Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In retrospect, Soundwave should have expected this to come from Optimus Prime.

It could not have come from his symbiotes, who believed him capable of anything. All according to his design, of course; during the war, he had wanted them to feel assured in all things.

Nor would it come from Shockwave, who was there from almost the beginning, who believed most firmly that mecha unable to devise their own success did not deserve it.

And certainly not from Megatron. For though he counted himself among his commander’s few friends, they had both come from a world where the greatest comfort a mech could offer was to bear his burdens in silence, and not remind a friend of their own.

Still, hearing those words from an Autobot was a shock for the longtime Decepticon, who froze as he trudged into their ad-hoc joint headquarters with a stack of datapads, exhausted from a long off-shift of sifting through salvage.

“Soundwave, you need help,” Optimus repeated, his worry only increasing at the lack of response. “You can’t keep this up.”

It would have rankled, if not for the concern and sympathy radiating through his EM presence like the background rumble of a ship’s engines.

Soundwave quietly set the orn’s cross-factional communiques down on the Autobot leader’s ‘desk’- an ugly twist of scrap the Constructicons had crushed flat, mounted a computer console to, and welded into the wide open lobby of the former medical center in a bad faith protest of the task. Decaorns later, Prime had still not complained, and they were beginning to worry about the forms his revenge could take. So far, only Soundwave knew that that was his revenge, and he had actually found the whole production more humorous than inconvenient. He certainly wasn’t going to spoil the ruse.

“Soundwave: fully capable.” The formidable Decepticon had designed and installed more communications infrastructure in his functioning than anymech alive. What was one more network?

“It’s not your capability I question, it’s your stamina,” Optimus argued. At the indignant stare he received in return, he doubled down, “You cannot reasonably plan to keep handling all official Decepticon comm traffic while personally rebuilding Cybertron’s physical grid. The workload is unjustifiable. I know you won’t give up either responsibility, but an extra set of servos would do you good.”

Reluctantly, the communications hub admitted the real problem, “Decepticon help: clumsy, uncooperative. Productivity: projected to decrease exponentially.”

“Then pick an Autobot,” Prime implored, exasperated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Blaster isn’t available, obviously, but we have a number of mecha whose responsibilities have been cut by the ceasefire and haven’t been reallocated yet. I’ll sign off on anybot you think you can work with,” he declared, though his browplates furrowed as he downloaded the list of personnel files into a datapad. Shrugging it off along with a wave of weary disappointment, he handed it over.

Soundwave was hardly optimistic. The Autobots and Decepticons were in the same dock in that regard; anybot not already assigned a role in Cybertron’s resettlement probably didn’t have any civilian skills to leverage. And that was excluding the standing military- both sides had organized their spaceworthy warframes and crewed ships into a serviceable force for the defense of the planet from outside threats… but the terms of the cease-fire severely curtailed the maintenance of ground troops to prevent a relapse of civil hostilities on its surface. Some mecha were still in that limbo, decommissioned from wartime service but lacking another trade to take up.

Still, the Autobots had usually not come from backgrounds as rough as their Decepticon counterparts, and as a general rule had not promoted wanton destruction as an acceptable pastime within their ranks. At this point Soundwave would consider any mech who could follow basic instructions and be expected to handle delicate equipment without crumpling it into scrap, and so he perused the list.

A few of the entries surprised him. For example, he would not have expected to see Ironhide’s designation there after famously being close friends with the Autobot Commander for so long. And while the appearance of several Wreckers on the list was no mystery- as each faction had forced the other to concede the combat eligibility of particularly contentious units under the ceasefire- it was curious that their imposing commander was not among them. A quick search of the local directory identified Ultra Magnus as a researcher attached to the main legislative office- even curiouser.

His prospects were indeed about as poor as expected. Even if they were diligent, and he were willing to work with them- and he had been willing to work with Starscream- there was no way many of these mecha would take orders from a Decepticon. And even if they agreed or were compelled, Soundwave’s plating crawled just imagining the contempt he would be subjected to on an ornly basis. In most cases, the reason these mecha were on this list was the same reason sheer animosity would disqualify them.

There was, however, one notable exception… which was another politically surprising one, due to the mech’s well-established connections to Autobot High Command.

Deciding he had nothing to lose in the attempt, Soundwave selected the personnel record and handed the datapad back to its owner. “Request: Autobot Bluestreak. Trial period duration: one decaorn.”

Optimus Prime’s browplates, which had been furrowed low over his optics with concern, flew up under the brim of his helm. “Bluestreak? …Are you sure about that?”

“Query: Optimus Prime disapproves.” the communications hub questioned, puzzled by the guilt and worry sloughing off the Autobot in front of him like cleanser.

“Of course not. Well, not in principle,” Prime denied vehemently. “Bluestreak is a good mech and a valuable asset. He takes instruction well, and can obviously handle equipment much more dangerous than a transmitter safely. It’s just that… well, he was a sniper. He doesn’t have any skills relevant to your field…”

“Relevant skillset: rare. Training: expected. Targeting expertise: translatable,” Soundwave fixed the Autobot Commander with an inscrutable stare, wondering if he would rescind his offer, or reveal what he was really worried about.

Optimus sighed, shrugging helplessly, “I am the first bot- well, maybe the third or fourth, in fact- who would be overjoyed to see Bluestreak assimilated into a productive civilian function. We have been attempting to place him since the ceasefire, but it… never works out. It’s hard, seeing him put back on the allocation register over and over again. He applies himself diligently, it’s just…” he sighed again.

Soundwave tilted his helm encouragingly.

Visibly steeling himself, Prime glanced around and confessed quietly, “He’s just a bit… too chatty for most bots. He talks almost constantly, about anything and everything. Even mecha who like Bluestreak- and there are many- can’t always put up with it for long, and I don’t want to set him up for failure again.” Guilt roiled around him like an exhaust cloud as he admitted this.

Soundwave tilted his helm back in affront, “Soundwave: non-judgmental. Conversational deficiency: severe. Intolerant experiences: relatable.”

“I… suppose you might know better than most,” Optimus conceded carefully. “Are you sure you can put up with the sheer volume, though? There’s understanding- which is important- and then there’s actually spending an entire work shift in his company every orn. I just don’t want to see him hurt again.”

The communications hub tapped the transparisteel of his deck, “Soundwave: hosts six symbiotes. Verbal input tolerance: astronomical.”

The Autobot Prime leaned back to look at him appraisingly, “You have a point, there… alright. I will assign him to you, on the condition that if it goes badly, you let him down gently. I know you can control your temper… how you put up with Starscream for the entire war is still beyond me,” he muttered, rubbing his helm.

Soundwave snorted through his vents and nodded in agreement.

“Good. You should be aware…” Optimus glanced around again, radiating a grave seriousness, “That if anything happens to him… there may be serious consequences. I’m not questioning your competence or commitment, but I’m also not exaggerating when I say that it could endanger you and our whole diplomatic… situation,” he made a vague encompassing gesture.

The Decepticon lieutenant was not impressed, “Query: threat.”

“Not from me,” the Autobot commander clarified hastily. “I’m sure you’ve discovered by now that Prowl is very protective of Bluestreak. The same also goes for Jazz… and the twins… and Ironhide… and Wheeljack… and, well, you get the idea.”

“Soundwave: preserves Frenzy and Rumble. Bluestreak: not a challenge,” Soundwave asserted, equally serious.

“Another point,” Optimus Prime nodded, venting deeply. “Consider it done. He will be report to your depot by half-shift.”

***

<<But… Soundwave? As in, the Soundwave?>> Bluestreak blurted out. <<Not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity, sir, and I get that we’ll have to work with Decepticons sometimes, it’s just that… well, he’s a little creepy, to be honest. And doesn’t he read processors, like for real? And I’ve shot down his cassettes a lot, are you sure he’s not mad? One time, Laserbeak was strafing Ratchet and I->>

<<I understand your concerns, but having worked with him closely for some time now I really don’t believe he’s the type to hold a grudge over something like that. I have also found him to be responsible, considerate, and not the least bit ‘creepy’ once you get to know him,>> the Prime corrected the young sniper firmly. <<It’s important not only to work with Decepticons, Bluestreak, but to understand why we should not be enemies. Utility frames and outliers were both treated very poorly before the war; mecha like Soundwave were not programmed with advanced conversational skills because they were considered conveniences for other mecha, and not equals worth talking to. Just possessing an outlier ability- much less such a strategic one- would have at best driven any mech into a life of fear and oppression, and at worst subjected them to the schemes of the rich and powerful. From what I understand it can also be uncomfortable and inconvenient for Soundwave, and he prefers to intrude as little as possible. If the idea is too frightening to you, it is likely he will not be able to accept your long-term assistance, in fact.>>

<<Oh… I didn’t know all of that. I guess it could be pretty upsetting to know what’s going through everybot’s meta all the time; do you know that Sideswipe told me that when he’s bored on monitor duty, he just imagines everyone with their->>

<<I’m sure it is,>> Optimus agreed, not wanting to hear the end of that story under any circumstances. <<All I can ask of anybot is to give each assignment a fair chance. With Blaster off-world coordinating communications for the new defense force, that leaves Soundwave tasked with rebuilding the planetary relay network single-servoed. It’s a Priority One undertaking- the only way to ensure public safety and equality is to guarantee universal access- but the workload is clearly taking its toll. He needs somebot reliable and willing to learn on his team, or he’s going to burn out.>>

<<Well, that’s not good, I guess. Are you sure I won’t just be a speed bump, though? I don’t know anything about comms systems. One time, Blaster was asking what frequency I was on, and I thought he meant my pulse ri->>

<<You’ll do fine,>> the Prime assured quickly. <<Part of the difficulty is that the network components are both delicate and difficult to scavenge, and most warframes are not calibrated precisely enough to manipulate them without causing damage. I believe your experience in weapons maintenance will serve you well in this regard, and Soundwave also mentioned that your advanced targeting skills would have applications in his field when he requested you. I wouldn’t approve this if I didn’t think it would be mutually beneficial.>>

<<Soundwave requested me? This wasn’t your recommendation? What does he know about me? Was he spying on me, back on->>

<<I gave Soundwave permission to select any Autobot he wanted from the allocation register. He had access to the available personnel records, and you were his first choice,>> Optimus clarified.

<<Oh, wow. Well… I guess he must think it’s worth a shot then, right? I mean, unless it would be some kind of inter-faction catastrophe if it doesn’t work out. I definitely don’t want to be the reason that->>

<<The trial period is ten orns; either of you can call it off within that timeframe for any reason, but that is just a logistical formality. You can of course back out even after the assignment becomes permanent, if you wish. Please proceed to the comms depot to meet with Soundwave at half-shift.>>

<<This shift?! Okay, I’ll be there! Ummm… does Prowl know about this…?>>

<<I will inform him on my next long range communique. Good luck, Bluestreak. Prime, out.>>

Bluestreak blinked at the abrupt end of the call, wincing as he realized how long he’d kept his commander on the line; he must be very busy.

Ironhide’s vents made a chuffing noise from where the older mech was watching him, “Everythin’ alright? You look like yeh’ve seen a subspace anomaly.”

“Oh, no- I just got an assignment! Kind of an unusual one, but Prime seemed to think it was a good fit, so I guess it’s worth trying. I just don’t know; after that thing with the twins I’m not sure if I-“

“Aw, don’t let that get y’down. Sometimes personalities clash, is all. Now, when do you haveta be there?” Ironhide interrupted smoothly, knowing full well that the younger mech could lose track of time while he fretted.

“Half-shift, so I’d better get going!” Thankfully, Bluestreak was punctual when he wasn’t distracted, and with one last look around the improvised shooting range where the two of them usually spent their orns- Ironhide, to keep an optic on everything, and Bluestreak to keep him company- transformed to depart.

“Wait, what’s yer assignment-?” the weapons specialist hollered after the speeding vehicle.

***

“So this is ‘Soundwave’s lair,’ huh? I didn’t think it would be so close to HQ… but I guess it is technically a shared comms depot. Who else would even use it, though? At least it’s not in one of the purple districts- not that there’s anything wrong with Decepticons sticking to certain districts, when they’re not shooting at us! I wonder why he picked the sublevels of an old collapsed highway interchange, though. I know Sideswipe said it was because most of the ways in and out are buried, making it easier to lure bots to their doom, but that can’t be it. Didn’t Wheeljack say they picked the medical center for HQ because it had its own power grid, which was repairable? Well, that and the building was still standing. I bet this place is tapped into the same power; that’s much less sinister. I wonder what this old exit ramp was for before the war. An ambulance bypass, maybe? I bet Ratchet would know. Whoever repaired it did a really good job fixing the road too, this is nice. Oh, but what if it was the Constructicons? I sure hope they’re not lurking around here! They’re all big and cranky, and in a fight they only get bigger and crankier. Wow, those blast doors sure are ominous… and I’m pretty sure those glyphs aren’t Iaconian or Praxian, so they must have been salvaged from somewhere else. Who am I kidding, this was definitely rebuilt by the Constructicons. But hey, there’s no way they could be here, right? They’re probably the busiest mechs on Cybertron right now, with Prowl gone! Come to think of it, Soundwave must have a lot of clout to get them to do that kind of project for him in all the fuss. Yikes, I can’t believe I’ll be working for a real, live member of Decepticon High Command. I sure hope Optimus was right about him being nice... I wonder if he knows I’m here yet? He seems like the type who just knows things like that. But what if he forgot I was coming? I’m not that important, compared to what he’s working on. Maybe I should come back another time… Eep! I guess I’m about to find out, huh? Oh, h-hi, Soundwave. Optimus said I should report to you…?”

“Affirmative.”

“Well, great. And, uh, thanks? For the opportunity, I mean. No hard feelings if it doesn’t work out, okay? I know not everybot can use a mech who only knows how to shoot pretty well. …Am I supposed to follow you?”

“Affirmative.”

“In root mode...? Oh! Of course in root mode. I forgot- most Autobots have vehicle alt modes. Except Perceptor… and Blaster, of course. I guess I should have thought of that. That must be why you picked this place for your la- depot… because it’s centrally located? That makes more sense than what everybot else was thinking. Not that you’d care what anybot is, you know, thinking! Not in a weird way. I mean, nobot has even gone missing, so the whole ‘luring bots to their doom’ theory doesn’t make much sense, anyway.”

“Location: convenient. Power supply: stable. Lair aesthetic: foreboding. Emergency interchange: ideal.”

