@blueskyscribe I’ve been reading your ‘Law, Say the Gardeners, Is the Sun’ works, and just finished ‘With a Side of Rust’ and-

OH MY GOOOSSHHHHHH AUAUYAGAGAAGAGAGAAGAGAG

Wow!! Thank you so much, I am so touched and amazed and delighted that you wrote so much about my fic! Knock Out is my absolute favorite Transformer (with Starscream a close second), but the funny thing is that fic wasn't originally planned to be an exploration of his character, it was going to be a one-shot based on the K.O.B. joke. (Very impressed how early you caught onto it by the way!) Like, I envisioned him spending a lot of money and the TFP kids being like "Hey, where did you get that $$$?" and then BOOM, the punchline.

But then I was like . . . "What would Knock Out need or want to spend a lot of money on? Oh, I know . . . he wants to get vehicles for the newsparks to imprint on. Hmm, I'd better put in some setup to explain the newsparks then . . . What about an antagonist too?" I'm so glad the fic grew into itself, because I love writing Knock Out. Also, I started it shortly after the end of TFP, in which Knock Out switches sides. And lots of fanfics were exploring that . . . but some fics made the Autobots outright mean and discriminatory to Knock Out, and I was like "They might be cautious and wary of him privately, but they'd never act like that." And then there were fics where Knock Out was grateful Mr. Found Family from day one, and that didn't strike true either, because even though the Decepticons were a stressful faction to work for, I imagine the transition from the Decepticons to the Autobots would also be stressful for Knock Out. He likes a lot of the Autobots but he doesn't really 'get' them, and frankly he would rather have a stricter command structure.

So then the newsparks begin to uproot themselves--I'm glad you liked my Cybertronian biology btw, I like it when their reproduction is weird and alien--and, yeah, Knock Out finally has something he 100% cares about, that he is willing to risk everything for instead of toeing the line. Which is not to say all his decisions were smart, but in the moment he always did what he thought was right.

I also love tormenting characters, the more I love a character the more they will suffer. And like I said Knock Out is my favorite, so he really Went Through It. Bryce kidnapping Knock Out was a late addition, initially he was going to stalk Knock Out in the parking garage by the fun fair and the Autobots would turn up and save him in the nick of time. But that didn't seem like "enough". I ended up feeling so pleased with the kidnapping / rescue because it was a way for Knock Out to concretely see what the rest of the team was willing to do on his behalf. (And it let me bring Swindle back in, ha ha.)

Thank you again for your amazing comment, I know I will be rereading it frequently!

Pursued

It's Halloween night, and Rafael is more than ready to settle in for the night at base with his friends. Unfortunately, Rafael is not so lucky as to rest peacefully. Instead, something darker has plans for him.

(In honor of Halloween, enjoy a little horror story I have composed for you lovely lot. Might not be for you if you can't handle suspense.)

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Lights off.” Arcee cut the power with a firm but not unkind declaration. Rafael snuggled up in his sleeping bag, smiling as the smallest of the Autobots trecked further into the base, leaving him and his friends to rest after their night of running from door to door. There had been discussions about going home for the night, but after a lot of pleading from Miko, Optimus had seen fit to let them stay, for which Rafael was more than a little grateful. He’d rather not wake up to find half his goods from the night’s rampage around town gone and likely hidden away in his siblings dressers and lunch boxes. 

Being the youngest was the worst sometimes.

“Goodnight guys.” He called out softly, earning a series of murmured replies from Miko and Jack, who both seemed far too exhausted to mutter anything coherent. Rafael smiled, contented at the sound of their breathing as it eased and slowed. 

His mind calmed, his heart slowed in its previously nervous fluttering, and before long, Rafael found himself yawning. The dark void of the base’s roof was comforting enough that the pull of sleep didn’t feel far off. He was safe, in a base filled with his friends and guarded by some of the universe’s most powerful bots. Everything was fine.

He was fine.

His eyes started to close, and as they did, a faint murmur echoed in his mind. He couldn’t make out the words, not entirely. But just before he drifted off, a single sentence rang out crystal clear, almost as if spoken by someone right by his ears.

‘I will make you regret helping them.’

A commission from 2020 for the amazing author @blueskyscribe for their fanfic:

  A Side Of Rust

Please check it out!

What Fortune Favors by @fascinationex doodle

If you're cool with graphic violence, please read this fic. It's really fun and well written~ The action scenes read like an anime.

MECH is up to trouble again and kidnaps Breakdown and Bulkhead. Knockout and Miko team up to save them. Miko get the chance to be in the heat of battle like she's always wanted, but she quickly learns it's not as fun as it looks in movies.

Reblog if you think fanfiction is a legitimate form of creative writing.

It is. We twist canon timelines into something of our own making while still staying true to the original or we completely deviate and create our own ending. Of course it’s creative writing!

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Chapter 36: Decepticon, Introducing Lithe Frame

You wake up two hours early.  Defrag your subroutines.  Check your new frame for nicks and dents. Give it a quick polish.  You are . . . not apprehensive, exactly, but you want to make a good first impression.  You had submitted the appropriate form, asking for permission to add flight capability to your frame, and Megatron had approved it with such speed that you wonder if he read it.

You want to be something new and better.  You want to hold tight to the ties to your shared past.

Maybe you should have forwarded him the blueprints.  It's too late now.

You go next door to wake the cassettes. They need a polish too.

Ravage and Laserbeak often accompany you to the command deck, the other two not so often.  But today Buzzsaw declares she "wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I can't wait to see their faces," she chuckles.

"Whose?" Frenzy asks.

"Everyone's.  This will be amazing."

Frenzy bristles at this. "What are you talking about, ya bird-brain? Soundwave looks great."

"Exactly."

You pause, shadowed in the doorway. Ravage is tucked in your chest, and Buzzsaw glides on ahead, veering off to perch on a computer bank as you enter the command deck.  (Later you will discover that she positioned herself to record your entrance "for posterity.") The other two cassettes are absent; though Frenzy begged to come, you know she would find the command deck dull.  When she is bored, she tends to cause trouble.  You want to make a good impression.

The bots present do not immediately register your proximity.  Megatron and Starscream are on the upper deck, leaning over Skywarp's shoulder to examine something on the radar; Thundercracker (ostensibly monitoring the security cameras) is on the lower deck, leaning his chin on his palm and showing an unacceptable level of sloth.

"Idiot!" Starscream is scowling as he jabs a finger at the radar screen.  "Those aren't enemy aircraft, they're Seekers on patrol."

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" Skywarp protests.

Megatron huffs out a sigh, half-relieved, half-exasperated.  "Had you kept abreast of the flight schedule, Skywarp . . ."

Her pout intensifies.  "Nobody sent one out."

Of course they hadn't; you do that.

"Megatron." You step into the light.  "Soundwave: reporting for duty."

They all turn to look at you.  Thundercracker goggles. Skywarp's jaw drops.  Starscream freezes for a moment, then clenches his jaw.  Megatron's only change in expression is a slight widening of his optics as he looks you up and down.

"Soundwave."  Does Megatron sound a trifle . . . unsure?  "Welcome back.  I hope your time away has benefited you."

You are eager to show him your new capabilities, so you simply give a concise nod and move to your usual station, which is adjacent to Thundercracker's current position.

"So, uh." He glances towards you.  "What's with the new look?"

  What a silly question. "New alt mode. Reformatting: necessary."

Skywarp drifts down the ramp to give her two cents.  "Yeah, but like, why's it so . . ." She holds her hands shoulder width apart before sweeping them down and inward, then outward again.

"Skywarp." Megatron rumbles.  "Return to your duties."

". . . right, boss."

You busy yourself with your work as well.  There is so much to catch up on: schedules to be set, comms to be sent, antiviruses to be run.  Despite this, you notice the looks.  That Starscream is staring daggers is unsurprising—no doubt he enjoyed being out from under your watchful eye—but Megatron, too, keeps glancing your way.  Perhaps, despite his welcoming words, he has his doubts about your abilities; perhaps he thinks you have sacrificed your command of the airwaves in this new form.  You could tell him this is not the case, but you would rather show him.

You lean over your workstation, too focused to pay any mind to Skywarp's whistle (a high tone followed by a low tone) or Starscream's subsequent cuff to her helm.

