'bots filled the area between him. A professor, old and stately, with a snaking beard that struck a chord of familiarity in the councilor, spoke in hushed words, trying to reel in the impetuous pupils. Sometimes it worked, but other than the echo of its holder's memories, it seemed none of them stayed riveted for long.

A shame, the blue mech concluded. His spark was humming, enthralled by the lines upon the chalk slate board. Or was that really his spark? Soundwave felt confused for a klik, attempting to recall what was his own and what was merely projection, missing as the scene changed. A tall, lanky mech was not paying attention -instead, his optics were glued in the telepath's direction. At the councilor's notice, the youngling grinned; heat washing over Soundwave briefly as he glared in indignant rage. He barely heard Tracks' vocalizer explain the tall one's purpose before a string of various faces flashed through the scene, all of them past lovers. Some a little closer than the others.

His tanks churned tightly at that. The threat of purging broke the illusion for a klik and the councilor found himself back in the faintly lit halls of his estate. He remembered the fragments of these tales, he noted sourly. It's why he busied himself in the city; whiling away the cycles in the local thermopolium, among visiting nobles and rich merchants, filling himself with tankards of the inexpensive mulled energon to forget his current troubles. Alas, it was only a temporary escape and here Soundwave was, once again being consumed by the enthralling script of the Autobot's undiscovered past.

No more. The Decepticon shifted awkwardly, his knees buckling to try and roll back up, when a spark-gasping warmth reached out and touched him with the softest, purest sensation he had ever felt in all of his function. At once, Soundwave gave up all thought to leave, pulled back to the door and the unspoken tale.

'Hey,' a sweet vocalizer greeted, the first speaker he had ever heard outside of this nightly narrator. The femme appearing in his arms suddenly, as if she had always been there and he had never noticed before. She was a soft shade of seafoam, with a shine that shone almost like pure silver in the moonlight, supplementing the sparkles that shone in her deep blue optics.

'I think you're starting to smoke in there again,' she chuckled, a finger reaching up and poking gently against his visor. A low laugh escaped the councilor also, his arms tightening a tiny bit around the femme. The stranger didn't seem to mind. She lay flat against his frame, helm resting on his shoulder plating, staring up into his face with those captivating orbs. 'Did you know, lingering thoughts have been known to make you impotent and turn vibrant reds to dusty brown? Just something to be aware of.'

He laughed, again, feeling the extent of her warmth as she smiled back at him cheekily. How wonderfully marvelous she was. He never wanted to let her go...

The raucous birdsong snapped Soundwave awake; alarmed, he searched for the unknown femme, a sob nearly breaking forth as he realized she was lost for good. It was several more, long astroseconds, watching as dawn crested over the rooftops, before the spell fully lifted and the telepath realized that none of this was real. To him, at least. Beyond the door he was posted in front of, the recollections of a femme covered in a moonlit shawl certainly were a reality -shattered and tainted by a crushing depth of grief- but true nonetheless.

And this, the blue mech vented heavily, was why he could not stand to remain. There was no rest to be found in the haunted halls of his villa; no curse to be lifted when the conjurer was their own ghoul. It was just another burden upon his processor and one Soundwave was intent on banishing promptly. The thermopolium would be waiting, the Decepticon knew as he hurried back to the front gate, the mulled grade hot for his welcome.

xxXxXxx

For a dizzying, nerve-wracking moment, Soundwave was uncertain about where exactly he was. Then the blinding light piercing past his optics and deep into his aching helm was obscured by something -or rather, a someone.

"Finally awake, I see, milord," greeted the matron. Her furrowed brow and deep-cut scowl noted that her presence was anything but a pleasant awakening. With clinical approach, the old femme grabbed and prodded at the councilor's frame, studying a servo here or a chest seam there, all the while dismissing his poor attempts at interjection.

Wrestling with his sluggish glossa and his servant's less-than-amicable physical, Soundwave stubbornly managed a "Query: Wha...?" before the matron cut him off.

"Home. In your berth where ya slagging well should be!," the femme cursed, her denta clacking at the heated words. She turned about for a bowl, taking it upon herself to scrub down the blue mech's face and shoulders none-too-gently as she continued. "The poor carriage serfs had to summon a couple of the city guard to get you back. You'd passed out from too much cheap grade, but not before ya made a blundering oaf of yourself. Honestly! Fixing yourself a fancy new groove over in a filthy drink pit, squished in among the other common folk and exotic sellers... Where is your shame! Of all the years I've served you, ya have never acted so beneath your station and for what? A future siring?"

The Decepticon tried to rise, finding that his evident hangover could not bear to be berated by an old femme (especially not one with so sharp a glossa), but the matron simply pushed him back to the berth with a hard shove, slamming down the washbasin. "I beg your pardon, milord, for speaking out of line," she snapped, sounding terribly insincere as she gathered her things; tucking Soundwave back into his berth tightly as she went, a finger jabbing at the nightstand.

"The physician has left a tonic for you. Drink four cups and the worst of your follies should seize shortly," the matron advised, sniffing disdainfully. "Rest. I shall have a bath drawn later for you, my lord, after dinner. You look more slipshodden than the back room of a whore hut!" With one final scoff of disapproval, the old femme finally stormed from the room, leaving the telepath to blissful silence.