“Foreboding…? Was that a joke? Oh! It was a funny joke! And you’re doing it on purpose? Well, Optimus did say your equipment was fragile; I bet it wouldn’t be very safe to have a bunch of Decepticons stomping through here whenever they wanted something. Not that Decepticons aren’t careful! It’s just that, well… they’re definitely not careful at the shooting range- Ironhide keeps having to run them off. But only because mechs can’t just throw live ammunition at each other, that’s definitely not careful!”

“Decepticons: confirmed not careful. Behavior: typical. Autobot assistance: worth exploring.”

“Oh, well… I guess you said it, not me. Wow, look at all this stuff! Well, that’s what a depot is for, isn’t it? It makes sense that you have a lot of stuff. I don’t know what any of these things are, though… are you going to teach me about all of this? How would that even work? Not that you wouldn’t be a good teacher! It’s just that… most of my technical training was done in lectures. And, um, you don’t seem like the lecturing type…?”

“Soundwave: inferior lecturer. Training: diagram-based. Demonstrations: provided.”

“Yeah, okay! That could work. You know, I’ve made some training diagrams myself! The Ark crew was a really mixed magazine, and some members- even really good fighters!- had never cleaned or maintained their own weapons before. The civilians were one thing, but did you know that gladiators weren’t even allowed to have weapons outside the ring? …Uh, on second thought, maybe you would have heard that before. Anyway, the twins weren’t getting it and Ironhide was getting really mad, so I made these little workbench mats with diagrams on them. It wasn’t my idea- I saw Ratchet using them to teach First Aid where everything was supposed to go in the Medbay. Have you seen how many tools they have? It’s crazy in there! I’d much rather be a weapons specialist than a med- ooh, is this workstation for me? And you use printed workmats, too?!”

“Affirmative. Autobot procedural database: examined. Weapons maintenance training protocol: replicated. Query: adequate.”

“You’re… asking me if I can learn with this? Well, sure! This is great. You even have all these little tools marked out! That’s really thoughtful of you. What are you going to teach me? Are we starting now?”

“Affirmative. Component: short range transmitter node. Status: salvaged. Objective: identify and remove reusable capacitors. Examples: provided. Instructions: detailed.”

“Oh, okay. These capacitors look kind of like the ones in the power pack of a pulse rifle, and I’ve rebuilt plenty of those! So… this one is burnt all to scrap and goes in the scrap bin, that’s easy. And this one… oh, I see it there- the leads are all crushed underneath. You want ones like that cut off and put in this ‘maybe’ bin for later? And here’s a good one; it says I can undo the joints and put it right into inventory. Will you show me how to use the laser torch? It’s a little different from ours, and I don’t want to burn anything.”

“Demonstration: intended. Power supply: behind viewscreen. Temperature control: locked. Step one: apply laserflux. Step two: apply heat to contacts. Step three: remove capacitor. Requirement: all solder points melted evenly. Caution: remaining attachments cause bent leads. Request: observe.”

“Hey, you didn’t even look! Can you do that again, but a little slower? Uh-huh, thanks… well, that doesn’t look too hard. Can I try? So I just wipe this on, and then move this around until they’re all shiny, and then pop! Pull the whole thing off. Is that right? Did I do it right?”

“Affirmative. Manual dexterity: excellent. Technique: adequate. Results: satisfactory.”

“Oh, um, thank you! It wasn’t even hard, though… Were you really having trouble finding somebot to help you with these?”

“Affirmative. Additional request: inspect antenna module. Conditional: not always present. Undamaged units: rare. Action: place unit in priority bin.”

“Only if I find something that looks like this one here? I can do that. Is that really all you need me to do? With this whole pile? I guess there sure are a lot of them, and you must be really busy. I guess anything that takes some work off of your console is worth doing…”

“Variety of available tasks: extensive. Capacitors required: thousands. Bluestreak: novice technician. Order of tasks: least technical to most technical. Limit: to be determined. Training schedule: provided.”

“Okay, let’s see… first we have capacitor recovery, and then some other parts, and then manufacturing antennas, and sub-assembly assembly, then assembly assembly, and field installation, calibration, and then actual scavenging for more parts… you’re going to teach me all of those skills? But that’s like building whole relay stations! I’m not a comms tech, I don’t know if I’ll be able to do all of that… I was just a sniper, you know? Point and shoot!”

“Correction: not a comms tech prior. Current status: comms tech. Skills: attainable. Query: level of interest.”

“My level of interest? Well, high, I guess! If you really think I can do it- that would keep me off the reallocation list for… well, ever. So… I start with all of these, then?”

“Affirmative. Soundwave: within audio-visual proximity. Queries: encouraged.”

“Oh, that’s great. Thank you! And, um, I just wanted you to know… I’ve always been sorry about that time with Laserbeak. It’s just that Ratchet was trying to…”

***

Ravage was more accustomed to spying on mecha from high in the ventilation ducts than the corners of pedestrian hallways, but knew that Soundwave would Know- and perhaps even give him The Look- for engaging that level of stealth in their own depot. Nevermind that he wasn’t even supposed to be in the city- he had scraped more time out of nothing during the war, and he would rust before leaving any member of their cadre alone with some un-vetted Autobot.

Even a member as personally dangerous as Soundwave.

Even with this… naively babbling, openly friendly Autobot without one fluid ounce of guile in his hydraulics.

Silently, he set down the most recent transmitter node he had liberated from the ruins of a relay station, and crossed razor-sharp claws imperiously to continue his observations. Tolerating the incessant noise was one thing, but did his host have to humor the brakeless wonder with indulgent ‘Affirmative’s, let alone more specific encouragement to the ongoing monologue?

Surely… Soundwave wasn’t enjoying this constant barrage…? This bot was worse than the twins. Combined!

“Well… I can’t say I expected them to hit it off quite this well. Did you?”

Ravage would never, on pain of deactivation, admit to deploying his missile racks at the soft-spoken admission. Smothering a snarl and glaring up- and up, and up- at the Autobot Prime (no mechanism that large should be that quiet!) peeking out from the hallway behind him, the dark symbiote dismissed the comment with a flick of his audial deflectors.

“Naturally,” Ravage hissed haughtily, smoothing shadowy plates back down with a ripple. “Soundwave is quite the conversationalist, you know.”

Apparently.

Chapter Text

Quickly realizing that his new apprentice was mechanically incapable of withholding information for long, Soundwave shrewdly cleared some openings in his overburdened schedule over the next few orns.

By force, if necessary.

…And that might not have been hyperbole.

He was well aware that if he was booked solid, the inevitable callers would come anyway, and he preferred to have some control over their timing. The busy Decepticon wouldn’t admit it to anybot, but he was also moderately intrigued by the prospect. Soundwave had initiated many such meetings himself on account of his symbiotes- but had never been on the receiving end before. Would the reversal of roles ruin the entertainment value, or would it be as amusing from the other side?

He had always loved a good smelter talk.

Being one of the closest, and apparently most underemployed, it made sense that Ironhide was the first to show up claiming to need his emergency beacon checked. Wordlessly, Soundwave led him to the soundproofed, interference-dampened booth where he tested equipment. He hooked up to the small device to run the diagnostics, suspense slowly building as the Autobot merely stood there, calmly returning his usually unnerving stare.

“Diagnostic: complete. Status: fully operational.”

To his credit, Ironhide showed no signs of intimidation as Soundwave unplugged from the device, looming a little more than necessary as he handed it back down to the shorter mech. Most purpose-built soldiers tended to forget that the unobtrusive communications hub was closer in size to industrials and warframes than to other civilian models, but this one was apparently wiser than that. His internal responses were also well-contained, giving off little more than a consistent buzz of disapproval.

 The grim little ground vehicle merely subspaced the transmitter and gave him a narrow, pointed look, “Thanks. An’ if ya let anythin’ happen t’Blue… you bet yer aft I’ll blast ya. Ceasefire or no ceasefire.” With that, he spun on one pede, heedless of turning his backplates to a live Decepticon commander, and left. On his way out he cast a friendly greeting and wave to the hardworking Praxian chatting to himself at the salvage workbench, but did not stop to get mired in inevitable conversation.

Clear, concise, and credible. Soundwave couldn’t find fault with the old mech’s delivery.

The other Autobots could stand to learn a lot from Ironhide.

The frontliner twins, for example. They had apparently not even looked at his schedule, arriving while he was out manually orienting the main long-range receiver to pick up a planned transmission from Earth. Judging from the indignant pouts billowing from them like puffs of steam, they had already been ejected from the comms depot by the former gunner as swiftly as if they’d been unruly at the firing range. Whatever comments they had planned for Soundwave, if they had indeed planned anything, did not survive contact with the enemy as they crossed paths in the entrance tunnel upon his return.

Soundwave said nothing as they blustered, alternately voicing their dissatisfaction with Bluestreak’s assignment and trying to goad him into any kind of confrontation they could think of. The red one favored backhanded bragging and posturing, while the yellow one went right for whatever insults he thought would be most provocative. It was interesting to observe the aggression rising in one as it ebbed in the other in a constant tug-of-war, though there was an undercurrent of guilt swirling around both.

Ravage had occasionally accused Rumble and Frenzy of having only one processor core to pass back and forth between them, but even they didn’t have such a reactive spark resonance.

Overall, though, their performance was underwhelming. They were neither willing to come out and threaten him plainly, nor crafty enough to allude to their intentions obliquely, and could not put together a coherent or intimidating message. They were also clearly unnerved by his lack of reaction, and instead of provoking him were letting themselves get worked up instead, their impulsive thoughts whizzing by like stray bullets.

By the time the embarrassing display devolved into derogatory pings at his faction, speech patterns, and intelligence (???) of all things, he had thankfully learned all he needed to know to send them rolling.

“Bluestreak: genial, diligent, competent. Soundwave: values commitment and contributions. Responsibility for workplace safety, functional development: accepted. Verbosity: inappropriate cause to sever productive apprenticeship,” the taciturn comms hub admonished them bluntly.

“Hey, at least he was better off with friends than some Deceptifreak!” the accompanying flood of guilt was as unpleasant as Earth’s ocean rushing through a hull breach, but satisfying as the red one hissed and the yellow one silently bristled like he’d been struck.

“Soundwave’s mentorship: superior to Autobot twins’. Criticisms: rejected,” he added coldly, abusing his bulk and their mire of apprehension of his outlier ability to maneuver past- effectively forcing the pair to dance around him to avoid plate contact with the telepath. Triggering the blast doors shut behind him, Soundwave mentally checked the pair off the list. He was under no illusions that they were permanently deterred, but he had handily won this round. They were no threat.

It served them right for letting petty annoyance break the trust Bluestreak had put in them. It was easy to find the surveillance clips from the gallery; a certain saboteur had clearly already pulled it and left his greedy markers all over the filepath.

A certain saboteur who was clearly lurking in the ventilation, despite having a legitimate office appointment on the docket in a few groons. Well, Soundwave knew that Jazz was there, and unless his skills had slipped a great deal in a short amount of time, Jazz knew that Soundwave would know that Jazz was there. Knowing this, Soundwave couldn’t predict what Jazz’s game was, but it was sure to be inventive.

The Decepticon lieutenant discreetly locked down a few sensitive sections of inventory, just in case. Not that anything he had set up here would stop the meddling spy, but it should alert him to any serious tampering. That the most genuine Autobot on Cybertron had taken up with the most deceptive was a bit of an annoyance.

Soundwave was reminded of the payoff when Bluestreak cheerily greeted him, chattering away about all of the transmitters he had already disassembled that shift. He showed off an intact antenna module he had identified so delicately- with both hands!- that Soundwave allowed himself one completely selfish klik of schadenfreude. Those short-sighted warframe twins and the rest of Bluestreak’s failed assignments deserved to live with the regret of firing this meticulous, hardworking bot, and watch Soundwave reap the benefits.

Even more novel, the depot was pristine. Nothing was broken or missing. Every task he had set was being accomplished at a reasonable pace and to an acceptable standard. The fieldspace was light and pleasant but professional every orn. Soundwave had recharged a full cycle last off-shift, knowing that progress would not be faster if he didn’t. Even his cassettes, as much as he cared about them and as variously talented as they were, weren’t such agreeable comms techs. At one time he would have extinguished an embarrassing number of sparks for just such an assistant, and here Optimus Prime had assigned Bluestreak to him practically on a whim.

It was probably best not to tell the Autobot leader that. A companionable cube of energon on break and a packet of salvaged literary files might be a more palatable gesture of gratitude.

After dispensing appropriate praise for his apprentice’s discovery, the communications hub borrowed the effulgent little mech from his task to demonstrate the use of the signal simulator to test it. Removing the salvaged antenna from the transmitter node was delicate work, as was hooking it up to the machine, but as usual the former sniper was delighted to learn something new.

When Soundwave received a comm ping exactly on the joor, he had no qualms about leaving Bluestreak to continue independently, “Request: pardon. Long range call: incoming.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me! I’ll do this while you go take that. It’ll take me a while to thread these fiddly things through the eye terminals here, anyway…” Determination and excitement wafted from the smiling Praxian like little gusts of wind from his idly flapping sensor panels.

The Decepticon commander crossed the depot with measured steps to take the comm in his office; Optimus Prime may not mind having his desk in the middle of traffic, but Soundwave would never put up with the distractions- or the misguided Constructicon shenanigans at his expense.

He naturally showed no surprise when an unsmiling version of the same Praxian faceplate he had just left appeared on his monitor, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Soundwave had always appreciated the Autobot commander’s tendency to dispense with pleasantries, but that didn’t mean he had to capitulate. “Assumption: communique delivered. Current objective: rebuild planetary comms grid.”

Prowl glowered at him darkly, “You know full well that I mean Bluestreak’s assignment to you. If you are trying to secure some kind of insurance against Autobot-“

“Bluestreak: not a tactical asset,” Soundwave interrupted mid-sentence for effect. Not technically true, but over a remote connection like this, he could only aim for fairly broad targets for manipulation. “Intelligence, aptitude: undervalued, underutilized. Autobots: squandered potential. Soundwave: cultivates potential.”

Black and white sensor panels flared aggressively, “Are you really suggesting that he is better off under Decepticon command? Your organization is not known for cultivating potential, particularly among civilian models.”

“Soundwave: civilian model. Soundwave: takes mentorship responsibility seriously. Soundwave: not known to abandon charges. Prowl: not present. Right to object: not found,” the communications hub pointed out ruthlessly. It was one of those few occasions he felt his lack of tonal modulation inconvenient, but those cues would likely be lost on this Autobot anyway.