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Chapter 31

Soldiers come running across the airfield as you transform and kick in what remains of the hangar door.  There are more humans waiting inside;  you wade into their midst, leaving them the option to scatter or be stepped on.  Most have enough sense to scramble away.  Bullets rattle against your back but your armor is thick, you barely feel the impact.

Still, it's best to act quickly.  You are blocking the radio transmissions calling for bazookas and grenade launchers, but you cannot prevent the humans from transmitting such messages in person.

There. A stealth jet, a matte black wedge, conspicuous among the more traditional jets favored by the Seekers.  Light flares from your optics and washes over the plane as you initiate the scan.

The data rolls in too fast to interpret on a conscious level but you can feel it sinking into your struts. Configurations flash through your mind and you do your best to guide them according to the specifications that Hook and Shockwave provided.  Your chassis glows white as your frame reconfigures.

For a moment it feels like your entire body is made of energon. It burns, yet there is no pain.

The moment passes;  you feel lighter.  Bullets are still hailing towards you.  They sting.  Worse, three soldiers are hauling a massive, tube-like weapon into the hangar. You would prefer not to wait around and see what it would do to your new form.  

You transform. A blue stealth jet roars over the soldiers, flying into the night.

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Chapter 27

A cold night wind whips around you.  Laserbeak sits at the edge of the roof, gazing at the desert below.  The black needles rising from the ground are made sharper by moonlight.

They could almost be mistaken for Cybertronian structures, those bristling metal spires, but they are the work of humans.  Words are sunk into their gleaming facets, the same warning repeated in many of their tongues.

This is not a place of honor. No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. Nothing is valued here.  

What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us.  This is message is a warning about danger.

The danger is in an emanation of energy.  The danger is to the body, and it can kill.

The danger is in a particular location. It increases towards a center.

Megatron was a poet. So he had the Constructicons build the Decepticon base in the thickest tangle of spires, the ones that read: The center of the danger is here.

The "emanation of energy" was nothing so useful as energon– merely human leavings–but this land has a lively warmth to it, a pleasant tingle.  And humans fear to tread it, fear to bomb it.

A peaceful place.

You sit beside your charge.

"Laserbeak . . ." What to say?  "Status?"

He sends you his vitals without comment;  you rephrase the question.

"Query: Laserbeak unhappy?"

"No . . .  Remembering." Like you, his face is fixed,, his beak always tilted in a smile.  "Spying, synchronizing . . . Felt nice, felt safe. First time, feeling that."

"Laserbeak: still safe," you insist.  "All cassettes: safe."

He flaps his wings and alights your shoulder. You catch his nod.

You try to shake the feeling that he is avoiding your gaze.  

"Frenzy: upset, agitated." Though these words are insufficient, they are all you can offer. "Frenzy said . . . Soundwave is taking Soundwave from her."

"Frenzy: has never been alone." Laserbeak sidles close and rests his head atop yours. "Not really alone, though.  Frenzy: will get used to it."

"And Laserbeak?"

"Can return to it.  Will be fine."

You gaze out at the barren hills.  In the gleaming moonlight, you could almost believe they are steel.  That you are home.

You think back to the tiny E Class mech with the ugly green and pink paint job.  Since then, Laserbeak has changed every physical attribute.  But one aspect has stayed consistent in function, if not form.

You press the button just above your cassette bay and the transparent door swings open.  "Laserbeak: return."

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Chapter 26

The former servant bot traded his ugly, livery colors for a new paint job of black and red.  But it took him a long time to choose a name.  When he finally did, it came with a new alt mode.

Buzzsaw was less than pleased.  "Are you copying me?"

The newly christened Laserbeak landed on your shoulder and cackled.

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Part 25

As soon as Shockwave removed the silver collar, the gold bird clamped her talon over it and savaged it.  Silver plating split open beneath the serrated edge of her beak, spilling circuitry onto the examination table.

Then, lifting her head, she spoke her first words.  "My name is Buzzsaw.  And I will never sing again."

"Greetings, Buzzsaw."  You put a hand to your chest.  "Name: Soundwave."

"I know. Soundwave and Ravage. And Shockwave." She looked at the minibot. "And what's your name?"

"You know me. Backup."

"I mean your real name."

"Hm. Don't know."

~*~

Shockwave offered to remove the lock on Buzzsaw's t-cog, which she eagerly agreed to.

"It'll take a few hours," Ravage said, gracefully walking atop a crumbling wall as Backup looked back over his shoulder at the medical tent. "It did for me, anyway.  But that was a scrub medic.  We didn't have Shockwave back then."

"Ravage transforms into: what?" Backup asked.

Ravage leapt off the wall, his limbs folding and rearranging until he landed as a bipedal robot with a cat-like head, slightly taller than Backup.  "Just a mech."  He transformed back to his panther mode and stretched.  "But I prefer this form."

"Huh," said Backup.  He gazed up at the open sky as the wind whipped through the camp, fresh and clean.  Metal glints high above as an alloy-eagle circles on an updraft.

~*~

Despite your full schedule, there comes a period where training is done, but you are not yet ready for recharge.

You are too tired to read and music leads you to melancholy thoughts, so you fill these hours by putting your hand to the wall and activating a low-level subsonic wave that ripples along the metal, allowing you to pick out and decipher select vibrations from the upper halls.

Spying, in other words.  This activity skews dangerously close to working, which Megatron forbade, but he will forgive you if you uncover some nefarious plot, and since you focus your attention on Starscream . . .

But so far Starscream has done nothing but complain about the energon shortage, the weather conditions on Earth, and his trinemates.  Tonight he is castigating Skywarp for leaving an oil spill to congeal on the floor while she shouts back that it doesn't matter because there aren't any ant-droids on Earth to be attracted by the mess.  You listen dully for a while before pulling your hand away from the wall.  Lying back on your berth, you stare at the ceiling. You see Megatron's face there, twisting with some unknown emotion as he banishes you from duty for two weeks.  You see the cassettes' faces, somber with realization.  You see Rumble.

There is a familiar scratch at the door.  You sit up.  "Come in."

Ravage, Buzzsaw, and Frenzy enter and arrange themselves in front of you.  Ravage sits upright, clearing his throat.

"Soundwave, we just wanted to say . . . I know we were a little bit shell-shocked earlier, but we support your decision."

"Right," Buzzsaw says.  "It's your frame, after all. You fought a whole war so you—so all of us—could change. It would be pretty silly if we held that against you."  She side-eyes the purple bot next to her.  "Right, Frenzy?"

"Yeah, sure."  She glares off to the side, rubbing her arm.  "Whatever."

There's a pang in your spark, but gratitude too. "Sentiment: appreciated.  Current form: satisfactory.  However.  Upgrade: more beneficial to Cause."

"And it will certainly be faster," Ravage says after a momentary pause. "Maybe Buzzsaw and Laserbeak can teach you some basics of flying."

"Of course! We're not going to trust Starscream with that, right?" Buzzsaw nudges Frenzy with her wing, unmindful of her scowl.  "And once Soundwave gets the hang of it, hey, that cockpit looks pretty roomy, maybe he'll take you up—"

"Shut up!" Frenzy bursts out, shoving Buzzsaw so hard the bird bowls over.  "It's not roomy, it's flat!  Soundwave's gonna be a pancake and we're gonna be—"  She wipes her arm across her eyes.  "It's fine!  I don't care.  First you take Rumble away, then you take his drums away, and then you take you away, it's fine!"  Her little feet clatter as she runs into the hall.

Buzzsaw snaps her beak closed and whips her head back towards you.  "Do not listen to that little punk, Soundwave.  If it weren't for you she'd be dead in her shrinkwrap."

"She's just upset. Lashing out." Ravage puts a paw on your knee. "Losing someone—it's hard."

"We've all lost someone," Buzzsaw says tartly.

"And Frenzy isn't the only one who's been acting out, Miss Rumormonger," Ravage snaps.

"I was worried!  At least we know what's going on now!"

As they argue, you press your hand to the wall, subsonic waves pulsing. Frenzy is on her bunk, sobbing

Your face is not optimized for expression.  It has no moving parts, no mouth, a visor in place of eyes.  Yet something in your manner must speak of your feelings, because when you lift your gaze from the floor, Buzzsaw and Ravage are staring at you in silent concern.

