C.M.D: Oh, Primus Almighty, I have not updated in... Months. It's been months. Some usual life stuff, sometimes crappy, sometimes meh, but I'm beginning to dig out a curve again and feeling a real zing of creative energy. Looking forward to pumping out a bunch of chapters before next winter (seasons definitely seem to have an effect on my muses) and hopefully wrapping up a few more stories this year too! To kick it all off, here's yet another update of misadventures for our beloved Soundwave and Tracks~ Hope you enjoy!

He was coming in from another long morning in the garden, when Tracks was accosted by the matron not far from the bath hall.

"We have a situation," the femme greeted tersely, shaking her apron out distractedly.

"What?" The winged mech paused, honestly surprised by the older servant's unexpected approach and announcement. Looking about quickly, he realized that it was really just the two of them currently in the corridor and that the matron was really addressing him. "I-i... I'm not sure how I can be of help," he replied truthfully, facing the femme again.

"Normally, I would never thrust this sort of duty upon your shoulders," the matron returned, her expression looking less grim and more hopeless now, "But a messenger has come from the palace... and I need someone of seemingly more standing at my side to greet them. Time is not something we have."

Tracks shuttered his optics in shock, feeling even more stunned by the revelation. Granted, though he'd been finding that maybe he had more of a place here at Soundwave's estate than first thought these last couple weeks, taking on an authoritative position -even as an act- was beyond what he was comfortable with. Wasn't the Decepticon supposed to be handling matters like this? This was his household after all. Opening his mouth to vocalize these exact thoughts, the slave paused, taking in the old femme's feeble stance a second time and sighing. It must have been with great desperateness that she had scurried to find him with this proposition...

"I'll wash quickly," the Autobot conceded.

The matron nodded, her frame slumping with relief. "I'll send some servants immediately. You'll need extra servos to dress," she said. "In the meantime, I'll set the messenger with refreshments to buy us some time."

Knowing the time for words was over, Tracks tipped his helm forward once, striding around the matron as she hurried across the other side of the corridor and heading into the bath hall.

xxXxXxx

Twenty kliks later, the matron and the multi-coloured mech -now dressed in a courtesan's silks and jeweled splendors- stepped into the foyer together; the messenger rising to his pedes at their entrance, a slight scowl upon his face.

"I was promised that I would see the Lord of the house," he stated, glancing quickly at Tracks before settling on the matron fully. "The message can not be seen by anyone else. My instructions were clear."

Tracks stamped down the spark of rage that flared suddenly as the matron patted down her apron, huffing out loud as the slave wished he could. "I am afraid that the Master is currently unavailable-"

"I don't see how that is my responsibility," the messenger cut in sharply. "I come from the palace; not some mediocre-"

Clearly this unknown servant would not accept an Autobot as a real master, so it was time to play the role of mistress and to perform it perfectly. Chin lifted a tad regally, Tracks stepped towards the messenger; the trail ends of his silk shawl floating behind him like wisps of heavenly vapor with every light pedefall. At once the messenger paused, looking up at the slave, his expression numbing with astonishment. The winged mech let an ethereal smile grace his glossy lip components, understanding how celestial he looked in the warm light streaming from the open windows.

"I empathize with the orders of your own masters, but I humbly pray that you will allow me the honors of receiving my Lord's notice," Tracks spoke, his words like milk and honey, pouring over the suddenly submissive messenger. "Councilor Soundwave is, as the matron states, unable to greet you himself at this moment. I will gladly report to him as soon as he is free so that neither you nor your masters must wait any longer. I am certain they have other uses of you this very orn."

The mech tried to shake off the siren's vocalizer, his brow furrowing with the effort. "N-no, I... I was directly instructed to...," he protested.

Tracks did not hurry the messenger; taking a chance to step closer a couple more inches, a servo moving delicately to ensure his shawl did not fall away entirely as it slipped from his shoulder tire, leaning slightly as he touched softly at the servant's arm with the other. "My Lord will be pleased to know you were well taken care of in his absence," he pressed, optics shuttering slowly in alluring fashion.

The messenger stuttered once more before he silently ripped the scroll from his satchel, his helm bowed to hide the flush across his cheekplates as he thrust the message forward for Tracks to take. Delicately, the slave took the roll of parchment, turning it to better study the wax seal underneath. So it really was from the palace...