The tactician glared as if his optics could burn through plating like the acid ammunition he favored, “I want your unconditional assurance that this is not some kind of underhanded hostage-taking plot. Not because I will believe a Decepticon’s word, but so that the record will show that I attempted diplomacy first if I find out otherwise and must dismantle your cohort piece by piece in retaliation.”

The deployer had to manually cancel a number of defensive subroutines and rerun the first response through his ad-hoc language buffer to avoid giving away his agitation. Reminding himself that this was Prowl’s smelter talk, not his, and therefore answering the threat with his own and thus trapping them in a chain of counter-threats until the heat-death of the universe would be counterproductive, he looked down his faceplate at the visual pickup impassively. “Current objective: rebuild planetary comms grid. Bluestreak: superior apprentice, valued team member. Harm, threats of harm to Bluestreak: not tolerated.”

“Fine. See that they aren’t,” Prowl ordered coldly, as if he were in command here. “If I hear of one scratch on his plating, or his sensor panels out of place by one degree during this assignment… I refer you to the attached file. Prowl out.”

Soundwave had to wait for the piggybacked data transmission to finish arriving first, as the file was quite large. He was surprised and privately impressed to find that it contained the complete project blueprint to rebuild Cybertron- which was ambitious, extensive, and minutely detailed- only this version had been meticulously adjusted at every level to omit any participation by himself or his symbiotes. Prowl had even gone through the trouble of predicting the diplomatic fallout of his hypothetical actions and the effects of his own punishment. The vindictive effort the document had taken to create could not be overstated.

The message was also clear between the project outlines. An elegant warning, if tellingly overwrought.

It would have been thoroughly intimidating to any mech not already familiar with the specifications of the tactician’s processor enhancements, more invested in their own ego, or less honest in their commitment to the apprentice at issue. Fortunately, Soundwave was none of those things.

Somewhat less impressive was the painful screech of the vent cover as it swung down from the ceiling. His symbiotes kept all of them greased into silent submission for their own comings and goings, had Jazz un-greased it somehow while he was up there? Intentionally? The mech was inexplicable. Soundwave watched dubiously as a pair of familiar pedes dangled into view first, followed (noisily) by a chassis, and the saboteur finally dropped to the deck with clang and a jaunty wave.

“Heya, mech! Mind if I drop in early?” his insufferably cheeky grin was out in full force.

“Query: optional.”

Soundwave would not say he was apprehensive of the diminutive spy, exactly, but there had always been something off about him that prevented the communications hub from letting his guard down. While there were a frustrating dockful of mecha he just could not get a good read on with his outlier ability for one reason or another, Jazz wasn’t actually one of them. The problem was that his baselines frequently shifted in ways the telepath had never observed in other mecha, and the phenomenon was admittedly unnerving. Wariness of the unknown was a prudent survival strategy.

Particularly when the unknown concealed so many blades and explosives.

“Heh, always so hospitable, eh Sounders? Fo’ real, though, it was getting’ stuffy up there! I thought your console was gonna burst inta flames from the tension in that commline. Phew!” Jazz wiped imaginary condensation from imaginary strain on his cooling system off of his helm.

The Decepticon looked down at him dubiously, “Autobot Prowl: furious. Soundwave: unconcerned. Request: Jazz’s threats. Schedule: at full capacity.”

“Awww, it ain’t like that! Well, maybe a lil’ like that. In a hurry t’get rid of me much, though? C’mon, mech; let a bot catch his vents first,” the spy declined, vocalizer full of mock-hurt, though amusement rang from him like pings off of hot metal. “We’ll get to that in a klik. Actually, you’ve gone’n’got got me hopin’ all this is just a formality. Keepin’ each other honest, y’know? You’d do the same thing if I hired one of ya lil’ terrors on the A/V side. Actually, that ain’t a bad idea…”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave confirmed, seeing no point in denying it as he watched the spy make himself at home with every available sensor.

Jazz wasted no time wandering away to inspect the walls, the vents, and the workstation like a mech with a much shorter attention span and many fewer ulterior motives. “See? That’s just good policy, is all it is. ‘Sides, I promised Prowler I’d give ya the business in person for ‘im, an’ if I don’t, his winglets’ll get stuck all th’way up there, and then Ratchet’ll blow a gasket, and then Hook will be CMO, and, well, you get the picture. It’d be a big hassle an’ probably doom our civilization ta extinction. A coupl’a courtesy warnin’s, and everybot’s all happy! You wouldn’ let a lil’ thing like that affect our friendship, eh Sounders? Y’went’n cleared ya schedule for us, after all.”

Friendship was a new and fantastical reimagination of their fraught rivalry. Undistracted by the absurd one-sided banter, the Decepticon lieutenant was fully aware that Jazz was stalling. Allowing him to continue un-checked was probably ill-advised. “Transparency: preferred. Brevity: also preferred.”

“Rude.” The Autobot announced his offense, though once again his only reaction was a free-flowing rill of humor. “I thought you were fun, Sounders. I’m tryn’a build rapport, here- on account of our long history o’ mutual failure t’extinguish each other’s sparks, ya dig? ‘Sides, when slag comes due, I think we both know I don’t have any idea what I’m gonna do until I get there; makes threatenin’ kinda hard. This is more of a… demonstration of transparency. As a welcome t’ the Bluestreak fanclub, y’know?” The faux innocence of his smile triggered several priority alerts all on its own; combined with the smugness glinting around him like refractions of light, it was downright alarming.

Soundwave had not designed his verbal algorithms with Jazz’s lethally agile repartee in mind, and stubbornly chose to dignify the cryptic performance with only a disapproving stare. He had designed his office, however, to be soundproof enough for privacy, but not so much that his finely-tuned sensors couldn’t pick up noises above speaking volume through the walls. To him, Bluestreak’s welcoming call was perfectly audible, if absolutely baffling.

“Oh, hey, Jazz! Soundwave just went out back to take a comm, do you have an appointment on the schedule? Bots really need to make appointments to see him; sometimes I think he’s busier than Optimus-”

The reply was muffled.

Jazz continued to grin sunnily.

Soundwave continued to stare.

The door opened.

“-thanks, Blue!” Jazz called over his pauldron as he entered the room with a jaunty wave and a gust of anticipation. The door closed. “Heya, mechs. Am I late to the party?”

“Nope, right on time, mech!” Jazz replied cheerfully.

Jazz grinned.

Jazz grinned.

Soundwave stared.

The Jazz that had entered via the vents waved one hand up in front of the looming red visor, “I think ya broke ‘im.”

The Jazz that had entered via the door threw up his hands innocently, “Don’t blame me, I just got here!”

The devious smirk they shared reminded Soundwave so much of Frenzy and Rumble that it successfully kicked his command protocols into a reboot. “Much: explained,” he declared flatly. And it was; once he got over the shock of the revelation, Jazz secretly being a pair of twins actually explained a great deal about his- their- most inexplicable wartime feats. Not to mention the telepathic anomalies.

“’Much: explained?!’ Is that all we get? See, toldja I didn’t break ‘im! Barely even fazed, our Sounders,” door-Jazz crowed as they both laughed in an eerie mirror image, dumping rapid-fire pangs of glee like spent bullet casings.

“I jus’ gotta know,” vent-Jazz began once his diminishing guffaws allowed it, “Didja suspect anythin’? We’ve been debatin’ a long time whether ya did or not. You’re a hard mech ta read, heh.”

Soundwave considered how much to say, but ultimately decided to exchange a (minimized) truth for a truth, “Discrepancies: noted. Explicit cause: not discovered.”

“Eh, don’t let that getcha down,” door-Jazz soothed unnecessarily. “Most ‘Bots ain’t noticed a thing, either, and we lived with ‘em.”

“It ain’t you, it’s us,” vent-Jazz excused graciously.

“Query:” if Soundwave was completely honest, he would rather not know, but, “Purpose of breaking cover.”

“Oh, just as inspiration to be real nice ta Blue,” door-Jazz shrugged, smirking a little ferally and projecting visceral protectiveness. “Afta all, if there’s been two of us this whole time, but you didn’ figure it out this whole time, and even the ‘Bots didn’t know this whole time… one of us was always somewhere, right? Coulda been anywhere, really. Jus’ noodle that fer a bit.”

“Think of it as a piece offerin’,” vent-Jazz added casually, unpleasant ideas coating his words like patterns of frost. “Long as you’re lookin’ out for him proper-like, you get ta stay in one piece,” he stuck up one thumb in that inane Earth gesture.

“Soundwave: experienced mentor. Bluestreak’s safety, development: top priority.” The benefits certainly outweighed the annoyance of reiterating this over and over, but the Decepticon was tiring of saying it just the same. He had successfully ushered six symbiotes through the war. Some of whom had sketchy self-preservation algorithms to begin with. Was it so hard for these Autobots to believe that he was committed to training one comms tech?

“Aww, that’s so sweet,” door-Jazz gushed dramatically. “Jus’ don’t forget it. We were plannin’ ta have one of us stroll down the ramp of a refugee ship one of these orns, an’ ugly cry all over each other like sparklin’s in fronta everybot, but we’re postponin’ our big reunion for ya probation. Don’t ruin our dreams, Sounders!”

“Yeah, mech. Their faceplates’ll be priceless! We’ll pay for any image caps your lil’ dudes get, by the way. Anyway, ‘Jazz’ has got places ta be. Whose turn is it?” vent-Jazz asked cryptically.

“Yours, my mech!” door-Jazz declared, leaping smoothly- and quietly- straight up into the ceiling vent and closing the grate silently behind him. He then spoiled the impressive feat of subterfuge by singing some nonsense into the echoing duct, “I’ll take th’ high duct, an’ you’ll take the low duct, an’ I’ll get ta Darkmount before ye…”

“Can’t take ‘im nowhere,” the Jazz formerly of the vents sighed dramatically, though there was a jealous tinge to it. “Anyway, thanks for the chat, Sounders. Oh, an’ I shouldn’t haveta say it, but don’t tell anybot- there really ain’t many mechs alive that know, an’ everybot else’ll just think you’ve cracked a core. Plus, we’d haveta deactivate ya, and Blue gets attached real easy. Peace!”

Jazz strolled out the portal from whence his doppelganger had come, whistling the same tune as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Soundwave let the door close automatically, taking a few kliks to flag some files and wait for his visitor(s) to vacate the premises. He would need some time to put his cross-references in order in light of these new developments…

He almost ignored the comm ping he received a groon later, having had his fill of overprotective Autobots for the orn. When a second one arrived immediately after, however, the Decepticon realized it was not Autobot in origin.

The chain of command may have become rather tangled in the rebuild effort, but he was still not in the habit of ignoring Megatron.

After quickly checking Bluestreak’s progress and finding it satisfactory, he made his way down the exit tunnel with due speed. If the lord of the Decepticons was calling him outside, it was probably courtesy of his high regard for Soundwave, and such courtesies were apt to be rescinded if the communications hub didn’t appear promptly.

Sure enough, the imposing mech was right outside the blast doors, scowling fiercely and incredibly filthy. Straight from the new extraction site, most likely- Starscream had complained of some unknown barbarian tracking metallic slurry around his flight deck during deployments often and loudly.

Strange how properly respectful officers were spared of such incidents.

Megatron also seemed intent on sparing him a greeting, “Absolutely not,” was the first thing out of his vocalizer, disdain raining off of him like shed flakes of mineral waste.

Soundwave was accustomed to his commander’s abrupt manner and hasty conclusions, and backed them out to a more fitting beginning for the conversation, “Query: specific objection.”

“What else? The Praxian,” the Decepticon commander fumed, heavy plates separating to allow ribbons of steam to escape. “I don’t know what the Autobots seek to accomplish, but it has to be a ruse. I won’t allow it. Unless you are twisting this plot to our benefit, somehow…?” the challenge in his voice was as shrewd and dangerous as ever.

Soundwave cocked his helm in puzzlement, unable to decipher the reasoning behind the vehemence in the prohibition, and devoted some extra bandwidth to queuing up his response, “Ulterior motive: not detected. Benefits: significant. Query: point of contention with Bluestreak.”

“Who the frag is ‘Bluestreak?’” Megatron growled. His browplates furrowed more deeply, but his expression took on a sardonic twist as some of the heat (literally) left his frame. “It seems I may have been… misinformed.”

“Query: source of information,” the suspicious communications hub could already guess the answer.

“Rumble and Frenzy, of course... To be clear- Optimus Prime has not recalled that overclocked simulation generator back from space to meddle in your affairs?” At least the former warlord was quick to revise his understanding of the pieces on the field when presented with new information.

“Negative. Prowl: deployed indefinitely. Bluestreak: assigned to Soundwave.” Out of an abundance of caution and a small percentage of jest, the deployer added, “Request: refrain from dismantling symbiotes.”

That provoked a huff of amusement and only a small puff of disappointment from his commander, “Those scraplets are lucky you have earned so many merits in my service. So, which one is this ‘Bluestreak,’ then? The only blue stripes I can think of are on that cocky little spy, but that’s not his designation. Unless it’s metaphorical… not the noble racer?” his distaste was practically sulfuric.

Regarding Mirage, Soundwave’s Decepticon sensibilities quite agreed, “Negative. Praxian: correct frametype. Palette: unrelated. Metaphor: extremely verbose.”

“Hmm… the one with the smoke bombs, then? I don’t believe we’ve met, personally,” Megatron grasped ponderously. Understandable, as most of his enemy contacts in combat were either high-profile warriors, or… did not survive long enough to reach the peacetime allocation roster. And after the ceasefire, all of High Command had naturally been too busy for socializing with random Autobots.

“Negative. Combat specialization: sniper. Rank: junior,” Soundwave supplied.

The Decepticon commander raised his browplates and one hand to rub the back of his helmet, buzzing with the muffled feedback of a remembered pain, “Ah, I believe we have been acquainted… distantly. I presume you don’t foresee any unfortunate outcomes from this cross-factional assignment?”

Soundwave thought back to his marathon of increasingly enthusiastic smelter talks, allowing a small shrug, “Subterfuge: unlikely. Observation: Autobots unusually protective of Bluestreak. Counterpoint: apprenticeship exceeds expectations. Risk, reward: favor Soundwave.”

