To be cringe is to be free. Woe, my hyperfixations upon ye. I'm 26. TERFS and the rest of that ilk will be blocked on sight. Current obsessions: opossums, transformers, twst, and writing my lil stories 💜
Figured since I'm putting two of my works on tumblr, I should probably make them easier to find. Will update as I update the fics. Inbox and DMs are open for anyone to come say hi. I'm open to discuss any commissions, random inquiries, or just general chit-chat.
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“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”
The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and the kind of question she tried to avoid.
Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.
“You a cop?”
The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”
A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.
Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”
A nod.
“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”
A nod.
“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”
A tiny, miserable nod.
“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’
“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”
Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.
The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.
“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”
The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.
Pulling this straight out of my ass but fuck it we ball. This is full of headcanons so be warned
Primus is a god of life, just not in the way we perceive it. We tend to think of life as something organic, lush and vibrant - but the thing is, everything on Earth dies at some point. Even the toughest stones will erode with time.
Primus is a god of life in the sense that he creates things that, outside of very specific circumstances, do not die. Beings made of pure energy and unyielding steel, equipped with bodies capable of instant adaptation. They do not have life stages like creatures of Earth do, and they don't age until they've lived for millions, if not billions of years. And if they do die, resurrection is achievable so long as one vital component (spark or processor) is functioning.
Gargantuan, heavily armored (compared to organics), sensor-filled, highly adaptive creatures without the need to breathe - cybertronians are tailor-made to survive. Primus is a god of life because his creations are meant to live and live and live, (almost) no matter what.
-
Unicron is a god of death. While not the ravenous destroyer of worlds he once was, Unicron's influence prevails in the shape of Earth. Everything revolves around death. A deer must die to feed the fungi that release nitrates into the soil below, tree roots must absorb the nitrates within reach to feed their trunk, which must be infested with ants to feed the anteater, who then must feed the jaguar, and then the scavengers will consume what remains. All things must die so that all things must live.
On this planet, death is an opportunity to evolve. Over the course of millions of years, the subsequent choices made after losses may contribute to the slow birth of a new species. Death is a cruel teacher, but it is what makes us - and every other organism - grow.
For humans, death is a complex matter. It makes us hurt, it makes us learn. It drives us to ask questions and begin research so that we may understand. From there, we will learn to treat illnesses, take better care of ourselves, and implement proper safety regulations. It serves as a warning to share with our children so that they may grow into healthy adults. Of course, as humans do, we often choose to share this knowledge through storytelling. It gives us an opportunity at companionship, comforting family, friends, and even strangers after loss.
Death is scientific and spiritual. Death brings us together and drives us apart. Death is political and not. Death is concrete and abstract. Death is cruel, scary, and sometimes even violent, which is why it's so important that we allow ourselves to love and be loved; so that when our time comes, it isn't scary anymore.
Unicron is a god of death because his creations are meant to die and die and die, and become stronger from it.
Heh… Is it July already? That's crazyyyyyy. Uh, anyways. Here's Chapter 16! I had to split this one thrice, so hopefully it won't take me half a year again to post the next few.
I dedicate this one to my favorite mech of all time, The Patron Saint of Boobs, Shockwave!
Story Content Warnings:
Medical and detailed descriptions of injury and bodily harm
Eating disorder regarding food overconsumption, vomiting, and bingeing
Germaphobes beware - heavy mention of rot, decay, bacteria, and mold
Depression and Suicidal thoughts
Depictions of animal death, rendering, and dissection
Politics
—
"Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out." ~ Vaclav Havel
———
To know the words of a song but not the tune.
To know the symbols of a language but not the intention.
To know the memory of an action but not the justification.
And the universe around you sings.
The universe speaks.
The universe moves.
Without them.
Senator Shockwave died a tragic death at the servos of the Institute.
They lost their face. They lost their emotions. They lost their virtue.
Their purpose. Their career. Their life.
The judge, jury, and executioners withheld any possible mercy when they chose to 'spare' the Senator, and so a colorful politician died that day, robbed of every identifying part, piece, and plating. Whoever awoke with a dead mech's spark in their new chassis was not Senator Shockwave. Whoever rose from that surgical slab found themselves missing in all memories but their own. Whoever stumbled through the clinic's exit and out onto the city streets couldn't even share in the populace's mourning horror that blanketed their mutilated corpse.
Their surviving existence was a sin in the optics of the people. A sign of Something so very, very wrong. Like screen-burn on a monitor, a living ghost now haunts the forefront of the narrative. On that wretched day, a deceased Senator's soul sparked against its distorted chamber, thrashing at the grooves and scars left by the final, miserable, Furious, VENGEFUL synapses that had melted every possible emotion into the pain of numb disconnect. With surgical precision, their conscious body was torn open and robbed of Everything.
Whoever survived a tragic event at the servos of the Institute had Nothing but a name and the inherited memories of its predecessor.
It's humorlessly cruel, how the Senate could steal a beloved bot, so famous for their affection and passion, and smother their universe with shadows, ensuring that the purple mech lacked the proper circuitry to feel Anything but pain. Shockwave finds themselves alive at the end of every day, but they are no longer living.
To be gutted without recourse. To be killed without dying.
'An example'. The surgeons had said when they plucked out Senator Shockwave's optics. An example to all those who oppose the rising tides of corruption. An example to anyone who dares to stand in the way of power-hungry politicians. An example to every mech foolish enough to believe that the worst thing that can happen to you is death.
The Truth is, the worst thing that can happen to you is loss. Loss with only pain. To remember who they were and to suffer with the knowledge that they'll never exist again. Senator Shockwave's Time was over, unreachable to Everything in every way except deep within their own memory banks.
They lost their social life. Their promising career. Their self-discovered purpose.
All thanks to the sick generosity from the Senate, the Institute, and that damned glitch, Proteus.
Ever since Shockwave learned of the existence of Functionalism, they have opposed it. Its core beliefs went against all that they've experienced and seen. In a universe so vast, with endless chances, possibilities, and opportunities, how could a bot exist solely for the role they receive at creation? Purpose is dictated by one's actions in life, not by the shape of their form. Cybertronians, as a superior species, should be beyond such simplistic mindsets.
Unfortunately, those who unwisely follow the corrupting words of fools do so because they are trapped within a bubble of ignorance. While their leaders distract themselves with petty conflicts, Time steadily continues tic, tic, ticking away for them all. The unenlightened can not comprehend how the corrosive, rotting thing known as Entropy, with its gentle, burning touch, guides their kind down the pathway to extinction.
Their species' Destiny is to Conquer. Virgin galaxies, rich with untapped ores, lay bare and open before them, and yet, instead, eons are wasted with War. A Senator was lost. Cybertron was lost. The Allspark was lost. The delayed response to the infection of ignorance cost them a Famine, and in the end, without a source of renewable fuel, Death will come to claim them all.
The Truth is, in Conquest, in War, in Famine, or in Death, Everything boils down to resources, and Nothing else.
Senator Shockwave had tried to teach them. Tried to use language and science. Presentation after presentation. Meeting after meeting. They had tried to correct the issue from the inside. They founded the Jhiaxian Academy. They worked themselves to the struts trying to educate the naive masses. They poured all they had into cultivating Cybertronians who could withstand the failures of their people. Billions of shanax was spent on off-world research. Outliers were saved from those who sought to reduce a person to a mere tool.
All that effort, and they were justly rewarded with change. But not the kind they were hoping for.
