Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I do not ‘wake up’ startled, I do not ‘ wake up ’ at all.

I online with an aching matrix of a motherboard ‘headache’, that’s not to say I was offline in the first place, but perhaps in another context I was, indeed, deactivated; dead in your organic tongue.

The memories of one of your kind now inhabits my mind, weak as they were from their own death, they were not able to fully ‘take-over’ I guess , but I have no doubt their personality, habits and their own concepts of thought will be melding into my spark and processor, taking over like bad weld.

Which means of course, perhaps soon enough I will not be myself anymore, and whoever the other was they most likely will soon exist. A new existence, that shouldn’t be.

Their mind, my frame..

Wherever this log is placed, I have no thought. Seemingly on a moot scale it will be placed wherever the pit it wants to very well be- that being locked in my processor and I’ll be talking to myself and the only answers I receive will also be myself.

Yet this does not seem all realistic, with the organic mind that merged with my own, it shouldn’t be possible. Not to say it isn’t impossible , but that was after an absurd amount of experimentation that went downhill, fast .

Pardon for the ramblings, I was not always such a talker, but perhaps it is the fear of no longer being. A silly thought on a grandeur scale if the memories I’ve filtered through gave any inkling, a peculiarity in which my world- soon theirs- doesn’t exist; a plane that's visualized on a reflective surface. Or maybe it does, but in a whole different context of existence then how it’s seen from the other’s.

Again- I ramble. Perhaps it’s them that makes me do so?

But this’ll be it, so I leave this for you, new being. My last and only log, compiled in the files of this log I will leave you downloads to aid you if you do not get my ‘smarts’ upon onlining.

I can only hope these forthcoming stories of your own will be more alike to the cartoons than reality usually is. Good luck and may the stars guide you upon our war-torn Cybertron, Seekerling.

Chapter Text

That’s sad, it’s depressing , I swear to whatever deity decided this was okay- I’m going to set them in a boiling basin of acid. The original owner of this body- whoever the hell they were and you bet your ass I’m going to hell and back to find out just who they were- they were..

I don’t even know how to describe it, the closest I can allude to it is- it’s like- reading a story and correctly feeling the emotions meant to come from it. Except I can actually feel the emotions coming off the log inside my mind.

They..

It felt like an overflowing of emotions lodged into a tiny ball waiting to explode. I just happened to get a faceful upon opening my optics and registering the ceiling.

PAIN-SADNESS-LOATHING-REGRET-BEMUSEMENT-FEAR-PEACE

And boy was there certainly pain.

I could feel every bit of metal, pipes, tubes- everything that made up my new body on a molecular level of pain, moving was a hassle period. There was something in between my joints that was grinding down with a visceral sound. Like a drill trying to slowly dig into tungsten- loud and annoying.

Whatever it was dislodged a bit from my excessive moving, I say it’s good, less pain to deal with and I know I won’t be moving anytime soon until the self-repair systems feel the frame up to standard.

At least whatever deity dumped me here gave me a full tank of energon, I guess while I’m here getting repaired I can finally get to work looking through all these memories from the seeker.

And panicking.

I’m going to panic now.

Chapter Text

That was a good panic. A great panic even. All panic gone.

And after all that panic I was finally able to get through the memory files of my host and let me tell you- this mech needed a hug . He was a cold-constructed seeker made for the purpose of Energon seeking off-world, like Thundercracker- who he did work with before the other became part of a trine with the Winglord Starscream and the hyperactive Skywarp.

Unlike ‘Cracker though, he didn’t have a trine, or well he did before they decided to replace him after an accident. Even the memory of their bond breaking was.. Extraordinarily deliberating. It felt like a thousand tiny pins wiggled their way into his spark and jammed into the little seals that separated them from him. There was a mess and by that I mean a MESS, here’s an example; you ever pour flour in a bowl and there’s always that bit of it that doesn’t make it in the bowl?

It was like that. Sure you could call it whole but really it was shaved. Dude spent an orn in a medical induced stasis.

And then- get this.

Back to work!

Like, imagine getting heart surgery that almost went wrong and resting for a week or two before getting back to work.

Maybe cybertronians are built different, but fuck no.

His cycles were sad, boring and repetitive.

And then the war happened and oh boy! They were literally his happiest days, discounting the genocide- and the sparkling center being bombed in Vos-.. and Vos itself.

Uh.

It was depressing, man. All these lads over here suffering and we just- I was- before all of this I was literally just sitting on a couch reading and watching this all go down and smiling .

Utter shit, tis I, your old friend.

Maybe this is karmic retribution and if whoever brought me here wanted me to do something.. Well I’m certainly going to do something alright.. Cybertron will be whole again, it’s going to thrive- it’ll be better than even the Golden Age. In the name of my host, Silverglide and the mashup ‘verse I find myself in.. It’s going to be better. I swear.

Chapter Text

I’m going to say it’s been an orn, in layman’s terms, about two days and if it hasn’t been then this chronometer is a dirty little liar.

But on the brighter news, I can move . I only learned that after reviewing all the memories up till Silverglide was offline and then online. Of course that was only because after my vow to help Cybertron, a complete bitch of a deity decided that was all they needed to reformat my frame and that was.. It was cool in the ‘oooh pretty colors flashing’ way and great in the ‘oh thank god no one will recognize me’ way.

Because while Silverglide was cold-constructed, the same looking as every other seeker, he had an imprint; something that just told anyone who knew him in the past that it was him . Which on a war scale- that’s scary and so many fragging props to the saboteurs in the war that went undercover.

But here’s the thing.

You can’t just change up your frame and get rid of the imprint, that’s not how it works. It’s the spark of the bot or con that just etches itself into the armor, like a pizza pan with some of the ‘season’ left on it for more flavor on the next pizza cooked on it.

The spark energy is what makes the frame warm and living , basically, so what I’m getting at is I got a complete reformat with a shiny new spark.

Here’s how it went.

The pain was tolerable- my receptors for it were turned off as well, so to be feeling it was immense, my processor was in turmoil as I tried to figure out plans for the future and then there was a presence.

Awning upon my tiny form, cradled like a child within its field of influence and then there was a light of green, flint and steel- a wave of soothing energy that glided my whole frame.

I’ll be honest, I can’t recall anything after that. There’s a high probability my pain receptors glitched and I blacked out from the instant intensity of pain before it was cleared from whatever that was, but here’s what I know now.

I have a green spark, my frame is still covered in whatever my host was covered in, but it’s different schematic wise- smoother and sleeker, not as spiky and heavy like his, certainly not like Starscream’s lankiness either.

I’m also in some cave that’s making me go insane , but I’m pretty sure that’s the seeker programming in me that’s screaming.

Chapter Text

It took me more time than I wanted to get out of the cave, Silverglide really went deep and that’s another thing I don’t want to be thinking about right now either. I got new things to download though, for instance, did you know there can be two ‘tronians with the same name, but have different sayings?

It’s a part of the etiquette and undertones section within the file of ‘EMF’, usually the first-born of a couple, name their creation with an abbreviation of both sayings from each other's names to continue the legacy.

So Silverglide is something like, Pass-the-silver-falls or it could go something like, Falling-shards-of-silver. It’s crazy and I.. I do need a new name, but would it be okay? Silverglide didn’t know anything- he wasn’t meant to. There was only work, no play and of course the war.

It’s something to think about later, maybe while I’m flying! My energon levels at the bottom of my visor sat at a steady 78%, plenty of fuel to keep me going for a while I’m sure and I can scout from above.

Or well, scout from above in relative peace hopefully.. This place was filled with jagged ends, torn metal and dislodged everything so I can’t very well navigate this mess too well on land, but the sky isn’t all that empty either. Oh well it was empty- but scraplets existed in this universe and I’m living metal.

There were also insecticons wandering around after some of them got left behind and I don’t know what they’ll do to me if they spot me, but I’ll certainly take them over scraplets of course.

Primus this’ll be a hassle and a half. I’ll just take to walking I guess, even if it didn’t shut up the instincts of a seeker, it was better than being inside a cave. There was also a lot more cover to get behind, so that’s an upside.

Now to focus.

I’m in- I think near the sonic canyons? Southwest of Tarn, northeast of Stanix and according to what basically makes up my gps and my plans I need to go southeast to Kaon.

Why exactly? I’m sure two and two have been put together, but it’s for Shockwave.

The Universe I was placed in was a mashup of course, but the majority of it is all a part of the Prime continuity, it has set itself as the basis of everything and if my plan was going to work I was going to need the ‘con.

And it isn’t my past attraction when I was human that’s speaking. Shockwave has a brilliant mind there’s no doubt at all even IF he uses it for inhuman experimentations, but let's be honest, he isn’t as bad as the quintessons could get. 

He was also the major key player in the making of cyber-matter which, while briefly used against the Earth, it really didn’t amount to much damage in the show and if signs showed there was going to be a bigger issue I’d step in.

But right now I have a mad scientist to find, help and gain the trust of all in that order.

Oh and also the dark energon issue, I need to get him off-planet, hopefully there's an existing space-worthy aircraft somewhere out here.

So many things to do, holy Primus.

Chapter Text

A name- designation.

Identity.

I’d like to say I’ve been putting the basic necessity of thinking towards the aid of a moniker that didn’t sound like an organic calling while traversing the ruined lands of Cybertron, picking up whatever thing that looked like it could be useful.

There’s a lot of disconnected limbs strewn about, I don’t really know who the hell decided to do impromptu surgery, but the few whole frames I could find didn’t have much besides useless shiny scrap. Not to say I left the shiny things! Some looked important from a few of the files I have, which left the question why they weren’t taken, but more for me!

Oh right- designation. 

What I was saying before being distracted- I want to say I’ve come up with a bunch of strung together sayings, I want something that feels right you know? But I can’t quite settle because I want to carry on Silverglide, I don’t want to forget him. It’s a weird feeling, never knowing the person, but not wanting to just leave them be.

I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind, in some perspectives I could be considered his progeny, but gah! I’m so frustrated.

I’ll just list them on the side of my visor and settle for one later.