“On your helm be it, then,” Megatron concluded. His considerable mass started to shift as if he were about to leave, but he paused, “Have you seen him on the firing range yet?”

The communications hub’s vents whooshed in amusement, “Negative. Opportunity: not presented.”

“Ah. No matter. You are dismissed; I need to go defile Starscream’s landing space before I put my pedes all over Prime’s hideous desk…”

***

“Nobot here? Oh well; I guess Ironhide had to be in that Joint Command meeting Megatron sprang on everybot. It’s kind of a weird time for target practice, anyway- the infrastructure teams are off shift, but they’re probably mostly keeping the entertainment sector busy during their on-shift. Or working doubles like Jazz. I have to wonder where he gets all that energy; comms work isn’t the most taxing thing I’ve ever done, but boy does it take a lot of attention. Like weapons checks. Speaking of which… here’s where he left off, I guess. I wonder if Optimus will be able to convince the Decepticons to give some of us their locker codes? Megatron and Shockwave don’t seem too accommodating about coming down to open them- not that I can really blame them based on their behavior with the practice weapons- plus Starscream’s almost never on planet, and Soundwave is way too busy. I’m just going to stay out of it, even though that must be a real pain. At least I’m certified to open ours; I wouldn’t have much of a hobby if I had to go to an officer every time I wanted to get out a high-powered firearm. Ooh, I always liked this pulse rifle. I wonder if I could build one from scratch once Soundwave has trained me to put together relay nodes? I might have to ask Wheeljack for some tips, although… maybe that’s not such a good idea, at least until the fire suppression system is in place. Ew, it’s sticky! Who was using this with coolant jelly all over their hands? That’s just gross, but at least it’s soluble, unlike whatever that gunk was on Starscream’s turbines earlier. I’m just glad Soundwave was there- could anybot imagine me trying to throw a whole Seeker out of the comms depot? Well, I certainly couldn’t just toss one; Decepticons are all so big! Except for the little ones, I guess, though I’m not actually sure those are less scary-“

Snork!

“-Is somebot there?”

rustle

“Alright, come on out! If that’s you again, Red Alert, you know I can’t change the codes without authoriz- oh. Um. H-hi, Ravage. And Rumble. And Laserbeak. And… er, Frenzy, right? And, oh, hang on… it’s Buzzsaw, isn’t it? I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess there are a lot of you. Which is great! I bet Soundwave has really missed you while you’re all out on assignment; he’ll be so happy to see all of you at once. Or, wait, wasn’t there one more…? Ow!”

“I’M RATBAT! And I’m the most important! Don’t forget again!”

“Oh, sure, uh, Ratbat. Make yourself right at home up there, I guess. So… Did you bots need something? I can’t open the Decepticon weapons lockers on account of the whole, you know… war, and everything. And if you want to use any of ours, I would have to certify you on each one, which I can only do if your specs are up to, well, spec… so I would need your specs, first. Unless you wanted something else…?”

“Just takin’ you to a Decepticon welcome party at the mess!”

“No, you dumbaft, your line is ‘if you mess with us Decepticons, we’ll come take you apart!’”

Squawk!

Screech!

Yawn.

“…What my densely configured compatriots are trying to say, is that we wanted to make sure you understand certain… expectations, about working for Soundwave.”

“Oh, um, is he very particular about… wait. Is this… are you bots giving me a smelter talk?”

“No, that’s not-“

“I can’t believe it! Everybot is always telling everybot ‘if yeh put somuch’s’a scratch on Bluestreak, Ah’ll…’” [static blat], “Ack, I can’t actually do Ironhide’s voice. And, well, I don’t usually get to hear that last part anyway, it’s always pretty quiet and menacing, you know? Very spooky. But me? You think I could do anything to Soundwave? Soundwave, Decepticon High Command’s processor-reading spymaster who’s, like… nine mechanometers tall and jams every frequency so nobot can hear you comm? Who commands an army of terrifying little… okay, so you’re not actually that terrifying when one of you is falling into recharge on my helm. But still, really? Besides, Soundwave’s been great! He’s teaching me so much that doesn’t involve shooting, and he’s a really good listener, too. I wouldn’t do anything to screw up an assignment this good, I promise!”

“I suppose it is a little… superfluous. Still, there is the principle of the thing. You understand.”

“Sure, Ravage, I get it. Is that it, though, or…?”

“Since you already seem aware of your own-“

“SHOW US THE GUNS!”

“YEAH! Show us the BIG guns!”

Sigh.

“Oh, well, sure! I can do that. Only one at a time, though, per the rules of the ceasefire agreement. This here is a three-burst, semi-automatic heavy photon pulse rifle…”

Chapter Text

Megatron was fuming again by the time he left the Joint Command meeting. Not because of the discussion- it had actually been a very productive effort, all things considered. Almost everybot had shown up, despite the short notice. Starscream had not (the reason for the short notice) and more had gotten done without their personalities and priorities clashing in the midst of it all. Prime, that insufferable fool, had gone out of his lane to accommodate every request, demand, and prohibition he had come steaming out of the mines to make, and invented a few he hadn’t even thought of yet.

And it was a mine, whatever those brittle academics said about it. An unusually ingenious, renewable one- especially unusual considering it was Shockwave, Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Beachcomber of all mecha who had done the heavy lifting on the design work. The Decepticon leader had put their odds of survival at an optimistic nil after the four of them were corralled in one location with volatile materials, but the results were surprisingly promising.

He had it on good authority that his second and Prime’s second had actually set aside their differences long enough to check the math- almost destroying a flagship conference room in the process, if the stories were to be believed- and were in agreement that the theory was sound. Once the excavation was complete and the equipment installed, what was left of their race would have a stable fuel supply that did not require the exploitation of heavy mechanisms to extract it in dangerous conditions.

That did not mean Megatron had to like being forced to dig.

‘Forced’ was perhaps a strong glyph. No mechanism, Autobot or Decepticon, could hope to keep him below this or any other planet’s surface against his will, after all. Prime had suggested, oh-so-magnanimously, that they first construct tools that would allow the joint engineering and construction corps to do the excavation themselves, which was utter foolishness. It would add vorns to the project timeline, and for what? To spare Megatron’s dignity? No. He may have shed some of his frame’s native utility over the course of his many refits, but enough remained to do the work. And, true, his first abandoned alt mode could have gone much faster, but not without fracturing all of the intrusion capillaries the scientists were so obsessed with, anyway.

It wasn’t as if he had a quota to fill, either; now the goal was to maximize the exposed surface area of the energon deposit in precise geometry using his most specialized sensors and delicate tools, not to extract as much ore as a fusion drill could carve out of the planet before succumbing to exhaustion. There was a certain novelty to taking his time, and even to discovering all of the ridiculous Autobot safety precautions put in place around the dig site to hinder him. The Lord of the Decepticons would never admit it, but chipping away at this little science project was causing background assay applications he’d forgotten he even had to smugly register his achievements with cathartic feedback.

The problem, if he had to put his mighty finger on it, was that he didn’t mind the work at all.

Where had all of this been when his work cadre came online?

And the next?

And the next?

Where were the bolting rigs, the hydraulic jacks, the steelsets and mesh barriers back then? Why were there no safety inspections, structural scans, comm check-ins, joor limits, or emergency response teams interrupting every shift? And if three mad science enthusiasts and one daft dune buggy had been able to devise a better solution in just five orns- four of which had been spent sealed in an ad-hoc decontamination chamber after their first disastrous attempt- then why hadn’t Cybertron’s wealthiest industry done it after hundreds of megavorns and as many deactivations?

Because it hadn’t been deemed more profitable, more efficient, or more moral to ease the burdens of stupid, verminous labor frames, that’s why. Because they hadn’t cared to.

It made him want to go back and start the war all over again.

Even more infuriating was that these Autobots did care to. All these vorns of trying to slaughter each other, and now he turned every corner of the extraction site wary of- not an ambush, oh no- but some new and more outlandish piece of safety equipment that he didn’t know how to operate. He had sprayed himself full on in the faceplates with a fire suppression canister the other orn thinking it was optic-washer fluid. When asked why he hadn’t read the label, it had taken him a complete power cycle to refrain from throwing the presumptuous minibot through a wall long enough to explain that his optics were obstructed, and what the frag was a fire suppression canister doing in a mine anyway? If the energon deposit catalyzed, there would be no way to stop it, they would all be deactivated instantly.

To which the minibot had primly replied that equipment could catch fire and be suppressed before catalyzing the energon, and he had had to cycle his power cells again, lest he break his own ceasefire agreement.

Power cells that need to be discharged immediately, violently, and repeatedly, for the sake of his own health.

<<Soundwave. Report to the firing range.>>

Soundwave was neither the best shot nor the most enthusiastic marksmech, but at least he was reliable. He was certainly familiar with the inconveniences of having an alt mode designed for the convenience of others; he handled the gunformer with reverence, and always obliged his commander without question when his assistance was required. For this, he stood out from Megatron’s other extremely limited prospects. Being a gunformer himself, Shockwave’s likewise specialized targeting system made him useless as a wielder of one. Meanwhile, Starscream’s flight prowess always made him seem like a better idea than his attitude ultimately supported, and… was that it?

Deadlock had, once upon a time, been an excellent- if logistically elusive- option. Before defecting he was deferential, accurate, and not prone to bouts of egotistical manias. Most of the rest of Megatron’s forces had been either too untrustworthy or too novice to bother handing his kind of firepower over to- Pit, Prime had been a more dependable choice than the next most viable candidate, when averaged over the course of the war. He was at least respectful in that insufferably martyrish way of his, a good shot by any account, and more than athletic enough to leverage such a dynamic weapon…

Blast it all, he was not desperate enough to consider asking Prime on a recreational foray to the firing range. He was not.

Soundwave was really the ideal choice of shooting partner.

**

Soundwave was not the ideal choice of shooting partner.

The communications hub knew this, yet he adjusted course accordingly when called. His shortfalls weren’t for lack of trying; Soundwave was rather pleased with the adaptations he had developed, which allowed him to use signal simulation systems for weapons targeting that they were never designed to do. There was still a hardware threshold he would never be able to cross as a gunslinger, however- forever preventing him from realizing such a powerful firearm’s full potential. Megatron had long ago acknowledged that his limitations in the field were insurmountable, if not fully processed the defeat internally.

Their partnership would always be a trade-off between performance and trust, and that was that.

It was a problem Soundwave had been trying to solve for a very long time. Few Decepticons had the skill to wield Megatron’s alt mode with any success, and even fewer had the temperament to do so without invoking his ire. Deadlock had been his best-laid gamble, and everybot knew how that had worked out. With the ceasefire in effect, the list of prospects had expanded- not by much, practically speaking, but just enough to resurrect that hope of finding his commander a better shooting partner.

As his own pursuits had proven, some jobs just required an… Autobot touch.

His preferred candidate was none other than Optimus Prime, which he was sure many mecha would have found either extremely obvious or deeply shocking, with little in between. The telepath had the benefit of first-hand knowledge of the Autobot’s equal regard for commodity frames, patience befitting a metrotitan, and even a (privately admitted) appreciation for Megatron’s company, now that the war was over.

Unfortunately, the two were still wading out of a centuries-broad mire of conflicting emotional response scripts after ratifying the ceasefire. They were taking their sweet time about it, too, and Soundwave had not had the bandwidth to nudge them into getting their signals unjammed just yet. The longtime nemeses were nowhere near ready to engage in that level of wholesparked cooperation unless a dire unilateral threat conveniently presented itself to distract them, which sadly none had.

Fortuitously, a new opportunity had presented itself.

Which was why Soundwave was detouring through the main commissary instead of immediately reporting to his commander.

This particular commissary was probably the most cross-factionally integrated location in the entire universe at the moment. There were plenty of commercial venues cropping up around each major reconstruction site, of course- but there was only one place where mecha could receive their guaranteed rations free of charge within commuting distance of each, and Joint HQ’s was by far the largest. Despite vehement protests and misgivings from parties on either side of the ceasefire, Optimus Prime had inexplicably put his considerable pede down to insist on this one mandate.

With the Autobots conceding most decisions about habitation and several priorities on the restoration schedule in return, the Decepticons considered it enough of a folly not to grumble too much about having to knock elbows with enemy pauldrons too often for their liking, attributing the move to some archaic Primal mumbo jumbo about the symbolism of everybot fueling together. While the long-suffering Autobot leader had been goading his dubious Decepticon counterpart through the motions of ceremonially combining factional fuel stores, the discharged troops had been grinning and jeering about the convenient, spacious habitation blocks they were getting on highways being rebuilt wide enough for Decepticon treads in the ‘purple districts,’ while proclaiming that they would simply take their fuel to-go, and what fool hadn’t thought of that?

Soundwave knew better.

Optimus Prime was advancing an insidious plot to achieve his own ends, not some pretty abstract of unity. Even as he predictably expounded on the historic and religious significance of the two factions sharing energon, there had been whorls of amusement skittering around him as if he had told a particularly funny joke. It took a telepath to see that he didn’t care one byte about where anybot filled their tanks, or whose stockpile had dispensed their cubes, or whether they stayed or left the commissary- that was all an obvious decoy for a much more dangerous plan.

What the Autobot really wanted was for Decepticons to knock elbows with Autobot pauldrons- and vice versa- as often as possible, in a place where nobot would dare fire a weapon.

That was it.

That was the dastardly plan.

Few but a telepath would recognize what a devious plan it was at its spark. For when the Decepticons came blundering through to get their cubes and leave like they were on a bombing run, they would still see the Autobots with their games and projects spread out on the tables, and the Autobots would hear bellowed anecdotes about the good sightseeing and salvage, and it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down. Once the first shots of gossip were fired, it wouldn’t take long before a free-for-all of business ventures, pranks, and social entanglements followed.

Optimus Prime was playing the long game, the sly mech, and he was going to win it.

Due to the resulting diversity of clientele, the long open space of the former emergency ward had become a crowded skyline of Constructicon-made tables and counters of varying heights, constantly shoved and dragged into different clusters that roamed like grazing herds of alien livestock. As usual, Soundwave heard Bluestreak long before he saw plate or kibble of him, chatting away at whatever bot would listen. After shooting his best unnerving stare in the general direction of the invisible spy skulking around- given away by ripples of suspicion and anti-social dread- he homed in on the commotion in a far corner of the space.

“…and then I wondered if maybe Wheeljack could explain how he did that without touching anything, so I could try to- oh hey Soundwave. How was the meeting?”