An Example.
Alive but not. Pained and lost. Altered in a way in which the old Senator Shockwave could never return. The old Senator Shockwave will never return. The old Senator Shockwave should never return. If this is what happens to mechs like them.
Even after all this Time to adjust to their new form, Shockwave still can't stop their Spark from twitching and sputtering with phantom pangs, trapped with no proper outlet. They've been able to mitigate the worst of the ghastly surges by replacing their limb with a plasma cannon, courtesy of one glorious leader of the Decepticons, to convert the free-roaming energy into a more practical use. However, ever since the Nemesis crash landed on this organic-infested rock, the intense flare-ups have become more and more frequent. They loathe the idea of seeking assistance from the quacks this ship calls doctors, but they may be forced to at this rate. The damage they sustained during the last skirmish has not been healing properly, and it's only a matter of Time before a rust infection settles in.
Ping!
Another warning shoves its way to the forefront of their visual feed.
Shockwave ignores the flashing notice to instead check their internal chronometer for the four-hundredth-and-sixty-seventh time since they've stepped into this chamber. Unfortunately, the meeting has only recently begun. Just like the rest of the bots in this conference room, the scientist finds themselves stuck in this monotonous meeting and stuck on Earth. As they roll their shoulder within its stiffened joint, their HUD denotes a continued drop in temperature.
Kuh-CRUNCH!
Another alert dismissed.
Somewhere in their blind spot, Starscream scoffs with an unnecessary, sympathetic 'Ugh'.
It takes several, failed, internal commands and two manual overrides before the mechanisms within their locked-up limb listen and release their tension. Unfazed, Shockwave taps at their datapad, adding another item to the ever-growing list of needed repairs. If only they were back at their main lab, then they'd have the proper tools and supplies for self-maintenance. Unfortunately, the moon it was stationed on has been lost. Now, it is Nothing more than a cluster of asteroids floating in a dead planet's orbit, galaxies away.
Ping! Ping!! Ping!!!
The noisy signals momentarily blind the scientist, forcing them to pause in their typing.
Everything is promptly banished from sight, sent to feed the shadows that drape over their processor.
The vibrant red lingers in their vision for a moment longer than it should, and the sensors of their plating tingle with ungrounded charge.
Shockwave is beginning to see why the seeker's patience has been so thin as of late. Logically, no Cybertronian would hold any Love for Earth. Lord Megatron was a fool for abandoning the main battlefront, instead chasing after a divine legend in hopes that the Decepticons could gain some kind of advantage over the Autobots. Now, look at where Destiny lead them.
This wretchedly wet world does Nothing to soothe Shockwave's constantly aching internals; the briny sea water refuses to evaporate cleanly, kissing a trail of pale, corrosive stains along the whole of their plating in a series of salty, lingering farewells. This horrible, haunting habitat exists as a trial to the purple mech's composed endurance; the immobilizing polar frost slip its violating hands through the thick of their wiring, parting the sensitive cords with the swell of its icy touch. This painful, punishing planet feels benevolent in all the worst ways possible; the beckoning, buzzing hum of trillions of uncataloged species spins their processor in a dizzying dance, promising to quench the unfeeling scientist's need for tangible, quantifiable results. This beautiful blue ball ceaselessly bestows generous burden after generous burden; the overpopulated, human metropolises crown the largest reserves of energon any mech has ever seen this side of the Centorian supercluster, taunting the starving Cybertronians with warped, fleshy reflections of what they've all lost. They are all trapped on a land so rich with the very resources that spurred this whole war, and yet Shockwave has Nothing to show for it since the rest of their kin seem to insist on dying in battle one by one until Everything is lost.
Ding!
The blocky, purple bot almost deletes the incoming nudge from Soundwave out of habit, mistaking it momentarily for another alert.
Instead of responding, the scientist adjusts the bulk of their weight with a heaving ex-vent, futilely attempting to lessen the burden on their aching struts. The metal of the seat beneath groannnns in protest, and the scout spouting off their meaningless report sputters into silence. All optics in the room turn towards the noisy Lead Investigator.
"Shockwave, I believe you're up next?" Megatron prompts, looking as miserably bored as the rest of the high command. The silver servo not propping up his helm up waves offhandedly in their direction. "Was there any progress made with your recent experiments?"
Carefully, Shockwave overrides the gummed up mechanisms in their servo joints, releasing their denting grip on the armrest of their chair. As each of their digits unfold, the accompanying warnings are dismissed in quick succession. Their voicebox unmutes with an audible click! click!, and the medics, sitting across the farthest point of the table, all flare their plating in itching agitation. It takes more effort than it should to rise to a standing position and walk a single step forward. The scraping thud of their mass hitting the edge of the table is ignored in favor of setting a reminder to recalibrate their depth perception. Prompts fill their sluggishly loading HUD, filing the note-to-Self alongside fourteen other duplicate variations.
"Correct, Lord Megatron. I've brought specimen samples to illustrate my findings." The scientist remains unmoving. A simple ping to their zoned-out assistant has the aide leaping to attention. The samples are swiftly prepared for viewing while Shockwave attaches an elongated needle to the corresponding fitting on their cannon limb.
Clink.
Before all the members of high command, a clear, blocky container is set down on the cool, metal surface of the conference table. Several curious mechs lean forward to get a better view of the incredibly small object, whilst others angle away in blatant disgust.
"For those unaware, or simply not paying attention, take it upon yourselves to read the attached memo about report #AL89450B before you pose any questions." Using the needle as a pointer, Shockwave begins, vaguely gesturing above the animal. "All scouting parties should be debriefed immediately after this session, or, at the very least, ensure that they are educated prior to their rounds."
Splayed out on its back, a white rodent rests, larger than typical for its species. Like an unwrapped ribbon on a present, the length of its internals is strung out on display. The membrane covered guts glimmer an inky, bruised color, catching rays of sparkling light from the Cybertronians encircling it. Every inch of tissue and flesh is pillowed by plush, yellow clouds of fatty reserves.
"I have been experimenting with organic intake and tolerance of energon. The intent behind this research was to establish a baseline understanding of the outcomes that occur during repeated exposure to the highly radioactive substance. With the end of this initial trial, I postulate that we have collected sufficient enough evidence to formulate a pattern to the symptoms presented. Using the data, I've—"
A frustrated engine rev cuts off the scientist mid-lecture, and one of the field surgeons speaks up from the other side of the room. "For the Love of Primus! Of all the things we could be doing, this is what we're doing? We're wasting our limited energon rations on these aliens now?"
A fellow medic growls before Shockwave can resume, adding, "That's right! We barely have enough for ourselves. Just last cycle, mid-surgery, I had to put a mech into medical-stasis because their tank levels fell to critical!"
"Not Everything has an answer that needs exploring." Their third colleague joins in. "There are Somethings in life that we'd be perfectly fine not knowing about. Honestly, sometimes I'd feel we'd all be safer off if you did Nothing."
Megatron holds up a servo to quell the rising volume. Immediately, all fall silent before the warlord. "Times are scarce, Shockwave." He sighs, leaning forward on his raised throne to level a long, piercing stare at his emotionless Lead Investigator. "The cost of your curiosity is high. I assume you have a perfectly good explanation that can satisfy the troops?"