Reflection of fleeting hope Silvergleam

Scattering of fallen mortality Scatterblade

Where shards meet ground, rise to remake Risingshine*

I’ll make it easier to understand which name is actually the progeny name if I ever forget, but right now it is my favorite considering my plans for the future. Having that out of the way took almost no time at all, which I guess let my attention expand upon searching around and continuing on towards my destination.

So far it seems the amount of items I’ve got hasn’t come close to the limit of my sub-space, most of it is shiny metals that looked really pretty and some of them having functions I can’t quite wrap my processor around, the rest were consistent of medkits ranging from shoddy cobbling and professional tidying.

I say while my haul was small, most of the medkits missing some essential items, the frames WERE whole, as in not in disrepair. So yes. I did also do some of my OWN dissection.

Wrong of me? Probably, but they weren’t using it and I might need it later helping Shockwave! If he even needs it, I should’ve been more focused on where exactly in the time-line I’m in, but there’s the niggling feeling in the back of my helm that says I’m here pretty early.

But there’s really no proving it considering not much of Cybertron was shown in Prime, now if I had a way to Earth or a contact on the planet it would help a lot, unfortunately I’m stuck to gut instincts.

Chapter Text

Maybe I’m overestimating myself, actually, no I am DEFINITELY overestimating myself. Walking towards Kaon from the canyons I started at? I probably have more than a few bolts loose in my helm!

But I can’t fly! Or well I can, most likely very poorly- and while finding supplies along the way by my slow pace is a bonus, flying would get me there in under a deca-cycle. Grounders had alt-modes for land terrain, I certainly didn’t unless I secretly became a triple-changer, but I’m only special enough for enhanced body functions.

And yea, about that- let me be distracted enough to ignore my own boredom as I wade through discarded metals.

I was reconstructed as a Point One Percenter, that was what the green was. Now I know I’m mainly talking to myself right now but a POP does not give you superpowers. It does not let you warp around with a tiny functional spacebridge in your systems like Skywarp, or let you go from mach 1 to mach 3 near instantaneously without blowing a fuse like Thundercracker.

It MIGHT let your vocalizer reach decibels high enough to rupture a human’s innards or low enough to make your spark fizzle out.

But it isn’t a sigma ability. Tarn doesn’t have one, if you're wondering. He’s a POP like me, vocalizer enhanced and mutated enough to hit just the right tone to mess with your internals on a personal level.

And that’s what green sparks do, they enhance different parts of your frame that makes what normal bots can do(with a lot of training), so much easier for us. Normal bots can pick up a tank, maybe toss them, but a POP?

We can pick them up and yeet them.

We’re just naturally stronger, all of us, but after that- that’s where some of us get our own enhancements. Like Tarn and his voice, Black Shadow with his systems able to generate enough force to release a sonic boom without having to ever reach mach 1.

So no, it isn’t superpowers, it’s just better genetics that seem crazy enough to be some. That being said, what IS my enhancements?

Well.

Recognizing and categorizing what universe, which placement on the timeline, what belongs- what does not. That’s not normal, it isn’t a sigma ability either in case there’s some thought of ‘future sight’ and what not.

That’s the case of both my past brain and current processor being enhanced to recognize, remember, put together every piece of information I’ve gathered and connect the dots at speeds invisible to every possible device.

Maybe that’s not wholly correct either, but explaining your own POP enhancement is like asking someone to explain why their personality is like that and you can't. You can’t explain someone’s personality in just a few words, that just needs a life story.

So yea sure, I can put together enough pieces to ‘see the future’.

Did you also know that I came across a half-eaten bot? It’s recent and I don’t need to put two and two together to know there’s something behind me.

P.S. It’s scraplets.

Chapter Text

Scraplets. Idigenous metallic creatures much similar to earth’s piranhas, but flight-based. They’re terrifying on multiple scales and while they’re hard to get away from, it isn’t hard to get rid of them.

By that I mean murdering them all. Not the whole species of course- just the ones that were chasing me. See, scraplets aren’t bright, they’ll get creative, but they aren’t smart. Their hearing and smelling are so bad they’re practically just big eyes and a small body.

Yes, their eyesight was the only benefactory sense to them, but that isn’t if you knew what they really saw and now that I’m thinking about it, Silverglide really studied multiple things at once despite flying planet to planet surprisingly.

How he had time I’ll never know, but good on him and with the newer files I had gotten from whoever- this is a lot of information.

Gah, I feel like I’m going to fry my processor despite knowing I won’t be able to.

Anyways!

Those scraplets don’t see heat signature, color, not even movement. Here’s the kicker though, they see in fuel-line. If energon is actively pumping through those lines inside you, you can bet your spark-tainted frame is up for dinner. And no- that doesn’t mean they can see through walls. Not fully at least.

They’ll see you moving behind one, they just won’t realize you’re alive, so technically you can keep one as a pet and it wouldn’t eat you as long as you trained it to realize bot give food when living, bot does not give food when dead.

So here’s another thing, the one thing their eyes can’t seem to process. It’s oil- and the places their dens are usually in?

Oil.

Scraplets are a hazard to everyone, even themselves. They’re flammable , it’s why they were so easy to handle when Cybertron was active, why they weren’t one on the top deactivation lists.

Because one shot from an enforcer’s gun and the whole swarm of them were set alight by how packed they always were. Of course if you were civie and nowhere near someone armed, well, bye.

But Primus if they weren’t the scariest thing to pop up behind you hissing and screaming. While of course I knew all of the above, it took a while of blazing it through the sky to remember about shooting them.

Which is what I did when I calmed down and rotated my nullray to set them ablaze, that’s a breem I’m never getting back, but it was progress.

Flight felt so much better even if I was under duress, thank the pit I didn’t have a stalling from the other panic of height . I’m never getting over that fear, let me tell you, have you ever been stuck 80 ft in the air without a way down? Screaming your lungs out and calling for your parents as a little kid because they didn’t see you as you passed by the employee?

Yea.

Fuck that.

Here though! Here I had control- here I can put myself wherever I want.. But there’s still the whispering panic at the edge of my mind that speaks of what could happen. I’m scared of that actually happening. Of falling and screaming.

Burningburningburning

Chapter Text

Koan’s on the horizon, the sulfuric smell of acid is in the air and my tanks are half-way depleted. That’s not even half the problems I’ve dealt with since getting into the sky and making way. I need fuel or I’m going to have to deal with it in the future when I land wherever the hell Shockwave’s lab is.

I should’ve really worked out the plan before writing down ‘help Cybertron’ and thinking I’ll figure it out as I go. Seriously, not even changing bodies and getting a better ‘brain’ helped with my plans. I’m going to have to land, my energon’s sitting at 43% and while it isn’t depleting fast, I was walking at the start of this journey for a while.

My flight cost me 15%, while walking for three cycles took 20% and that flight was half a cycle by the way! Do you see what I’m getting at?? Wait, who am I talking to.

Fuel. I needed to find fuel, so I landed and what do I see?

Blastermarks.

Which means recent combat- relatively recent depending on how long ago the last storm was on Cybertron, I can’t exactly tell either since Silverglide was deactivated for nearly a month. So there’s no data to find in his memory banks, but considering I saw no puddles of it (besides murky blue algae looking puddles) when I first started my trip- there’s been no storm besides the oncoming one that looks like it’ll be here in about a joor. Or six hours.

Recent, near Kaon and more showing up the farther along I walk the path into the citystate? I’m definitely early in Prime, which means I could be as early as four years in this Universe. Why four specifically? 

I don’t know, I’m being optimistic, but I’m assuming Arcee and Cliffjumper joined up with Team Prime via that warpbridge, no one looked for Shockwave so he was down for the count for a while as the Decepticons began their own destination to Earth where they started setting up.

By that I mean getting mines going, because I’ve no other idea what else could be curbing their activity for three and a half years before Starscream decides to CURB Cliffjumper’s life.

So yea, four-ish years hopef- noises .

Or voices I guess, but pit if I knew what language they were speaking in. Does this body have a translator? I’d be very concerned if it didn’t, making way to different planets not having a data-pack for different languages? Pain.

Time to get low, listen in and hope I’m not found in all my 30ft or 9.1m glory. This is going to go horribly , but worse comes to worst I’ll just uh.. Well.

Deactivate them. Swiftly. Probably not pain free. Never said I was a good guy.

Chapter Text

“South sector looked empty boss, ain’t a lick of scrap worth bringin’ onboard the ol’ ship. Not even what we could get from them deactivated robots could be worth anythin’ in the shops.” High-pitched, not naturally loud, but not quiet; average?

“Got any worrd frrom the rrascals in the east orr norrth arreas? They’rre behind on theirr rreporrt.” Low growling, a bite to their words, definitely organic sounding- possibly animalistic features.

“Not a squeak from them two chop-tails, mighta found a stash and they sortin’, y’know how fussin’ they could be. Neat freaks.”

“Language.”

“Eesh.”

Air displacement, wings beating in the sky as they come closer to land, he hunkers down even more. Slowly, quietly, it would be bad if any of these organics heard him and it doesn't help that the few words they shared give him data on professions that do such things. 

Pirates and Scavengers. 

"We're back, boss and we think we hit the jackpot! Gar’Vek spotted some wrecked containment units over in the east, there was some of the fuel the machines used.”

“Lakshnu varni, Gar’Nei!” Translation unavailable, must be another language not downloaded, but it closes the gaps to what race these off-planeteers are.

“Yea, I’m getting to that ‘Vek! Don’t rush, don’t rush!” There’s the sound of chitin scraping against the ground’s surface, sharp sounding, probably claws?

His servos flex; digits fidgeting as the posture he kneels in begins to crumble, his joints lock on command as he inwardly curses the inability to sit still. Wings already lowered, give an aborted twitch upward, the annoyance of no action grating on his nerves like never before.

“So I was flying over the north area and y’know what I saw?” A pause, long and unanswered, the question went, any emotions or movement lost as he could only listen, “Fine, fine so I was flying over and I spotted this wrecked building yah? But it didn’t look like no normal civ build! Looked techie, maybe lab- good loot!”