“Progress: acceptable. Query: current availability.” Soundwave surveyed the unexpected- and altogether suspicious- collection of his symbiotes surrounding the apprentice comms tech. It was amazing that after all these vorns, they still tried to give him the innocent optics when they were up to something.

They were lucky he was preprogrammed to dote on their frametype.

“Oh, the gang just invited me to a Decepticon welcome party in the mess! Which was really nice of them, I know they’re super busy and don’t get back to HQ much. We were telling stories about the weirdest weapons we’ve seen kludged together- only the declassified ones, though! You’re welcome to join us, if you want. Er… we could move to a bigger table…” Bluestreak offered brightly from the floor, where he was sitting splayed out at one more suited to microbots than standard vehicle frames.

“Aaaaaactually,” Rumble interrupted, conspicuously avoiding optic contact with his host as he chugged the rest of his cube, smacked it down on the table, and hopped off of the Praxian shinplate he had been using as a bench, “We’d, uh, better get going.” He elbowed Frenzy, who was surreptitiously reaching toward the nearest hypnotically-waving doorwing while Bluestreak was distracted.

“What? OH YEAH we left the oven on!” the other miniature mech blurted out at the pointy prompt, jumping to his pedes and dashing out without any other warning.

“Er, sure, what he said,” Rumble added lamely, following his twin.

“They have an oven?” Bluestreak asked, naively perplexed. “I guess bots have brought weirder stuff back from Earth. You know, just to freak out Red Alert, Sideswipe brought back a whole pallet of human-”

“Rumble and Frenzy: currently assigned to critical structural inspections,” Soundwave debunked preemptively, not wanting to hear the end of that story under any circumstances. Crossing his arms, he turned to the avians perched on the table, “Buzzsaw and Laserbeak: conducting high-priority aerial surveys.” Ducking their beaked helms sheepishly, they took off and swooped away as well. “Ravage…”

Ravage stood and sauntered out around the communication hub’s giant pedes, as deliberate and proud as any Prime of old. “My work is ahead of schedule, but I have other commitments. Remember what I told you, Autobot.”

“You bet!” the cheerful car pledged enthusiastically. “I would never- er, um…” he actually paused at the felinoid’s parting glare, vocalizer powering down with a quiet whine.

Soundwave suspected he knew what that was about, anyway. That left only…

“Augh, pipe down already! Some of us are trying to work!” Ratbat whined from where he was slumped over the former sniper’s helm, only halfway out of recharge.

“Ratbat’s task: passive testing of energon samples. Interruption: not found,” the Decepticon commander pointed out.  

“You think it’s easy to digest a refinement into its constituent atoms with one hundred percent efficiency? Shows what you know, hmpf! I’ll just take my expertise somewhere it will be appreciated,” the cranky boltbat sniffed, slithering languidly down from Bluestreak’s helm onto his pauldron, waddling to the end, and launching himself into a very low glide towards the exit.

“What a lively bunch; you know, I was a little worried when they all came to find me at once, but I think they just wanted to make sure I wasn’t giving you a hard time. Isn’t that sweet? And they’re all so interesting to talk to! I hope we can get together again sometime- maybe with a planned activity though, since they have so much energy; that always helps the twins stay out of trouble. Oh wait, didn’t you want to do something? Well, I’m free now!”

“Soundwave: invited to firing range. Invitation: extended,” Soundwave answered, catching a strange immediacy in his apprentice’s thoughts that made him add: “Attendance: optional, recreational. Query: Bluestreak recently returned from range.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s my favorite thing! I could go again!” the Praxian jumped up from the floor, sending a wave of excitement splashing out around him. “I was just demonstrating some of our heavy weapons for the little bots, but it’s not the same as a friendly target practice. Will you really take me shooting with you? I’ve never been to the range with any Decepticons- they tend to avoid it when me and Ironhide are around since the whole ammo-throwing thing. Are you sure nobot will mind?”

“Bluestreak: guest of Soundwave. Interference: not tolerated,” the Decepticon commander asserted firmly. There was only one mech whose opinion mattered, anyway… and he was confident that the former sniper’s skill would take care of that.

Eventually. After some embarrassing posturing, perhaps.

“Great! Can we go now? Can I give you a lift?” Bluestreak was practically vibrating with eagerness, dropping onto his wheels without waiting for an answer.

“Affirmative.” Having done this several times at this point, Soundwave no longer hesitated to step forward and transform. Landing his alt mode squarely on the top of the little car and engaging his magnets, he sent a simple comm ping when he was situated, and they set out.

Letting the Autobot carry him in alt mode had seemed too degrading the first time the offer had been put forth, but Soundwave had never placed pride that far ahead of practicality. Eventually there was a report of a relay station too intact not to ransack and too inconvenient to commandeer a properly subordinate Decepticon. Not to mention that Bluestreak had begun to worry that his refusals were personal, and, well… it was a small concession in the grand scheme of things.

The communications hub had spent quite enough of his functioning being handled like cargo to suit the plans of his ‘superiors,’ but it was hard to turn down such an earnest mech who truly didn’t know any better. And the arrangement had proceeded to be perfectly agreeable; the young bot chatted away to him as always while conscientiously avoiding bumps and obstacles, the attention to his passenger’s comfort dogging his thoughts like a Seeker locked on a target.

He could only hope the rest of this off-shift would go as smoothly.

***

Bluestreak was so happy, he could lift right off the road. Figuratively, of course; he was devoting extra processor threads to keeping his wheels firmly on the road, in deference to his passenger. Quite aside from being his boss, Soundwave had been unexpectedly reluctant to accept rides from him, and he wanted to do his best to make it a positive experience. He hadn’t really thought about it before going to Earth, but cruising around at high speeds under somebot else’s power must be unnerving to mecha without vehicle modes. At least the Decepticon had eventually accepted his assistance; the apprentice comms tech had started to suspect it was because he was an Autobot, or because Soundwave doubted his road skills, or because the offer had offended his new mentor in some way... Really, the commander was so much more important, and well-connected, and intimidating- until you got to know the bot- he probably had all sorts of better options for transportation. But wheels were one of the few things Bluestreak had and the communications hub didn’t, and it was so nice to feel like he was actually contributing.

And Soundwave had even invited Bluestreak to go shooting with him! He hadn’t expected that; the reserved Decepticon didn’t even seem like the type to enjoy the pastime, but maybe he was just very serious about staying in good form, which was also perfectly respectable. And on top of that, almost nobot invited Bluestreak to the range anymore- though to be fair, that might just be because he spent most of his off shifts hanging out there, anyway. (But it could also be because they didn’t like sharing the lanes with an actual sniper, despite how hard he tried not to come off as competitive; he just loved his job- his former job, now- a lot. Or it could be because he talked to his guns, and he wasn’t trying to break anybot’s concentration, but he couldn’t help it! They were such good guns. Or… it could be any number of things, really. Yikes.) Soundwave had invited him, though, despite him not being a Decepticon or very good company on the range, and that had to count for something, right? Megatron’s third in command certainly had no reason to do anything he didn’t want to.

And as an officer, he had access to the secure Decepticon weapons lockers.

Bluestreak’s orn could not possibly get any better!

***

Megatron’s orn could not possibly get any worse.

Well, not with Starscream off-planet, anyway. That was a whole different category of ‘worse.’

The orn in question had begun with mining energon for Autobots. It had escalated with an alleged Autobot plot, which turned out to be a pile of scrap disgorged from the processors of Soundwave’s miswired minions, but the truth still involved too many Autobots for his liking. His shift had proceeded onward through a meeting full of Autobots, including the most Autobot of them all, who had declined to respond to his best efforts to pick a fight. And now, when all Megatron wanted was to blast imaginary Autobots for the rest of the off-shift with his oldest and most trusted friend, Soundwave had shown up with yet another fragging Autobot.

And clearly not for target practice.

Pity.

Even curiouser was that Soundwave showed up in alt mode. That was the discrepancy that gave the Decepticon Lord the most pause, otherwise he might have stormed off to seethe and left Soundwave to indulge his new pet project alone. The communications hub was usually loath to give other mecha access to his helpless commodity form, preferring to reserve it for stealth operations when he could go unnoticed, expending considerable effort to direct attention away from himself all the while. And yet, here they were.

The sight of the generic Praxian vehicle cresting the ramp to the heavy weapons range with a communications hub perched comically atop it, like the annual parading of the coniferous sacrifices that the humans made to their Earth deities, was a stranger and more jarring sign of peacetime change than Megatron could have imagined.

A mech of his size and dominating presence, as a rule, only had a small window for withdrawing from any given situation unnoticed. With this one having closed, all he could do was stare incredulously at the approaching… situation… from the inconspicuous vantage point he had taken up beside the covered bank of lockers upon hearing the unfamiliar engine. He knew full well that Soundwave could sense his quiet judgment and betrayal from here, but the audacious coward took his time transforming anyway. It seemed that the little Autobot was making a bizarre little show of cross-factional chivalry, pulling right up to the weapons inspection workbench and waiting politely for his passenger to disembark. When Soundwave unfolded, he stepped down from his ad hoc transport with an unhurried bearing more fitting of a noblemech arriving at a gala than luggage being dropped at a curb, which was intriguing.

He also caught and held Megatron’s optics without flinching, the unrepentant traitor.

The Praxian- and no, not that Praxian, and not even the other Praxian, but a third Praxian, so unremarkable as to have escaped his notice for an entire war- seemed to just prattle on while he waited for the larger mech to get clear of his bumper.

Or perhaps that was his default setting, as he didn’t seem to be slowing down.

“-thought it would be busier than this; it’s not like there are always Decepticon officers hanging around to check out weapons from storage, since you’re all so busy. Are we early? Or is everybot just out in the field this shift? Oh well. At least we’re here! I can’t tell you the last time I got personally invited to shoot with somebot new- maybe when Prime’s unit and the Xantium rendezvoused that one time? The Wreckers are kind of a handful around live fire, though. Making target practice a social event can be fun, and it can be nice having the range to yourself once in a while too, but I like one-on-one practice the best. You can really get to know the other-“

“I quite agree,” Megatron rumbled darkly, emerging from his lurking nook without breaking optic contact with Soundwave. “It is easier and more enjoyable to test each other’s skills without any untoward distractions.”

“Oh, um, M-Megatron…” the bot stammered timidly, sensor panels rotating back and downward with an audible clack. “I didn’t see you there; um, if you two would rather-”

Much to his dismay, that brazen communications hub stepped forward, crossing his arms to underscore a disapproving gaze, “Introduction: Bluestreak, retired Autobot sniper, Soundwave’s guest. Introduction: Megatron, Decepticon leader, Soundwave’s friend. Social interaction: beneficial. Request: mutual tolerance.”

Friendship was supposed to be an unspoken commitment! Momentarily thrown into a partial reboot by his ‘friend’s’ absolute nerve, Megatron’s retort took on an outraged splutter, “How dare you imply that I, Megatron, Leader of the Decepticons, would benefit from socializing with some feeble Autobot proto-whelp!”

“Hey! Just because I’m not a front-liner doesn’t mean that-”

Soundwave, that infuriating blue brick, cut his apprentice off, “Bluestreak: accomplished marksmech. Sniper rank: S-Class. Notable engagements: Iacon Central south siege, Tyger Pax second wave, Kimeggant Ridge standoff, Surax VII retreat, New Jersey offensive, Blackrock platform raid, Tongchuan Mine raid-“

“Okay, but maybe don’t introduce me to your boss for the first time by listing all the times I’ve shot him in the helm…?!” Bluestreak protested bleakly.

“Those were all you?” Megatron paused to reevaluate the puny civilian model cringing at his communications officer. Rubbing the back of his helmet absently, he squinted dubiously down at the sheepish mech. “That coal mine on Earth… that was an impressive hit; two in a row, in fact, if I am not mistaken. And on the oil rig I was struck by a ricochet- a smelting trick shot. I had thought those were the work of the other one… the tactician,” he wouldn’t dignify the nuisance Praxian with a search for his designation.

“Uh, you mean Prowl? I think he kinda… did that on purpose. He was a priority target anyway, and he always went out of his way to keep anybot from noticing me in the field- he can be a little overprotective like that. He usually had us holding the same position, so he could cover me while he was running battle simulations and I was doing the long-range work, you know? But he’s a really good shot, too! Hard not to be, when you can do all that fancy math, only… he’s not quite as fast, so he tends to stick to shorter range engagements. And that’s not-“

Megatron had not signed up to endure a glowing performance review of Prime’s irritating second in command, and cut the bot’s blathering off cold, “Fine, then prove it.”

“Alright! We came to use the range after all, didn’t we? Let’s get to it!”

Pit, he hoped Soundwave wasn’t going to catch this inane positive attitude from the afflicted mech’s meta.

The telepath’s only acknowledgment of his disdain was an exasperated huff.

Bluestreak bustled over to the Autobot weapon lockers, extracting a long rifle from one and greeting it like an old friend, “Hello, there; long time no shoot! Let’s get you ready to go. You’re getting the full treatment; we have an audience today! It’s been a while since-“

Megatron fixed Soundwave with a glare as deadly as anything stored in those lockers, which he usually reserved for Starscream. Had his finest officer actually gone mad?

The communications hub, who apparently feared nothing, only shrugged it off like a harmless blank.

Apparently, he had.

The cheerful chatter continued as the Autobot brought his prize to the workbench, holding up all ends of a full conversation with stock and barrel as he dismantled and cleaned the piece. There was a certain novelty to his process, especially compared to Soundwave, who got to work on his own conventional blaster beside him. The communications specialist was meticulous in everything, as always, but this enemy sniper was clearly an expert despite the ridiculous running commentary. It would be a rarity to see any Decepticon handling their firearms so delicately; most warframes relied on integrated weaponry, which was designed to be serviced entirely by the mech’s repair nanite colonies, or guns that could withstand their brand of brute force maintenance. The last time he’d even seen a bot clean his hands before starting was probably Deadlock, back on…

Oh.

So that was Soundwave’s game.

Oh, no.

Absolutely not.

Megatron was back to fuming again, breaking optic contact with his mutinous commander, lest he blind the insufferable mech in his fury. He hadn’t planned on using it, but he stalked over to the Decepticon side of the lockers to retrieve his fusion cannon- and he’d only put it away because that fool Prime had stowed his pretentious ion blaster first- and slammed it down on the workbench to look it over.

“Hey, watch it! How would you like it if somebot bounced you right off a table?!”