"We will take the scroll to his Lord as soon as possible," the matron began, but the Autobot's curiosity was not one to lay subdued. With a quick jerk of his slender finger, the seal was cracked and the scroll unrolled, his bright optics taking in the crisp, neat scrawl on its surface.

His expression changed minutely as his gaze reached the end of the message, a scowl threatening to tug downwards on his beautiful mouth. Ignorant of the stunned stares he was still receiving, Tracks rolled the papyrus up tightly, turning to look about the room. "I need paper and ink. At once."

The matron, warily, snapped her fingers and a youngling hurried into the foyer, carrying a tray with fresh parchment, ink well and feather pens upon its surface. Tracks turned to the new slave gratefully, dipping a quill into the ink and writing out his own letter in delicate, flourishing cursive. Signing it last, the Autobot fanned it quickly to urge the drying ink along, before he rolled this parchment up too and tied it off with a piece of blue twine. "You may give this to your masters," he informed, facing the messenger again. "Please notify them that the letter came from myself, Lord Soundwave's courtesan, if they should question the signature."

The messenger, in a bit of a daze, nodded in acknowledgement of the winged slave's words; tucking the new scroll securely in his tote and bowing to both Tracks and the matron before quickening out of the foyer and the villa's entry doors completely. Servants filtered into the room immediately after the messenger's exit, beginning to tidy up the space again.

The matron, watching them for a moment, grumbled toward Tracks, "I understand you may have been curious about the Emperor's letter, but to open it is-"

The sound of quick pedes clacking loudly from the foyer startled the old femme; her helm whipping back to find that Tracks no longer stood beside her. Just as fast, the matron left, following the tails of the Autobot's robe until she had tracked him all the way back to the councilor's private halls; standing outside of the Decepticon's door and banging against the wood with a closed fist.

"Soundwave? Soundwave, I know you're in there!," Tracks shouted, jiggling the handle unsuccessfully. With an aggravated grunt, he returned to smacking the berthroom door. "Open this door immediately, Soundwave!"

Silence encompassed the corridor once the last echo had died down as the slave leaned into the doorway, trying to listen for anything on the other side. His pretty face contorted with a scowl when all remained quiet.

"It is a useless endeavor, dearie," the matron spoke up softly, before the multi-coloured mech could begin another round of yelling.

Tracks turned to face her as she drew closer to his side, brandishing the messenger's scroll at her angrily. "Why has no one told me that he's been unwell?!," the slave demanded, a note of upset to his vocalizer.

The matron shuttered her optics in confusion. "I do not-"

"This!," the Autobot emphasized, unrolling the scroll. "'It has come to the attention of myself and several other important persons that you have devolved to a lifestyle of lawless drinking among the common muck of the Emperor's booze pits'," Tracks recited from the crisp cursive, fingers tightening so much that the parchment crumpled around the edges, "'Your personal health aside, this sort of behaviour is below a highly-ranked official to the Emperor and, if necessary, an intervention on our behalf will be made. Consequences to be meted out upon our immediately involvement.' Do you understand what this means?!"

The matron bowed her helm at the slave's shout, a weary sigh escaping her. "I had hoped perhaps the Master's wallowing would go unnoticed in the courts...," she mumbled, "If they find out that he has been shirking his other duties as well, there will be a heavy punishment waiting for us all..."

"How... how long has this been going on?," Tracks asked lowly, unable to shake the shock from his systems just yet. Soundwave -a drunk?! The concept was so far-fetched to be deemed physically impossible. Had he really resorted to such dangerous over-indulgence? "And why has no one told me about his reckless drinking?!"

It was quiet for a long klik following his questions. Then...

"Over two weeks," the matron supplied, to the disbelief of her audience. "He's been drinking without care for a while now, but he's been holed up in his room for little over a week now. He will neither answer nor open for anyone; not even to eat. Primus knows if he's doing that at all..."

Blue optics burned brightly in distress, glancing at the councilor's berthroom door. That long? Had he really not noticed for that long? True, it was Soundwave's active decision to distance himself from Tracks, and the Autobot had occupied his orns with various tasks in the meantime, but to never know...

"You were not informed because of your shaky relationship thus far with the Master," the old femme was speaking again, "And you were really coming into your own as a part of the household this last little while. No one wished to upset you. Alas, it looks like time is running out for us. Until Master Soundwave can be cajoled from his self-made isolation, the estate requires a helm to run it. Especially if the Emperor is keeping a close optic on our activities. For that, I must ask... no, beg... on behalf of all those that reside here and in the master's employ, please, will you take on the role of 'Lady' of the villa."