Shockwave's voicebox clicks off, and the room rumbles with the quiet subharmonics of discontent whispers. As a murmur of intangible outrage sweeps through the soldiers, the scientist's plating seals closed, optic flickering from the brunt of their body's angry feedback. With their armor's shielding movement, coarse grit and sand kuh-crunches between the fine mechanisms. The blocky mech's internals hug the tiny shards of unyielding earth in a claustrophobic squeeze, shaping dimples and divots into the malleable insulation of their wiring. Somewhere within the gaping cavities of the purple bot's armor, ice begins to melt, dripping down onto warming metal with several quiet plink, plink, plinks.
Gently, Shockwave reaches out towards the center of the table to drag the vivisected display closer to them, servo enclosing over the top to shield the specimen from the group's hungry ire. Their other limb shifts slightly to pull up a picturesque hologram of a cityscape. Human-made skyscrapers sprout from the middle of the table, and dizzying, chaotic networks of roads wind around the buildings. The fabricated simulacrum runs through several day-night cycles, distracting the others long enough for the scientist to craft an appeasing explanation.
Click. Static. Pause to reset. Click!
"After Starscream's run-in with a 'haunted' energon sample— again, see referenced report #AL89450B." The purple bot pauses briefly to ensure the soldiers can access the transcript and associated memo. "It has come to my attention that silencing these humans may not be enough to hide our presence. Death does not always greet these organics swiftly."
The hologram in the center warps, revealing the intricate web of energon that rests just below the surface of the planet's crust.
"If the scouting reports are correct regarding the location of several major ore veins, then we are at greater risk of discovery than anticipated. We can not afford to ignore these mining sites; if we do not lay claim soon, then they will eventually fall into the servos of the Autobots. However, this planet is not one to be underestimated. We must be abundantly cautious to avoid gaining any attention from the natives."
"Oh, please!" A cruel laugh chills the room even further. "What's a bunch of squishy organics going to do against us?"
The echoing rumble of the Decepticon's sing-song snicker bounces around the room, mingling with the fizzling EM waves of their comrades.
"They crush beneath pedes so easily." Another bot chuckles, stomping their stabilizer for emphasis. "It makes a mech wonder how they're even able to survive for as long as they do."
"And yet." Shockwave tilts their helm in the protestors' direction. Their single optic struggles to focus, shutters adjusting indecisively. "No matter how many fleshy caricatures we cull, Earth factions like GHOST continue to cost us more and more. How many outposts have we had to abandon thus far? Rest assured, I am intimately aware the current state of our fuel supply." Shockwave pauses to flick their finial, ridding their sensors of the wet irritation that puddles against their plating. "Which is exactly why we are not in a position to gracefully lose these rich, energon mines, not without many causalities, either at the hands of these humans and their allied Autobots, or from slow starvation. It would not take many of these planet's natives to alert the rest of their kin to our presence. To put it succinctly, in the words of our newly recruited Primary Control, humanity is…"
At the scientist's prompting, Soundwave jolts slightly, scrambling away from whatever had stolen their interest to play the requested recording. The Chief Communications Officer briefly sets down their datapad in order to properly assist. Glancing towards the revealed screen, Shockwave is treated to a brief glimpse of Starscream's little organic, before the datapad is snatched back up by its owner. Silently, Soundwave returns to perch on their seat, focusing on their numerous side-duties. The human's voice rings out with a siren-like echo; the soft sound bounces off the unyielding, metal walls of the conference room.
After saving a copy of the audio for the inevitable retelling of their explanation, Shockwave's processor hesitates, drowning momentarily in another wave of red warnings. Something rises up from the depths of their coding to neatly categorize the file next to an untagged soundbite. In order to properly organize the mess within their shadowed mind, Shockwave privately plays the unnamed recording. Nothing happens for a moment, and then, rising in volume and cadence, a lonely whale call vibrates within their audials. It takes more effort than it should to still their trembling plating.
"A sentient race made up of trillions of organic cells." The words of Starscream's pet dance seamlessly alongside the marine chatter.
Those across the room fall completely silent, subduing their loud, internal fans while they strain to hear. Lacking the emotional wavelengths of EM fields and subharmonics, the Primary Control's words mirror Shockwave's manner of speaking.
"A walking, talking, collection of incredibly microscopic, incredibly fragile, membrane bound organelles— Our species' survival is literally just a sheer numbers game."
The scientist nods their acknowledgement and continues. "Ignoring our shared similarities in appearance and mannerisms, humanity's entire existence is one shaped by attrition and death. The healing and regeneration abilities of these creatures are unparalleled. For example, by splicing two separate cellular makeups together into one cell, it takes less than a single solar cycle for a human to reproduce. The resulting offshoot then detaches itself from its host, forming its own identity and motivations. In just a span of eighteen solar cycles, they can become fully fledged members of their species, capable of fighting and pursuit."
Megatron leans forward in his throne, side-eyeing the way Starscream flutters his wings at the sound of his latest obsession. The silver ruler shutters his optics and tilts his helm in consideration, letting the presentation continue on without interruption.
"Whatever fails is lost, and whatever remains will continue this cellular replication pattern until the day it dies. Any surviving mutations, beneficial or not, are passed onto the next, ensuring a systematic means of adaptation to almost any environment. This process can be repeated until a resource cap is met, and in fact, a majority of this planet's biodiversity can be attributed to this manner of reproduction. Carving out new niches with each iteration of development, the organics of Earth continuously participate in an endless cycle of life and death."
If the universe moves, then Earth twirls in a dizzying, cosmic dance.
If the universe speaks, then Earth shouts to spite the quiet.
If the universe sings, then Earth soulfully screams.
Earth and its trillions of mammals, reptiles, and avians. Its untold number of insects, sea creatures, and microscopic parasites. Its billions of humans. All bound by the red cords of Destiny to die without purpose under the heat of their sun. These organics, that so closely mirror Cybertronians, futilely struggle to record their short-lived histories, desperate to not be forgotten by Time. They weave patterns upon patterns upon patterns, all stitched and tied by the bonds of carbon, scrambling to leave Something behind. In barely over a vorn, these desperate voices, much like the one that just echoed through the chamber, will be lost. Dooming their surviving kin to the inevitability of change, all that will remain are the inherited genetics and the memories of themselves and their predecessors.
These organics are only human.
They dance. They shout. They scream.
All for Nothing.
"At a glance, the natives of this planet may appear to be immune to the radiation of energon, considering the proximity of their infrastructure to the resource. However, correlating with human databases regarding repeat exposure to radioactive properties, this appears to be false. The Truth is, radioactive energon, or any radioactive substance for that matter, is incredibly fatal to the organisms. Their healing factor can only compensate the damage it sustains for so long, and in doing so, visual evidence can appear. The results of my recent experiment align with the expected stages of an organic body going from compensating to decompensating. Prominent indicators of illness, especially one that can cull or mutilate enough of a local population, are more apparent, not only to us, but also to the governing entities of this planet. Ever sensitive to their own mortality, the humans of Earth have various means of recording and reporting outbreaks of disease and signs of disaster. If a contagion, and a physically debilitating one at that, is suspected, they will mobilize swiftly to investigate the source and cause. With how abundantly wet Earth is, ground water runoff from our mining efforts are almost certainly mingling with local water supplies. If we do not take the appropriate steps to observe and contain, then it would only be a matter of Time before the mines are revealed and lost."
Starscream frowns, ruby opticed gaze piercing Shockwave in place. His sharp talons clack, clack, clack against the edge of the table while he runs his own calculations. He mutters darkly to himself, bio-lights flickering in quick succession amidst the gloom.