He returned the Autobot’s uncomfortable glare as the little mech clutched the components of his rifle to his bumper, as if Megatron had jostled a live sparkling and not a collection of inanimate parts. Realizing the implications of what he had just said, bright blue optics widened like adjustable laser apertures. “Oh, umm… I didn’t mean you, as in you… just because you're a… that’s not what…”

Deciding to skip that interaction entirely and process it later, the Lord of the Decepticons went about his business with extreme prejudice. There were always breakers to reset and fuses to replace on his cannon in between engagements, even with myriad redundancies in the design. The main problem with routing the bulk of his fusion drive’s output out through one conduit in his arm was that-

A noise commanded his attention. It sounded exactly like the middle ore grinder in the mines starting up all those eons ago. Soundwave never had gotten the hang of imitating a rebooting vocalizer.

“What?” Megatron snapped gruffly. What more could his treasonous confidante possibly want from him this time?

The communications hub lightly elbowed the shorter Autobot beside him in the pauldron. His apprentice looked up at him in betrayal.

“Bluestreak: submitted query.”

“Oh, no, it’s alright, I-” at the impassive look he received from his mentor, he sighed. “Well, I just asked how you prevent power surges from damaging the internals when the draw of your other systems changes in combat? I mean, assuming the information I’ve heard is correct, that whole cannon is just a focusing apparatus that converts energy generated by your primary power core into a targeted beam weapon. Which is great in theory, and if the supply were constant, you could regulate it pretty easily, even if it was really high. But if the output changing all the time, like when you’re trying to throw Optimus into orbit or something, you would need to account for huge drops in output as well as sudden surges based on your other autonomics. Even Optimus’s ion blaster has to be fed by auxiliary power, not directly from his engine, to manage the output. I guess the cannon itself must have some kind of ballast and energy storage of its own to compensate, but I don’t know of any that could handle fluctuations like that without burning out pretty quickly. Um, though I’m not an engineer…?”

Megatron looked at the babbling mech appraisingly through narrow optics, “The main problem with routing the bulk of my fusion drive’s output out through one conduit in my arm is that… it would indeed burn out any ballast put to the task, particularly with my frame and spark specifications. The only way Shockwave and I found to protect the reserve power cells from getting slagged halfway into every fight was a system of old-fashioned circuit breakers; they automatically trip and reset as power fluctuations occur. For the most part. A series of primitive fuses also prevent excess charge from backfeeding into my systems and frying them in the event that the cells do fail while the circuits are closed. The components still need regular replacement, but there is enough redundancy that the weapon can still fire with half of them inoperable.”

“So you just cut and restore the power to different circuits by constantly burning out fuses and flipping breakers? That doesn’t sound safe or comfortable. You know, a lot of bots question why you ever transform when you have a big frag-off fusion cannon anyway, but putting your other major systems into standby and using an entire mech laser core to regulate your weapons systems directly is a much more elegant solution. I wouldn’t touch something like that unless no other weapon was available,” the skeptical look Bluestreak gave the fusion cannon on the counter was the same one Starscream turned on anything originating from Skywarp.

His alt mode was an elegant solution?

Megatron didn’t quite know what to do with that information. “When you happen to be a disposable fusion borer, and it is illegal for you to possess a ‘real’ weapon, you will cobble together whatever you can sneak through the district checkpoints undetected,” he proclaimed dryly. “Or you will be held in thrall until you rust like all the rest. Now, tell me about that rifle; surely you have never shot me in the helm with something like this. Those were feeding the smelters after Nova Prime conquered the Piirawox system; the barrel is too short, and it must be older than you are.”

“This is a M650000 manual, the most accurate and reliable long-range portable weapon ever deployed! Per mechanogram, anyway. And I have absolutely shot you in the helm with it. Eight times- no wait, you were right, that whole coal mine thing was a double- nine times, to be exact! And its superior portability more than makes up for its range relative to other guns of the same…”

The Lord of the Decepticons had just started filing away some of the puny Praxian’s more fascinating insights for later when he caught himself. Glowering optics slid over to Soundwave, who was innocently tending to his own blaster in silence, as if he hadn’t just entangled Megatron in never-ending conversation with this prattling deathtrap of an Autobot.

What kind of fiend turned his gifts of manipulation on his own commander?

What kind of friend?

In fact, it wouldn’t do to let Soundwave have unfettered access to such a gullible Autobot contact. Perhaps it was worth keeping an optic on this one, in case his Third in Command got any more presumptuous ideas involving his person. And if that involved subjecting himself to a constant barrage of mildly-entertaining weapons shop talk, so be it.

Megatron’s orn could probably be worse.                   

Chapter Text

Unfortunately for the entire Decepticon faction in general, and Megatron in particular, Soundwave’s little Autobot was an unparalleled shot.

“…forty-three! Come on, Soundwave! This rifle can’t cover the short range as…”

This revelation did explain why their insufferable leader had beaten him to slipping the otherwise-frivolous cost of manufacturing, laying the infrastructure for, and powering an advanced hard-light target generator for the main firing range into the Joint Command operating budget. Megatron had just assumed that their protracted hostilities had finally instilled some military sensibilities in the docile oaf, but now it seemed like a purely practical savings initiative. Even one bot frequenting the firing range with such enthusiasm and accuracy would outstrip any effort to keep a comparatively efficient fleet of target drones in circulation for long.

“…Ooh, nice shot! Forty-nine! If you don’t mind me asking, do you use triangulating or quadrangulating vectors…”

It also neatly explained why Megatron had to pop so many high-caliber mystery dents out of his helm over the course of the war. In spite of all the constant gushing about projectile weaponry, the sniper was an unexpectedly focused professional when it came to actually taking out targets.

“…you’ll have to let me take a look at those blasters sometime- fifty-two- that model’s recharge sequence is a little bit…”

And his technique was so effortlessly precise, he might as well have been manufactured with a rifle in his hands.

Along with every other type of firearm, if his shooting log was to be believed.

Even knowing that things were likely going just as that traitorous communications hub intended- though what didn’t most orns, and usually for the better? (and don’t you dare quote me on that, you eavesdropping ingot, he thought, just in case)- Megatron found himself following the chatty Praxian’s kill count as holograms fizzled out one after another instead of firing at them himself. Which led to checking his own Decepticons’ scores, which with few exceptions were comparatively dismal. Which led to rerunning old battle scenarios as he watched, and wishing he’d had just one marksmech as versatile and competent as this one in any number of engagements…

Why did Prime get all of the practical savants?

“Fifty-eight! I’ve been wondering if maybe Wheeljack could speed the lateral tracking up a bit…”

It seemed that the exercise wasn’t even holding all of the Praxian’s attention.

Except when the targets started firing back.

“What the-?”

After an initial yelp of surprise, the Autobot crowed in delight, adeptly ducking and dodging and firing from cover without pausing the relentless stream of commentary leaving his vocalizer. Apparently Soundwave had given up adding to his own consistent- but ultimately mediocre- practice log long enough to remotely hack the target generator and program it to spit hard light projectiles back at its assailants. While the crude imitations of live fire were harmless, dissipating listlessly as soon as they encountered any resistance at all, they did add a dynamic element to the activity with some suspension of disbelief.

Soundwave’s familiar evasions were measured and predictable; too large of frame to avoid every hit even when sacrificing his rate of fire to dodge, the deployer’s movements prioritized the protection of his dock and helm with unerring success.

“…seventy-one, woohoo! Great idea; this is a lot more exciting than regular…”

So, the Praxian model type did have jointed struts under their plating after all. Based on Prime’s welded-stiff second in command, he might never have known. Not only did this one’s rate of fire- and speech- not suffer from nimbly avoiding the incoming illusions, neither did his range. His ability to keep moving while continuing to decimate targets up and down the practice zone was genuinely impressive; even Deadlock would be forced to significantly reduce his area of coverage under relentless pressure. Megatron almost regretted vehemently declining pre-action maintenance for himself in front of the Autobot-

The Lord of the Decepticons shut that processing thread right down before any meddling telepaths could make anything of it.

“…could you, maybe- yeah, thanks! Oof, seventy-four…”

While their clumsy first attempts at cooperative action were mildly entertaining, it soon became infuriatingly obvious that the apprentice comms tech had somehow wedged himself into the deployer’s robust umbrella of defense protocols already, as the larger mech’s limbs kept getting in the sniper’s way while blocking shots. No matter; Megatron had not come here to watch Soundwave’s irksome interfactional antics from the sidelines, anyway. Impatiently striding up to the firing line, heedless of the pitter-patter of holographic projectiles on his armor, he raised his fusion cannon-

“WHOA.”

-and summarily cleared the field of targets. Sustaining the beam for such a wide sweep blew all of its fuses again, and probably caused the holoprojector to crash, but that hardly concerned the gunformer. “Soundwave. I hope you weren’t planning to waste all of our time on Autobot games; I invited you here to work on our form. You’ve been slacking lately, and I can’t afford to have you falling out of practice.”

***

If Soundwave had possessed independently mobile sensors, he would have rolled them up to the Unmaker. But alas, he only had a fixed wide-angle optical array, and everything was proceeding exactly according to his plans, so he settled for stowing his blasters and waiting expectantly on his commander with an unimpressed stare. Which was the same as all of his other stares, but Megatron was one of the few mecha who could extrapolate the difference.

Even when he was being a big, jealous scraplet.

“If you two want to shoot with each other for a bit while I take a break, that’s perfectly-”

“Negative.” The trepidatious backdraft of Bluestreak’s deference to their much older friendship was endearing, but misplaced.  Soundwave held out his hands insistently, “Soundwave: ready to proceed.”

“We’ll see about that,” Megatron was altogether more smug about drawing attention away from one junior Autobot than a commander of his stature ought to be, but Soundwave gave none of his judgment away while the mech transformed.

Or afterward, since his deployer prerogatives tended to come online and override everything in proximity to small, dependent alt modes- but internally, he judged.

The way Bluestreak lit up with wonder and curiosity at the sentient, high-powered weapon that landed in his hands was extremely gratifying for the serial meddler, overcoming any personal apprehension of Megatron as he had predicted. The scattered panic of a mech desperate not to cause offense to the same sentient, high-powered weapon with his enthusiasm was also a good sign, though it would need to be dealt with if his plan was to bear fuel.

Beckoning for the intrigued gunner to follow him as the target generator rebooted, Soundwave made a detour back to the workbench, “Megatron: typically self-maintained. Exemption from pre-firing inspections: still nonexistent. Inspection sequence: custom.” He pinged over the standard procedure for the Autobot’s perusal.

“Um, yeah, that’s probably for the best. Should you be showing me this, though…?” Bluestreak asked meekly, glancing back and forth from his mentor to the gun as nervousness coated his building flood of questions like an iridescent oil slick. “It seems like kind of personal information… does Megatron want an Autobot to have that…?”

“Maintenance procedures: widely available, low clearance level. Sparked weapons: more objective, reasonable in alt mode. Main processor cores: rededicated to targeting. Emotional response scripts: unable to monopolize bandwidth,” the communications hub revealed, along with a workmat printed with the relevant diagrams withdrawn from his subspace. “Objections: likely nullified.”

“You know I can still hear you,” Megatron grumbled sullenly- but the subdued delivery only proved the point.

“Is that okay, though? Waiting for somebot to engage an alternate processor setup to avoid an argument seems… kind of unethical, when you think about it…?” Bluestreak clearly was thinking about it, from the way his curiosity instantly boiled off in a billowing steam of discomfort. Good. “Won’t Megatron just get really mad when he returns to root mode, if you’ve made him do something he doesn’t approve of? I don’t want either of us to get slagged for being rude.”

“If my power cells are still full in three kliks, I will happily test that theory,” was the gun’s only comment from where he rested.

Soundwave once again lamented the lack of swiveling capability in his optical array as he lined up the proper tools, “Outcome: unlikely. Soundwave: knows Megatron, shares commodity status. Logic pathways, transformation cog: not currently restricted. Complaints: mostly theatrical.”

“Remind me to refresh you on the themes of Cybertronian theater later,” Megatron requested blandly.

“Noted. Query: prior experience with sparked weapons,” the communications hub put to the former sniper as he started disconnecting the barrel. He manually pointed out the first set of quantum anchors embedded in the gun’s contact surfaces as he went, which kept Megatron’s vital systems networked to each other and his subspaced mass even while he was physically disassembled, but was unsure how much further explanation would be required.

Judging from the tell-tale flutter of the petabytes scrolling through Bluestreaks’s meta, probably very little. “Uh, only in a training setting? I don’t know how it works for Decepticons, but in the Autobots, you’re not even allowed to apply to pair up with weapon-moded mecha unless you’ve passed an advanced course on their handling and the one for whatever weapon class they’re associated with. Unless there’s a big emergency in the field, of course! But still, you ought to know what you’re doing to even try. Prime’s unit didn’t usually have any on the roster, but I had so many certifications already that Prowl had me go through the training with the Wreckers while we were at a big rendezvous one time, just in case. The Nebulan instructor was a small sidearm, but she was really thorough-”

“Typical military hypocrisy, spoiling their tools’ fun,” the surly firearm interrupted, finally drumming up some level of agitation in his transformed state. “Letting arrogant idiots get smacked in the faceplate when they overextended the interspace tethers was our one recourse against incompetent wielders. Now fools who think they’re only a fancy firearm away from greatness won’t even fall for that. How could the Autobots’ sparked weapons have made themselves a nuisance during our war, then? By singing off-key?”

“Ummm… no? They would probably just leave and get a new partner, if it happened. Which I kind of doubt, because the program was really competitive and each weapon-moded mech was in charge of vetting their own candidate registries. I can’t imagine anybot would risk getting kicked off the roster by being careless with them; that would be like, what, me dumping a ranking passenger like Soundwave on the ground? Super rude and not a good career move, anyway. I’ve been listed a few times, but never got called up; Prowl said I was maintaining a good enough combat record to operate by myself, and most Autobot weapon-moded mecha were officers in Ironhide’s division anyway, so the unit transfers wouldn’t have made any sense,” the former sniper rambled as he watched Soundwave do the required inspection with rapt attention.

“Officers?” Megatron clearly hadn’t been following enemy organizational structures closely, and couldn’t currently come up with enough bandwidth to be more verbose with half of his corporeal parts detached.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave was happy to report. All of these developments had been meticulously confirmed during the research binge that formed the basis of his communications systems curriculum for Bluestreak, for which he had scoured the newly-unrestricted archive of Autobot weapons protocols. “Transformation locks: strictly prohibited. Sparked weapon assignments: self-designated circa Optimus Prime’s assumption of command.”