"Soundwave—" Buzzsaw sounds contrite, Buzzsaw of all mecha.

"Query: where is Laserbeak?" you ask, because you need to know if you have induced a breakdown in any other cassettes.

Ravage and Buzzsaw exchange glances. 

"We don't exactly know," Buzzsaw admits. "He went out for a flight."

"I'm sure he's fine with the change," Ravage says. "He's adaptable."

"Demeanor?"

"Fine?" Buzzsaw shrugs. "I don't know. Normal enough. He said he wanted some air."

You want to open your chest and tell them to return.  Instead you send pings to Frenzy and Laserbeak.  Frenzy ignores the query.  Laserbeak pings back.  He is on the roof.

You ping Frenzy again. No reply.  You put your hand to the wall.  Still on her bunk.

Ravage says, "We'll talk to her."

"Thank you.  Request: be kind."

"We will."  They head down the hall.

You head for the stairs.

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Part 22: Swan Song

Buzzsaw finally ejects, her fears, if not wholly put to rest, at least blunted.  And true to her word, she accompanies you to the training room.  She even puts in some effort for once.  While she is not the fastest or most agile of the cassettes, she makes it to the end of the course with enough time to rest on the sidelines, head bent in quiet discussion with Ravage while she waits for Frenzy and Buzzsaw to finish.

You hope this is an end to her attitude and antics.  Perhaps she simply needed to overcome her self-doubt  . . . although self-doubt is not a trait Buzzsaw has ever exhibited before.

Perhaps she needed to see herself through a new lens.  As a warrior.  That sounds better. More plausible.

You keep thinking back to the memory she shared.  An inescapable cage, flames leaping, and a soaring song born of rage.

The setting is not wholly new; you have a similar memory, though it faces the opposite direction. 

From atop a clocktower in Iacon, you monitored the airwaves as a Decepticon strike force snuck into the building. Soon panicked calls were broadcast from the Senators, the staff, and the aides.  You curtailed them all, smoothing the vibrations out of the air until they were muted.  Megatron and his team swept through the building; the calls for help became less frequent, but more frantic.

"Decepticons," Megatron rumbled. (He did not have to worry about dead air, not with you by his side.)  "Stage 2."

That meant whatever Senators remained had holed up, locking themselves away like cowards.  Perhaps, foolishly, they considered themselves safe.  The clocktower shook as the Seekers swept in.

They were invisible in the night but for the flashes of their bombardment.  On their third sweep the Senate dome, already alight, caved in.

"Is that it?" Ravage asked, squinting.  He was not fond of strong light and the fires were burning brightly.

"Yes. Operation complete."  He leaped lightly on your shoulder as you started down the spiral stairs.  "Decepticons: victorious."

You reached the clocktower's observation deck and paused to record the collapse of the Senate, in both physical and societal sense.  The caste system had been destroyed.  Everyone was free.  You were proud.  

Ravage winced as the Seekers made another pass, thundering by as their guns blasted furrows through everything in their path.  The fountain at the end of the plaza exploded in chunks of marble and a thin wave of water rolled onto the pavement, reflecting the fires now leaping through the trees. The surrounding residences began to catch, the flames passed from one grandiose house to another.  The streets filled with hysterical throngs of mecha. 

You loosened your hold on the airwaves and let the panicked voices babble; it was desirable that news of this victory should spread . . .

That's when you heard it: a melody almost buried in the cacophony.  A thin warble.  You cocked your head.

"What is it?"

"Ravage: hears singing?"

"No. Only screams."

You moved to the side of the observation deck and stared across the street.  A stately mansion with broad doors and platinum pillars was caught somewhere between burning and melting.  Through the arched window on the third floor you caught a glimpse of a golden bird, caged in steel bars, surrounded by fire, its wings outflung and its elegant neck raised as it poured out its song.

As though sensing your gaze, it lowered its head.  You locked eyes; you could swear it. Your systems prickled as the bird lifted her head once more to sing.  You turned and dashed down the stairs.

The mansion was on the edge of collapse by the time you blasted through the entrance.  The bots of the house—a well-polished couple and their liveried servants painted in pink and green, had been trying to force the door from its melted frame; they gasped their thanks to you as they fled, thinking you a savior.  You ignored them. Arms held in front of your face, you forced your way up the stairs as soot flew against your visor and smoke choked your vents. Ravage, ever faithful, clung to your shoulders despite the way the flames made him flinch.  Half-blind you forged ahead, following the tremulous song.

You reached the atrium just as the bird swayed and fell from her perch.  A tiny servant-bot lay crumpled before the barred door, dead or unconscious.  You kicked him aside and grabbed the bars, pulling them apart until Ravage was able to dart through and drag out the bird.  Her neck swayed as you gathered her in your arms.

"What about him?"  Ravage nosed the mini-bot.

Your first instinct was to leave him.  Servants of the upper castes disparaged Decepticons as much as their masters.  Being trod upon more gently, they thought themselves better than those who were trampled. They were no allies.  Let them perish.

But there was a key in the mini-bot's hand.  He had been trying to unlock the cage.

"Take him," you instructed Ravage.

And so four bots escaped just before the roof fell in, running into a night lit garishly with fires that burned, burned, burned as far as the eye could see.

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Part 20

"Cassette bots: morning status report."

"All systems green, energon level fifty-five percent," Ravage says.

"Systems: green," Laserbeak squawks.  "Energon level: thirty-six."

"Mine's at forty percent. How come you have so much more, Ravage?" Frenzy puts her hands on her hips.  "If you steal someone's hoard you gotta tell us."

"I'm more fuel efficient."

"Cat: lazy," Laserbeak snickers.  "Sleeps all day."

"Stealing from other Decepticons: no allowed," you remind them.  "Soundwave: will provide.  Meanwhile: go to training room.  Practice code-breaking drills."

"Awww, man, training again?" Frenzy flops back on the cassettes' little couch and covers her face with her hands.  "Soundwaaave, I'm tired of doing drills, my joints are gonna melt!"

"Code-breaking: not physical. Mental."

"My brain's gonna melt too!"

"How long will today's training session run?" Ravage inquires.

"Fourteen hours."

"Ah." Ravage's tail flips.  "So the same as the past three days."

"Yes."

"Ah."

"Buzzsaw: gets to skip?" Laserbeak demands, aggrieved.

"No.  Query: Buzzsaw's location known?"

They shake their heads.

"I'll find her," Ravage says.

"No. Train."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Surprisingly, Buzzsaw willingly sends her location when you ping her. She's in the lower levels of the base, where she often scavenges from the medical bay and science wing for her sculptures. Incorporating limbs and faceplates from deceased mechs into art strikes you as macabre, but most Decepticons seem to enjoy the mural she installed in the cafeteria.  Even Megatron complimented it.  You are simply not sufficiently artistic, you suppose.

The thought of Megatron makes you walk faster. The pinched look on his face as he ordered you off-duty.  His warm hand on your shoulder as he eulogized Rumble as a strong Decepticon warrior, which he was not.  You failed him; you failed Rumble.  But you can improve. You will. You must.

Your systems are already on edge by the time you reach the sub-levels;  when you round a corner to see Thundercracker and Nova Storm cornering Buzzsaw, your defensive protocols whirr into overdrive.  Your approach is silent, but the conduits on your palms burn with energy.  Perhaps bouncing the Seekers down the hall will teach them to leave your charges alone.

"—so I use complimentary colors for the background and contrasting colors for the text.  Makes it pop," Buzzsaw is saying as Thundercracker nods energetically.

"That's also a common technique in cinematography!"

"Is it?  I don't watch movies much.  The others have such rotten taste."

Your pace slows.  Buzzsaw is perched on one of the exposed pipes running down the hall, unruffled and relaxed as Thundercracker earnestly extolls the wonders of human cinema.  Nova Storm is gnawing on her finger, visibly bored and darting glances down the hall like she wants to leave.  Then she spots you stalking forward; she clutches Thundercracker's arm and shakes it.

"Nova Storm, what?"  His face goes from annoyed to alarmed in an instant. "Oh slag."

"Uhhh, we gotta go now, bye byyyye Buzz-bird!"  Nova Storm runs down the hall, dragging Thundercracker after her.