"I Hate when we agree with eachother, Shockwave." Starscream grumbles in reluctant approval, obviously conflicted with the satisfaction of his paranoia being justified and the severity of the news. Turning to the warlord, the seeker divines the worst case scenario. "Right now, a majority of our mines sit in the Northern American region. We haven't been able to track down the exact location of the Autobot's base, but my scouts have reported that Optimus Prime has preemptively aligned himself with the massive, aggressive sect that patrols those lands. Regardless of any Autobot involvement, in our current state, we would not be prepared to handle the force of such a large, fully hostile, human military."
"How large of a risk are we talking?" Megatron questions, face warping with a serious frown.
"The American military is by far the largest on this planet. With my own optics, I have seen on multiple occasions, the exchange of munitions and advanced techno-knowledge." The winged mech growls, and a puff of light blue smoke escapes from between sharp dentae. "After that catastrophic failure of an alliance with GHOST—"
"Something you foolishly attempted whilst I was in stasis, need I remind you?" Megatron's optics flare as he interrupts. "It's thanks to your cowardice that they've become a problem large enough to haunt our steps in the first place."
Wingtips twitch, and the seeker's voicebox glitches, silencing any retort. Holding his throat with a taloned servo, Starscream applies pressure to a specific area in an attempt to ease the level of static that smothers his words. Before he can regain his verbal clarity, a certain silver someone huffs out a wave of smog, shrouding the sleek, winged mech's inauspicious, ruby red sight. In favor of ignoring his second in command, Megatron turns to the Lead Investigator.
"Shockwave." The warlord grips the armrests of his seat hard enough to warp metal. Sinking deeply into his throne, he miserably groans. "Do you have any piece of decent news to report regarding this experiment, or will we be doomed to end this topic with another one of Starscream's depressing predictions?"
The purple bot pauses, remaining completely motionless while considering what their glorious leader may prefer to hear. "If you'd rather some good news, I recommend looking into the destruction these humans do to their own populace. When the income dries up, just like back on pre-war Cybertron, communities formed around mining zones are oft left to their own, starving devices."
Their glorious leader makes a face, one Shockwave can not read, and instead of trying to analyze the ex-gladiator's volatile mood, the scientist carries on.
"It's a tale as old as Time. Drones reduce the necessity of a sentient workforce. Poor wages ensure the residents are unable to migrate to better opportunities. And mineral processing companies will poison the local environment with their own careless methods. Luckily, there are simple solutions. We'd need only to follow the proper environmental protocols, set by humans themselves. In doing so, we can greatly reduce risk and contain any outbreaks before they balloon into Something much, much worse."
"Lord Megatron," Starscream takes the opportunity to jump in, ever desperate for the spotlight. An involuntary whine clings to the end of his words, and the damage to his neck remains apparent in hiccups and bursts. "We have already begun implementing these practices throughout several of our outposts."
"If you wish to dissuade any further doubts," Shockwave monotones dryly before the seeker can take further credit. "I recommend we begin regular testing of nearby water supplies for any and all toxic materials that could harm human settlements. If any are found, it would be of little effort and expense to set up periodic purifying stations to ensure the waterways are free of such detrimental contaminants."
Megatron considers the purple mech's words carefully, before humming his approval. "And this is why I keep you around, Shockwave."
Starscream sneers at that, saying Nothing, and raises a polished talon to scratch at a line of dents by his voicebox.
"Yes, and to bring us back to the original purpose of my report…" Shockwave pings for their lab aide to resume preparation. "The results of my experiments are notable and easily visualized. When providing samples of energon in its standard, activated form to the short-lived specimens, we have observed a pattern of decline. I decided on using these specific mammals, colloquially known as, 'Rat' or 'Rattus norvegicus', due to their prevalence as specimens in human research. They are easy to obtain in bulk, and much of their genome has already been sequenced."
Clink.
Another cube is placed.
"While there have been variations with the end results, the methods of decline have been nearly consistent throughout. Truthfully, however, due to the initial, small sample size, I can not say with confidence if these findings are totally relevant or not. Further research will be needed until we have enough conclusive evidence."
Within the second, clear container, nine, pure-white, lab rats lay in neat rows, all much smaller than their counterpart in the first cube. At varying levels of severity, each corpse has pronounced physical abnormalities, easily spotted, even from across the room. Large, discolored growths sprout from some, their limbs blackened and mangled, bent at odd angles as if reaching for some unseen afterlife. The remaining are extremely gaunt and malnourished. If it wasn't for the labeled needles pinning the fleshy collection in place, the rodents might've blown away with the deafening rush of air escaping from the whirrrrr whirrring internal fans of the gawking onlookers. Each and every one of the organics sport nearly identical collections of bloodied, gouged wounds. With closed eyes, the beasts seem almost peaceful, content with the reprieve from suffering that death has generously afforded them.
"These nine samples were given purified water, laced with energon, alongside a diet typical for their species. In a short span of Time, the radiation from their fuel brought on significant internal mutations." The scientist tilts their helm, golden optic shifting to enhance their view. With the needle, they point to the discolored lumps and ulcerated cavities on each. "We can see here and here. Cancerous tumors, or rather, uncontrolled cellular growth, would occur. What manner of cell that mutated would vary, but in all, there were disruptions to the rodent's normal homeostatic pathways which would have eventually lead to their death."
"Would have?" Someone mutters to their neighbor nearby.
"Oh yes! We had to cull the lot earlier than anticipated due to unforeseen damages." The lab aide suddenly speaks up with a disposition far too cheery for the current setting. "Apparently, rodents can be quite prone to cannibalism." They gesture with a smile and a free servo to the opened wounds and gory partings of fur.
"Yes… To start—" Shockwave brings out the first cube and its occupant from where it was hidden by their chassis and limb, setting it side by side with the second. "We had eleven rodent specimens in total. Originally ten were given energon, but we lost one to the unexpected appetite of the lone control group here in my servo."
With their other limb, the end of their pointed needle digs into the soft surface of one of the many cancerous lumps growing from a smaller corpse. With the same amount of pressure spared for the human Primary Control, force is applied to demonstrate the shifting of organs, muscles, and tissues. Shockwave's digits, still covering the top of the first cube, flex briefly with the associated memory of that silken touch. Internally, they set another reminder for after the meeting. Starscream's little pet is due for their very first checkup now that the rodent experiment is concluded.
"Obviously, the results thus far are clearly visible, so it was not a meaningless end to this trial, despite the early cessation. I have noted the prominent symptoms in the document I've attached to the agenda, and I advise all scouting parties to be on alert for these changes, should they be seen on any native life."
Ping!
The room buzzes with fluctuating charge, and the diligent members of the Decepticon command remain silent as they review the material while the rest gossip in this brief window of quiet. The purple scientist takes a moment to mute any persistent notifications before grabbing everyone's attention again with a loud CLINK, lifting and slamming the first cube down onto the table. The metal surface shivers minutely, and all optics return to the noisy Lead Investigator.
"I'd prefer to conclude on that note… However, I have another finding to bring to everyone's attention. A rather remarkable discovery was unveiled during the process of dissection."
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Shockwave's HUD blurs with the sheer influx of warnings regarding overheating internals. The edges of their vision grow hazy, and they lock their lower limbs in place to keep balance. Both finials flick at the ghostly sensations tickling up their struts. Trapped energy rises within their chassis, and they emotionlessly unveil the main feature of their new discovery.