“Arre you surre it wasn’t turrned over?” Needed info, but slow getting. He was definitely not built for sabotage or spying if it was like this; sitting still and twiddling for time.

“Knowin ‘Nei they only caught a top view of it. Lil’coward.” A huff.

Hissing, “I wasn’t getting close to that wreck! Saw somethin’ twitching down there! But it ain’t looking touched boss, Gar’Vek can attest to my honesty!”

“‘Cause you the only one that understands her! She be mumbling gibberish like a two-bit spliced-snouted sniyok! Who knows what she’ll be attestin’ to!”

A small roar, perhaps an offended noise for this ‘Gar’Vek’, “Koish yarlu! Ont ryen, deshub!”

“That’s just uncalled for Iao, just because you’re a jealous deshub doesn’t mean you can push it on us!”

“Enough!” At least someone else was annoyed other than him, “We arre not herre to be bumbling mewlerrs! You two, ‘Nei and Iao, both of you will go to the unit ‘Vek found and ‘Vek will come with me to this lab you saw.”

“What!” Steps grow quiet the longer they go on, “You can’t split the Gar’duo boss! Bad luck! Bad bad luck!”

“Yea! Don’ go splittin’ that duo and pushin’ me to aid this lard! I’dda rather be with the gibberish speaker so I can ignore her easier!” Snarling curses were traded back and forth before the ‘boss’ spoke last.

“My choices arre made.”

If there was a door in the half-torn building, maybe there would have been a heavy shut of it, he muses, easing the locks off his joints and forward onto his servos; looking much like a feline predator who just found its target.

And it did.

Because his choice was made, between Shockwave and energon needed? Energon that could be found another time and Shockwave who could be in the line of sight of two probable pirates or scavengers?

It doesn’t help that the one time mention of ‘shop’ had his mind linking it to a blackmarket, for it is illegal to loot planets, even war-torn ones. Trading was legal, but this didn’t sound like trading.

“Gah.. Whatever! So where in the east is the unit? Know anythin’ that could be inside?”

“I ‘unno! ‘Vek said she saw the fuels those machines used, could probably boost the old ship for quite a while and of course it’s in the east!”

“Yeah, but where?”

“..East.”

“She didn’t tell you where at all did she.”

A put-upon sigh and a carefree laugh, he almost feels bad for Iao, but that’s short lasting as he approximates the other duo’s pace far enough away. He stands; pushing away from the ground and breaching into the already dilapidated wall of metal, two anthropomorphic creatures screech, scrambling backwards rapidly.

“The info-packet said there wasn’ any workin’ ones here!”

“Clearly it was outdated!”

Even facing death they bickered. Wow. He’s almost tempted to keep them like pets, but alas the autobots did have the right answer of ‘all sentient-life should be free’ or whatever. Probably free will, but they’ll have that! In silence.

“ Quiet. ” He rumbles, and oh. Oh he liked his new voice. Wax poetry like Megaton, but instead of revolution it’s how nice his voice is. Was he becoming narcissistic?

“Like we’ll listen to you Quint’ made build!” The bird looking one, Iao from the similar voice, crows the false words harshly as if they believed it to be true. The other, bat-features prominent- keeps quiet, eyes shifting.

Words- words to say, but there is none, only a rant building up in his processor and a smile pulling at his derma-plates, twitching periodically because- he’s laughing.

It’s so funny because it’s so offensive .

Blast of heat. An unsettling silence that blanketed the natural acoustics of the still-living planet.

His vents are aching, fans spinning harshly as he sucks in unneeded air from his laugh-fest, the smile still plays on his face-plates.

It hurts.

“A-are you gonna kill me too?” Gar’Nei squeaks, their little nose twitching in distress as their fur bristled with fear.

The silence remains, but the steady whirring of his innards grounds only him as he shifts his gaze away from the black soot-spot of a once been bird.

“You are unarmed and not making an offensive statement. I need the location of the lab.”

“He was unarmed too- ah but.. He did say that..” They mumble, fidgeting with blunt claws, “I’ll- I’ll give you the location of the lab if you don’t hurt boss and my sister!”

“If they know what’s good for them, they’ll be fine,” his optics squint in amusement, “leave this planet entirely, don’t even bother with the containment unit. Under space-law FI-118509, your work is Illegal.”

“Ye- yeah sorry, here!” A data-pad gets placed on the ground and they scramble- fleeing like a bat out of hell towards the direction of their ship. It wouldn’t be useful though.

Even with their height being around 8ft, it would not accommodate two 9m/8m 'trons. How disappointing. He turns his helm away from the flying chiroptera-looking creature, passing a glance over the stain of once-was and at the data-pad. Coordinates were the first thing spotted, for two separate things- ah. The bat was having fun with the bird.

It’s crushed beneath his pede.

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 Quint-made, Quintesson made! It’s false, UNTRUE! Those tentacled, creepy looking multi-faced bastards didn’t make a single bot or con. It’s almost common knowledge that those- ugh! I’m not going to fill this log with curse words- but that bird got me riled up! I didn’t realize my nullray was so strong against organics, but it doesn’t matter. He died swiftly, I ain’t got words to tell if he died painless.

But the point- the point is Quintessons did not make Cybertronians, if anything they are like Earth’s cuckoos! Placing themselves in another’s home and making themselves lord over the place like they own it and if they don’t get their way then death to all! They’re thieves who made the older generation of ‘tronians worship them like Gods. While doing it on the God-Planet himself.

How self-centered, but it’s not like many know of this- Primus that is. Many know Cybertron as a planet and just that- with much the same inner workings of our own! They know it’s living, but they don’t realize it’s living as in an actual planetformer.

Like Unicron.

Which was a really good thing, much less now because war and the dark energon that’s going to be coming, but back then! When the quintesson lorded over us like they were royals! There’s so much history to be covered on this and I can’t keep thinking about these- these slag-melted excuses of Quintus Prime!

Let's switch topics- how about.. Primus and Unicron! Easier one, a calming one! They used to be one being y’know, the All-creator who has no name- because why would a name matter on larger scales?  When you’re the only being around, having no one to talk to.

That’s why Primus and Unicron came into existence. Of course balance is also a reason, a very small one, but loneliness is a powerful emotion, just like curiosity. It was an uneven split though I’ll say that much with Unicron getting the majority of hate associated emotions.

And yes, if Unicron were to devour Primus aka Cybertron, that would be self-cannibalism.

I’ve got to say though, Primus and Unicron’s first fight? It was basically two ‘brothers’ throwing a fit , Primus being a little loser made the 13 Primes as a door, the Allspark to keep them going before deciding to take a long snooze.

Basically an electronic door you shut in your family member’s face when you don’t want to deal with them anymore. At least that’s how I see it.

I don’t think I have anything else about Primus, Unicron is sort of a.. Disaster to talk about considering he is Earth. Both are so intertwined it’s a slagshow, like coming in between two girls wanting the last slice of cake. He is a bit of a prick though, like a major one. Size of a milky way prick.

Dude doesn’t hate life, he just dislikes it with a passion . He made Galvatron, Cyclonus, Scourge and the sweeps for personal vendettas, he didn’t make them for anything else but to give him tiny hands to throw up middle-fingers. That’s common knowledge of course- but it was only Cyclonus and Scourge that were personally made here.

Galvatron is of course.. Uh. Sharp Megatron. Y’know I kinda wonder how he’ll look in this ‘verse- G1 and War for Cybertron gave him some nice thighs. Sort of jealous not gonna lie. Off-track, anyways!

The Sweeps were of course- Shrapnel the Insecticon, creepy fragger- I should probably get rid of him.

Hopefully we won’t catch the rotor-end of Galvatron or Shrapnel, it would be nice to see Cyclonus, he was a very enjoyable character in the MTMTE ‘verse, but I can only dream of ideal personalities.

..

Does Tailgate exist here..? Oh boy..

I think I’ve calmed down enough to talk about the Quintessons again, calm enough I shouldn’t shoot the first thing that says something offensive- it really didn’t help that I was- still am, a mess inside my helm right now.

So. Quints. Made by Quintus Prime to help guide Cybertronians and perhaps become close allies in future problems. See ‘bots and ‘con, they’re like ethnicities- that’s where- I wouldn’t call it functionalism- but it was basically how functionalism began and grew into hierarchy or whatever label you want to slap on it and call it done.

Just between myself and me, I call it tyranny.

Autobots were the ones meant to keep record of our ‘world’, write down and learn more about everything so that they could pass down the knowledge to the younger ‘bots and every ‘con so that they may better protect. That’s supposedly how it was meant to go- Quints teaching the autobots to organize and categorize- aid them in understanding. Teaching the decepticons how to fight, guard, protect. What better places to aim to bring your opponent down fast , which way to dodge or block incoming attacks.

Oh but- noo! See Quintus Prime forgot ONE key factor in his creations.

Empathy.

Sure, without it they still feel, but frag anyone else who catches their grimy optics. The only saving grace was their cowardness, it made it a lot easier to kick them off the planet back to their own. But oh, I bet it was a pain in the aft- even more so if Shockwave wasn’t there.

And yea, he was around before the Golden Age. Can’t necessarily call him old though considering ‘tronians age much differently than humans.

I’m closing this log before I get riled up again over past-history, besides that I’m getting closer to the coords and I think I hear something in the distance- possibly the Marnomiles, which is what their race is, if you think hard enough on it- sounds a bit close to mammalians.

Chapter Text

They see him as he approaches, because he doesn’t even bother trying to sneak up on them, whatever happened the first time was a blessing and a fluke he’s not willing to try again. Not that he tried at all the first time, how they didn’t hear him shifting all over from bored or frying nerves just made him think they were selectively deaf.

So yes they see him; but they do not cower or flee like the rodents - like organics would usually do.. They are wary though of course, watching a living giant ‘quickly’ approach from the longer stride to loom over them. There were no words to be spoken by either side for but a few, broken only by the lemur-looking creature whose speech was chittered as he directed the bat.

“Contact Garr’Nei and Iao. Make sure they’rre still living.” Gar’Vek rushes to obey, her claws scrambling across her radio as the ‘Boss’ faces him once more as an indistinguishable language leaves from the bat and the radio.