You glare after them, then anxiously look over Buzzsaw for signs of injury or distress.  But she seems more amused than anything.

"Look at them go. You really put the fear of Unicron in them, sneaking up like that.  Oh, stop looking so worried, they're harmless."

"Associates of Starscream," you point out.  Anything related to the Air Commander is, by default, suspicious.  "Thundercracker: his trinemate."

"Yes, I wonder how he stands it," she muses.  "He seems nice. He brought Nova Storm over to apologize for throwing me around."

"Appropriate behavior," you admit grudgingly.

"And why are you down here, I wonder?"

"Buzzsaw knows why.  Buzzsaw: avoiding training."

"I'm not avoiding it.  I'm just not doing it." She preens her plumage.  "I'm helping the Constructicons. Scavenger brought in another load of so-called 'junk' and Scrapper wants it out of their workshop.  So of course I said I'd take it.  Just look, it's perfect for my next piece."  

She sends you an image-still of a broken television, shattered concrete girders with exposed rebar, and a tangle of plastic-coated wires.  Scrapper is correct; it is junk.  And you are growing impatient.

"Soundwave: will ensure material is disposed of. Buzzsaw: will not waste time.  Buzzsaw: will train."

"Excuse you?  What am I, your pet?  And art is not a waste of time, it's–"

"Buzzsaw," you amplify, jutting your chin forward, "will train."

Her optics narrow. Her little orange sliver of a tongue is visible as she draws in slow breaths through her open beak.  You do not know what to do if she refuses. At last her beak snaps shut.

"Fine," she says, stepping onto your shoulder.

You retrace your way through the maze of halls, out of sorts, half-wishing that Thundercracker or Nova Storm will reappear to distract you.  But they do not.

After a few minutes Buzzsaw breaks the silence.  "Mixmaster told me something interesting while I was looking at the scrap.  He said you'd been to see Hook recently. All by yourself."

Mixmaster is going to have trouble coming his way. "Med bay information: confidential."

"Yes, Hook was quick to say that.  He was very annoyed it was brought up." Buzzsaw craned her neck over to peer directly into your visor.  "Soundwave, what's going on?  First this crazy training, now secret appointments– Ravage is worried about you.  We all are. This isn't you."

"Worry: unnecessary."  How to explain. Should you explain?  "Appointment: not secret. Private."

"What's the difference?" Her voice rises as she thrusts her head against yours.  "Talk to me and I'll go to your stupid training willingly!  Just . . . just tell me it's not some last ditch effort to protect us because you're dying or something!"

Oh.  

You rest a gentle hand on Buzzsaw's neck, pushing her back.  "Soundwave: not dying."

"I don't believe you." Her wings flap meaninglessly as her talons scratch at your chest.  "Prove it!"

After a moment of hesitation, you allow your chest compartment to swing open.

She transforms and dives in before you can even say "Buzzsaw, return."

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Part 19

"Again."  

The cassettes leap into action, dodging blasts from the training drones. Their reflexes are improving.  Ravage reaches the target first, naturally, his four feet landing on the pressure plate before bounding over it with easy grace.  He prowls over to leap onto your shoulder, not even winded.  Frenzy shields her optics with her arm and manages to get close enough to swat the target with her guitar.  She strums a triumphant chord and runs to your side, grinning.

The birds are having more difficulty, getting in each other's way as they veer to avoid the onslaught.

"Faster," you encourage them. "Work together."  Buzzsaw gives an indignant squawk as Laserbeak's wing clips hers.

A ping pops up on your telecomm suite.  Another comm from Starscream, this one demanding to know why you have "encroached" on "his" training time.  You delete the message without replying.  Anyone can book the training room.

Inevitably, he will comm you again.  A sour thought.  If only you could block him.  If only you could get rid of him.

In a technical sense, you could.  So many owe you favors. But the dreary truth is Starscream is necessary.  The Seekers follow him, and air support is necessary to the Cause.  Still, it is a pleasant daydream . . .

"I've had enough of this!" Buzzsaw dives straight through the holographic bullets, unmindful of them splattering against her plating, and slaps the target with her wing.

You pause the simulation, the laserbolts hanging in mid-air.  "Buzzsaw."

"Cheater!" Laserbeak crows, dodging the static projectiles to tap the target.  "I win!"

"Laserbeak."

"What?" Buzzsaw ruffles her golden feathers.  "If I were on the battlefield and I figured out the bullets didn't do anything, I'd act accordingly.  I'm just being logical."

Starscream pings you three more complaints as the birds bicker.

"Buzzsaw, Laserbeak, Frenzy. Run exercise again."

"What about me?" Ravage says.

"Operation: Distract Starscream."

"Awww, I wanna go too," Frenzy says as Ravage slinks out. "I wanna prank Screamer!"

"Train," you say firmly, not looking up from the control console. A small twist of a knob increases the haptic density of the projectiles.  You crook your finger through a frozen laserbolt and consider the unpleasant prickle against your plating.  The laserbolt flickers around your claws as you turn the knob down a bit.  Then up a bit. Then down a bit.  Finally you restart the simulation.   "In your places.  Begin."

Starscream does not bother you again; Ravage is dependable.  And you are confident that Starscream is none the wiser (or at the very least unable to prove) the cause of his current tribulations, whatever those might be.

You often wonder why the Seekers follow him so loyally.   Starscream drills them to exhaustion, belittles them, and shows favoritism to his trine.  The Seekers complain about him, constantly, but their resentment is twisted up in a perverse sort of pride.  What would it take to shake their loyalty, to drive them from his shadow?

A pained squawk returns your attention to the simulation; Buzzsaw has discovered there is now a 'logical' reason to avoid the blasts. 

The training is going well.

The rest of the thread is here.

tl;dr: Don’t monetize AO3, kids.  You won’t like what happens next.

read this thread. this is by far the most concise explanation of a lot of different issues that i’ve seen in fandom spaces in a while. cosigning both the linked thread and the thread about aus/uk/can law that’s linked in-thread.

AHDHXHEBSG TWITTER WRITERS DID WHAT NOW???? AND PEOPLE PAID THEM????

If someone has never taken a class that includes copyright law, they may not know this stuff, so I don’t necessarily blame random people for not knowing what copyright is, but like… maybe just maybe it’s something that should be taught????

Remember Napster? The peer-to-peer file-sharing site that connected users and allowed them to torrent files back and forth? Most Napster users torrented movies, TV shows, and music.

When Napster was taken to court they said, "Hey, we don't TELL our users to torrent copyrighted material! It's not our fault, as a platform, if our users are doing that." And the courts were like: "Actually it IS you're fault because you know damn well what people doing and you are turning a blind eye to it." Therefore you are legally culpable." And Napster proceeded to be sued into oblivion and went bankrupt.

AO3 would have even less plausible deniability because they were created specifically to host fanfics. And fanfics are only legal if they are not monetized.

People who try to sneak commissioned fics onto AO3 or reference Ko-fi in their profiles are putting the site at risk. AO3 doesn't turn a blind eye because they can't afford to.

Epilogue Part II of With a Side of Rust :)

((This is now up on AO3 as well. :) ))

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

You are Soundwave.

Your cassettes are stowed in your chest: safe. But you are hungry, so hungry, and so are they.

At LAST you find energon and you stumble towards it, your instincts screaming at you to drink, glut, gorge. You force the mindless need down because your cassettes come first.

Your vision is spinning.

"Rumble, eject--"

You are Soundwave.

Smoke is pouring from your chest.  The door to your cassette compartment didn't open (why didn't it open). Your fingers hook into the gap and pull away with coils of magnetic tape, splatters of blood.

The cassettes inside are misaligned, jostled from their connective plates, and you only receive brief flashes of emotion from them: confusion, panic, horror.

(Later you will try to remember how many voices cried out.  Was it always too late?)

You pry and pry.  If you were truly the Earthen device you disguise yourself as this would be easy. Something would give, something would snap. 

But there is a war. Using those flimsy specifications would have been foolish.

Unsafe.

Your fingers slip in blood.

Unsafe, unsafe, unsafe.

You are Soundwave.

Your connection with your cassettes still stutters. You are intermittently bombarded with their anguish, drowning out the background buzz of battle, the chatter of the comms.