The gun’s inarticulate noise of surprise and the barely-successful quashing of his approval scripts were both politely ignored.

“Transformation locks? Yikes! I knew things were pretty messed up in antiquity, but that’s really messed up. Even if you don’t like Autobots very much, please don’t accuse anybot of that; it would make them really mad. It makes me really mad just thinking about it! If any Autobot was being kept in alt mode against their will- I mean, other than for medical reasons, or that one anti-transformation beam thing you guys… well, you remember- there would have been a riot. Especially if they didn’t have a mobile alt mode! Can you imagine being stuck in the holster of a bot you didn’t- oof, I guess you probably don’t have to imagine, sorry. And especially especially a weapon-moded mech, since they make such a special commitment for the good of the cause. Plus Optimus Prime, himself would be disappointed- and I mean really disappointed, and I swear his optics can beam disappointment right down into your spark core when he wants to- that would just be awful,” Bluestreak rambled, sensor panels flaring in an unusual display of aggression for the friendly bot.

“Special commitment? Antiquity?” Megatron spluttered, unable to lock onto which declaration was the greater offense: excessive sentimentality over his function or the implications about his age.

“Yeah; not that the war was all that great- it was pretty terrible, from my perspective, anyway- but hearing about Cybertron in the past, it’s not super surprising that everything went to the Pit, I guess,” Bluestreak gave a thoughtful shrug, oblivious to the gunformer’s internal crises. “And, um, just so you know… nobot even says ‘sparked weapons’ anymore, at least in the Autobots; Optimus says that kind of label ‘discredits the agency of equal mecha’ and held a referendum to wipe degrading terms from the databases a loooooong time ago. I figured the Decepticons just don’t feel the same way about it, since Megatron kind of is one, and was in charge of that stuff too, and probably wouldn’t let his own bots call him something he found insulting, but all of our documentation says ‘weapon-moded mecha’ now, and you might not want to say it in mixed company.”

“Of course he did,” the gun grumbled, “And of course I would, if it proved a point. Why do you think we’re the Decepticons?”

“Soundwave: Decepticon database admin. De-Functionization of lexicon: overdue,” the communications hub admitted- and he might finally get to overhauling it some orn, now that he had a competent comms tech. Clicking his commander’s parts back together with the unique satisfaction of a charge well looked-after, Soundwave returned to the firing line before the Decepticon Lord could get ornery about his inactivity again. Beside him, Bluestreak’s eagerness hit such a crescendo that his right audial started ringing as he calibrated Megatron’s scope in preparation. “Query: desired target settings,” he solicited as he activated the holographic generator.

“Maximum!” the gun and gun enthusiast exclaimed in unison.

***

 “Oh, wow, can you do that again? Yeah! It’s amazing how much of a difference supplemental targeting systems make, isn’t it? Twelve! Not that your base targeting is bad, Soundwave- you’ve really squeezed every byte of performance you can out of your hardware, based on the specs you showed me; it’s really impressive to see in action. But look at those shots! You and Megatron could even give Prowl a run for his credits, and he’s really good. In the short-to-mid-ranges, anyway; I’m not sure who would come out ahead on the longer distances since neither of you specializes- sixteen- in sniping. WOW! Look at that overpenetration! Megatron, your beam density is incredible; if you had the stock for it and a longer barrel, I bet you could hit targets all the way to the moons! Your weapon classification must be on par with actual ship-mounted turrets; I don’t think any standard portable guns have that kind of sustained output or fizzle rate. Twenty-four! Even Optimus’s ion blaster doesn’t, and its conversion efficiency is ridiculous. And I know Metroplex doesn’t have the focusing factorials for it.”

“Do not compare me to that idiot’s pretentious crutch.”

“Range-extending accessories: exist. Assessment: correct. Nine.”

“Sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just the closest analogy I can think of based on their similar use cases; I mean, of all the Autobots I know, Optimus has the most similar combat credentials and the most similar weapon loadout. Oh, scrap, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I don’t know anything about Shockwave’s alt mode specs… would that be a more fair comparison? Thirty-one! And do you really have sniping mods? That must be awesome!”

“Shockwave: not comparable. Ten. Megatron’s long-range mode: awesome, highly specialized. Soundwave: unqualified to demonstrate.”

“That mode or this one, if you keep falling behind a puny Autobot…”

“Hey, that’s not very nice! Soundwave’s doing his best, you know. I’ve done nothing but shoot for the last… however long the fighting went on… and I got all the right upgrades and training to be a full-time marksmech, so of course my scores are high. Soundwave has been busy running the Decepticon communications network, administering the databases, directing intelligence and counterintelligence, handling High Command’s base security, negotiating interspecies agreements, keeping up morale- were you really in charge of a Decepticon morale program?, and scheduling the duty rosters this whole time, all while managing a bunch of opinionated little cassettes on his own. Um, allegedly. I’d be surprised that he picked up any weapon proficiencies at all without dedicated hardware for it, if I hadn’t already experienced his work ethic in the comms depot. You should really be more appreciative; he has more responsibilities than Prowl does, and that’s saying something! Come to think of it, why did you make Starscream second in command, anyway? Doesn’t he just coordinate air operations and try to kill you?”

“I ask myself that every orn...”

“Concession: political. Query: source of information. Twelve.”

“Oh, Jazz told me. After that thing with Laserbeak, I think he wanted to make extra clear that I shouldn’t do anything to draw your attention like that again- though Prowl might have put him up to it. He said you controlled so much of Decepticon operations that he thought you might secretly be two identical mecha who were both workaholics-”

“ARGH! Pay attention! I suppose firearm skills are on the low-priority end of your contributions, but I still want to leave here with working relays.”

“Apologies: extended. Jazz’s imagination: wildly creative.”

***

Megatron realized his true peril far too late to do anything about it.

He would be the first to admit that his competitive streak was wider than most. It wasn’t a faction secret. Being easy to goad into answering any challenge was only a problem for mecha who didn’t always have the fortitude and skill to win.

He had, perhaps, inflated Soundwave’s qualifications as a shooting partner in his own meta a bit with wishful algorithms. It hardly defied explanation; the mech had been the solution to so many problems- and the cause of so few- over the vorns that it was little wonder his estimation variables were defaulted higher than they should be. That didn’t excuse the communications hub’s treasonous ploy, but Megatron could at least appreciate the ruthlessness of it.

This Autobot, though. What business did such a topical, unassuming little vehicle have being such a good shot? It was embarrassing- namely for all of the sparked-and-spec’d warframes in his faction, who had no excuse to let themselves be outperformed by an aftermarket sniper. They were lucky that the ceasefire had included provisions for joint standards of discipline, or Megatron might indulge in some practice on live targets.

This combination of conditions, unfortunately, culminated in the unbearable reality that he was losing.

Badly.

To an Autobot with a manual rifle older than he was.

The gunformer knew that a communications hub did not have nearly the same programming as a miner-turned-gladiator-turned-insurrectionist, but he hoped that Soundwave was at least getting a sample of his seething frustration through his grip. If only he could also will his wielder to move faster and increase his precision.

Instead of taking his commander’s disdain with humility, the cheeky boombox was actually laughing at him. Megatron hadn’t heard that ridiculous whistle since they overthrew the Kaon Governate together, all those vorns ago.

He was far too annoyed to waste any bandwidth parsing that new development.

This ill-contrived contest was far from the cathartic outlet he had wanted. By the time he was back on his own pedes he was not only fuming again, but also considering dredging up a few Quintessons to provoke and some coincidental sabotage of Prime’s weaponry locker as an option to get some proper target practice.

The little Praxian’s oh-so-gracious praise was. Not. Helping.

“-really appreciate you both extending the invitation; I’ve never seen anything like that in the alloy before! I’ve always wondered what it must be like to partner up with such a powerful firearm- I mean, who hasn’t, right?- and wow, did you prove how awesome it would be. I hope you had fun, too; maybe we could do this again sometime? I’d love to see how you two score over on the Towers course. Assuming, you know, that Megatron even has a power setting low enough for that…”

Megatron did, actually, and he had not had the chance to travel out into the nostalgically broken ruin complex of the old regime, which had been cordoned off as a recreational area for veterans’ more destructive hobbies. Soundwave’s proficiency would drop even further on an urban field without involving his symbionts, who were in high demand for the rebuild effort. The little Autobot, however, would have a distinct advantage-

No. He was absolutely not considering asking to ‘partner up’ with some random, insignificant-

“Soundwave: unqualified for advanced obstacle work. Observation: Megatron interested. Suggestion: Bluestreak and Megatron go together,” the communications hub proposed without even the decency to hesitate.

“Absolutely not!” How dare he even suggest that so casually?!

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask- I didn’t mean to imply- well, it’s Megatron’s decision, of course,” the Praxian dithered faintly, his huge sensory appendages vanishing behind his chassis.

“I was only passingly interested in seeing how your trainee would fare with greater firepower in a more dynamic environment, since he shows some proficiency on an open range. It is lamentable that my own troops lack even the competence to test the limits of my power. Regardless, I would hardly offer to entrust my alt mode to random Autobots like you do,” Megatron admonished with a withering glare. It didn’t matter if the loathsome counterweight was right; he could not allow himself to be humiliated in the hands of an Autobot for a variety of very good reasons. The whole scenario was impossible.

Soundwave, of course, deflected his ire with infuriating grace, “Position: corrected. Alternative suggestion: loan alt mode prototype to Bluestreak, track scoring logs.”

“There’s a prototype?” The extent to which the civilian model’s optical arrays dilated was truly absurd, as were the size of the targets presented by his pivoting door panels. “I’ve never heard that there was a working example of Megatron’s alt mode! Was it ever deployed? Is it really comparable?”

This news was also a surprise to Megatron, but rather than giving away his confusion, he settled for raising a brow ridge at his rogue confidant.

“Affirmative,” the communications hub mysteriously confirmed. “Use case: calibrations and testing. Last limited deployment: Nieksskein Nexus Station combat tests. Performance: comparable up to conventional medium power activity. Collateral value: excessively high.”

So that was his game. Megatron recognized the reference immediately, much to his dawning horror.

The Praxian was practically bouncing up and down at this revelation, exclaiming, “I can imagine! To develop something that behaves closely enough to an actual mech’s weapon mode, especially such an unorthodox one, must have been a major investment! I’m surprised it was possible at all, but that just means Shockwave had to have made it, right? I guess that explains how anybot would have the confidence to let him mess with their frame design like you have. No offense, Megatron- but that bot’s projects give me the creeps. Would you really let me borrow something so valuable, though? That would be awesome! I’d be really careful with it, I swear. I’d complete my certification joors with it on the range before going to the other rec sites, of course, just like we’re supposed to. And I wouldn’t let anybot else touch it if you didn’t want me to!”

Knowing that his telepathic so-called ‘friend’ was probably paying close attention, Megatron allowed himself to stew in his own conflicted scripts for longer than absolutely necessary, hoping to inflict some modicum of revenge as he scowled back at the placid mech.

Seizing Nieksskein Station had been a test, alright. A test of whether or not several hand-picked candidates could actually make themselves useful to him in alt mode by giving them ‘the prototype’ and sending them into a fairly controlled- but technical- combat zone.

And a test of his patience, because building anything even remotely comparable to his alt mode was indeed physically impossible. But Soundwave had argued that the ruse would simultaneously garner more realistic data and reduce the likelihood of any treasonous subplots at Megatron’s expense, so he had reluctantly agreed. It was still a miserable campaign of incompetence from which only Deadlock had emerged with any pittance of his remaining respect.

Which was to say, there was no prototype.

Megatron was the prototype.

Still… it was technically an option. This wasn’t a combat zone, and the Autobot had shown- much to his fury and dismay- enough skill to soundly thrash his best option for a partner on the firing range. If things went poorly he could simply transform, decide whether or not to break the ceasefire by throwing the brittle mech all the way to Tarn for his offense, and leave at will. It wasn’t as if the little car was any threat to him within grappling range.

“I’ll… think about it,” Megatron huffed, congratulating himself on his own tactically noncommittal genius.

Soundwave pinged both him and (presumably) the Autobot’s comm line with a locker number and access code. “Secure weapons storage: reserved, monitored. Request: deposit prototype and accessories when not in use.”

“If I feel like it,” the Lord of the Decepticons grunted, grudgingly flagging the message for easy recall.

The Autobot practically squealed in delight, “Oh, thank you! I can’t wait! If you remember, and still want to, of course. But, wow! I never thought I’d get the chance to-”

Perhaps this madness would conveniently dissipate before it became an issue.

Chapter Text

This madness was never going to end.

At first, Megatron had tried to put the whole thing out of his RAM. Soundwave’s newest little pet project was just a worthless nobot; hardly worth the notice of the Lord of the Decepticons. Except that Soundwave clearly didn’t think so. Naturally the little nobot, who had gone his whole short existence beneath Megatron’s LIDAR, now kept coming up in too many conversations and circumstances to be coincidental. Not to mention that the microbot-crazed buffoon, who was undoubtedly to blame, was hardly to be found in public without the little road vehicle- and not just as a convenient krutch of transportation. Even on the rare instances where the two old revolutionaries found a spare klik to catch up in private, the deployer wasted it waxing poetic about his new comms tech’s competence and agreeability.

Well, what passed for poetic with Soundwave, anyway.

And don’t think the great Megatron didn’t know the game he was playing! Manipulative traitor. He ought to have stuffed that cheeky blue box into a slightly larger box and shipped him to Junkion a long time ago. The most irritating thing was… it was sort of working. His wily Third in Command was not known for putting so much effort into futile endeavors- or for playing to lose.

The first clue that Megatron might be in over his considerable helm was the threats. Not because they had any intimidating merit, oh no- most were only vague allusions under the guise of some invented concern from some brittle Autobot. It was the frequency, and the audacity, and the utterly nonsensical idea that he had any meaningful control over the private schemes of a certain mutinous telepath that was a sudden and bewildering shock. Didn’t they know that you didn’t promote a close confidant to High Command and delegate the better part of running of your army to them because you could micromanage their affairs? You did so because it was either ‘put them at the top’ or ‘execute them for insubordination!’

Soundwave might be steadfastly loyal, but he was also completely ungovernable.

Fools.

