"Listen!" Deadend howled in agony, as Soundwave smacked him – rather soundly – against his chest plates.

Soundwave smacked him again.

And again!

With the palm of his hand.

Smack!

With a golden, thunderous crack, Soundwave's wings flickered and waned like a hungry locust's.

"Stop!" Deadend coughed, spitting out a tooth.

"You psycho!"

Strangely, Soundwave paused.

He seemed to consider Deadend's words.

Soundwave's legs shuffled bizarrely – as if the mech wore a guilty non-existent expression.

Soundwave retracted a hand with claws already outstretched – having been prepared to cause immense pain.

But Deadend shook his head.

And the torment stopped.

Sparkeater or not, Deadend's fight had left him long ago. He was prepared to give whatever information Soundwave required.

He was tied up against a boulder, with an excessive amount of chains…

Where Soundwave had gotten such a collection went unsaid.

"Deadend: Is expected to speak." Soundwave's voice-clip skipped like a record – the dialogue twisted to his demands. "You are expected to speak." He repeated the very same words, then added, "For your life."

Deadend nodded his head as if he understood.

The terms.

Deadend's fans hitched – almost stopping as he observed Soundwave's next move.

The Decepticon wasn't known as the Third-In-Command for nothing.

Soundwave's limbs – his tentacles – four in-total – toyed with the handles of four golden spears.

Each already tipped with a rancid fluid.

Deadend's energon ran slick – black.

His metal grey.

His red paint, scratched.

Peeled.

"I don't know anything!" Deadend bit against his restraints – the coil of chains rattled obnoxiously, woven tightly against his frame like an ugly sweater.

"I work for Winglord Sunstorm! Only! And that's it!" Deadend hissed, a fresh squelch of pain.

"And and the Decep-Decepti-cause!" Deadend said, as an afterthought. "Honest!"

Suddenly, Soundwave dropped his spears.

His tentacles lunged.

And lashed, like electric whips.

Shhhhhii-iiicccckkk!

Shhhhhiii-iicccckkk!

The whipping continued – scorching against Deadend's plating – cracking, smoking – hissing like wet weeping branches.

Until the entire mech was black.

As if covered in creosote, from burning wood.

The mech coughed, but his lips pinched firmly together – as if he – was refusing to speak.

Soundwave gave Deadend an evaluating glare, before retracting his tentacles into his subspace plating.

"Deadend: Has yet to disclose his energon sources." Hummed Soundwave, with the accent of an H.R. lady.

"Hey!" Deadend jostled his chains. His sparkeater claws scraped blindly against metal and rock. "There's – that's – why does that even matter?" argued Deadend, stalling for time as he looked up at the sky.

For some kind of miracle.

But Soundwave noticed.

Crack!

Suddenly.

Deadend's boulder became overturned, and the mech got an eyeful of pine needles and dust.

Soundwave stood quietly, serving as a specter in Deadend's peripheral vision.

"I've run the records – I've scoured the databases – you've no accomplishments to your name, Deadend." Stated Soundwave.

"The entire war – happened. And. You. Have. Nothing." Soundwave continued. If Deadend had anything to argue against the matter, he stayed aptly quiet.

Nor did he dare to move.

As Soundwave's silhouette crept ever closer.

His chains kept him tethered to the rock. He closed his eyes when he heard the crunch of gravel near his forehead.

"Deadend." Said Soundwave, slowly. "Is free – to go."

Deadend opened his eyes, too shocked to speak.

"But, first –" Those simple words were terrifying.

Soundwave fiddled with his chains, and Deadend's tanks curdled.

Deadend's instincts were screaming at him to run.

Soundwave was lying to him.

Somehow, he knew.

"I need materials – I need weapons!" Soundwave snarled, his voice suddenly half-feral.

Deadend whimpered, closing his eyes as he felt his backside – RIP!

Drip.

Peel.

With blood.