. . . the comms!

"Megatron, all hands: emergency!"  You trade in words, yet at this vital moment they escape you.  You sway in place; you must be coherent. "Soundwave: injured." Perhaps this is your blood. It could be your blood. And you are Third-in-Command. "Immediate medical attention: required."

"Immediate medical attention? I can see you. You're just standing there, you lump! Megatron, he's just—"

"Starscream, silence your voice box before I shove it up your thrusters!  Soundwave, standby. Since Starscream has such an excellent view, he will lead Hook to your location. Is that understood, Starscream?"

Starscream's reply is sulky and insubordinate, but in the affirmative.

You have never liked the Air Commander, but he is fast.  You keep telling yourself that. Amplifying it. Ignoring the little voice in your head, and the one no longer in your head, saying it is impossible for him to be fast enough.

You are Soundwave.  You check your chrono every five seconds. Half a minute drags by before Starscream arrives.  Alone.

"Hook?"

"He'll be here in a minute." Starscream brushes imaginary dust off his wrists.  "The oaf is lumbering across the battlefield as we speak. Thundercracker is laying down cover for him–"

"Faster."

"Oh, of course," sneers Starscream, eye wandering over the stress marks on your chestplate, the bloody fingerprints. "I'll just wave my magic wand and, poof, Hook will be here to smooth a bandage over poor, do-nothing Soundwave's little scrape–"

Magnetic tape unfurls in fluttering streamers as you thrust a handful into Starscream's stupid face.  He recoils as blood flecks his finish. You are both glad and sickened.

"Faster!"

He scowls, optics flicking from your trembling fist to the disgorgement from your chest.  With a huff he turns away, pressing two fingers to the side of his helm.

"Skywarp, regroup on Thundercracker's position."

You are Soundwave.  Starscream hands you an energon cube and steals six for himself.

Hook arrives.

You keep the other cassettes in, despite their clamor.  You don't want them to see.

You are Soundwave. Third-in-Command.

Megatron comes by offering "a break from your duties, while you collect yourself."

You decline.  You have responsibilities.  The airwaves must be monitored, new sources of energon must be pursued.

Megatron grunts.  His arms are clasped behind his back as he bends to examine an obnoxiously bright poster for some band.  Does your leader disapprove of this human artifact?  The cassettes glued it to the wall, but you could have scraped it off. If there is a demerit to be had, you will accept it.

But although Megatron's brow is drawn, he does not seem angry.  At last he straightens and turns to face you.

"Rumble was a loyal Decepticon, a fierce warrior."  His hand falls on your shoulder. "His sacrifice shall not be forgotten."

Rare praise.  You are grateful.

But he is wrong. A sacrifice has meaning.

You are Soundwave. Your hearing is exceptional. 

Also, your room is adjacent to the cassettes' and the walls are thin.  Not only can you hear their ruckus, but also Skullcruncher, in the room to the other side of them, swearing and banging on the wall.

You keep your visor powered down for a few minutes, waiting to see if they will sort things out and quiet down.  The shouts increase in volume, accompanied by a crash. You slide off your berth and trudge next door.

Ever since the cassettes received their coveted "own room", they have held odd hours. Ravage has become nocturnal and Frenzy and Rumble have–they used to–they imitated him.  The birds' sleep schedule is more standard, awake in the day, asleep at night.  Arguments from the cassettes' quarters are not uncommon.

But not arguments like this.

You stand in the doorway. Buzzsaw and Frenzy are battling over a snare drum, Buzzsaw's talons clutching the instrument's rim, Frenzy maintaining a deathgrip on the drum stand.  Flapping her wings and firing her thrusters, Buzzsaw drags Frenzy across the floor as they scream at each other.  

"Give it back before I blast you out of the base, bird-brain!"

"Let go, you plebeian! You philistine!"

"I'm gonna make you eat those words!  Whatever they mean!"

Ravage is nowhere to be seen. Laserbeak is roosting in his bed, looking on.

"Not my fault," he squawks at you.

"Ravage?"

"Left. Too loud."

Yes, it is very loud. Skullcruncher bangs on the wall again. You send him a brief apology and assure him you are handling the situation.  The banging stops. You turn back to Laserbeak.

"Cause of conflict?"

Laserbeak's expression is always hard to read, even for you, but he sounds irritated.  "Buzzsaw: feeling artistic."

With a discordant crash Frenzy trips over the rest of the drum set; victorious, Buzzsaw carries the snare drum to the top bunk.

"Frenzy, Buzzsaw—" you begin, but your voice is overpowered by a cacophony of rolling cymbals and falling drums as Frenzy leaps across the room, violently shaking the bed frame.

"Get offa my bed!  Give that back!"

"No, I won't!" Buzzsaw spreads her wings over the drum.  "It's not yours."

"It's not yours either!"

"I need it!"

"Buzzsaw." You speak louder this time; their heads whip towards you. "Why?"

"Because." She lifts her beak towards the ceiling. "I am going to create a magnifient sculpture honoring Rumble."

"Out of his drums!" Frenzy howls, turning towards you in appeal as she points at Buzzsaw.

"Well, he's not using them anymore," Buzzsaw snaps.  "Who's going to play them?  You?"

Frenzy gives the bedframe another shake. "Maybe I fraggin' will!"

"Oh yeah? While you play your guitar?"

"I can trade off!"

"You're so selfish." The steel plumes on Buzzsaw's neck begin to bristle.  "Greedy, greedy, greedy."

"Me?!  Who's trying to destroy Rumble's drums?"

"I'm making a memorial. You just want to hog them for yourself!" Buzzsaw's voice rises, her wings as well. "You can't keep a beat! That's what Rumble always said!"

Frenzy's fists clench and she leans her whole body into her scream. "RUMBLE HATED YOU!"

Laserbeak has tucked his beak under his wing, feigning sleep, though his eye is open a slit. Buzzsaw is staring, her wings sinking. Frenzy's chest is heaving. 

"He hated you, hated you, he said you were a, a stuck-up tonedeaf turkey—"

"Frenzy."  She looks up at you, violently wiping her eyes with her balled up fists.  Your first instinct is to open your chest compartment and tell her to return. Yet you hesitate.  "You: will recharge in Soundwave's room.  Discussion of appropriate behavior: can wait till morning."

"Fine, whatever," Frenzy mutters, stalking to the door. "Too many bad vibes here anyway."

When she is safely in the hall you turn to Buzzsaw. "Frenzy: did not mean what she said."

Buzzsaw tosses her head and huffs.  "Oh, so you're a mind reader now?" 

You are not.  But you doubt it would make this any easier.

You are Soundwave.  The drums sit in a corner of your quarters.  Frenzy and Buzzsaw are now more angry with you than each other, which is an improvement.

Drums were all Rumble wanted.  He and Frenzy chattered constantly about the band they would form, arguing over what to name it and dreaming of the instruments they would play.  You listened passively, wondering who they envisioned attending these imagined concerts.  The Decepticon army, which split its time between fighting and waiting restlessly for the next battle?  Humans? Earthen beasts? 

A naive dream.  You listened . . .

You took a handful of sketches to the Constructicons.  They were glad to settle a debt with a project so simple.  You walked out with a weaponized guitar and set of drums.

You have regretted commissioning those gifts many times. As your berth vibrated to a booming, syncopated beat, you thought: I could have given them standard issue laser rifles. Some nights you asked Frenzy and Rumble to keep the noise down, others you lowered your audio input and endured. 

Now the drums lay dormant. Beyond the wall a single chord is struck and fades away.

Silence is not as sweet as you remember.

You are Soundwave.  You sit atop a human building in your alt mode, maintaining a communication hub for the Decepticons. (Blaster's attempts to block your signal? Pathetic. Inferior.) 

Beside you sits an invention that Shockwave has named "the Eviscerator." It somewhat resembles a bird, somewhat resembles a cat, and is several times larger than Megatron. With its long claws and serrated jaw, it will no doubt be a terror when Shockwave finishes compiling the activation codes.

You are busy directing Hardtop to assist the two Constructicons being pummeled by Elita One when Megatron hails you. You quickly divert your attention and comm channel.  "Megatron."