The winged mech returned his whole focus to the matron, staring down upon her helm with doubly-wide optics. "You... want me to...?," he choked.

The matron looked up and it was perhaps the first time that Tracks had ever seen this specific 'bot so deploringly downtrodden. "Aye. I am only a matron; the staff, myself included, need a directive to follow. If Master Soundwave cannot fulfill that role, voiding a will or the Emperor's decree, that duty would then fall to you as you carry his heir," she replied. "You are all we have and we dance a fine line under the Emperor's temperamental scrutiny. Say that you will do this. Please."

A swarm of words rushed to the forefront of the slave's processor, nearly all of them some variation of 'No'. But, reason wriggled its way among the buzzing crowd, and it chirped louder than all of the things Tracks could have voiced. He, as the matron did too, realized that someone had to take Soundwave's place... even if however temporary. And there was still the matter of the Decepticon's unhealthy hobby to be resolved.

Backstruts straightening, Tracks swallowed back his unease, falling into the posture of a sure-minded noble. It was a breath-taking transformation to behold: one moment, a wildly-sparking, hunched over knot of acidic emotions, the next, a definable being of courage and beauty."I will ensure that the villa and all its people remain well kept," he confirmed, tone rich with conviction and passion.

The old servant stared, watching the change unfold within Tracks, and gaped through her next words before finding her vocalizer. "I-i... Yes. Thank you," she vented quickly. "From all of us."

The slave only nodded, looking over the messenger's scroll one last time before rolling it up tersely. "We will reach the master in good time, but the first priority is to catch up on our lagging tasks and get the estate running smoothly again. Matron, if you would kindly enlighten me on that which requires my attention."

"Right away, milord," the femme said, curtseying despite her age. Tracks paid the action no mind; walking along steadily behind the matron as she hurried to lead him to the first of his many new duties.

xxXxXxx

The morning started with a whipping wind, steering crowds of clouds to pass periodically over Iacon. It was a sure sign that rain was coming, but exactly when, remained a mystery. Out in the gardens, Tracks glanced up at the sky as yet another plump cumulus cloud drifted past lazily. "A rainfall should be here this evening," he agreed, dropping his gaze to the servant that stood to his left. "Are you certain that you can finish seeding before then?"

The gardener bowed, nodding firmly. "Yes, milord, but we fear the ground will not hold any new sprouts. Already, we have lost several species."

"Where?," the slave asked. "Show me."

The servant hurried over the cobbled path, leading Tracks deeper through the garden, until they neared the fountain. Pausing, the other mech pointed at the bushes of roses that several more gardeners were in the process of uprooting. Their dry, brittle branches made quite the mess with every little jostle.

"This... is a shame," the Autobot sighed sincerely. He'd really admired the roses' varied shades of peach and lilac, so unlike the traditional crimson. For a moment, he watched the servants work; stepping forward to a recently cleared patch suddenly and grabbing a servoful of soil, rubbing it between his fingers. It crumbled with barely any pressure, more dust than earth.

"Yes, the soil is quite deficient," he continued, standing and facing his small audience of stunned onlookers. "I've seen this before. It may seem bad but the situation can be easily remedied."

"Is that so?," spoke a new vocalizer. Turning, Tracks smiled as the matron strode up to the little group; the old femme gazing at the gaggle of servants, a finger pointing at the winged mech plainly. Immediately, a reedy gardener sprang forward, offering a fresh rag from his belt for the Autobot to wipe his servos with.

The slave took it, thanking the mech quietly, before giving his attention back to the matron. "I sent the reports off with another servant a little while ago," he said, cleaning his fingers as he talked. "Did you receive them?"

"Aye," she answered. She paused, her mouth pursing queerly, while Tracks took the opportunity to return the rag to the gardener.

"Clear the remainder of the bushes and check the neighbouring plants for similar sickness; look at the leaves underneath specifically, closest to the stalk. If they are showing yellow or pale, or have even begun to brittle, clear them also. Then you'll need to till the soil deeply, make sure the remaining roots are loosened and plant either Lespedeza Thunbergii or Lupinus Albifrons in its place," he instructed smartly, "If there are none available in the storehouse, notify the matron or myself at once and we shall have some sent from the market. Only these seeds will help revive the soil; do not plant anything else at this time, it will only die."