"Before anyone accuses me of misappropriating resources again, I will reaffirm. My original intention here was to analyze the effects of activated, locally sourced energon on organics. As I stated prior, these nine were given their respective doses and observed. And this one—" Shockwave turns the first cube, so everyone can get a better view. The shifting motion causes their servo to jerk, unintentionally flopping the rodent onto its side. Gears grind softly with unexpected resistance, shaping the settling dirt and grime into even smaller particulates. Like sand through an hourglass, the fine grit trickles down further into the unlit depths of their purple armor. "Was originally intended, as a control sample, to be kept separated from the rest and supplied an untampered, nutritious diet. Regardless, it appears solitude and confinement do not suit these highly metabolic creatures, and the control rodent proved difficult to contain. It had managed to escape its cage. Logically, I assumed I would find it starved to death in a corner somewhere, as, after all, these beasts can not survive for more than a chord without food or water, but unfortunately, this was not the case. Instead, this specimen continued to leave proof of life for a whole quartex, having left evidence of 'teething' on any and every surface coated with electrical insulation, including the wiring intended for one of my other projects. Ironically, if it wasn't for the Primary Control human, this rodent would have been presumed lost for good."
The purple bot gestures to the large rat. After nobody vocalizes any opinions on the information just shared, Shockwave reaches down to prod at the rodent with a digit, nudging the side of the animal's limp, malleable torso. They lock their servo and limb in place, so as to not shove the dissection away with an unsteady touch.
"Having left a trail of oily paw prints over the recently melded metal, I was aware that this specimen had likely tampered with my latest project involving dark energon, but I'm unable to say exactly how much they may hav—."
At the mention of dark energon, the conference room is thrown into a screeching cacophony.
The scientist lets the mayhem run free for a moment, internally checking their schedule. It seems that Starscream's depressing requisition reports are all that remain. At least, given his current grime covered appearance, the seeker will likely be eager to put an end to this, preferring not to waste any more Time today.
Ignorant to the way the group's EM fields fluctuate with charge and chatter, Shockwave resumes emotionlessly. "In light of this, I had anticipated the presence of the substance in its waste product or tissue. Unfortunately, this was not the case when we checked the contents of its postmortem stomach. We were able to successfully identify the remains of the tenth rodent, a gluten-based, jelly filled desert, and Nothing else. However, as anyone with working optics can see, there is a stark size difference between this specimen and the others. Not only is this one's overall mass greater, but their organs lack the typical coloring. In tandem with the notable physical changes of the other nine rodents, I believed it prudent to mention this, even with the lacking data. I advise you to relay this information to those on the ground, so that they keep an optic out for these differences as well."
The purple mech pauses, quickly glance towards their fellow High Command. Starscream is arguing with Megatron about Something through a private comms channel, and Soundwave remains helm-down in a datapad, swaying ever so slightly and skillfully ignoring the heavy silence that begins to grow. Any potential optic-contact with the resident telepath is blocked by a series of illegible alerts.
In contrast to the chilly depths of the Nemesis, Shockwave's HUD warns of rising internal temperatures. One by one, the blocky bot smothers the blinding annoyances, dragging a stiff digit down the control beast's back to feel the soft brush of silken fur for a final time. A tingling sensation, like a pinched wire, creeps up their rat-holding limb, and it becomes difficult to discern how much heat has begun to transfer from their overtaxed plating to the dead mammal. When the nervous noise dies down, the Lead Investigator turns their focus back to the crowd.
"Does anyone have any questions before we move onto the final agenda of the day?" Shockwave asks.
When silence is all that answers, they turn to hand the floor to Starscream. The blocky bot goes to withdraw their servo to begin cleanup, but Something within them refuses to override the locks they've put in place. Unable to fully move, their digit prods and pokes the vivisection, flipping its front to be face-down. The tingling sensation surges, likes a giant whale slipping by in the pitch-black, deep sea, sending a ripple running through the shadows of their mind. Distracting themselves from the sudden urge to glance behind them, they set another reminder to look into some form of repairs.
The weight of an unfeeling Something sits in their chassis at the mere thought of the medical team's presence. If they seek out help from the Decepticons, any procedure required will most certainly hurt. Their faction's medics are uncaring in the callousness needed to reach far enough into Shockwave's chassis to manually override their pain receptors, and Shockwave refuses to let anyone or Anything get that deep. The scientist would rather brave agonizing surgeries than lose the only sensation they have left. As their processor churns, fighting off the ever-encroaching shadows, to properly data tag and store the reminder, their golden optic unfocuses.
Distantly in Shockwave's awareness, Starscream chitters as fast as he can, beeping in a sing song, almost melodic manner. While the seeker drones on about the latest to-dos and fetch quests, the scientist requests the lab aide's assistance with collecting the other cube. They keep a single, purple digit over the control rat, sharing their warmth. The heat seems to almost rebound, and they make a mental note of the observation, attributing it to the abundance of insulating fat.
Just before the note is registered, it blends together with some unnamed and intangible emotion, corrupting the data and triggering a cascade of error messages. In response, uncontrolled charge from their Spark chamber shoots through their system, surging through whatever channel it can. The scientist quickly adjusts the settings of their cannon limb to accept the blunt of it, planning to release the excess energy as a slow, steady wave of heat. Instead, however, the jolt zips down and out of their chassis, through their other limb, transferring from the tips of their digits to the specimen. In turn, the beast below twitches and spasms in a series of seizure-like contractions.
Something seems to have woken up.
Swiftly, the purple bot fully overrides their glitching limb to withdraw their servo, bringing the digit up for inspection. Grabbing the container closer and standing slightly off to the side, they hold it in better view of their blurry vision, frustrated at their current disabilities limiting the array of scans they could've run.
Under Shockwave's intense scrutiny, the rat's nose twitches ever so slightly, whiskers trembling with the minor movement. The mammal's arms shiver and twitch, blindly stretching down to its tail. As if feeling for Something, its tiny paws swipe at its slippery organs, pulling the viscera free from the minuscule pins holding it to the base of the cube. Their single optic watches as the rodent flips itself, in an almost involuntary spasm, onto its other side. When the beast then curls into a tight ball, a million questions begin to rise to the surface of their processor like bubbles rising from the unlit depths of Earth's ocean floor.
Clink. clack.
Just as Shockwave sets the cube down, Soundwave places their datapad at the edge of the scientist's peripheral. In one fluid movement, the telepath leaves their awkward perch to stand by the purple mech. The two bots look on in silence while the dead organs below flush with blood. Something causes the mound of flesh to suck back up into the chest cavity with a horrific squelch. The organic's intestines wriggle like parasitic worms, knitting themselves back together before sealing up any and all wounds left.
With the same digit as before, Shockwave prods at the animal's other side, poking into the newly healed stomach with a firm nudge. Under the emotionless bot's inhuman touch, the ribs of the beast begin to bend, cartilage warping under the pressure. The mech's fine-tuned sensors relay a rapid pulse from within the chest cavity. Beating at a rate of 500 per minute, the fluttery movement of the cardiac muscle is almost too infinitesimal to detect. A glance towards their glorious leader reveals Megatron lounging in his seat, scrolling with blatant disinterest at some other report, while Starscream drones on and on.