Deadend struggled, screaming, as he tried to throw Soundwave off of his plating – but the mech held firm – ripping off scraps of twisted red metal.

Sparkeater scales.

Spines.

And Hide.

It was whatever.

Whatever looked good.

And useful.

Soundwave pecked him apart like a black bird with a fancy for shiny sadistic things.

"Why!? Why?!" Deadend wailed.

But there was no answer.

Soundwave ran his wet sharp appendages through an ever wetter pile of scrapeater meat.

The flesh vantablack.

The scales red and squirming.

Deadend's backside, complete with boating accessories – oars, buoys, and life-rings – disappeared into Soundwave's subspace

Apparently, Soundwave held an appreciation for absurdities.

And only then, once he was done, did he look down into Deadend's eyes, aptly ignoring the raw exposed backside.

'Why?' and again, Deadend silently asked his question.

Soundwave squatted down onto a knee, to become properly eyelevel as he spoke.

"Because one does not come across a sparkeater often." He said, in his real voice.

Deadend didn't have the time nor care to comprehend the significance of such an action.

He simply wanted to survive.

His eyes widened when he processed the information.

"How – how did you know what I am?" asked Deadend. "Everyone still thinks sparkeaters don't exist!"

Soundwave made a noise.

Perhaps it was laughter.

Soundwave held out an arm, his wrist and wing-blade pointed upwards – angled in a manner so Deadend could clearly see – the meat of his palm.

Then Soundwave punctured his own hand – his claw tips cut deep, maiming flesh into ribbons.

Black energon.

Spilled.

And splattered.

"W-what! You're a sparkeater!" Deadend exclaimed, as the bloody mess sprayed upon his face. He looked gobsmacked and surprised, exasperated.

Or horrorified.

Something in-between.

Soundwave shook his head for "No."

"No." He said. "My people are dead." He stepped over Deadend, his talons twitching.

"You are but a mockery." He said.

While it was hard to see, from Deadend's positioning, forced flat atop the ground – the mech was able to study Soundwave's legs briefly.

Noting the obvious tells of a sparkeater's foot:

Serrated.

Cleated.

Ugly.

"For how long? Who bit you?" and despite the dangerous situation, Deadend couldn't help but to indulge his curiosity.

Soundwave shook his head, again.

For "No."

"No one did." Soundwave looked away, his cracked screen-visor flashed, as if he were imagining a scene impossibly far away. "I was forged this way." He said, as if it explained everything.

It didn't.

Deadend was as confused as ever.

Fortunately, Soundwave continued.

"Deep beneath Kaon – to Helix – to Praxis – we thrived once." Soundwave rolled his shoulder-plates, as if what he was recollecting was painful to him.

"By 'we,' you mean other sparkeaters?" Deadend clarified, still confused as ever, but Soundwave shook his head.

"No." Whatever visor-screen remained flashed red upon his face. Soundwave's EM-field pulsated with a splotch of rage – that was growing, and growing.

"No." Soundwave paused, as if to recollect himself. "They called me the Kinslayer." Soundwave bent down onto his knees again, meeting Deadend's optics. "I killed monsters like you. Then, eventually, there were no more."

"I'd kill you. Here. Now." Soundwave creepily ran a fingertip down Deadend's chin. Only when the gross, cold sensation pulled away – did Deadend realize it had been the very same hand Soundwave had cut open earlier.

Deadend grimaced in disgust.

Soundwave's rancid blood had smeared onto his lips.

If there were any doubts about Soundwave's sparkeater-status, it was all but confirmed by taste.

"But." Soundwave said, as if to clarify something more.

"But."

Grimly, Deadend looked up. That word kept getting his attention, again and again.

"Deadend: You've been a good, loyal Decepticon. You've helped the Nemesis-wreckage survivors – you've kept Decepticons alive."

Soundwave slipped back into character, again, using a mishmash of recordings to speak.

"You deserve to live."