He almost feels bad for getting rid of one of them- not for them of course, insulting his favored race was just asking for a culling; he feels bad for himself because right now- right now he was not in the mood for dealing with any argumentative organics.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” The Lemur speaks not with any growling, but in a botched syntex of Cybertronian that would have been ‘flattering’, if not for what they were doing.

“Save your vocals for the case in which you’ll plead for mercy or in which you’ll scream for it.” He judges their small form scrutinizingly, a sneer can be felt building as ‘Boss’ stares, “It seems we’ve offended you,” his gaze flickers towards Gar’Vek for a moment; her indistinguishable speech parting with information that has the lemur’s face shifting from caution to alert, “perrhaps we can make a deal?”

“And what would you be able to offer me?”

Boss paused as he rumbled, his fingers twitching with his thoughts before settling them with a placating smile, “Supplies; rresources? My crrew and I have been scrrounging arround these rruins for a couple of planetarry hourrs, I’m sure we have some things you may find interresting!”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, eyeing them with partial annoyance before shifting, “and while I find what you have been doing deplorable; an act only forgiven with all of your deaths - I will be merciful once more, return back to your ship and prepare ‘your wares’. I've got something to do before I hunt you down.”

And while his words could have been contradictory, he does not care- for if they did run with the out he gave them, he would indeed hunt them down and if they did not? Well, they did offer him potential hoarding items first. (Even if they were under threat, so what!)

“Yes, of courrse!” The Lemur placates once more, looking towards Gar’Vek who nods frantically before both of them are hurrying off like scurrying rodents under the foot of a giant. It has his mood lifting for a moment; weak bowing to the strong; but really, such tenacious critters they’ll end up being.

Annoyance replaces any uplifting mood he had been in, he’ll either kill them on his hunt or after gathering whatever they had raided from the planet, he didn’t need to deal with pests on top of the idiocy called this universe’s problems.

A single servo closes into a tight fist as his helm turns towards the single opening that led to a dilapidated lab.

Spark pounding; optics brightening, his inner human bounced on their feet with glee.

It feels demented.

Chapter Text

“So Iao is dead?” Deqir questions ‘Nei; whose fidgeting had not stopped once since both himself and ‘Vek had returned, “The r-robot, made the birdbrain go phoosh! Boss I told you, told you! Split the duo bad luck, very bad- curssed,” they hissed, shaking their head frantically as they raised a feather to wave around, “Saved a piece, but it might not be enough for the machine,” ‘Nei muttered mournfully as they eyed the genetic material in their claws briefly before huffing as ‘Vek plucked it from them.

“Garesh vark yerin?” She pried worriedly, ‘Nei’s expression shifting through multiple emotions before shaking their head aggressively once more, “Don’ even say that, you’d just be asking to jinx us ‘Vei!”

Deqir raised an eyebrow questioningly, clearing his throat as he reminded them, “We’ll worrry about the cloning matterr laterr, rright now we’ve got enough prroblems to focus on currrently. And while you’rre both herre- fix ‘Vei’s translator- while I’m surre it’s easierr forr herr to speak in yourr.. Perrsonal language, it’d make worrking with a man down betterr.”

The Gar’duo glanced at each other, quiet chrills left either one as Deqir carried on with unloading what they had previously packed already and while he would rather have not- there was worry to be had.

Fear in the back of his mind; primal in its essence as he remembered looking up into the optics of the mechanical being. He remembers his fur bristling; tiny pricks running along his skin as it stared at them. The frantic speaking of ‘Vei and ‘Nei across the radio; while neither of their sentences made any sense to him- the bits and pieces of certain words he had picked up certainly aided him in drawing a picture in mind.

His hands shook as he grabbed a rod, clenching down on the metal as the reminder of cruel orange optics flashed into his burnt mind. They really are paying the price for the shitshow that was this job.

Deqir let out a frustrated snarl as he let go of the metal rod, tugging at his ear in regret as he sighed, “Should’ve known the pay was too good to be true.”

(In another world, they wouldn’t have even been known. They would’ve gotten paid well for an easy job without having come across Shockwave; the lab labeled hazardous and ignored for the stored energon that would have been sold to a high bidder. But it isn’t another world. This wasn’t fiction to them- they would never know.)

Chapter Text

Arguably.. I know I’ve changed a lot from when I was human. I wasn’t as- as murderous? Cruel? Feral?? No wait I was sort of feral, my friends would have told anyone as much with the amount of times I started making accurate animal noises. The point is thought, I was not like this.

I did not kill people because I got offended, no no, that wasn’t like me at all! I boiled in my own blood, thinking of the pain I could wrought on the poor sod who’d think they could harm my ‘poor, vulnerable being’. Well ok, maybe I was a bit unstable, but I didn’t take it out on others at least!! Becoming a cybertronian has changed my thoughts though and I still don’t know if I mind it or not because..

Well I am neither the human I was or the ‘tronian that were. I am new and neither- the personality I’m now making is what I will be, but do I want that?

(Is that okay?)

If I can’t control what becomes of me.. Would the future characters I care for come to harm because I just- can’t control myself?

Now this log doesn’t come out of nowhere! But it wasn’t because of my actions that I’m thinking this now.. It’s where I am. Walking into the ruins of a laboratory, bodies of vehicons all in various states of disrepair. Neglect all across the board, but there’s no helping a place that was blown in a warp bridge explosion.

My steps have not faltered, metal bends beneath my pedes with every move I make farther into the mess.

And I’m worried.

My ‘giddiness’ had long since passed when I started calming down- and now all I feel is- is..

(Balancing on the cusp of instability, breakingbreakingbreaking, will the tipping point be their reach? Fall into the abyssal maw of a vortex- matrix be damned. Watch your step.)

I am the only sound within the confines of the building. And the deeper I go- the quieter it becomes. It’s unnatural, as if the rooms are becoming soundproofed, the thrumming of Primus silencing as I edge deeper to where I, hope, Shockwave still lays.

And is that damning of me? To hope my place in time is where I think it is? It shouldn’t be. I’m helping him! Removing him from the rubble of his lab- if I’m early.. How long has he been here though..? Everything around gives no stamp of a time so would I have come earlier if I were given the choice?

Ugh, truly, the morals of either species clash so constantly that I feel I am in a constant state of frustrated confusion. I almost imagine this is what the True One felt in the coming days when they began splitting. I’ve also come to conclusion- fuck my life.

No more thinking- too much clashing in my processor is going to end up making me crash and..

And I can’t have that happening. Not when he’s in my sights finally, in all his glory- covered in rubble.

(Like a discarded toy. Broken in places and waiting. Where did they all go? )

Chapter Text

It is a timeless moment, staring down at a rubble-caged Shockwave; projected and welded into his memory-banks, one never to forget.

Yet he feels oh so disconnected. Emotions build and flatline at unprecedented intervals, he can only see; catalog; memorize the visionary colors. Stale energon bled on metal, most dry and that which is wet still leaks from the scientist himself.

There is a pain somewhere inside his chassis.

A deep ache that claws through his spark chamber and scrambles at his throat cables. It feels suffocating on some level despite not needing to breathe anymore. Yet still his fans whirr and his vents flair, granted, all of his body armor plating seems to flair in discomfort the longer he takes in the damage done to the ‘con.

But again.

His processor is oblivious to his body’s ministrations of distress.

Instead it catalogs all it can see.

A module does one thing while components do another.

His steps are slow and careful, as if one wrong or heavy-footed move might topple the delicate atmosphere of a stasis-locked mech covered in metal which no doubt weighs more or similar to multiple ‘trons piled.

A clicking and scratching noise has his vents hissing out a harsh steam, optics flicker warily, but his processor is finally opening its availability.

It is a noise he is making.

Dentas had closed and grinded against each other with his horror and concern. Still they clench, making a noise not unsimilar to when one scrapes metal.

He brings it to a halt, shutting his vents and exhaling in mimicry of his human-self.

He’s quick to recollect himself, lowering ruffled plates; though they do not settle with ease, instead tightening against his protoform much like a comforting self-hug that does absolutely nothing.

Instead his attention turns to his diagnostics and visionary data compile.

Tighter his armor gets against his protoform at the statistics that scroll rapidly across his HUD and finally it crashes on him.

He’s devastated because he can’t do anything .

But that won’t stop him from learning or trying.

His servos have long since curled into fists, the tips of his digits digging into the palms, but injury to himself is not what he needs. Instead he turns on a dime, casting not a glance back as he hurries through the lab.

And though he does not sprint for the exit; too scared to unsettle something with his heavy-frame, he is quick on his pedes, careful to not disturb a fleck of scattered debris.

When silence no longer suffocates him and the natural lights of overhead stars bathe him in their dim light does he finally let his frame sag in exhaustion. He has no doubt, had he still been human, tears of frustration would be dripping from his ducts.

But he isn’t.

So instead it simmers. Burns in his fuel-lines like an unending rage that has no right to exist.

Because it really doesn’t.

He doesn’t know Shockwave.

It was all but a fictional crush. He shouldn’t feel anger on his behalf. There are no shared feelings between them. They are strangers .

And he is dangerous.

Shockwave is loyal to none except logic .

Logic dictates to bring forth a better Cyberton, one must do all that they can to provide. Even if it is mutilating others for the greater good .

Logic it is to destroydestroydestroy to bring greater power into creation.

Build an army out of the deceased. Drones to continue on in place of their counterparts who fought and offlined for their causes, never put to rest. Never to have peace.

Shockwave is not a good mech.

He knows this.

He’s very clear about this.

But knowing and caring are two very separate things that balance on a precarious edge of doing what’s right . It is an edge he is sure Shockwave sees and ignores during each iteration of scientific endeavors.

Coordinates flash across his HUD, a timer flashes into existence and the distant rumbling of an ion-storm echoes in his audials. Though it is groons away, electricity still dances across his armor plating, digging through and rippling across circuits and stinging with a vengeance that has him hurrying towards the spoken containment units coords.

Though he does not need all of his processor power for this.

So he splits.

And he drowns.

Chapter Text

I hate morality.

Actually, it would be better to say I hate being given choices.