For a while, he wallowed in the near absence of sound all around him, before the rising noon sun poured deeper into his room; a curse upon his pixeled vision and too-hot frame trapped beneath heavy blankets. Grunting unhappily, Soundwave rose to his pedes, ambling awkwardly on numb knees to the windows and yanking the curtains shut. It didn't completely extinguish the ferocity of the yellow sun, but it did dampen it quite a bit, leaving the room well shadowed and quick to cool. Leaning against his berth post, it took an embarrassingly long time for the councilor to realize he was gazing into his desk's mirror... and that the bedraggled bum looking back was in fact himself.

The matron had been right, the blue mech winced. He really was a sloven mess. Though she'd scrubbed away most of the dirt, surface-level scratches dotted Soundwave's exposed frame in frequent bunches and gouges of muddied hues marked his once golden mask. Clearly, his evening at the thermopolium had been an eventful one...

Soundwave wanted nothing more than to clamber back into the berth and forget everything -even what he couldn't remember. Drinking had not helped alleviate his troubles or his complicated feelings. Perhaps a medicated sleep would? Rotating his sore jaw, the telepath unclasped his mask, grabbing the physician's tonic and drinking straight from the bottle. It was a foul, gooey substance with an acrid after-taste similar to rotting onions. Soundwave nearly gagged, yet he managed to push the nausea aside, ripping a sheet from the berth and wrapping it around his suddenly chilled frame.

What was he going to do? The worries had once more returned and the Decepticon shrunk beneath their weight. He'd tried, he truly had done everything in his power, but there was just no way to get Tracks out of the city anymore. Merchants were coming, more than they were going, and not a single processor presented itself trustworthy enough when the councilor had prodded between mugs of mulled grade. He was not going to be able to save the winged slave or himself this time. Exhaustion was settling back into his piping, dragging Soundwave even further down into the mattress, but despite the strangling grip it had on him, the telepath could not just rest. His processor-ache had evolved into something else -black, and thunderous, and prickling between his optics like an over-sized burr- and it kept his mind rolling, even when he didn't want it too. Trapped again, the Decepticon thought. He wasn't even allowed sleep, it seemed.

As he contemplated his miserable position in the universe, the pain began to dissipate and a confused telepath shuttered his optics as he came to the slow realization of it. He still felt nauseous and several centuries too old for his frame, no thanks to his reckless drinking, but his mind... There was something, like a song, calling out to his weary processor. It flowed over cracks and gaps, filling them with comfort just as they soothed over the surface with the same delicate touch. Sleep no longer concerned Soundwave; now, all he could think about was that siren spirit, touching his spark from across the void and erasing all that plagued him. His legs finding new strength, the blue mech rose and stumbled from his room, the sheet wrapped tight around his weaving frame. He was blind to everything but that strange force, letting it guide his steps, desperate to have the solace it teasingly offered.

He followed the thrumming energy, drawn in by its resonating tone through one hall and then the next. He did not realize he had wandered to the exterior hall, until he was inches from the luscious, green terrain of his garden. With bleary optics, the councilor came to a pause, peering in confusion from one end of the plotted shrubbery to the next. He saw nothing unusual at first, then, between the rose bushes, he spotted him. Tracks, donned in the drab clothing of a lowly serf, hard at work; clippings of thorns, leaves, and twigs in his lap while he helped trim the plant, his servos and knees coated in rich dirt as he plotted fresh ones -there was even a smudge of mud across a red cheekplate! Yet, his filthy state wasn't the most shocking to the Decepticon. No, it was the radiant smile that Tracks shared with the other gardeners at work; bringing a bright glow to the usually temperamental Autobot.

This is where that swell of tranquility hailed from? Tracks?! Soundwave was flabbergasted. He surveyed the garden again, realizing that when compared to his recollections of his home several orns prior, the entire villa sparkled with the same vibrant spark that emitted from the slave. His estate had never felt this alive... But now it had bloomed, like a flower long suffering of a dreadful winter, its strife-ridden petals peeled away to reveal unrivaled beauty within. How could this be? What was going on?! The telepath tried to think, reorient his frazzled thoughts... In many cases, he would have simply prodded the source of this unprecedented event and take charge with what information he found, but this was Tracks. Soundwave wanted nothing to do with his mind no longer! Even if it called to him, seeping warmth and tenderness and a rejuvenating joy he had never known...

The Decepticon shook his helm angrily, glancing once more in the garden. What magic had transpired that had brought forth such a change in the winged mech, and worse, his whole home and staff as well? The sound of laughter -throaty, carefree- pulled his attention once more to Tracks, and Soundwave felt a piercing pang within his spark as he saw the Autobot turn a gorgeous smile to the fawning gardeners. He wanted that. It wasn't fair. He wanted to be there too... After a long moment though, the councilor only hunched deeper into his pilfered sheet and shuffled quickly back to the gloom of his own room.

C.M.D: Looks like these two have switched personalities XD
Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please!