Deadend experienced a flutter of confused, baffled emotions. It was hard for a sparkeater to feel – well, much of anything.

Except pain.

To be a sparkeater, was to be an undead abomination.

So Deadend truly spoke, with honesty – despite his broken bleeding backside.

"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

Granted, he was also most likely delirious from his injuries…

And when he looked up again, Soundwave was gone.


Soundwave almost broke the sound-barrier as he sped ahead. His aerial alt-mode was an agile stealth bomber he didn't hesitate to take advantage of.

Ever since the Nemesis-crash, Soundwave had been flying more than ever (perhaps more than his entire wartime career upon Earth) and such a fact irritated him.

He felt sloppy.

Cold in the air.

Like a frying pan left crusty with fried beans and scrambled eggs.

Some miles away, Soundwave detected the displaced Decepticons from the Nemesis-wreckage.

They looked like ants from his height within the sky.

They were now setting up camp in a more discreet location, atop a mountain-range.

Apparently, most Decepticons in the group now answered to a mister Winglord Sunstorm.

Rather than Megatron.

Which of course, was an unpalatable situation for Soundwave.

When pressed for an explanation, for their blatant betrayal towards the Decepticon-cause, a vehicon had claimed, "The Winglord! He saved our lives!"

And while Soundwave wouldn't typically tolerate their lack of loyalty, he could begrudgingly forgive them.

Just once.

Considering their various states of disrepair…

If what was said was true, that the Winglord had saved their lives – then Sunstorm had ultimately saved a considerable portion of the Decepticon-army.

Perhaps a full quarter.

And when said army ultimately returned to Megatron's side, the Decepticons would finally win the war for planet Earth.

Whatever that entailed.

Megatron was never clear about what he hoped to achieve, besides smashing Optimus Prime to smithereens…

That – and eating purple crack rocks.

Soundwave flew away from the Decepticons, and an uneasy itchy feeling settled over his frame and plating.

He wanted to stay and cement his place of leadership within the camp – to remind the overly enthusiastic vehicons of their duties and normalities.

But Soundwave had other priorities.

He had a mission.

And that was to save Megatron from Shockwave's clutches.


The sparkeater meat harvested from Deadend was going to go to waste – if Soundwave didn't find a use for it quickly.

Fortunately, Soundwave had already prepared blueprints for the project at hand – having drafted several potential prototypes on the flight over.

He'd arrived to his destination:

Steamboat Springs

South of Reno, Nevada

It was a small volcanic mountain, chock full of geothermal activity to supply the energy requirements for his project.

He was preparing weapons and armor for Megatron.

Or himself.

Whatever he could squeeze out of Deadend's backside, he would.

Apart of him regretted not taking more workable material from the mech, like his arms and legs.

A sparkeater could survive such a devastating injury, in theory.

But as much as Soundwave hated those creatures – his long forgotten kin – he would not kill Deadend.

Indeed, perhaps, the mech had earned a promotion.

He was quite happy with the material he was able to acquire.

Soundwave looked at the mangled back-kibble of a boat alt-mode, considering how best to tackle the strange stretched out skin.

He stored away netting, harpoons, and various other fishing tools into his subspace – for later consideration.

Which left him not a lot to work with.

He'd be able to craft a helmet with a visor – and a matching neck guard, and so taken by the style was he -- that he got to work immediately.

Using more material than anticipated.

But unfortunately, he soon found out he didn't have enough metal and scale for a sword.

It was an easy fix.

Just painful.

Soundwave was no stranger to crafting armaments from out of himself.

But.

It'd been quite a few millennia since he'd last done so.

So he hesitated.

To make the cut.

Sequestering himself beneath a cliff, just above a boiling pit of rainbow acidic waters – Soundwave began to rip his arms and legs apart.

It was counterintuitive to destroy what armor he already naturally had, but experience as a sparkeater had taught him his wounds would heal fast and callous.

Like a cancer.