Not like there is a choice to be given at the moment. There is no choice whether I'm going to save Shockwave or not. I’ve written this in a log already, but the mech is needed .

But even if he wasn’t.. I'd still save him.

Certainly it might be because of my organic-mind’s crush on him, because it can’t be for his war crimes against a cybertronian’s natural being, ones which were done to support a cause.

One that certainly lost its path.

But again.. Shockwave does not have any loyalty to Megatron or his cause, sure he does much for both, but at the end of the day.

Logic Dictates.

And it’s so FRUSTRATING.

Not because of logic, because logic is fine, it is dandy, it is all that can upheld a building on wide struts called pillars- because that’s only logic . No.

It is frustrating because there are so many bends that can be put into that logic, so many to twist it into what one wants. It’s so easy to manipulate.

And I don’t.

I don’t.

I don’t.

I DON’T.

I CAN’T.

Manipulating has been so ingrained into my personality-matrix that it burns every time I think about doing it to someone I care about. I've done it, I’ve let it happen to myself, because it was the only way to keep them close.

But they’re gone, because always in the end, it’ll be out in the open.

Like a festering wound that will never close, that’ll scar because you pick it open every time and they’ll tell you, don’t do that, you’re hurting yourself!

And you KNOW. You know you’re hurting yourself. But you want to hurt, because that’ll make them care for you .

And I hate it. I hate it so much because why . Why does it twist so much into my spark when it should be forgotten about. Why should I care now? It’s not like they’ll ever be here. They won’t ever be here to manipulate or be manipulated.

So why should I care if I twist logic just for my own gain?

..Maybe it’s because I know how toxic it is.

And I don’t want toxicity between myself and anyone, but the world is built on the principle of it.

And it’s a choice. A choice one will always be forced to make, because there is no getting out of using manipulation to even continue on this rocky path I laid out for myself. But it’s a choice, whether I lead it to violence or peace.

And for Shockwave..

Maybe it’s a little more than a crush I’m starting to realize.

It scares me, because I’ve lovedlovedloved but have never been in return.

In the end.

I’ll always be watching at the sidelines, hoping for their happily ever after even if it’s without me, because that’s just the way the energon treat crumbles.

I’ll always be smiling and cheering them on, pulling them up out of the ground they always dig themselves by accident.

I’ll always be wishing for them.

A goodbye.

Chapter Text

…

The structure of a cybertronian innards and framework has a dedication worth of two, yes TWO files. Each file is able to hold a yottabyte of information for anyone who wonders.

Or anyone who isn’t a ‘tron and has hacked into my brain-module.

Hopefully no one. There are many secrets I wouldn’t like to share, thank you very much.

But yes, 2 yottabytes worth of information on a multitude of different types of cybertronians fills my data-banks and though whoever handed me this on a silver-platter deserves many thanks for no doubt, the future uses I’ll have for this and the current need for it- how the pit do I find what I actually need?

It’s not like there’s a se- there’s a SEARCH FUNCTION. It’s absolutely miniscule, which means there’s someone absolutely fragging with me. Pits, I didn’t even touch it, it only popped up because I thought about it.

Thank all that the Primes have touched, because Primus, I was not going to be sitting in that lab with a stasis-locked Shockwave while scrolling through medical and frame-type files when he was bleeding out before me.

The hysteria I’d be having would no doubt make me misread something in the files and then where would I be when I was wondering which fragging pipe goes where?

But also, if he randomly exited out of stasis-locked and saw his would-be medic panicking with one of his internals in servo- yea.. That wouldn’t go down so well.

I’m divided a bit too much to focus on the file fully as it is right now though. Half of me works to transport fuel back and forth and dear slag does that storm prick at my own internals with a fury untold.

And then this half talks in a log while reading like a separate entity. Kinda like an AI, but what is an AI if not a bodiless cybertronian.

Oh wait- nevermind, a file just got pulled up about AIs..

Haha.. oh dear.

Uh.

Well! I am most certainly not an AI, such good news! But anyways! Wow!

Medical practitioners of Cybertron sure have to keep track of so many thin- Is that!

It is!!

I’m cutting this log shorter than usual, there’s a SIMULATOR in the files. Which explains why so much space is being used in them, but yeesh, I can not divide my processing again if I truly want to learn how to help any bot or con from the brink of offlining.

It’s better this way I think.

To ignore my problems and focus on real issues..

Chapter Text

He vents harshly when a program onlines in the background of his primary processing data, a ping of inquiry is returned with a burst of data that finally, finally puts ease through his main energon lines.

Relief floods his systems like a cool flow of water down a parched throat. Reassuring in a way, knowing subroutines are doing everything in its power to ensure optimal use.

It's such a blessing as well, the last of the energon containers lay carefully arranged in his subspace. Already he has sped back and forth under the sting of electricity, he feels burnt. Crispy in a way that is definitely unhealthy and any longer outside does not feel ideal.

But knowing he has the last remnants of a deposit, either forgotten by Decepticons or placed here specifically by Shockwave for closer usage- perhaps even placed out of guilt by a certain Seeker, who ever will know.

Certainly only the Universe would, but he is not that.

The ruined lab building is not a perfect place for energon, much could be desired for proper locations, but it most certainly will have to do. Easier access to the consumable life-liquid during medical care and with the near over-helm storm.

Easier access is much more appreciated than being fried in an emergency.

His steps are quiet, not that he is deliberately being so for that matter as he finally exits the bunker hidden by crates, the only telltale of its visibility being an offline femme marred by melted holes and no identifying brands.

She had been partially lodged in the entrance, the story of how it came to be another unknown; but all the same thanked because he had not the time to spare looking for the trap-door.

Electricity jolts across his sensitive wings and a painful sensation ripples, causing several pings and scrambled words to crookedly write across his HUD. If it had been earlier, he most certainly would have panicked losing access to his display screens, but now it is only a nuisance as his timer disappears.

With an iconic noise, he switches to his alt-mode and blasts off as quickly as possible along a route he’d pathed multiple times across the time of two groons.

Though.. Through lens on his flight mode his vision spans the buildings he passes by, looks through the gaps of said structures to the distance; in the direction the organics had gone and wonders if they would flee or brave the storm.

It wouldn’t be smart for them to fly off, but it also wouldn’t be smart for them to stay grounded. Electricity to fry a grown cybertronian is much as lethal if not more to an organic and he would forgive them if they flew off during the storm. One he’d forgotten for a moment worrying over scavengers, but flying around or in an ion-storm just makes you a beacon.

Hence his low altitude through destroyed spires.

Perhaps he should’ve killed them all to spare them the trouble.

…

Optics flicker away from the distant terrain and impossibly quieter his systems get. As he makes it to the dilapidated building, frustration builds and releases as he thuds onto the ground in root-mode, fans cycle a harsh sound; sputtering that carries into a whine before a crack and they fall silent.

Pain lances through his left side just as a harsh sound of thunder brings his audios into a reboot.

A burst of data from his subroutines kindly informs him of damage to his frame and systems as his HUD is still glitching, in return he snippily pings and adds an obscenity. Nothing is given back, but onwards he continues if not faster then when he first entered, now knowing the stability of the building.

He is lucky his panicked tread out did not disturb whatever holds the rest of the building up. Granted, the building’s strength should have never been questioned, for it is a lab made to withstand a multitude of experiments and sieges. It is in fact one of the only buildings standing besides the inner part which is currently burying the mad scientist.

Honestly, it would be more logical for experimental technology like the warp bridge to be outside . Though there are dozens of reasons why that logic would be ignored for a different one.

Dermas shift from their neutral line into a severe frown, but it’s quick to leave as he returns to the main cause of his subroutine’s current fixation. Shockwave is no better or worse; still in stasis and entrapped beneath two floors of heavy-reinforced metal. 

Pain sparks, pinching at his protoform and scratching uncomfortably across his sensors. A grimace replaces any expressions he’d bother making for the next breems as he shuffles away the rest of the energon cache into a repurposed closet.

He downs one cube and gets to work.

The static of the storm had scrambled his low-processing systems, the rupture of energy so close could have physically locked him into a stasis had it been any closer or it could have sent him straight into whatever pits await him.

Thankfully, whatever had reformatted him made him durable.

Medical kits and tools are pulled from subspace and neatly, if not disorganized, placed onto a console too destroyed to do anything but act like a table. He bustles around the room and cobbles a chair, works on wires that buzz ominous sounds from beneath his armor while being fed such medical knowledge to fix them at the same time.

Curses when he knicks a line and hurriedly patches it.

And finally his fans click on and his vents flare in relief as stuffiness leaves his internal cooling system. His HUD flickers and settles with multiple messages before erasing as a diagram of a frame not his fills its entirety.

A grimace becomes a closed-optics expression of consternation.

Chapter Text

His audios still ring with an echo of the energy blast, there is of course no damage to them, it is all but a reminder of the current storm raging outside. It is ignorable in all honesty, but with how close to thunder it sounds, it is soothing in a way.

Not soothing was the damage suffered or the high possibility of death, but now in the safety of a fortified lab it feels peaceful.

Said peace aided in the clearing and cleaning of his spontaneous medstation. Repurposing many things is starting to become a skill much needed for him on this war-torn planetformer.

Clearing the rubble off Shockwave was a chore, but he was thankful for his increased strength that made it easier and faster . His display pinged every wound onto the frame on its screen. His subroutines gave bursts of data that fed into his processor like nanites that had his servos automatically patching and pinching shut energon leaks too big to patch. Yet, his tanks churned with every object removed, giving sight to the damaged frame beneath.

The random pieces of armors from his impromptu surgeries in his subspace feel a lot lighter now.

But.. Optics narrow even as his servos never stop, pistons in his forearms hiss as he lets his subroutine focus; lets himself fall back and think .

This is not how it was or looked in the cartoon.

Shockwave had indeed been buried at one point, but as a tankformer he is naturally a heavy-duty military build able to carry a mass amount of weight no doubt. He remembers ; can recall that particular episode as if he had just watched it not even a minute ago.

But again, this wasn’t a cartoon .

But again , he knows this.