The gardeners nodded in acknowledgement and set back to their tasks as the Autobot faced the matron fully. "I'm sorry that I did not bring you the reports directly," he apologized, "But the gardeners requested my attentions. They said the circumstances were dire."

"So I see," the femme replied. She canted her helm an inch, squinting at the taller mech through a burst of midday sunlight. "You're quite knowledgeable about plants, hm? Your reports were surprisingly equally as composed."

Tracks smiled at the not-so-subtle comment in her words, forgiving of the older servant's ignorant prejudice. "My sire was a simple farmer; my carrier, the only heir to a well-off merchant. He taught me all about the little land we owed and how to care for it. She bestowed upon me all that she was taught in preparation to inherit a fortune that she was no longer entitled to," he shared amicably. "I absorbed everything and, seeing how thirsty my young processor was, they scrounged what they could and sent me off to a distant schoolhouse to learn even more. I was set to begin my own trade business, following my marriage, before..."

The slave paused, the edges of his casual smile curling downwards in bittersweet recollection, as he shrugged and picked up the trailing ends of his robe. "Well, anyhow," he continued lightly, "I have an over-abundance of horticulture know-how and a tradesmech's business skill at my disposal, so please, if there any concerns that you might have, don't hesitate to vocalize them. I understand that my way of managing things may differ and I can readily adjust to better sync with the way the estate has been run prior."

"N...no, no," the matron was slow to reply, her gaze not quite meeting that of the Autobot. "The reports were quite alright. Perfect, really. I suppose I'm just surprised at how little guidance you require from myself."

"I'm sure I'll still need much of your help with the duty rosters and delegating tasks to the servants," Tracks said, beginning to walk from the garden. "After all, you have a well-made familiarity with them that I do not possess. In either case, I shall head for lunch now. Please tell me if anything requires my attention."

The matron could not find any words to follow up with the winged slave's easy dismissal, and so stayed rooted in place momentarily before the gardeners' sudden swell of gossiping roused her from her stupor.

xxXxXxx

Tracks never did get the chance to have his lunch.

A young maid came running through the servants' halls, panting roughly as she skidded to a stop before the Autobot, shaking with exertion. "What... what is wrong?," Tracks asked, concerned about the tiny 'bot's haggard state.

The femme looked up with distress vibrant in her optics, wheezing out a response. "I-it... f-from the pa-palace! The E-emperor's associate, L-lord Shockwave! H-he arrived suddenly i-in the courtyard!"

Confusion turned to understanding... and then dread. "Where?," Tracks inquired quickly.

"T-the others were trying to s-set his lordship in the foyer," the maid informed at once, "B-but he was insistent on seeing the Master right away!"

The winged mech didn't bother with another reply at that point; grabbing the trailing hem of his robes and hurrying down the hall briskly. His jewelry jangled as he hurried along, the occasional servant pausing in their duties to take in the sight of the tight-lipped Autobot. Nearing the front entrance of the villa, Tracks only then allowed himself to slow down, smoothing the few wrinkles in his clothes away and ensuring every gem and pin was in its proper place, before walking with a calm, confident gait into the foyer.

The few servants within took notice of his entrance and stepped away to the walls, clearly relieved by the Autobot's presence. The mech they'd just recently been attempting to cater to -a tall, lanky, purple mech with large claws and jutting antennae on either side of his narrow helm- turned to greet the newcomer. Tracks fought to keep the shock from showing at the revelation that the Warlord's known associate had no real face.

"Ah," spoke the cyclops, taking a step closer, "So you are Soundwave's prized pet." The elongated helm canted slightly to one side, red optic shuttering slowly on the formless visage. "'Tracks', correct?"

The Decepticon was trying to intimidate him. Though the other mech's frightening height and clinical study were certainly unnerving, Tracks told himself that he would not be so easily threatened. After all, he'd dealt with such attitudes before in his life... Face fixed with a neutral smile, he collected his skirts neatly and curtsied to the cyclops, optics rising courageously to meet the single red orb. "That is correct, my Lord," the winged mech answered sweetly, "I apologize profusely that your reception to our humble abode is so undeserving of your station. We had not known you would be be making so gracious an appearance this orn."

A new servant entered the foyer then, carrying a laden tray of delectable food, treats, and a canter of fine high-grade, along with a porcelain teapot filled with a fragrant blend. The youngling nearly tripped over his pedes as he passed the threshold, his gaze catching sight of the cyclops and locking his legs in place, violent trembles coming to the poor thing's frame. Tracks was at the servant's side at once; taking the tray surely from the younger mech's shaking servos and silently dismissing him. Helm bowed low, the youngling scurried from the room without a moment's hesitation.