"Soundwave!" You spot him on the battlefield, punching and elbowing Autobots out of the way as he pursues a human scooting around in a surprisingly speedy wheeled contraption. "I have need of you. One of the Autobots' pests has gotten ahold of the codes!"

Starscream insisted that Skywarp's teleportation ability made her the logical choice of courier, but you knew better. Skywarp is dim.  "On my way."

You skirt the fighting and reach your leader.  He is punching the side of an office building.  His fist slams through sheet after sheet of mirrored glass, staring past the shards to a bland interior.

"Megatron." 

"Ah, Soundwave!" He turns towards you.  "The human has gone to ground like the cyber-rat he is."  A grin pulls up his lip.  "But who better to pursue a rat . . . than a cat?"

This is unfortunate, but there is nothing to do but answer.  "Ravage: unavailable."

"Unavailable?" His optics search the battlefield.

You clarify. "Ravage: still at base."

Megatron frowns as he swings back towards you, glass crunching under his feet.  "Deploy Laserbeak, then," he says finally.

 "Laserbeak: still at base."

His eyes burn into you as his scowl deepens. "Frenzy, then? Buzzsaw?"

". . . still at base," you admit. 

Megatron's jaw is working, his fingers curling.  He hefts his fusion cannon. Your visor is fixed on its barrel as the light in its maw builds and builds, and then it shifts and a shaft of purple light sears blasts past you. Behind you an Autobot crumples to the ground. You are still gazing at their smoking remains when Megatron grips your shoulder and maneuvers you closer to the building.

"Find the pest," he says tersely.

Nodding, you brush glass off the third floor carpet and place your palms against it.  Waves of sound emit from your hands, echoing back, and you begin mentally mapping out the structure.  Many objects in the building, furniture, partitions.  But also something that shifts with each sweep of echolocation, something alive . . . 

"Quarry: located.  Human is hiding in northeast quarter of building — "

Megatron pushes you back as he unleashes his fusion cannon, blasting a wide, blinding gout of light through the building.

" — on first floor," you finish, just as the human in the wheeled chair speeds out, dodging falling glass as he zooms right through Megatron's legs.

Megatron roars, lunges, and misses. The human streaks away, arms and wheels a blur.  You hurry in pursuit.  But already the weight of failure drapes heavy on your shoulders.

You are Soundwave, but you weren't always.  Your original designation was E-16.  The E stood for equipment.

You sat on a table and broadcast whatever your superiors queued up.  Advertisements, music, speeches, news . . .  

One day your vocalizer shorted out. Since it had been rerouted to maximize your broadcasting range, the transmission also fizzled out.  An opera ended mid-note.

E class mecha were common, cheap.  You were terminated. Cast out on the streets which you had never seen, only spoken of, and only in voices that weren't your own.

It was Megatron who found you slumped in an alley, Megatron who fought off the Empties who had been prying your plating off for scrap, Megatron who carried you to an unlicensed doctor who stank of high grade and commanded her to fix you.

She reconnected your vocalizer.  But it was Megatron who truly gave you a voice.

"E-16," you say when he asks you your name.

"That's a product number, friend." His smile is full of bitterness and understanding; his tone is kind.  "It's all right. Tell me when you've found it."

You have never had a name before.  Nor a friend.

~*~*~*~

Astrotrain's engines rumble as he flies the Decepticon army back to base.  Through his windows you see the Seekers in formation around him, occasionally veering away, then back, to mitigate their speed compared to the slower shuttle-bot.  Normally Starscream would be on everyone's comms complaining about "being held back", but today, wisely, he maintains radio silence.  Decepticons slump on Astrotrain's benches, nursing various wounds–Scavenger clutching a deep laserburn on his side, Swindle sitting with Onslaught's severed arm laid across his lap.

Only Megatron stands.  His arms are crossed, his brows lowered.  Once everyone has filed out of Astrotrain's hold, he catches your arm and pulls you aside.

"You are suspended from duty for two weeks."  He grimaces, as though the words are sour.

"Megatron—"

"This is not optional!" he snaps, and storms away.

You gaze after him.  Forlorn.  Adrift.

Silent.

You are Soundwave, a free mech, Third-in-Command of an army.  When you were E-16 you sat obediently in alt mode and played whatever your masters wished.

There was a stage where you were something in between. Lifted to freedom, you understood at last that you had been a slave.  But what—no, who were you, if not Equipment #16?

"Would you care to come to my speech tonight?" Megatron asked one night, visiting you in recovery.  "Only if you are feeling up to it."

You pushed upright from your cot and nodded, then remembered you could speak.  "Yes."

The evening news sometimes mentioned Megatron's speeches ("the rabblerouser's incendiary rants"), but never played them; they were deemed too shocking. And so you went to the speech full of curiosity.  Its location was no grander than a street corner surrounded by smoke-churning factories, but word had gotten around; the crowd (factory workers, a few uncasted, and two grimy Seekers) gave a ragged cheer when Megatron stepped forward.

Incendiary. Yes. Something inside you was set alight by the thunder in his voice, the force of his vision.

"They say that a speedster is worth more than a forklift, a forklift more than a jet, a jet more than a street-scrubber. They set a price on that which is priceless and set us to squabble!  I say NO MORE!  Your form does not define you, the same spark beats beneath all our metal!  Each and each, we think, we feel, we dream!" 

Naught but a few sentences in, you were already recording his words, disseminating them across the airwaves.  The first broadcast of your own volition.

"Name discovered: Soundwave," you told him afterwards.  "Megatron: will bring freedom. Soundwave: will help."

"Soundwave. That is a fine name." His brow furrowed as he looked at the display on your chest panel, showing the reach of the broadcast. "But I did not bring you here to wring labor out of you.  You do not owe me anything."

"Not obligation.  Choice."

~*~*~

You sit on your berth, your chin resting on your hands. For the past three hours you have been picking up the signal of an Earthen radio station. The Top 40 Hits slide through your audio systems without resistance.

You are Third in Command.  You will jump into battle if the situation is dire, but it is not your forte. Your expertise lies in monitoring the airwaves, blocking hackers and spies, scheduling patrols, administrative work.

Is it enough?

You sever the radio connection, your visor flickering as you play a recording. "Rumble was a loyal Decepticon, a fierce warrior.  His sacrifice shall not be forgotten."

Rumble would be so proud. But is it true?  Cassettes: Decepticons? Yes.  Cassettes: warriors?  No.

And though you wear a new shape on Earth, you are still a box that passively sits, records, broadcasts . . .

You stand up, fists tightening.  Your alt mode does not define you.  You do not have to remain a passive onlooker.  You will propel Megatron's dream, your dream, forward.

You access the schedule for the training rooms and block out two full weeks.  You summon the cassettes.

You are Soundwave.  You are three hours into a battle simulation when Buzzsaw sits on the ground and refuses to move.  Holographic bullets pepper her harmlessly before dissolving.  She stares balefully at the gun turret, then at you.

"Buzzsaw: participate," you say.

"No.  This is stupid."

"Practice: important.  Skills: improving."

"I don't want to fly around some wretched battlefield getting shot at!" Her wings flap angrily. "Just let me do my job."

Laserbeak lands on your shoulder and makes a rude sound.  "Slopping paint around: not real job."

"How dare you.  My propaganda posters have done more for the Decepticon cause than you ever have, Laser-breath."

You wince.  "Not propaganda.  Truth."

"Huh! What's the difference."

Frenzy aims the handle of her guitar at the turret, blasting at it with more enthusiasm than marksmanship.  "C'mon, Buzzy!  We finally get to cut loose and go crazy!  Isn't that cool?"

"No."

Ravage butts his head under your hand as he passes, walking up to Buzzsaw and sitting on his haunches in front of her.  She shifts in place, eyeing him; as with Laserbeak, her face is not the most expressive, but the permanently downturned angle of her beak in this case seems to match her mood.

Ravage reaches out to tap her with a paw, like a cat trying to rouse a mouse into running. "Your art is important, but you should learn to fight, too.  It could save your life."

"Oh please! I've been shooting stupid targets for three hours already!"

"Missing for three hours," Laserbeak says smugly. "Laserbeak superior, Buzzsaw inferior–"

With a screech and a blur of gold, Buzzsaw launches herself up and knocks Laserbeak off your shoulder.  The birds crash to the ground behind you, feet grappling as they peck at each other, shouting insults.