This is an aftermath of war and war is never a pretty little thing, especially not with beings as tall as houses if not taller, made of metal and can take more than a few hits. To not have soft skin was a curse as it was a blessing.

Soft skin would be crushed unlike metal, but metal is strict and must be dealt more damage. It is a torture to be protected.

Just as it is a blessing for Shockwave to be buried and a curse because all the damage he could see are indications of something exploding . Of course he couldn’t discredit the rubble of the small dents and scratches in the armor and on the paint, but besides the cosmetic damage, they provided much aid in putting pressure where it was mortally needed.

Still , he questions how Shockwave would have been able to repair himself without aid, blind with severed fuel-lines in his servo and a fractured back-strut.. (Even if he is a renowned Scientist and sometimes emergency medic.)

Maybe if he had gotten out of stasis before he had found him he would have set his systems to low-power before shunting it all onto his repair-systems so that he might be able to unbury himself. An alarm to power him back out of another stasis when he was sufficient enough.

It certainly wouldn’t have helped his blindness though.

Or if something was sealed wrong or crooked.

Curious thoughts and theories never to be tested because this is not something to leave to fate. Not something to play with even if his processor wanted to know .

His focus is pulled with a buzz as his subroutines step back and punts him to the forefront. Optics shutter in mock of a blink as his servos stutter setting down a mech much heavier than himself- but no longer than a micro-klik until they resume putting him down on a makeshift slab turned medberth.

Patch and pinch jobs evolve into sealed lines that have no chance of leaking. Armor that was slagged is carefully removed, armor that isn’t , but covers damaged areas of circuity, wiring and components outside the protoform are also set onto another slab.

A crink in his neck-struts and plating has him pulling back and stretching.

Primus.

His optics focus on the frame enlarged on his HUD before settling on the living one in front of him. Wings on his back quirk upwards and lower just as fast as he grimaces once more, it is a weird sight. He likens how Shockwave currently looks to a live study and demonstration of repair for medibots at an institution.

Helm turning away, he makes way for the closet turned storage and acquires two cubes. Setting them by the other’s helm he pulls a prepackaged needle and tube from a more intact kit. Connecting them is not a hassle, neither is connecting them to one of the cubes, gently inserting a needle into one of Shockwave’s main lines is where it becomes a problem .

The few lines not inside of a protoform are reinforced and thicker especially on a warframe so lest he peels back the alloy of the protoform to get the more delicate energon lines- which he won’t be doing considering how dangerous that would be. He can not do this task gently, but to not be gentle would risk Shockwave’s subroutines forcing his stasis-lock offline with an alert about a breach to one of his main-lines.

He pulls the bent needle away tiredly; places it down on the occupied slab and rubs a servo across his faceplates.

It is not as self-comforting as it was when he was a human. There is no cold calloused skin to rub on anger-hot soft skin to soothe. Only cold metal on equally cold plates that has his dentas clenching and vents flaring; releasing hot air that skates across his sides.

Optics squint in contemplating before he’s detaching the unusable needle from the tube.

Shockwave does not consume energon like any other regular cybertronian due to the Empurata inflicted on him. With that in mind, there should be an access point somewhere around his neck cables where he could shove - place the tube in to transfer the energon straight into his tanks. It’s not a great plan, but thankfully unlike humans there is no such thing as a gag reflex or choking. The only main concern would be making sure the angle the con is in doesn’t make it spill out before his tanks registered the consumable. Or the concern of the energon entering where it isn’t supposed to go.

Luckily, there’s very little chance of the second outcome causing any disastrous effects. There is no open fire around for energon to come in contact with to set either of them ablaze.

In total, it takes another joor to repair Shockwave.

His frame sags, falling back into his cobbled chair that’s more like a rock as the second energon cube is steadily emptied into the other mech’s fuel tanks. Digits tap against his thigh-shield plating in thought, only stopping as he pulls out the multitude of armor kibble and pieces from his subspace.

Colorless; gray and lifeless with the odd muted color of a certain type of paint-alloy that allowed extra protection. He shifts through them casually, setting aside pieces that share the relatively thick quality of Shockwave’s armor and tossing sets that crumple between his servos when he tests their strength.

When he picks up a shoulder piece he pauses. The Decepticon symbol stares back at him ominously, a near black with a purple sheen; untouched by the deactivation of its owner. His optics flicker only once to look at Shockwave before he’s setting aside the shoulder and emblem attached.

He gathers the self-approved gear and goes about flattening and welding pieces together. Muted colors and gray connect like squares, a cringe his only expression as the opposing mismatches bring disdain upon him. Sadly, there are no sanders to remove the unwanted paint, no primer or purple-dyed liquid alloy or even a buffer.

Ex-venting a humorless noise he settles into another tireless activity of fitting armor back to Shockwave’s frame like a puzzle.

In the end, it’s not as bad as it could’ve looked.

Very..

Ah..

A servo covers his lower jaw and derma as a smile perks on his face; wings on his back rise to a mirthful degree as he looks at the patchwork of color- though.. His optics flicker to the closest piece of armor; his gauntlet. His own armor isn’t doing so well. Covered in energon from Silverglide’s past frame, metal scratched and surface scarred from where some scraplets had gotten lucky, and that’s just his arm.

He clicks his glossa against his dentas as he wonders where on this messed up planet self-care items would be.

That would have to be for later.

His attention returns to the discarded shoulder piece, regard steady on the emblem- his servos grab both scalpel and welder. He’s sure he’ll fit right in .

Chapter Text

It’s fascinating learning about cybertronian biology. Just as I imagine learning human biology would be if it were.. Hands on. Of course working on a metallic being is much safer than it would be on an organic.

We are not made up of organs that would tear, break or bleed easily. Just thinking of dissecting something organic makes me sick- but the fascination lingers as so many other such things do so.

But enough of squishable variants.

A Cybertronian consists of layers the same as a human. We start from the outside with the armor, cables, wires and lines that are thickened and strengthened naturally with the difference of war-frames having tougher elements.

Of course there was surgery at the start which brought most non-war builds up to par with their counterparts, but it’s not exactly the same. Our components, if damaged; would automatically heal to the same thickness it would’ve been. Those who underwent surgery would require the aid of a Medic or Scientist to kindle the nanites into fixing it.

That’s not to say I am a warframe, but that will be explained later!

Once you have all those surface variables out of the way then it comes upon the second most important piece of any ‘tron. The protoform .

Delicates upon delicates stuffed into an alloy shell that is classically sturdy to withstand any internals from being broken , but it’s not as.. Strong as I make it out to seem. Oh sure, on some it is thicker, but there’s a reason we don’t go running around in protoform.

Though I think there was something about that in Bayverse movies with some decepticons.. Hate those slagging movies.

Anyways, inside lay less thick circuitry and the works, pistons, gyros or stabilizers that act like bones and joints. Much as we share many similarities with humans, it wouldn’t be accurate to take one glance at a pure protoform and think of them as a silver giant. Our form contorts and varies as all such things do with grounders and flyers and in the vein of similarity, armor would be considered an outer organ just as much as skin while our protoform is muscle .

Then there is the Sparkchamber and the Spark itself, but that is a bit taboo right now.

So you can see why I would hesitate to even slice into Shockwave’s proto, besides- even with the medical know-how I now have, I don’t have proper tools or even a sanitary work station for such intensive surgery for such a miniscule thing as putting a needle into a line when I could go the easier route of tube-feeding.

And the only reason my patient’s stasis-lock continued to be enabled was because I wasn’t causing damage, but helping the repair nanites in their job of patching. If the needle got through his lines there could’ve been a chance of him onlining, statistically large.

So in hindsight.

Thank Primus for Warframes.

Moving on though.

Seekers are built.. Like cousins to warframes in a way?

Warframes in a way because most are not made for flight and those that are; are not actually Seekers.

It’s like the saying; though I don’t know the original, ‘All seekers are fliers, but not all fliers can be a seeker.’ Because as it stands, we have extra coding, extra sensors, special properties to our sparks and a coating over most if not every part we carry.

Because every seeker was made to search off-planet for energon. There was no exception, no refusal to the matter. They did not get a say and none spoke up, except for Starscream and it is admirable, to Silverglide- he was inspirational; many thought so at the time I think.

For Winglord Starscream charged against the oppression they faced, stood his ground and fought for every opportunity to learn and explore the wider world; to not be forced into a task such as energon seeking.

..But we will always carry the past no matter how far any will run. Which I consider a good thing in all honesty. The coating, much like oil on skin, acts as a buffer for space contamination or radiation, except it’s not liquid in any way but a frame-wide shield. Special properties which allowed trinebonds and higher potential for sigma abilities. Extra sensors much like a Praxian doorwings or Polyhexian audial horns, but more so for temperature and storm gauging.

And coding. Primus the coding I could do without.

Hatred of small spaces, going mad without flight. Key differences in cultural interactions only our coding understands . You could scream at another seeker and they will only scream back, but it’s all fond and bonding (not bonding)..

But scream at a non-kin and they’d be looking for a fight . It sure sounds like seekers are looking for one of course, what with the vitriol words, but honestly they’re not. It’s just how they feel out someone’s personality, relieving stress with someone who understands. Just.. bonding platonically.

Of course there’s that and then there’s actual venom where they are indeed looking for a fight, because frag you.

Again it’s not like someone without our programming would understand the differences, Vosnians are just built that way. Moody, but gods were they just weak when it came to sparklings.

(That’s why they bombed it. Blamed it on Autobots and made them turn from neutral.)

Let it be said, though they spent countless cycles off-world, they were amazing caretakers to make up for every klik missed. So it’s without a doubt the devastation, the pain that tore at their sparks on a primal level.

That in return.

Made them bomb Praxus.

To make others feel their pain, make other neutrals feel what they felt; make it known that war did not discriminate the innocent .

A moment.

Please.

[Extending File..]

{Initiating Classified Documentation}

Welcome young scholar! In today's lesson we talk about the Seeker generation and the many differences of the first, second and third!

While many of these have been lost to time, I am overjoyed to finally share such lost notes and welcome your processor to these archives. Let us begin!

