It rained for three days and three nights. On the fourth morning, the clouds finally cleared, revealing the chaos left behind -swollen muds and scattered foliage- creating a dismal bog that the storm had rendered upon their beautiful city. Carrying an overflowing bucket of dirty water to the front for disposal, the matron was stunned to find that the carriages were being drawn out onto the messy courtyard and the cyberhorses fit to their reins; the slave Tracks standing not far from the door, watching over the proceedings.
"What is this?," the old femme asked, tossing her load to the free side before staring up at the tall Autobot.
Tracks glanced at her quickly, adjusting his palla about his helm idly. "The gardeners inform me that the new seeds were washed away by the storms before they could take. As we have no more at the villa, it seems a trip to the market is prudent."
"So we can send a servant to fetch more," the matron replied, brow furrowed oddly. "The lord has many staff set aside for such errands."
Tracks opened his mouth, pausing a moment, before a soft sigh escaped him. "...I know, but I feel the need to stretch my own legs. The storm kept me indoors for too long."
There was more to it than that. The femme knew; she too had feared the visit of the Emperor's closest associate, having heard about it after the fact. Shockwave's impression on Tracks' alone had kept the Autobot to his berth most of the gloomy orns. "Well," the matron coughed, shaking out her apron as she often did in unsettling situations, "That sounds like a fine suggestion. But you're ill-prepared for a trip to the market. Come inside and let us ready you as one of your standing should be."
The winged mech shuttered his optics in surprise at the servant's words; following mutely as she headed back indoors.
xxXxXxx
The marketplace was bustling despite the large puddles and grit covering areas of the square from the yesterorn's rainfall. Tracks watched the crowds through the carriage's privacy curtain, feeling as his spark began to rotate quicker. It had been too long since he had last been among the common folk of Iacon; longer since he'd done so without a master nearby to oversee him. Despite his desires, Tracks felt a little afraid.
"It'll be fine," he told himself, fingers tightening around the scroll the matron had given him. "I have everything I need. I am safe. This is nothing more than a little shopping trip; no need for anyone to be suspicious."
Aside from the safety of the carriage and the extra presence of two strong guards in place of footmechs, the winged slave was dressed finely in Soundwave's colours, wore the specially designed palla of a married 'bot and even bore the councilor's house ring on his finger among the other jewels. On the surface, there was no feasible way to undermine Tracks' position. He need only cement the perception in his mannerisms. Cycling his intakes slowly, the Autobot returned his gaze to the market buzzing outside of the carriage; smiling faintly as he noticed the multitude of stares cast his way as shoppers split before the coach's passing. Many were in awe; some were incredulous or uneasy about the presence of a highly-ranked official's convoy. Tracks supposed he'd be like the latter in in their pedes, but now, he could only be amused at how much respect Soundwave's position automatically garnered. At least, it was a sign he'd be in no danger.
Into the heart of the crowds did the carriage push further, while the slave rolled out the matron's scroll -her list of necessities that needed restocking at the estate. It wasn't much -most items had been filled before the storm- but it was enough to keep Tracks out a good half of the orn. The mech smiled. The matron was being quite kind to him.
The babble of the crowd was becoming louder. At the sound of a cracking whip, Tracks found himself drawing aside the privacy curtain, driven to find the source of the ruckus. He did not have to look far. Bots were gathered around a hideous-looking string of caravans, constructed with what looked like iron and bits of beaten plating, its dishevelled girth parked near the square fountain where a crudely built platform now stood. A slaver's caravan, Tracks immediately thought with disdain, about to shut the curtain. He paused though as he remembered that the trade of 'bots had since been banned. What then could attract such a large crowd to so garish a carriage?
Sparing one last glance out onto the square, the Autobot was stunned to see a slue of cages being strung up on the platform and around its edges, all manner of poor-looking creature peering out of their cramped prisons at the jeering 'bots huddling closer. The slave's spark ached for those confined and miserable animals but he knew he could do nothing for them.
Then, the caravan manager stepped onto the podium...
"Have I got the best for you!," he bellowed animatedly, smirking at the crowd as he moved about, "Finest creatures from across the lands! All kinds of sizes, even ones small enough to carry in your credit purse! Need something for hosting? These winged tinies can sing the prettiest tune for your guests! Looking for a gift for your little sparkling? Don't bother with the cheap market trinkets -buy the lil' runt a personal critter to occupy themselves with. We have soft ones and ones without claws for the smaller mechlings and femmes! Hoping to impress your competition or win a fine 'bot? Take a ferocious beast home as yours truly!"