Shockwave removes their touch after four, full, Earth minutes, and immediately following, the specimen's chest expands with its first lungful of air. The movements appear more purposeful, rather than some muscle spasms triggered by the transferring shock. Prodding again, the scientist gently tries to turn the rodent over for better examination, but the animal remains tightly curled up. The small creature's panting breaths fog up the bottom of the clear container. With no change, the purple mech drags the container even closer and peers directly down into it.
Something once named Ratthew von Ratticus moves to rub their paws over their face, scratching in a manner the scientist recognizes as a grooming pattern. Aggressively, it itches its snout, capturing the full attention of Soundwave. The telepath steadies a servo on Shockwave's pauldron, leaning in close for a better view. Shaking its head as if its ridding itself of some clinging weight, the rat blinks furiously. With bright, ruby red eyes, it gazes up towards the skylight that illuminates the meeting room from above.
The blocky bot shifts their cannon-limb, creating a U-enclosure between their weapon and their chassis, so that the rest of the table is hidden from view. Carefully, the container is tipped, pouring the recently resurrected lab rat out onto the space created for it. The creature slides out, falling clumsily onto its back. The whole time, the two members of High Command observe with rising interest. The organic begins to seize again, and Shockwave's processor works overtime to run several branching logic trees, trying to make sense of Everything.
«Observation»: Something has changed.
«Hypothesis»: ?̸̟̐?̷͚̀?̵̝̅
With rising internal charge, the Lead Investigator looks towards the cart now holding the nine dissections, before returning back to observe the breathing, moving corpse. Vibrantly ruby red, watery eyes stare up at them in response, unfazed by the blinding intensity of the mech's golden optic. Shockwave does not blink. The resurrected mammal begins to blink again.
«Observation»: Something has changed. The control has been exposed to dark energon.
«Hypothesis»: Could dark energon work in the same manner as it does with bots? Can it reanimate those who are deceased and sparkless?
If this miracle is the cause of dark energon, then who or what has control of its processes? What dictates this animal's motions? Their motives? What has become of this creature's soul, if there even is one?
A change has occurred here, and it's all Shockwave can do to pursue this loose thread, mentally tagging and cataloging every scan and action taken since the start of this meeting. As the Lead Investigator of the Decepticons, it's their responsibility to find a modicum of Hope in the efforts of their research. To reap the fruits of their scientific labor. To share the gift of knowledge with the rest of their kin. To uncover and define the divine. To find and confirm the Truths of the universe.
Shockwave sends a comm to the hovering Chief Communications Officer, requesting their input on the matter. Soundwave does not answer their question, instead lowering into a crouch by the edge of the table to be optic-level with the rat.
«Observation»: Something has changed. The control has been exposed to dark energon. The control has returned to the land of the living.
«Hypothesis»: Could this planet truly be haunted?
«Note-to-Self»: Need to establish baselines before any experiments on humans can begin. Requisition the immediately retrieval of Starscream's pet human. As the last sentient organic to interact with the rodent and as a medic, they may also be able to share additional insights.
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I love when someone is explaining instructions to a group I’m in and they look at me and it reminds them to say something about using preferred names/pronouns or that there’s vegan food options available. I go by my given name/pronouns and I’m not vegan but I’m proud that I can provide this service
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Heh… Is it July already? That's crazyyyyyy. Uh, anyways. Here's Chapter 16! I had to split this one thrice, so hopefully it won't take me half a year again to post the next few.
I dedicate this one to my favorite mech of all time, The Patron Saint of Boobs, Shockwave!
Story Content Warnings:
Medical and detailed descriptions of injury and bodily harm
Eating disorder regarding food overconsumption, vomiting, and bingeing
Germaphobes beware - heavy mention of rot, decay, bacteria, and mold
Depression and Suicidal thoughts
Depictions of animal death, rendering, and dissection
Politics
—
"Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out." ~ Vaclav Havel
———
To know the words of a song but not the tune.
To know the symbols of a language but not the intention.
To know the memory of an action but not the justification.
And the universe around you sings.
The universe speaks.
The universe moves.
Without them.
Senator Shockwave died a tragic death at the servos of the Institute.
They lost their face. They lost their emotions. They lost their virtue.
Their purpose. Their career. Their life.
The judge, jury, and executioners withheld any possible mercy when they chose to 'spare' the Senator, and so a colorful politician died that day, robbed of every identifying part, piece, and plating. Whoever awoke with a dead mech's spark in their new chassis was not Senator Shockwave. Whoever rose from that surgical slab found themselves missing in all memories but their own. Whoever stumbled through the clinic's exit and out onto the city streets couldn't even share in the populace's mourning horror that blanketed their mutilated corpse.
Their surviving existence was a sin in the optics of the people. A sign of Something so very, very wrong. Like screen-burn on a monitor, a living ghost now haunts the forefront of the narrative. On that wretched day, a deceased Senator's soul sparked against its distorted chamber, thrashing at the grooves and scars left by the final, miserable, Furious, VENGEFUL synapses that had melted every possible emotion into the pain of numb disconnect. With surgical precision, their conscious body was torn open and robbed of Everything.
Whoever survived a tragic event at the servos of the Institute had Nothing but a name and the inherited memories of its predecessor.
It's humorlessly cruel, how the Senate could steal a beloved bot, so famous for their affection and passion, and smother their universe with shadows, ensuring that the purple mech lacked the proper circuitry to feel Anything but pain. Shockwave finds themselves alive at the end of every day, but they are no longer living.
To be gutted without recourse. To be killed without dying.
'An example'. The surgeons had said when they plucked out Senator Shockwave's optics. An example to all those who oppose the rising tides of corruption. An example to anyone who dares to stand in the way of power-hungry politicians. An example to every mech foolish enough to believe that the worst thing that can happen to you is death.
The Truth is, the worst thing that can happen to you is loss. Loss with only pain. To remember who they were and to suffer with the knowledge that they'll never exist again. Senator Shockwave's Time was over, unreachable to Everything in every way except deep within their own memory banks.
They lost their social life. Their promising career. Their self-discovered purpose.
All thanks to the sick generosity from the Senate, the Institute, and that damned glitch, Proteus.
Ever since Shockwave learned of the existence of Functionalism, they have opposed it. Its core beliefs went against all that they've experienced and seen. In a universe so vast, with endless chances, possibilities, and opportunities, how could a bot exist solely for the role they receive at creation? Purpose is dictated by one's actions in life, not by the shape of their form. Cybertronians, as a superior species, should be beyond such simplistic mindsets.
Unfortunately, those who unwisely follow the corrupting words of fools do so because they are trapped within a bubble of ignorance. While their leaders distract themselves with petty conflicts, Time steadily continues tic, tic, ticking away for them all. The unenlightened can not comprehend how the corrosive, rotting thing known as Entropy, with its gentle, burning touch, guides their kind down the pathway to extinction.
Their species' Destiny is to Conquer. Virgin galaxies, rich with untapped ores, lay bare and open before them, and yet, instead, eons are wasted with War. A Senator was lost. Cybertron was lost. The Allspark was lost. The delayed response to the infection of ignorance cost them a Famine, and in the end, without a source of renewable fuel, Death will come to claim them all.
The Truth is, in Conquest, in War, in Famine, or in Death, Everything boils down to resources, and Nothing else.