Vorns after the beginning of the true Golden Era of Cybertron, the First Generation of Seekers were forged under Megatronus Prime’s rule. Trusted and loyal they sought to please their Prime to seek energon off-world and though it began innocent at first- there was much left to be desired after.

[DATA EXPUNGED]

Unlike the Second Generation who were pure fliers, the First Gen were almost more akin to triple-changers! With the ability to choose between flight or ground at any conceivable moment, they were not picky on choosing disguises.

Which brings attention to the Third Generation, Praxians!

Now, don’t be mistaken thinking the Second Gen had anything to do with making the Third Gen despite the theme.

Neither Generations had anything to do with making each other, it was just a happy accidental lineage made by [Redacted]’s intervention, but continuing on we shall look into their shared characteristics!

Much like the First, the Seconds were made to seek energon off-world, a mimic of their ancestors that were told of in stories and read by a powerful mech who had enough fortune to cover the costs of cold-constructing them into existence! Unseeing were the additions made by the compelled.

[DATA EXPUNGED]

The Third could be considered the luckiest out of all, or perhaps the unluckiest if you asked any First Seeker who remembers.

Free to do as they pleased within their city and under their own Royal Rule. Beautiful oval doorwings that would and could speak in so many ways as their elder generation does, but they were flightless.

But what they lack in flight they covered in ground! Despite being unable to take part in the joy of open skies, they took joy in the speed they covered on open ground, second only to the Velocitronian’s! Truly, they made great Enforcers in their City of Law.

[DATA EXPUNGED]

[DATA EXPUNGED]

[DATA EXPUNGED]

[DATA EXPUNGED]

Let’s move on to the next portion, young scholar! How they came about!

FG Seekers began as many did; sparked from the Allspark itself except they were raised under Megatronus’ command. Raised for greatness . Very few live to today, but be wary of spotting those that are now hiding. For they are the Fallen’s thrall still.

Energon Seekers were cold-constructed- rare was there to be one sparked from the Allspark or forged, but dearly were they held as blessings from Primus himself. Lost from their purpose now at the servos of war- free at least, but at a cost so great. These flyers wander the cosmos now; lost, abandoned or trapped- a reason unknown.

Praxians were purely sparked from the Allspark at first, avoidant of other frame-types much like their Vosnian neighbors, this led to the pure forging of praxian sparklings before cold-constructing was brought into the fold to cover specific holes in their defenses. Though in the end, not much was left of them- leaving them for extinction.

Yes my student, I know much of what has been is long gone now; but there is hope.

Hope in you.

[Ending File Sequence..]

Chapter Text

It has been an orn, the storm finally ended a joor ago and I have had not a single moment to recharge. Partially out of nerves because he could wake up any groon and while I have a con symbol on my armor now- that doesn’t mean I have a Decepticon IFF signal.

In fact my signal and by extension aura is so dead I can’t even feel Shockwave’s EMF- even if he is in what amounts to a coma; I should at least feel a constant numb static.

Everything’s so..

You know, I feel like taking my mind off this so I'll talk about something else.

In fact, this is a perfect time to talk about time . Compared to the long lives of a ‘tronian, you’d think our time would be longer than a human’s and you’d be right.

From klik to breem to groon. One to one to ten. Six to eight to one.

Hmm.. Having reviewed the clip to actually see if that made sense.. I don’t think it quite hits the point, so I’ll have to simplify it .

A klik is the equivalent of a second, in saying at least- in actuality it is consistent of 6 seconds. Breems would be minutes; made up of 1 for every human 8. Groons make up a human hour, but to us it is only the same as 10 earth minutes.

And then there are Joors, Orns and different Cycles that dwell into Vorns.

Joors are our hours, 1 worth every 6. Orns, our half-days made up of 8 joors- which make them around 48 human hours.

Which makes a Cycle 90 hours. One day is 90 hours. Isn’t that insane?

And to make one of our weeks which is a Decacycle you need 10 cycles.

10 cycles make 1 decacycle which needs 8 to make 1 Stellarcycle which is our months and you need another 10 to make a Vorn. A year.

A year.

AyearayearayearAYEAR!

Excuse me.

It’s insane isn’t it? A lifetime makes up a singular year for me now. It’s so.. crazy to think about, processor numbing in fact and gods, I don’t need to look back into my voice logs to know I said something about the current timeline.

Four years? Mmm.. While I wasn’t necessarily wrong.. It was a bit wrong, stellarcycles would have been a better equivalent, four of them still which brings it to roughly less than 4 years. It’s not as horrifying as it would have been if I was more off and it was instead 4 vorns- while I didn’t enjoy being social- even I would have started losing it knowing only one mech for 332 years.

I think it’s time for a topic switch.

Ion Storms and other such natural disasters on Cybertron.

I’ve stated and implied this countless of times, but the sharing factors of Cybertron and Earth; of Primus and Unicron.. Pits I wished I remained as ignorant as my predecessor!

No I don't.

Ahem. Ion Storms are not made up of cumulonimbus clouds like their earth counterpart, our planet in fact doesn’t have clouds- not exactly. If you were clueless; too far to actually see the shadow of its properties you could probably confuse it for one, but technically an Ion storm consisted of a special type of swarm that conducted electricity rapidly and chaotically.

Thankfully they weren’t a sentient swarm. Just Primus’ equivalent of repair nanites that zapped at the open rifts on his surface. So naturally it was a beneficially needed storm to help our god! But frag, it was literally equivalent to being smited back into the well if you were even 20 pedes away from one of the pure blasts of energy. Vaporized if you were actually hit.

Thinking a bit on it; it sort of cleans up the mess left behind, if you know.. It also decided to vaporize all the deceased frames left behind.

Course we can’t have nice things and that is a problem for the future because nothing is easy, so frag it I’m trying!

So I've explained ion storms; a planet wide ‘phenomenome’ to the unintellectual so I’ll move on to a more.. Localized type that is more explainable other than, quote, ‘Our planet is in fact a giant cybertronian. No I’m not crazy, those are nanites- nanites , not swarms the same as scraplets!’, unquote.

Acid rain.

Before the war, it was contained to the areas such as the Rust of Sea, Sonic Canyons and of course the Acid Wastes . Now though, oh mech , now the southern hemisphere of Cybertron deals with it. Kaon barely escapes its proximity, but Tarn; Tarn where Shockwave’s main lab is at..

It could be worse of course. It could be in the thick of it like Simfur.

Thankfully it’s localized and only the cities closest to the southern tip deal with longer downpours, but that’s enough; we’ll move on to how it happens .

Through an accumulation of radiation from space, the combination of machinery used and from the planetformer himself that clings to the ‘atmosphere’ around him- it all builds up at the cracks in his automatic shielding.

(Though now that there’s a massive break where I imagine the fragging dark energon will be coming through..)

So essentially, the radiation clings to the atmo-shield, becoming perspiration that slowly becomes heavier over time and then it falls .

Melting anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the downpour. If you're not a Seeker that is. Frag the coding, but blessed be the coating! Still wouldn’t be caught flying for long in what amounts to a hailstorm .

I like my armor undented, thank you!

Lastly.. We have the Freeze. More recent by Cybertron standards and progressed into a more.. Disaster level weather during the height of the war.

To start, let me explain some things about natural weather like wind. Cybertron used to have it before Megatronus Prime harvested the closest sun, by no means was Cybertron naturally warm; so harvesting that sun just made it.. Colder.

Not that it matters all too much to basically space heaters- and those that came centuries after since they wouldn’t have known, but Cybertron produced little heat since Primus’ core systems were so deep inside away from the surface.

You could of course go into the lower levels of the planet and it would get warmer, but that’s besides the point. (Also a whole aft more dangerous!)

The surface was cold, the sun harvested made it colder; no heat meant no wind and no wind meant no heat being raised or spread to hold back the chill.

So.. the Freeze.

Before the war it was.. Dangerous, as dangerous as a snowstorm but after, when Primus stopped producing energon? After that it became a blizzard type of danger.

Ice was fine, it didn’t melt as fast and when it did the water left behind seeped through the cracks and.. Done some environmental changes I guess, what little perspiration got back to the surface diluted the Acid storms.

But augh.. During a freeze everything became icy. Screw self-heating systems if you’re caught during a sudden Freeze, you’d be frozen offline with no breems to spare! You wouldn’t even know if one was coming unless Seekers had sent a warning about them via wing gauging. Thankfully they happened so few and far between- but draining the planet of energon only made it colder!

I don’t want to go back into a cave for warmth if a Freeze happens. Is this building even insulated enough? Are there back-up generators?? Pits do I need to be outside for my wing sensors to know if one is coming??? Granted, I didn’t for the nanites, but those were striking lightning into the ground and making loud noises- the Freeze is silent. The Freeze is a nightmare paralysis demon .

I miss Earth..

Chapter Text

[Primary Systems Onlining..]

[Running Diagnostics…]

[ Damages Report ]

{Optic Lens Destroyed}

{Rerouting Sight}

{Primary Optic Enabled}

{Left Stabilizing Strut Cracked}

{Repair 78%}

{First Aid Provided}

{Back Strut}

{Repair 97%}

{Nanite Repair Priority}

{Fuel Lines}

{85% Reconnected to Processing}

{Nanite Repair Secondary}

{Frame Status}

{Recovery 89%}

[Energon Line Lacerations Medically Sealed]

[Energon Level: 115%]

[Warning! Energon Above Recommended Levels!]

[Initiating AstroMag Sequence Warm-up]

{Warning! Canceling This Action is Ill-Advised!}

Ill-advised is something Shockwave has dealt with since before the start of the whole war, a subtle annoyance his processor easily rolls over as his system intel is placed on the back-burner of his subroutines. His singular optic ignites behind the shield of red that has his servo ripping it off.

It shakes; unsteady for once in his life-time and falls back onto metal with a clang that echoes. His cooling system whirrs in the quiet, a steady sound his processor focuses on as equations slide across his mind as a distraction.

Another warning pops up and he silences it immediately, pushing himself up on the dented slab despite the pain coursing through his frame. It is nothing compared to the burning contorting heat of a warp bridge exploding.