This again. With a sigh you reach to separate them.  Then you pause.  You wanted them to learn to fight, didn't you?  You wanted Buzzsaw to show more spirit.

You draw your hand back.  Frenzy jumps up and down, whooping and pumping her fist in the air.  Ravage glances up at you, then back to the brawl.  His tail flips back and forth as talons clutch and scrape, steel beaks gouge.

Back and forth, back and forth, as holographic bullets patter gently against your plating.

((This is now up on AO3 as well. :) ))

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

You are Soundwave.

Your cassettes are stowed in your chest: safe. But you are hungry, so hungry, and so are they.

At LAST you find energon and you stumble towards it, your instincts screaming at you to drink, glut, gorge. You force the mindless need down because your cassettes come first.

Your vision is spinning.

"Rumble, eject--"

You are Soundwave.

Smoke is pouring from your chest.  The door to your cassette compartment didn't open (why didn't it open). Your fingers hook into the gap and pull away with coils of magnetic tape, splatters of blood.

The cassettes inside are misaligned, jostled from their connective plates, and you only receive brief flashes of emotion from them: confusion, panic, horror.

(Later you will try to remember how many voices cried out.  Was it always too late?)

You pry and pry.  If you were truly the Earthen device you disguise yourself as this would be easy. Something would give, something would snap. 

But there is a war. Using those flimsy specifications would have been foolish.

Unsafe.

Your fingers slip in blood.

Unsafe, unsafe, unsafe.

You are Soundwave.

Your connection with your cassettes still stutters. You are intermittently bombarded with their anguish, drowning out the background buzz of battle, the chatter of the comms.

. . . the comms!

"Megatron, all hands: emergency!"  You trade in words, yet at this vital moment they escape you.  You sway in place; you must be coherent. "Soundwave: injured." Perhaps this is your blood. It could be your blood. And you are Third-in-Command. "Immediate medical attention: required."

"Immediate medical attention? I can see you. You're just standing there, you lump! Megatron, he's just—"

"Starscream, silence your voice box before I shove it up your thrusters!  Soundwave, standby. Since Starscream has such an excellent view, he will lead Hook to your location. Is that understood, Starscream?"

Starscream's reply is sulky and insubordinate, but in the affirmative.

You have never liked the Air Commander, but he is fast.  You keep telling yourself that. Amplifying it. Ignoring the little voice in your head, and the one no longer in your head, saying it is impossible for him to be fast enough.

You are Soundwave.  You check your chrono every five seconds. Half a minute drags by before Starscream arrives.  Alone.

"Hook?"

"He'll be here in a minute." Starscream brushes imaginary dust off his wrists.  "The oaf is lumbering across the battlefield as we speak. Thundercracker is laying down cover for him–"

"Faster."

"Oh, of course," sneers Starscream, eye wandering over the stress marks on your chestplate, the bloody fingerprints. "I'll just wave my magic wand and, poof, Hook will be here to smooth a bandage over poor, do-nothing Soundwave's little scrape–"

Magnetic tape unfurls in fluttering streamers as you thrust a handful into Starscream's stupid face.  He recoils as blood flecks his finish. You are both glad and sickened.

"Faster!"

He scowls, optics flicking from your trembling fist to the disgorgement from your chest.  With a huff he turns away, pressing two fingers to the side of his helm.

"Skywarp, regroup on Thundercracker's position."

You are Soundwave.  Starscream hands you an energon cube and steals six for himself.

Hook arrives.

You keep the other cassettes in, despite their clamor.  You don't want them to see.

You are Soundwave. Third-in-Command.

Megatron comes by offering "a break from your duties, while you collect yourself."

You decline.  You have responsibilities.  The airwaves must be monitored, new sources of energon must be pursued.

Megatron grunts.  His arms are clasped behind his back as he bends to examine an obnoxiously bright poster for some band.  Does your leader disapprove of this human artifact?  The cassettes glued it to the wall, but you could have scraped it off. If there is a demerit to be had, you will accept it.

But although Megatron's brow is drawn, he does not seem angry.  At last he straightens and turns to face you.

"Rumble was a loyal Decepticon, a fierce warrior."  His hand falls on your shoulder. "His sacrifice shall not be forgotten."

Rare praise.  You are grateful.

But he is wrong. A sacrifice has meaning.

You are Soundwave. Your hearing is exceptional. 

Also, your room is adjacent to the cassettes' and the walls are thin.  Not only can you hear their ruckus, but also Skullcruncher, in the room to the other side of them, swearing and banging on the wall.

You keep your visor powered down for a few minutes, waiting to see if they will sort things out and quiet down.  The shouts increase in volume, accompanied by a crash. You slide off your berth and trudge next door.

Ever since the cassettes received their coveted "own room", they have held odd hours. Ravage has become nocturnal and Frenzy and Rumble have–they used to–they imitated him.  The birds' sleep schedule is more standard, awake in the day, asleep at night.  Arguments from the cassettes' quarters are not uncommon.

But not arguments like this.

You stand in the doorway. Buzzsaw and Frenzy are battling over a snare drum, Buzzsaw's talons clutching the instrument's rim, Frenzy maintaining a deathgrip on the drum stand.  Flapping her wings and firing her thrusters, Buzzsaw drags Frenzy across the floor as they scream at each other.  

"Give it back before I blast you out of the base, bird-brain!"

"Let go, you plebeian! You philistine!"

"I'm gonna make you eat those words!  Whatever they mean!"

Ravage is nowhere to be seen. Laserbeak is roosting in his bed, looking on.

"Not my fault," he squawks at you.

"Ravage?"

"Left. Too loud."

Yes, it is very loud. Skullcruncher bangs on the wall again. You send him a brief apology and assure him you are handling the situation.  The banging stops. You turn back to Laserbeak.

"Cause of conflict?"

Laserbeak's expression is always hard to read, even for you, but he sounds irritated.  "Buzzsaw: feeling artistic."

With a discordant crash Frenzy trips over the rest of the drum set; victorious, Buzzsaw carries the snare drum to the top bunk.

"Frenzy, Buzzsaw—" you begin, but your voice is overpowered by a cacophony of rolling cymbals and falling drums as Frenzy leaps across the room, violently shaking the bed frame.

"Get offa my bed!  Give that back!"

"No, I won't!" Buzzsaw spreads her wings over the drum.  "It's not yours."

"It's not yours either!"

"I need it!"

"Buzzsaw." You speak louder this time; their heads whip towards you. "Why?"

"Because." She lifts her beak towards the ceiling. "I am going to create a magnifient sculpture honoring Rumble."

"Out of his drums!" Frenzy howls, turning towards you in appeal as she points at Buzzsaw.

"Well, he's not using them anymore," Buzzsaw snaps.  "Who's going to play them?  You?"

Frenzy gives the bedframe another shake. "Maybe I fraggin' will!"

"Oh yeah? While you play your guitar?"

"I can trade off!"

"You're so selfish." The steel plumes on Buzzsaw's neck begin to bristle.  "Greedy, greedy, greedy."

"Me?!  Who's trying to destroy Rumble's drums?"

"I'm making a memorial. You just want to hog them for yourself!" Buzzsaw's voice rises, her wings as well. "You can't keep a beat! That's what Rumble always said!"

Frenzy's fists clench and she leans her whole body into her scream. "RUMBLE HATED YOU!"

Laserbeak has tucked his beak under his wing, feigning sleep, though his eye is open a slit. Buzzsaw is staring, her wings sinking. Frenzy's chest is heaving. 

"He hated you, hated you, he said you were a, a stuck-up tonedeaf turkey—"

"Frenzy."  She looks up at you, violently wiping her eyes with her balled up fists.  Your first instinct is to open your chest compartment and tell her to return. Yet you hesitate.  "You: will recharge in Soundwave's room.  Discussion of appropriate behavior: can wait till morning."

"Fine, whatever," Frenzy mutters, stalking to the door. "Too many bad vibes here anyway."

When she is safely in the hall you turn to Buzzsaw. "Frenzy: did not mean what she said."

Buzzsaw tosses her head and huffs.  "Oh, so you're a mind reader now?" 

You are not.  But you doubt it would make this any easier.