Every pitch was made with a grating laugh and a jostle or shove to the captive animals' cages. But the merchant was not finished yet.
"Now, hey! You in the back- don't turn away yet!," he yelled, surveying the entire crowd again, "I know what you're thinking- 'ferocious beasts? All I see are little boxes nary wider than my torso on that rickety shelf'- Aye, but your optics be wrong! I have plenty of wares and this one is indeed ferocious..."
With a grand flourish, the merchant pointed to the main caravan, smirking as its side doors fell forward suddenly, drawing the crowds' attention as they tried to peer into its dark interior. Almost in sync, a ghastly roar burst from the darkness, both high-pitched and unnatural yet just familiar enough to cause a chill to travel down spinal struts, as a black shape leapt out, all fangs and claws shining in the bright sunlight. Onlookers screamed in terror, surging backwards immediately, but the large beast only reached two feet before chains around its limbs grew taut and caused the animal to fall back roughly. 'Bots still tittered anxiously as the dazed creature slowly rolled onto its abdomen, ready to flee in a moment's notice; only relaxing when four, burly mechs walked out of the caravan, each grasping a chain firmly between their servos, with two additional guards on either side. The guards carried long whips upon themselves, barbed along the length, which they used to corral the still-growling beast closer to the podium.
"See how fierce it is!," the caravan owner roared, to the slow-building pleasure of the crowd. He unfurled his own whip, this one coiled with bits of silver along its tail, cracking it at the approaching animal. Unlike the others, his bit true, slicing into the rich obsidian plating with an enraged cry from the beast.
The onlookers were tense, yet upon seeing that the creature could not escape its bonds, began to jeer in malicious delight at every strike the caravan owner cut into the animal's frame.
"See how it doesn't falter?! Feel the strength in its spark, thirsting for energon?! It is the rarest and most formidable find to ever grace Iacon! This is not a sale to be missed, Lords and Ladies! This-"
"STOP THIS AT ONCE!"
The mech's whip fell limply as it circled for another strike, the crowd parting suddenly around the speaker.
"Ah...," the merchant greeted, beginning to tuck away his whip as he straightened up, "Eager to get a closer look, my lady?" He wore what supposedly was meant to pass as a jovial smile, which thankfully was quick to fall once he noticed the optic colour of the interrupter.
"No", the winged mech declared as he passed the fringe of the crowd, "What I am eager to see is you releasing this miserable creature from your cruel games!"
"Aye... and what power does an Autobot like yourself think you have?," the merchant sneered derisively. The gathered 'bots leaned in closer to watch the unfolding scene; some with servos over their mouths to muffle their gossip, while others searched about for the imperial sentries.
Tracks, courageously stepped closer to the podium despite the negative attention he drew. With a sure vocalizer and a lifted helm, he demanded, "This is the last time I repeat myself: Release the animal."
The merchant's servo was on the handle of his whip, his sneer widening. "I release nothing until there has been a payment made! And I'd like to see you pull forth a single, gleaming piece to your name."
"...Very well," the Autobot replied coolly, snapping his fingers.
Immediately, the coach footmech pushed forth from the circle of onlookers, two burly guards following him; carrying a medium-sized chest between them securely. They approached Tracks, the footmech giving a quick, little bow, as the winged mech turned towards the trio, pulling out a gold key from within the folds of his palla and inserting it into the chest's lock. It clicked audibly in the bubble of silence that surrounded this piece of the market; optics flaring as the Autobot lifted the lid to reveal an almost overflowing well of gold and small jewels.
Unhurriedly, Tracks counted a reasonable portion into a silk pouch and handed it off to the footmech, who moved across the cobblestones with a fast pace, holding it out for the caravan owner to take. A hard look on the slave's beautiful visage stated his intent clearly.
"...that paltry amount ain't enough," the merchant said, not even reaching for the purse.
"It's equitable to the animal's market worth," Tracks returned, his optics narrowing an inch.
"Not enough for my prices," the other shot back stubbornly.
Rigidly, the Autobot marched forward, not stopping even when one of the caravan hands grabbed for his palla, causing it to tear away from his frame roughly. Already, he could hear one of his own escorts grab the poor mech in a punishing hold, continuing his fearless tread towards the caravan owner. "Perhaps you would like to question the validity of my Master's coin with Lord Soundwave himself?," the winged mech suggested coolly, tilting his chin just so, so that the sigils around his throat caught the sunlight.