"Is there any way that we could be of assistance to you, my Lord?," the Autobot asked, carrying the tray to a nearby table and placing its dishes upon the freshly polished surface. He was just pouring a generous glass of high-grade when he felt something pull faintly at his waist; with great concentration, Tracks managed to keep his servo steadily despite the unexpected touch, not spilling a drop of the rich purple liquid.

Rounding about slowly, the slave was mutely alarmed to see that the cyclops now stood mere centimeters apart from him. He had not heard the gangly mech even move... Claws rubbed the material of the Autobot's stola slowly, the red optic sliding towards the multi-coloured mech as Shockwave leaned in closer. "This is quite exceptional silk," the Decepticon commented lowly, "Very pricey, I am told."

Tracks only then lowered his optics an inch, playing demure, as he held the crystal cup up between two servos for the purple mech to take. "My Master is a benevolent one," he replied.

For a long klik, Shockwave only stared quietly but Tracks did not change his posture or let his arms drop even for a moment. Finally, the cyclops pulled away. "I am not here to dine," he said brusquely, stepping away altogether. "I am here to see councilor Soundwave."

The Autobot set the cup neatly back on its tray, his pedes following quick but lightly after the purple mech as he strode out of foyer; the present servants watching worriedly, to which Tracks waved them off dismissively. He did not have time for their concerns. Keeping two paces behind the Decepticon, the slave began, "A messenger was here the orn before. As he was informed, the Master is busy at the moment and cannot entertain any audience for the time being."

Shockwave rounded on his pede suddenly, the winged mech nearly colliding with the cyclops before he caught himself gracefully. "Oh, I am well aware of your letter 'Tracks'," the purple mech intoned deeply, a claw rising slowly to the slave's face. Tracks, for his part, did not flinch as its sharp point trailed down his jaw and against the thrumming energon line along his neck cables. "And I'm wondering what sort of devious, little creature of inferior make believes itself worthy enough to break a seal of the Emperor's house, let along gaze upon its contents."

The claw twisted into the minuscule gap between woven gold and warm plating, yanking hard enough unexpectedly to choke the Autobot. Gritting his denta tightly to keep from spluttering at the assault, Tracks smoothed the pain from his expression, staring up into the evil, crimson orb with a polished facade of indifference. "If I had not, the Emperor's letter may have gone untouched for an immeasurable length of time or, worse, returned to him abruptly. The Master would not have wanted to insult his Emperor in such a way, and so I took it upon myself to ready a correspondence," he replied, sounding out every syllable cautiously, aware that the Decepticon could easily snap his neck in this position before he could even process the action. "I only act in limited authority of which my Master has given me, but I shall return to my proper station once the Master is of a state to oversee the estate on top of his lawful duties to the great Emperor."

Shockwave loomed in closer, his void visage almost pressing against Tracks'. "Assuming authority, as a slave and as an Autobot, is a heavily punishable crime."

Tracks felt his resolve harden. If the cyclops wanted to toy with him, then he would not be as diplomatic in return. "I am at my Master's mercy, and my master's Master," he returned in a clipped tone. "I have no reason to worry over anyone else."

Red orb shuttering at the brazen response, Shockwave pulled his claw away, folding his arms loosely behind his backstruts. "Very well. As my letter dictated, I will be back to survey the councilor's lands and secure a portion of them for a new barracks. The estate itself will need to sacrifice much of its space to the Emperor's needs. If your master is unfit to attend these proceedings at such a time, then the whole of the villa populace will be subject to the punishments. And I so do not like to coddle languorous behaviour."

Slowly, the purple mech made his way around the slave, heading back to the main doors. "Oh," he paused, not but a few paces down, his helm turning slightly in the Autobot's direction, "Expect that the palace physician shall attend that orn as well. You're not as... sparked... as I would have imagined."

Then the Decepticon was moving on, his long stride carrying him rapidly out of sight. And what good fortune that he did, for Tracks could feel his facade crumbling all at once; a chilling fear slipping into his spark. When Shockwave returned...

A crack of thunder erupted in the sky outside, the calamitous orchestra of the arriving storm.

C.M.D: Enter the Shockwave~ And "Lady" Tracks. Oh, the surplus of pretty dresses...
Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?