Senator Shockwave had tried to teach them. Tried to use language and science. Presentation after presentation. Meeting after meeting. They had tried to correct the issue from the inside. They founded the Jhiaxian Academy. They worked themselves to the struts trying to educate the naive masses. They poured all they had into cultivating Cybertronians who could withstand the failures of their people. Billions of shanax was spent on off-world research. Outliers were saved from those who sought to reduce a person to a mere tool.
All that effort, and they were justly rewarded with change. But not the kind they were hoping for.
An Example.
Alive but not. Pained and lost. Altered in a way in which the old Senator Shockwave could never return. The old Senator Shockwave will never return. The old Senator Shockwave should never return. If this is what happens to mechs like them.
Even after all this Time to adjust to their new form, Shockwave still can't stop their Spark from twitching and sputtering with phantom pangs, trapped with no proper outlet. They've been able to mitigate the worst of the ghastly surges by replacing their limb with a plasma cannon, courtesy of one glorious leader of the Decepticons, to convert the free-roaming energy into a more practical use. However, ever since the Nemesis crash landed on this organic-infested rock, the intense flare-ups have become more and more frequent. They loathe the idea of seeking assistance from the quacks this ship calls doctors, but they may be forced to at this rate. The damage they sustained during the last skirmish has not been healing properly, and it's only a matter of Time before a rust infection settles in.
Ping!
Another warning shoves its way to the forefront of their visual feed.
Shockwave ignores the flashing notice to instead check their internal chronometer for the four-hundredth-and-sixty-seventh time since they've stepped into this chamber. Unfortunately, the meeting has only recently begun. Just like the rest of the bots in this conference room, the scientist finds themselves stuck in this monotonous meeting and stuck on Earth. As they roll their shoulder within its stiffened joint, their HUD denotes a continued drop in temperature.
Kuh-CRUNCH!
Another alert dismissed.
Somewhere in their blind spot, Starscream scoffs with an unnecessary, sympathetic 'Ugh'.
It takes several, failed, internal commands and two manual overrides before the mechanisms within their locked-up limb listen and release their tension. Unfazed, Shockwave taps at their datapad, adding another item to the ever-growing list of needed repairs. If only they were back at their main lab, then they'd have the proper tools and supplies for self-maintenance. Unfortunately, the moon it was stationed on has been lost. Now, it is Nothing more than a cluster of asteroids floating in a dead planet's orbit, galaxies away.
Ping! Ping!! Ping!!!
The noisy signals momentarily blind the scientist, forcing them to pause in their typing.
Everything is promptly banished from sight, sent to feed the shadows that drape over their processor.
The vibrant red lingers in their vision for a moment longer than it should, and the sensors of their plating tingle with ungrounded charge.
Shockwave is beginning to see why the seeker's patience has been so thin as of late. Logically, no Cybertronian would hold any Love for Earth. Lord Megatron was a fool for abandoning the main battlefront, instead chasing after a divine legend in hopes that the Decepticons could gain some kind of advantage over the Autobots. Now, look at where Destiny lead them.
This wretchedly wet world does Nothing to soothe Shockwave's constantly aching internals; the briny sea water refuses to evaporate cleanly, kissing a trail of pale, corrosive stains along the whole of their plating in a series of salty, lingering farewells. This horrible, haunting habitat exists as a trial to the purple mech's composed endurance; the immobilizing polar frost slip its violating hands through the thick of their wiring, parting the sensitive cords with the swell of its icy touch. This painful, punishing planet feels benevolent in all the worst ways possible; the beckoning, buzzing hum of trillions of uncataloged species spins their processor in a dizzying dance, promising to quench the unfeeling scientist's need for tangible, quantifiable results. This beautiful blue ball ceaselessly bestows generous burden after generous burden; the overpopulated, human metropolises crown the largest reserves of energon any mech has ever seen this side of the Centorian supercluster, taunting the starving Cybertronians with warped, fleshy reflections of what they've all lost. They are all trapped on a land so rich with the very resources that spurred this whole war, and yet Shockwave has Nothing to show for it since the rest of their kin seem to insist on dying in battle one by one until Everything is lost.
Ding!
The blocky, purple bot almost deletes the incoming nudge from Soundwave out of habit, mistaking it momentarily for another alert.
Instead of responding, the scientist adjusts the bulk of their weight with a heaving ex-vent, futilely attempting to lessen the burden on their aching struts. The metal of the seat beneath groannnns in protest, and the scout spouting off their meaningless report sputters into silence. All optics in the room turn towards the noisy Lead Investigator.
"Shockwave, I believe you're up next?" Megatron prompts, looking as miserably bored as the rest of the high command. The silver servo not propping up his helm up waves offhandedly in their direction. "Was there any progress made with your recent experiments?"
Carefully, Shockwave overrides the gummed up mechanisms in their servo joints, releasing their denting grip on the armrest of their chair. As each of their digits unfold, the accompanying warnings are dismissed in quick succession. Their voicebox unmutes with an audible click! click!, and the medics, sitting across the farthest point of the table, all flare their plating in itching agitation. It takes more effort than it should to rise to a standing position and walk a single step forward. The scraping thud of their mass hitting the edge of the table is ignored in favor of setting a reminder to recalibrate their depth perception. Prompts fill their sluggishly loading HUD, filing the note-to-Self alongside fourteen other duplicate variations.
"Correct, Lord Megatron. I've brought specimen samples to illustrate my findings." The scientist remains unmoving. A simple ping to their zoned-out assistant has the aide leaping to attention. The samples are swiftly prepared for viewing while Shockwave attaches an elongated needle to the corresponding fitting on their cannon limb.
Clink.
Before all the members of high command, a clear, blocky container is set down on the cool, metal surface of the conference table. Several curious mechs lean forward to get a better view of the incredibly small object, whilst others angle away in blatant disgust.
"For those unaware, or simply not paying attention, take it upon yourselves to read the attached memo about report #AL89450B before you pose any questions." Using the needle as a pointer, Shockwave begins, vaguely gesturing above the animal. "All scouting parties should be debriefed immediately after this session, or, at the very least, ensure that they are educated prior to their rounds."
Splayed out on its back, a white rodent rests, larger than typical for its species. Like an unwrapped ribbon on a present, the length of its internals is strung out on display. The membrane covered guts glimmer an inky, bruised color, catching rays of sparkling light from the Cybertronians encircling it. Every inch of tissue and flesh is pillowed by plush, yellow clouds of fatty reserves.
"I have been experimenting with organic intake and tolerance of energon. The intent behind this research was to establish a baseline understanding of the outcomes that occur during repeated exposure to the highly radioactive substance. With the end of this initial trial, I postulate that we have collected sufficient enough evidence to formulate a pattern to the symptoms presented. Using the data, I've—"
A frustrated engine rev cuts off the scientist mid-lecture, and one of the field surgeons speaks up from the other side of the room. "For the Love of Primus! Of all the things we could be doing, this is what we're doing? We're wasting our limited energon rations on these aliens now?"
A fellow medic growls before Shockwave can resume, adding, "That's right! We barely have enough for ourselves. Just last cycle, mid-surgery, I had to put a mech into medical-stasis because their tank levels fell to critical!"
"Not Everything has an answer that needs exploring." Their third colleague joins in. "There are Somethings in life that we'd be perfectly fine not knowing about. Honestly, sometimes I'd feel we'd all be safer off if you did Nothing."
Megatron holds up a servo to quell the rising volume. Immediately, all fall silent before the warlord. "Times are scarce, Shockwave." He sighs, leaning forward on his raised throne to level a long, piercing stare at his emotionless Lead Investigator. "The cost of your curiosity is high. I assume you have a perfectly good explanation that can satisfy the troops?"