A murmur ran through the crowd incredulously, the merchant poorly hiding a flinch at the councilor's name. "Very well," he growled, swiping the credit pouch from the still-waiting servant. "The beast is sold! But you, my courtesan, may urge the creature back into its cage for the trip home."
Tracks ignored the mech completely, fed up with his attempts at power-play. Instead, he summoned the footmech back to himself, whispered a set of instructions before sending the servant running off into the marketplace. As one of the guards helped the slave reset his palla into place, the footmech returned, carrying a shank of meat wrapped in palm leaves. Without a word, Tracks took the meat from the shocked mech's servos, aware everyone watched intently as he neared the still-snarling animal.
Circled by whip-wielding caravan workers, the beast swung its helm from side to side sporadically; unfocused optics slowly rolling to Tracks as it scented the bloody meal. It roared when the Autobot suddenly diverted from his path, standing before a wheeled box owned by the caravan. Facing the animal, the slave unwrapped the raw shank further, letting some of its juices tauntingly drip to the cobblestones. The action seemed too much for the poor beast -it gave a crazy scream, charging past its handlers and running to Tracks at a madmech's pace.
In the blink of an optic, the winged mech hurled the meat into the box with a spin of his heel; slamming the door down behind the animal as it bounded mindlessly into the metal cage. The sound of the beast ripping into the hunk of meat echoed loudly as Tracks addressed his two guards. "Strap the cage to the back of the carriage for the time. We will shop for another horse, alongside the rest of today's purchases."
At their nods, the Autobot headed back to the carriage, climbing in just as the caravan owner began howling the rest of his wares at a subdued crowd.
xxXxXxx
The matron hurried down the hall, the angry tap in each hard pedefall making the nightly servants, lighting torches for the evening, flinch in concern. But the old femme did not pause to fret over their duties, continuing on to a gilded door at the end of the corridor. It was simple luck that a winged mech was approaching the same door; turning in from another hall. At the sound her stomping, Tracks slowed, facing the matron with a mild smile that quickly flattened at the matron's irritation.
"You-," she choked, drawing to a pause a few steps away from the slave. "How- Why in Primus' name would you do such a thing at the market?!"
The mech did not answer for a moment, adjusting the tray he held in his servos absentmindedly. It drew a cold look from the servant.
"That wasn't your coin to spend so frivolously," she seethed.
"I am aware," Tracks replied softly, casting his optics to the side. "They were hurting it though... I could not stand by and watch."
The matron wanted to smack her forehelm in frustration. "It is a beast; not a 'bot. And look at yourself!," the femme stated pointedly, gesturing to a recent gash on Tracks' arm. It was shallow, thankfully, but the four jagged, faint lines of energon through the tourniquet noted the culprit. "That thing hurt you! My lord, it is unsafe to keep that creature here and I disagree that you should be putting yourself in harm's way needlessly."
"...Dear matron," the winged mech spoke just above a whisper, finally looking up and catching the old servant's gaze. "I empathize with your concerns. But," Tracks continued, as the matron opened her mouth to interrupt, "I see no wrong in what I did. Beast or 'bot, no one deserves to be shackled and tortured for the sake of another's pleasure. If the master should find my decisions inappropriate, I shall take my punishment then. At this time, we still remain unable to reach him and the animal still requires a watchful optic. I believe with a little time, it can be redeemed... and I will burden no one else with such a task based on a choice I alone made."
"I- Would you think of the risk you place the Master's heir in?," the matron sputtered quickly, cocking her fists on her hips defiantly as she leaned forward. "It's your arm today, but what of tomorrow? One slash in the wrong place and the trauma may bring an end to that new spark before it ever has a chance to see the light!"
Anger flashed across Tracks' optics as he leaned in toward the older femme slowly, his pursed mouth parting with a faint hiss. "And what of it? It has already been five orns since Lord Shockwave's visit and we have yet to reach the Master still!," he retorted icily. "The Emperor will not keep away for long now that the rains have passed and when he comes to find the situation unchanged, I somehow doubt even a sparkling will be free from his wrath. It is what he is infamous for. You allow me to do nothing in this regard -not summon a locksmith, remove the doors or authorize that the walls be knocked in- and yet you will criticize my choice to put my energies toward something that I can actively help? It was you who wanted me to act as Lady of the estate... and I will not be made a hypocrite because of your indecision."
"Now," the slave added, straightening up, the ire draining from his optics leaving a silent weariness in their wake, "Is there anything I can help you with this evening?"
The matron made a queer face, mumbling chasteningly. "...No."
Tracks nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to the door.
"You cannot busy yourself with the beast forever, my lord. Some things are not meant to be saved."