You are Soundwave.  The drums sit in a corner of your quarters.  Frenzy and Buzzsaw are now more angry with you than each other, which is an improvement.

Drums were all Rumble wanted.  He and Frenzy chattered constantly about the band they would form, arguing over what to name it and dreaming of the instruments they would play.  You listened passively, wondering who they envisioned attending these imagined concerts.  The Decepticon army, which split its time between fighting and waiting restlessly for the next battle?  Humans? Earthen beasts? 

A naive dream.  You listened . . .

You took a handful of sketches to the Constructicons.  They were glad to settle a debt with a project so simple.  You walked out with a weaponized guitar and set of drums.

You have regretted commissioning those gifts many times. As your berth vibrated to a booming, syncopated beat, you thought: I could have given them standard issue laser rifles. Some nights you asked Frenzy and Rumble to keep the noise down, others you lowered your audio input and endured. 

Now the drums lay dormant. Beyond the wall a single chord is struck and fades away.

Silence is not as sweet as you remember.

You are Soundwave.  You sit atop a human building in your alt mode, maintaining a communication hub for the Decepticons. (Blaster's attempts to block your signal? Pathetic. Inferior.) 

Beside you sits an invention that Shockwave has named "the Eviscerator." It somewhat resembles a bird, somewhat resembles a cat, and is several times larger than Megatron. With its long claws and serrated jaw, it will no doubt be a terror when Shockwave finishes compiling the activation codes.

You are busy directing Hardtop to assist the two Constructicons being pummeled by Elita One when Megatron hails you. You quickly divert your attention and comm channel.  "Megatron."

"Soundwave!" You spot him on the battlefield, punching and elbowing Autobots out of the way as he pursues a human scooting around in a surprisingly speedy wheeled contraption. "I have need of you. One of the Autobots' pests has gotten ahold of the codes!"

Starscream insisted that Skywarp's teleportation ability made her the logical choice of courier, but you knew better. Skywarp is dim.  "On my way."

You skirt the fighting and reach your leader.  He is punching the side of an office building.  His fist slams through sheet after sheet of mirrored glass, staring past the shards to a bland interior.

"Megatron." 

"Ah, Soundwave!" He turns towards you.  "The human has gone to ground like the cyber-rat he is."  A grin pulls up his lip.  "But who better to pursue a rat . . . than a cat?"

This is unfortunate, but there is nothing to do but answer.  "Ravage: unavailable."

"Unavailable?" His optics search the battlefield.

You clarify. "Ravage: still at base."

Megatron frowns as he swings back towards you, glass crunching under his feet.  "Deploy Laserbeak, then," he says finally.

 "Laserbeak: still at base."

His eyes burn into you as his scowl deepens. "Frenzy, then? Buzzsaw?"

". . . still at base," you admit. 

Megatron's jaw is working, his fingers curling.  He hefts his fusion cannon. Your visor is fixed on its barrel as the light in its maw builds and builds, and then it shifts and a shaft of purple light sears blasts past you. Behind you an Autobot crumples to the ground. You are still gazing at their smoking remains when Megatron grips your shoulder and maneuvers you closer to the building.

"Find the pest," he says tersely.

Nodding, you brush glass off the third floor carpet and place your palms against it.  Waves of sound emit from your hands, echoing back, and you begin mentally mapping out the structure.  Many objects in the building, furniture, partitions.  But also something that shifts with each sweep of echolocation, something alive . . . 

"Quarry: located.  Human is hiding in northeast quarter of building — "

Megatron pushes you back as he unleashes his fusion cannon, blasting a wide, blinding gout of light through the building.

" — on first floor," you finish, just as the human in the wheeled chair speeds out, dodging falling glass as he zooms right through Megatron's legs.

Megatron roars, lunges, and misses. The human streaks away, arms and wheels a blur.  You hurry in pursuit.  But already the weight of failure drapes heavy on your shoulders.

You are Soundwave, but you weren't always.  Your original designation was E-16.  The E stood for equipment.

You sat on a table and broadcast whatever your superiors queued up.  Advertisements, music, speeches, news . . .  

One day your vocalizer shorted out. Since it had been rerouted to maximize your broadcasting range, the transmission also fizzled out.  An opera ended mid-note.

E class mecha were common, cheap.  You were terminated. Cast out on the streets which you had never seen, only spoken of, and only in voices that weren't your own.

It was Megatron who found you slumped in an alley, Megatron who fought off the Empties who had been prying your plating off for scrap, Megatron who carried you to an unlicensed doctor who stank of high grade and commanded her to fix you.

She reconnected your vocalizer.  But it was Megatron who truly gave you a voice.

"E-16," you say when he asks you your name.

"That's a product number, friend." His smile is full of bitterness and understanding; his tone is kind.  "It's all right. Tell me when you've found it."

You have never had a name before.  Nor a friend.

~*~*~*~

Astrotrain's engines rumble as he flies the Decepticon army back to base.  Through his windows you see the Seekers in formation around him, occasionally veering away, then back, to mitigate their speed compared to the slower shuttle-bot.  Normally Starscream would be on everyone's comms complaining about "being held back", but today, wisely, he maintains radio silence.  Decepticons slump on Astrotrain's benches, nursing various wounds–Scavenger clutching a deep laserburn on his side, Swindle sitting with Onslaught's severed arm laid across his lap.

Only Megatron stands.  His arms are crossed, his brows lowered.  Once everyone has filed out of Astrotrain's hold, he catches your arm and pulls you aside.

"You are suspended from duty for two weeks."  He grimaces, as though the words are sour.

"Megatron—"

"This is not optional!" he snaps, and storms away.

You gaze after him.  Forlorn.  Adrift.

Silent.

You are Soundwave, a free mech, Third-in-Command of an army.  When you were E-16 you sat obediently in alt mode and played whatever your masters wished.

There was a stage where you were something in between. Lifted to freedom, you understood at last that you had been a slave.  But what—no, who were you, if not Equipment #16?

"Would you care to come to my speech tonight?" Megatron asked one night, visiting you in recovery.  "Only if you are feeling up to it."

You pushed upright from your cot and nodded, then remembered you could speak.  "Yes."

The evening news sometimes mentioned Megatron's speeches ("the rabblerouser's incendiary rants"), but never played them; they were deemed too shocking. And so you went to the speech full of curiosity.  Its location was no grander than a street corner surrounded by smoke-churning factories, but word had gotten around; the crowd (factory workers, a few uncasted, and two grimy Seekers) gave a ragged cheer when Megatron stepped forward.

Incendiary. Yes. Something inside you was set alight by the thunder in his voice, the force of his vision.

"They say that a speedster is worth more than a forklift, a forklift more than a jet, a jet more than a street-scrubber. They set a price on that which is priceless and set us to squabble!  I say NO MORE!  Your form does not define you, the same spark beats beneath all our metal!  Each and each, we think, we feel, we dream!" 

Naught but a few sentences in, you were already recording his words, disseminating them across the airwaves.  The first broadcast of your own volition.

"Name discovered: Soundwave," you told him afterwards.  "Megatron: will bring freedom. Soundwave: will help."

"Soundwave. That is a fine name." His brow furrowed as he looked at the display on your chest panel, showing the reach of the broadcast. "But I did not bring you here to wring labor out of you.  You do not owe me anything."

"Not obligation.  Choice."

~*~*~

You sit on your berth, your chin resting on your hands. For the past three hours you have been picking up the signal of an Earthen radio station. The Top 40 Hits slide through your audio systems without resistance.

You are Third in Command.  You will jump into battle if the situation is dire, but it is not your forte. Your expertise lies in monitoring the airwaves, blocking hackers and spies, scheduling patrols, administrative work.

Is it enough?

You sever the radio connection, your visor flickering as you play a recording. "Rumble was a loyal Decepticon, a fierce warrior.  His sacrifice shall not be forgotten."

Rumble would be so proud. But is it true?  Cassettes: Decepticons? Yes.  Cassettes: warriors?  No.

And though you wear a new shape on Earth, you are still a box that passively sits, records, broadcasts . . .

You stand up, fists tightening.  Your alt mode does not define you.  You do not have to remain a passive onlooker.  You will propel Megatron's dream, your dream, forward.

You access the schedule for the training rooms and block out two full weeks.  You summon the cassettes.