Other than his frame’s steady loud humming, his audials can hardly pick up anything else as his engine warms up underused systems in a cold abandoned lab.

Though he lacks the ability to make facial expressions, his sensory antennae mimic anger as they angle backwards, but just as quickly do they flicker in dismissal and his optic focuses on the room at large.

It is a mess yet evidence points to a recent moving of multiple objects.

And logically, the added amounts of unassorted medical supplies nearby that had no need to be in his lab aids to the factor of a visitor .

Privately, his system’s inclusion of first aid and medical assistance was a large factor, but he liked having his processor at work and so kept at top-shape he would not be denied.

Yet.. He averts his gaze from the supplies- abandoned just like he was? No. An illogical assumption on his part. There is no sound, not even plasma bolts which means the area has been left. He’d need to leave this underground lab to actually investigate what has happened, but if his conclusions are correct..

The one who left these supplies are nearby or would be back and Shockwave would have someone who’d be able to provide much needed information.

A singular yellow optic dims to a slit as it narrows. Something is not quite right.

Over the humming and whirring of his internals; a sound that is always heard by himself there is another- lighter sound his audials strain to pick up. Indecipherable glyphs, but the steady rhythm they’re spoken lends to the theory that someone is in the lab with him somewhere. The rhythm in which they speak lends credence that it is a singular being.

That rhythm which is lyrics .

Odd.

Communication units nowacycles are riddled with propaganda or orders. Long lost are the hubs where mecha speak about debates or where groups converge to air their musical noise . So unless it is a recording being played through a datapad, the only logical conclusion would be an unknown cybertronian; a high chance being whoever sealed his leaking lines and provided some aid to his broken strut.

Questionably they have not checked on him. Whether it be faction trust, highly debatably as Decepticons have long since dwindled to idiots and deceivers, it makes Shockwave wonder if perhaps they just did not hear him.

Because options other than a faction ally are either a Neutral or an Autobot- both logically would have led to his offlining while he was indisposed of in stasis-lock. Feeling his spark still spin; he is still online to continue research another vorn.

His pedes slide off the slab and the heavy sound of a tankformer thudding onto the ground has the rhythmic vocals silencing at once. Shockwave’s audial spikes raise curiously; settling down when nothing is picked up.

A scanner is brought up, but nothing pings back and neither does flaring his EM field return anything.

The light in his optic swirls into a tight circle thoughtlessly before filling out to its full width.

Plates bristle and antennae rise on alert as a sudden voice speaks from the direction he looks in.

“Commander Shockwave.”

It is the voice of another mech- but he sees no one.

“It is good to see my minimal learning of repair allows you to stand and your nanites still live to repair what I couldn’t.”

Composure has always been what Shockwave prided himself on, but listening to a disembodied voice would ease no one’s thoughts. His armor-plates settle smoothly, but his audials continue trying to perceive what his optic can not.

“You have my due thanks. Though it seems I still suffer the consequences for I do not see you.”

A klik of silence passes and Shockwave takes those moments to run another scan; one inclusive for mods of stealth but again, there is nothing . Peculiar.

“May I come in contact with you? It seems one of my.. systems.. Is causing interferences.”

Hesitancy, it is not a mod that is for sure, but truth when something is causing interference. Shockwave forgoes replying to instead hold out his singular servo which trembles minutely with the strain of unresponsive fuel-lines.

It is when a cold servo grips his own that has his overfilled tanks churn uneasily; a living mecha would not be cold, systems and the spark itself would keep anyone as a moderate source of heat.

It is.. Illogical.

Shockwave looks up into orange optics that stare boredly at him, but so closely- or perhaps now that he is in contact with the other, he can feel the other’s EMF which carries the subtle brushes of intrigue- interest - loyalty .

He does not quite snatch back his servo, but it is still hurriedly pulled out of a loose hold that gives no resistance, his aura of confusion is strong even before so; dying as quickly to neutrality- but even then the mech before him gives no outgoing sign of having felt his field at all.

The loss of contact has the strange mech disappearing from all his senses.

“An interesting.. subsystem.” That is most definitely not an inbuilt mod. This mech is a predator belonging to a horror story told to younglings to dissuade them from going to the lower levels and the symbol of his faction lay relatively fresh on its neck-guard.

Fooling the unknowing.

The quiet hum of his astromag has Shockwave realigning his thoughts and once more canceling the power-up sequence.

It had shown no aggression, the opposite in fact which makes him [Redacted] . He lets himself pause.

Odd .

Thoughts resume.

Shockwave has dabbled in many things untowards, but he has never crossed the line into the undead. It had been logical to avoid such dealings. This is not a past experiment of his, nor has he ever met this strange mech.

So why did his signature read loyalty? (Interest?)

Something’s not right.

The silence has gone on for too long.

“I am still here.”

His winglet sensors jolt in startlement, mute confusion visible as his antennae automatically moved in an endeavor to find what he knows will be nothing . Forcefully he puts a halt to his scans; settling his sensory spikes to their natural level.

“My apologies for the silence, it seemed you needed to think for a moment. If my.. Non-presence is a disturbance for you, I will wear a tracker and leave you be.”

Yes , a tracker on the creature would be critically helpful and would provide Shockwave in knowing if he was being hunted . But..

“The tracker would be beneficiary in providing where you are lest we collide,” he has been abandoned, there is no chatter across any of the lines and for once it grates, though it gives way for other things, “it would be illogical to split up.”

Shockwave has spent much time alone before the disaster that was the explosion; has grown to dislike others of his species. Shouldn’t even consider teaming up with this being, but even so, loath as he is to admit it- he is still a sentient ‘tronian and they will always return to craving social interactions.

Logically, Shockwave should rid himself of this uncertain variable to his plans , many catastrophes can rear their helms and cause undue setbacks with the aid of this being.

Illogically, the remembered feeling of naive loyalty holds him back from unloading his cannon into the unknown.

“I will administer the device into your arm.”

He holds out his servo again; nanites finally lessening its shaking as a firm grip is returned around it and he pierces a personal tracker from his subspace into the dark blue seeker’s gauntlet.

They do not wince, do not twitch; they are as silent as they have started out as- ever present staring included. He pings his tracker and receives a ping in return. He pulls away once more, but the grip on his servo tightens before immediately loosening. His antennae twitch as he reexamines the mech.

Pain - Loyalty - Intrigue - Interest - Satisfaction - Loss - Determination

“Then if we are to work together, my designation is Silver-shards-cover-ivory-scars .”

He offers a nod of acknowledgement as they pull apart.

Without contact- for once the mech stays on his sensors. He pings the transceiver and receives nothing.

Curious.

Chapter Text

Data filters through his processor like sand through organic hands. Most fall between the gaps, but particles stick like unwanted barnacles on a shell of an aquatic beast.

He doesn't know how long he sits in an unobstructed corner of the lab with only his processor to keep him occupied, he feels.. Empty. In the silence. And sure, there is the vibration beneath him he can feel, the thrum of energon flowing through his frame, the danger outside his phantom pains twinge in rhythm to the occasional rumble that joins those vibrations. But that is existence.

That will never be silent until the end, when the lungs collapse of air and you-

That’s not true is it?

Here he is now- even after. His existence has ended but it is not silent. It did not end, it restarted.

Dentas clench and his glossa presses against them as his processor produces a sharp ring. His attention is diverted from the dark spiral it was sliding into, a look to the data found has his optics shuttering in surprise.

Music? Or well, it’s mainly labeled under Sermons, Hymns and More and looking at the connected files leads him to one labeled Adjacent which contains.. Technobabble? Not a lot of genre or choices here for music, something he found very disappointing considering his love of music and dancing in his human life.

His pedes scrape against the metal floor as he stands up from his brooding spot and steps lightly to a make-shift desk he had set up some ways from Shockwave’s ‘med-birth’.

His thoughts swirl and his processor glides along them with invisible servos that push and pull them into formation. He needs.. He needs something to write on. Yes. He needs music that isn’t.. Religiously built, or just noise. Needs words with meaning even if they are nonsensical.

Rifling through his subspace, past necessary junk and some fried scraplets he reaches deeper, into the boundary he mentally placed as Silverglide’s gatherings and one he is quick to leave after grabbing a well-used and taken care of datapad.

It fits.. well in his grip. (Like his servos are still his predecessor’s, like he didn’t just take over someone else’s life even if they were on the verge of offlining. They’re not the same, notthesame.)

He intakes air harshly at his (own) thoughts before it’s cast aside as his subroutines discard every current processing not about music haphazardly. His still sore fans settle him in the present, with datapad in hand he opens a new file.

And time flows away.

-

Lines are crossed out, words are replaced, he was never one to write music, he just.. Sang whatever the pits he wanted to. But leaving this culture so..bare in song feels not right. The only music that contains lyrics is mainly the hymns and those ones are too centered around the.. False sham of a prime called Sentinel.

How self-centered.

A sneer crosses his features before he huffs and it folds away like ash and settles into a studious frown as he leans away from his work of.. Something.

It.. definitely needs some work in some parts or maybe it would sound better with instruments behind them, certainly helped some songs in his old life where the music was way louder than the lyrics to cover up mistakes he guesses.. He doesn’t know, not like he could hear whatever the singers were singing with such loud beats.

His top denta’s sharp fangs prick at his bottom derma as he hums out tunes to see what would better match, definitely something heavy considering the base thought to the words. 

“For a cause unjust, we made it rust,” he mutters softly, “now Primus’ covered in dust.” He ends just as softly if not sadly, fangs moving away from his nicked derma as his glossa swipes the dull ache away.

A clang briefly echoes, but he’s too lost in whispers of the words he had written, “chasing freedom through the night, but we’re left alone in the fading light.”

“Alone, alone and desolate.”

“We step on the corpses of the fallen,” downcast go his optics, a darker hue of orange they become, bordering on a burning ember before he startles at the sounds of a loud thud nearby.

His helm swivels to the sound and the lyrics of his song are gone like a dandelion seed on the breeze as his processor focuses solely on the singular well-known yellow optic belonging to a very awake and alert Shockwave.

(And time continued from another perception in the past.)