It was his fault really; Megatron’s rule must appear so absolute that they merely assumed he was answerable for all of his subordinates’ inexplicable social attachments. Perhaps in the name of some great conspiracy? It was an understandable misunderstanding, considering the vast scale and variety of his exploits.

That didn’t make it any less annoying.

By the time Beachcomber, of all mecha, was dropping that silly designation into his audials while they worked like a drop of slag hissing into coolant, he was about ready to catalyze Cybertron’s last energon deposit and put an end to it all, himself.

“Hey, man… I heard that ol’ Soundwave pulled Bluestreak for a permanent assignment. You two are pretty tight, aren’t you? It takes all kinds, man, I dig it, but listen- that lil’ quad has been through a-”

“When will you Autobots get it through your ethanol-addled helms that Soundwave dotes on that miserable sedan like one of his own peripherals?!” Megatron snapped, retracting his fine extraction tools from the unstable crystal lest he actually blast them to subatomic particles. “And I have nothing to do with it!”

“Hey, man… that’s all I needed to know,” the infuriating dune buggy drawled, infuriatingly pleasantly.

“It had better be,” the Lord of the Decepticons groused.

Perhaps he had given the dim-witted geologist less credit than he deserved, because the Autobots seemed to miraculously back off after that. Megatron had just managed to forget about his most embarrassing firing range prospect when the next unwelcome reminder of the loathsome Praxian came from the unlikeliest of mecha- Starscream.

Apparently running the joint defense force with Prime’s prim little tactician didn’t give the Decepticon Air Commander enough to screech about, and he had the leisure to comm home and ruin Megatron’s productivity as well.

“-how come Soundwave can have an Autobot minion and I can’t?! Is it because he’s a deployer? I can’t believe you’re letting him get away with this scrap after we slagged half the planet in the name of eradicating Functionism! Has that dead weight telepath actually infiltrated the superdense gravity well between your audials, or have you just gone senile? I should have tossed you into a star vorns ago; at least then we would have won the fragging-”

Rolling his optics at the overdramatic diatribe- which would not transmit over the audio connection, alas- Megatron didn’t bother waiting for a pause, “Tell me, which problem are you begging me to solve for you now, Starscream? That you are too lazy to complete your own tasks, too inept to access the allocation roster, or so unqualified that my conscientious counterpart won’t approve your request for one of his much more competent Autobots to do your work for you? Unfortunately, my aging meta can’t seem to narrow the options down,” the Lord of the Decepticons inquired innocently into the comm console, briefly lamenting that distance and the ceasefire terms limited him to verbal attacks on his second’s copious ego.

“You-! You know full well that the Decepticons would have been annihilated thousands of times over if not for me! And more competent? Ha! I’ve heard it’s not even a good Autobot, just some sniveling, low-level peon with a glitching vocal filter that’s been coddled behind the front lines by Prime’s entire team since Praxus. A fine prize for a member of your prestigious High Command- as if! He’s probably just a disposable plant whose only use is to gather data for Autobot Intelligence- and maybe sabotage the new comms grid with his bumbling- while your overtuned Communications Officer is distracted by all of the yapping. And you let them get a pede in the hatch! But I, I could do exponentially-”

“Have you considered that your esteemed Joint Commander Prowl has arranged to trickle-charge you this… misinformation… just for you to squawk it into my receiver? Fool,” Megatron’s ruthless prioritization algorithms took only a fraction of a nanoklik to resolve the choice between minimizing the Autobot’s merits and arguing with the infuriating Seeker. “That ‘low-level peon’- whose designation is Bluestreak to you, and you’d do well to remember it- happens to be the best marksmech ever produced on modern Cybertron, and I’m including your ill-conceived model in that metric. After all, he has shot me in the helm a total of nine times- remind me again how many times you have managed to do that, even at close range and behind my backplates? He could have gotten the job done- but then, he could have also won me the war. Such a pity I had to make do with you.”

The inarticulate spluttering was well worth the concession. “You exaggerate, you moronic Decrepticon!”

The Decepticon leader’s growing grin turned a savage corner as it advanced across his faceplates, “Exaggerate? Oh no, Starscream. If anything, I’m understating the little streetcar’s utility. Haven’t you noticed that the comms grid project is back on schedule? Ah, you missed the last few Joint Command meetings, didn’t you? No matter. Well, it is- and why do you think that might be, you empty airfoil? Because Soundwave finally found an assistant up to his ridiculously high standards, that’s why! He’s been singing the mech’s copious praises every shift. Meanwhile, the Autobots are all so terrified by our discovery of their secret weapon that they’ve been coming around in droves to threaten us both with cataclysmic harm on his behalf. Prime even dropped by to negotiate a new shadow clause in the ceasefire over their precious sharpshooting genius’s safety earlier. Do you want to know what he ceded to me for it…? Ha! Too bad! If you thought Bluestreak was just a mediocre informant, you don’t deserve to know.”

“Ridiculous- you’re bluffing! Optimus Prime wouldn’t capitulate to your grossly inflated ego just to play favorites. He’s too obsessed with fairness and equality for that…” for all his bluster, the jet didn’t sound so sure.

It was these moments that made Megatron miss battlefield opportunities to flex his art of soliloquy, “Oh yes, he would- for the good of continued interfactional relations, of course. Tell me, what have you done to serve Decepticon interests lately, Starscream? All you do is complain twice as much and twice as loudly, now that your audience has doubled, and what has it gained you? A platinum travel pass to the territorial perimeter so Cybertron can finally have some peace and quiet. And without you here to stab me in the spinal relays I have the terms of the treaty just as I wish, I have that oaf Prime right where I want him, and I have Autobot assets falling in line with my objectives left, right, and center. Suffice to say, I haven’t had this much fun in ages- you should really go into exile more often.”

“Exile?! I was unanimously confirmed as Joint Commander of the outer planetary defense force- therefore unanimously confirming you as an incompetent has-been. Never forget that without me, you would instantly be exposed for the tactically demented charlatan that you always were! Not to mention that your ridiculous alt mode is useless without my assistance; who would you beg to take you to the firing range without me, hm? Soundwave has the dynamism of a deckplate, Prime would have thrown you all the way to Luna-1 by now if he’d noticed the depths of your obsession with him, and who else… Oh, Deadlock- excuse me, I mean Drift. It’s difficult to keep track of all the halfway-decent prospects run off by your many tragic personality flaws. Face it: I’m irreplaceable to you, and you’re probably already throwing errors from the effort of not recalling me to your incapable side. You NEED me-”

“Need you?” Megatron laughed.

And then he cackled.

And he continued to guffaw in the arrogant airframe’s proverbial faceplates until all of his mighty supercapacitors were drained.

“Are you done, or has your last core finally cracked? If you extinguish from pump failure while I’m not there to see it, I will never forgive you,” the Seeker snapped.

“Oh, Starscream, Starscream, Starscream…” Megatron sighed melodramatically, letting a last chuckle escape his systems. “I don’t need you. Didn’t I mention that Soundwave’s new protégé is a marksmech of no small renown? I thought his Autobot reputation, such as it came to me, must be hyperbole, but having seen him in action I assure you that the numbers don’t even do his prowess justice. And it just so happens that he is- predictably, perhaps- a rare firearms enthusiast; the poor thing practically blew a head gasket at the prospect of a chance. He called my ‘ridiculous alt mode’ an elegant solution. With proper deference combined with the martyrish sense of honor that seems to be endemic to Prime’s lot and the misplaced naivety of a newspark, he is the perfect candidate- and he ought to be, it was the loyal and meticulous Soundwave that vetted him, after all. I still need to test his composition under pressure, of course, but I really have no doubt of his qualifications. Unlike you, who have caused me nothing but doubts and disappointment the entire duration of our miserable acquaintance…”

Starscream let out a brief hiss like the weak and failing bulkhead that he was, “You’re full of slag. There’s no way you’d hand an Autobot your autonomy, you pitiful pea-shooter! You’re just trying to make me jealous so I’ll come back to Cybertron without-”

“On the contrary, Joint Commander,” the Lord of the Decepticons mocked. “I’m just giving you material to squawk back at your Praxian handler. See as follows: Bluestreak is better than you, Soundwave fawns over him like one of his own creations, and I’m certain he will make a better Decepticon than you ever were. Now if you’ll excuse me, the great and powerful Megatron has an appointment at the firing range with a bot more worthy of his time.”

“YOU-”

Click

Ah, peace and quiet. Finally.

And the peace was negotiable.

He was just starting to replay the logs to properly congratulate himself on his brilliant handling of the conversation when a noise caught his attention. Suspicious, he rose to take a look outside the doorway of his latest ‘throne room’- an inert chamber he had personally excavated as far from the mine’s active workings as possible, complete with space for proper frame support, a commlink, and Autobot-free thoughts.

Suspicious… there was nothing outside.

He spun back around with an arm raised (though there was no cannon attached because of the damned ceasefire) and… there was Ravage. The haughty creature was lounging in the throne room’s eponymous seating like he owned it, as nonchalant as ever. “Are you finally volunteering to take leadership of my Decepticon miscreants, then, or may I have my throne back? If you just need a break from Soundwave’s twitterpated rambling about how that doddering sparkling has adopted all of his spare parts organization schema, then you can move to the perch I carved from the fundament specifically for your ungrateful hindquadrant.”

The cassetticon let out a reserved chuff and settled even more comfortably, “Odd, I had heard that ‘that doddering sparkling’ was, and I quote,  ‘the best marksmech ever produced on modern Cybertron,’ the Autobots’ coveted ‘secret weapon,’ and ‘the perfect candidate’ to wield the most powerful gunformer in the universe. I did also hear he was such a valuable asset that the very Prime was making concessions for his guaranteed safety, which I happen to know is patently untrue… but not a bad idea. I’ll work on it. Regardless, I really must learn to double-check my sources, as they seem to be confused.”

“What, are you a cyberparrot now?” Megatron grumbled, crossing his arms to assume a menacing stance that would have lesser bots cowering. “There should be nothing confusing to a mech of your intellect about a little harmless grandstanding to get under Starscream’s sniveling ailerons. Now, either give me back my throne or tell me why I shouldn’t toss you into the waste chute for disobeying my orders.”

Ravage’s reaction was offensively skeptical, “Of course, my liege. I merely deduce that you no longer need your throne, as your prospective shooting partner will be heading to the firing range after his shift, alone. You can beat him there, if you leave now. I’ll keep your seat of power free of particulate for you.”

Oh, well that changed-

Nothing. It changed NOTHING. Curse Soundwave and his meddlesome brood.

“And why should I go there? I was simply performing some maintenance on a subordinate’s hyperbolically expanding ego; no need to take me seriously,” was, yes, a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Beastformer grins had a truly enviable advantage in the savagery department, “Because, Lord Megatron, replacing Starscream as your go-to partner in arms- even just recreationally- would be the ultimate rebuttal to his conceited antics. Also, I am curious. Aren’t you?”

Megatron’s conspicuous browplates furrowed as he frowned. That was… a problematically valid point. For what seemed like the quintillionth time, he went through the familiar meditation of tallying up the consequences of dealing with the insufferable Seeker.

The calculus did seem to have shifted, after all. If he could actually make this work- preposterous, of course securing the acquaintance of one simple footsoldier was within his capability- that meant he would have no more use for Starscream at all! The isosceles brat would just be a random defense force commander beholden to the planetary government at large, and they need not have any personal interactions, whatsoever!

It was such an insane, brilliant, reckless plan that it just might work.

“Perhaps… finally. It is long past time to rid myself of that traitorous fool once and for all!” the Decepticon Lord crowed triumphantly. “First, I will test the Autobot’s metal, and when he proves satisfactory, I will capture-”

“Befriend.”

Megatron paused, bemused at the interruption, “…Excuse me?”

Ravage lazily stretched all of the many tensor cables that operated the complex mechanisms of his jaw assembly before elaborating, “We are at peace now, my liege; you can’t just abduct misaligned bots and… creatively persuade them to your cause anymore. You must befriend him. A trivial matter for an orator of your charismatic parameters, I am sure.”

The Leader of the Decepticons grudgingly accepted the truth of that statement on all points in a clenched fist, “…Fine. I will befriend Soundwave’s little protégé, and then Starscream will only wish he had made himself half as useful to me before I cast him aside for good!”

The cassetticon played back a well-used recording of the crowd cheering at one of Megatron’s more incendiary speeches from his lavish throne as its true owner stalked out of the room, “Brilliant plan, my liege; I am glad you thought of it.”

Typical felinoid.

***

Sideswipe knew this was probably a bad idea, but he had a strict policy against letting that stop him.

Sunstreaker knew that there was no such thing as a good plan or a bad plan, just the ones you could live with and the one that killed you.

As they approached the firing range, it was no surprise when the sound of cheerful chatter and gunshots greeted them long before the sight of anybot. Bluestreak was always here, after all- sometimes the fanatical sniper even showed up twice in one shift!- and the bot was just always talking. But he was what brought them here, anyway, so they might as well get it over with.

But damn, was that bot a lot when he was excited. And right now he sounded unusually excited.

“I wonder what he’s got out,” Sunstreaker muttered, both curiously reluctant and reluctantly curious.

“Must be something pretty sweet,” Sideswipe agreed, just hoping the little maniac wouldn’t be too distracted to hear them out.

Sharing a resigned but determined look more grim than any that might have preceded their most doomed combat mission, the pair forged ahead past the lockers and the maintenance benches to the main firing line.

“Hey, Blue,” Sideswipe called from a polite distance as he spotted the happily fluttering sensor panels, “We just came to say we’re real so-oh, slag,” he choked out, engine skipping a stroke as his processor failed to parse what he was looking at.

Oblivious to their arrival was indeed Bluestreak, gleefully shooting down holoprojections as soon as they entered the gallery with ease. All the while his vocalizer was predictably bubbling over with exuberant commentary and lavish praise for the apparently ‘incredibly precise,’ ‘spectacularly overengineered,’ and ‘a privilege to operate in every way’ gun in his terrifyingly accurate grasp.

Which happened to be a very distinctive gun.

An unsettlingly familiar gun.

A gun that no Autobot could possibly mistake for any other gun.

“That’s no gun,” Sunstreaker snarled, taken aback by the surreal scene.

“Yeah, there’s no way that’s not Megatron,” Sideswipe concurred stiffly.

At least the two of them were on the same line of code: “What the actual frag.”

Fabulous art by OozeAndGoo-Art on tumblr