The Autobot glanced back, but the old femme had already began a swift path back up the corridor, making speaking to her pointless unless he gave chase. It was not, Tracks' decided, worth it. Quietly, he opened the gilded door, entering into a dimly lit room. Furniture was placed about the room peculiarly, draped in plain fabric to protect from dust and small insecticons, throwing large shadows along the floor and across the walls and ceiling. Among a thick swatch of darkness glowed a pair of red, slanted optics.
Mutely, the slave walked to the centre of the room, keeping the beast's gaze no further than his peripheral, as he set the platter on the floor; removing the polished lid and presenting the mound of uncooked meat to his studious watcher. His task complete, Tracks quickly drew away to a chair backed against the wall, sitting calmly on its cushion and staring into the centre of the room. The beast -a panther, the mech had learned with some studying- slinked from the shadows a few kliks later, taking to its meal quickly and with the same vicious voracity of before. The poor creature had clearly been starved for far too long a time...
Perhaps, Tracks noted silently, the same could be said of him as well.
The cyclops' promised visit loomed over his helm, yet things remained unchanged, ensuring that punishment would be coming for them all. Was he fighting hard enough? A few phrases here and there, but he didn't press further when the matron shut him down, disallowing him from trying any means necessary to remove Soundwave from his self-made isolation. He reprimanded the matron harshly over her unwillingness to overstep boundaries, but wasn't that the point of him taking the mantel of 'Lady'? To make the decisions she couldn't? If he could not free the councilor from this own room, well, then...
Maybe the panther wasn't the only one lacking any worth beyond the status of accessory.
Optics dimming, the slave drew his legs up to his chestplates, letting his helm drop miserably.
xxXxXxx
It was a dark night, suitable for undercover work or secret affairs. For the uneven, stumbling Decepticon, it was the kind of golden opportunity to rifle through the pantry without interruption. Already his tanks were beginning an uncomfortable churning, having been neglected for too long, and the empty wineskin tied about his hip thumped mockingly as he staggered through the silent corridor. He was more compelled to refill that than anything else.
A dim thirst coming to his glossa, the mech hurried his awkward shuffling, eager to drink deeply from the estate's rich coffers. The door leading to the storehouse was just ahead- but instead of the door swinging open smoothly at his touch, it remained immobile; forcing the Decepticon to slam into it unexpectedly. Helm rolling, the blue mech hurried to stabilize himself against the wood, taking kliks to absorb what had just transpired.
Was it locked perhaps? Well, no, that made no sense. Who would lock up the storehouse in the night?
Drunkenly, the Decepticon fumbled at the handle, trying to get the door to give, all to no avail. His already clouded processor became so absorbed in his futile attempts, that he did not notice that another presence had closed onto his location until it was nearly beside him. Sluggishly, the mech turned around, hearing the unholiest of screams trumpet its' herald, as something jagged racked across his chestplates. Agony blossomed immediately, dragging the Decepticon to the ground while yet another scream followed the first.
Floundering, he rolled over, optics and mind reaching for his attacker; all that greeted him though was a well of rage and hunger and firey-red optics glowing dangerously in the darkness. Panic touched his spark then; the haze lifting from his helm quickly. He was going to be killed! He-
"Ravage! No!"
The familiar vocalizer echoed loudly down the hallway, creating a pause in the creature long enough for Tracks -ever beautiful Tracks- to fly down the corridor like a sprite; throwing his arms around the monster's invisible frame. "Hush!," the slave spoke hurriedly, servos turning the red optics away from the Decepticon, stroking at the shadows, "Hush. You are safe. Do not fret. Do not worry..."
There was the thunder of a stampede pouring down the corridor now, bringing with it the warmth of torchlight and the drawn faces of the estate guards.
"Do not mind me!," Tracks ordered as they attempted to approach the slave first. The shapeless creature, its sleek plating now showing the lithe feline figure that it bore under a flame, growled in warning at the others; the winged mech's servos stroking its tense neck harder at once. "The Master has emerged from his room. Ravage presumed him an intruder and attacked -carry him at once to a fresh berth and wake the matron!"
All optics turned to the fallen mech then and Soundwave, aware of his own self again, opened his mouth to utter a protest but only released a low groan of pain instead. One guard ran back down the hall from whence he came, another lighting the corridor torches while the rest approached the councilor. Too exhausted to influence their processors, Soundwave was at his servants' mercy as they shifted him about; shuffling until the found a steady grip and lifted the Decepticon up in a web of their strong arms, marching their master to darker halls of the quickly awakening estate.