Shockwave's voicebox clicks off, and the room rumbles with the quiet subharmonics of discontent whispers. As a murmur of intangible outrage sweeps through the soldiers, the scientist's plating seals closed, optic flickering from the brunt of their body's angry feedback. With their armor's shielding movement, coarse grit and sand kuh-crunches between the fine mechanisms. The blocky mech's internals hug the tiny shards of unyielding earth in a claustrophobic squeeze, shaping dimples and divots into the malleable insulation of their wiring. Somewhere within the gaping cavities of the purple bot's armor, ice begins to melt, dripping down onto warming metal with several quiet plink, plink, plinks.
Gently, Shockwave reaches out towards the center of the table to drag the vivisected display closer to them, servo enclosing over the top to shield the specimen from the group's hungry ire. Their other limb shifts slightly to pull up a picturesque hologram of a cityscape. Human-made skyscrapers sprout from the middle of the table, and dizzying, chaotic networks of roads wind around the buildings. The fabricated simulacrum runs through several day-night cycles, distracting the others long enough for the scientist to craft an appeasing explanation.
Click. Static. Pause to reset. Click!
"After Starscream's run-in with a 'haunted' energon sample— again, see referenced report #AL89450B." The purple bot pauses briefly to ensure the soldiers can access the transcript and associated memo. "It has come to my attention that silencing these humans may not be enough to hide our presence. Death does not always greet these organics swiftly."
The hologram in the center warps, revealing the intricate web of energon that rests just below the surface of the planet's crust.
"If the scouting reports are correct regarding the location of several major ore veins, then we are at greater risk of discovery than anticipated. We can not afford to ignore these mining sites; if we do not lay claim soon, then they will eventually fall into the servos of the Autobots. However, this planet is not one to be underestimated. We must be abundantly cautious to avoid gaining any attention from the natives."
"Oh, please!" A cruel laugh chills the room even further. "What's a bunch of squishy organics going to do against us?"
The echoing rumble of the Decepticon's sing-song snicker bounces around the room, mingling with the fizzling EM waves of their comrades.
"They crush beneath pedes so easily." Another bot chuckles, stomping their stabilizer for emphasis. "It makes a mech wonder how they're even able to survive for as long as they do."
"And yet." Shockwave tilts their helm in the protestors' direction. Their single optic struggles to focus, shutters adjusting indecisively. "No matter how many fleshy caricatures we cull, Earth factions like GHOST continue to cost us more and more. How many outposts have we had to abandon thus far? Rest assured, I am intimately aware the current state of our fuel supply." Shockwave pauses to flick their finial, ridding their sensors of the wet irritation that puddles against their plating. "Which is exactly why we are not in a position to gracefully lose these rich, energon mines, not without many causalities, either at the hands of these humans and their allied Autobots, or from slow starvation. It would not take many of these planet's natives to alert the rest of their kin to our presence. To put it succinctly, in the words of our newly recruited Primary Control, humanity is…"
At the scientist's prompting, Soundwave jolts slightly, scrambling away from whatever had stolen their interest to play the requested recording. The Chief Communications Officer briefly sets down their datapad in order to properly assist. Glancing towards the revealed screen, Shockwave is treated to a brief glimpse of Starscream's little organic, before the datapad is snatched back up by its owner. Silently, Soundwave returns to perch on their seat, focusing on their numerous side-duties. The human's voice rings out with a siren-like echo; the soft sound bounces off the unyielding, metal walls of the conference room.
After saving a copy of the audio for the inevitable retelling of their explanation, Shockwave's processor hesitates, drowning momentarily in another wave of red warnings. Something rises up from the depths of their coding to neatly categorize the file next to an untagged soundbite. In order to properly organize the mess within their shadowed mind, Shockwave privately plays the unnamed recording. Nothing happens for a moment, and then, rising in volume and cadence, a lonely whale call vibrates within their audials. It takes more effort than it should to still their trembling plating.
"A sentient race made up of trillions of organic cells." The words of Starscream's pet dance seamlessly alongside the marine chatter.
Those across the room fall completely silent, subduing their loud, internal fans while they strain to hear. Lacking the emotional wavelengths of EM fields and subharmonics, the Primary Control's words mirror Shockwave's manner of speaking.
"A walking, talking, collection of incredibly microscopic, incredibly fragile, membrane bound organelles— Our species' survival is literally just a sheer numbers game."
The scientist nods their acknowledgement and continues. "Ignoring our shared similarities in appearance and mannerisms, humanity's entire existence is one shaped by attrition and death. The healing and regeneration abilities of these creatures are unparalleled. For example, by splicing two separate cellular makeups together into one cell, it takes less than a single solar cycle for a human to reproduce. The resulting offshoot then detaches itself from its host, forming its own identity and motivations. In just a span of eighteen solar cycles, they can become fully fledged members of their species, capable of fighting and pursuit."
Megatron leans forward in his throne, side-eyeing the way Starscream flutters his wings at the sound of his latest obsession. The silver ruler shutters his optics and tilts his helm in consideration, letting the presentation continue on without interruption.
"Whatever fails is lost, and whatever remains will continue this cellular replication pattern until the day it dies. Any surviving mutations, beneficial or not, are passed onto the next, ensuring a systematic means of adaptation to almost any environment. This process can be repeated until a resource cap is met, and in fact, a majority of this planet's biodiversity can be attributed to this manner of reproduction. Carving out new niches with each iteration of development, the organics of Earth continuously participate in an endless cycle of life and death."
If the universe moves, then Earth twirls in a dizzying, cosmic dance.
If the universe speaks, then Earth shouts to spite the quiet.
If the universe sings, then Earth soulfully screams.
Earth and its trillions of mammals, reptiles, and avians. Its untold number of insects, sea creatures, and microscopic parasites. Its billions of humans. All bound by the red cords of Destiny to die without purpose under the heat of their sun. These organics, that so closely mirror Cybertronians, futilely struggle to record their short-lived histories, desperate to not be forgotten by Time. They weave patterns upon patterns upon patterns, all stitched and tied by the bonds of carbon, scrambling to leave Something behind. In barely over a vorn, these desperate voices, much like the one that just echoed through the chamber, will be lost. Dooming their surviving kin to the inevitability of change, all that will remain are the inherited genetics and the memories of themselves and their predecessors.
These organics are only human.
They dance. They shout. They scream.
All for Nothing.
"At a glance, the natives of this planet may appear to be immune to the radiation of energon, considering the proximity of their infrastructure to the resource. However, correlating with human databases regarding repeat exposure to radioactive properties, this appears to be false. The Truth is, radioactive energon, or any radioactive substance for that matter, is incredibly fatal to the organisms. Their healing factor can only compensate the damage it sustains for so long, and in doing so, visual evidence can appear. The results of my recent experiment align with the expected stages of an organic body going from compensating to decompensating. Prominent indicators of illness, especially one that can cull or mutilate enough of a local population, are more apparent, not only to us, but also to the governing entities of this planet. Ever sensitive to their own mortality, the humans of Earth have various means of recording and reporting outbreaks of disease and signs of disaster. If a contagion, and a physically debilitating one at that, is suspected, they will mobilize swiftly to investigate the source and cause. With how abundantly wet Earth is, ground water runoff from our mining efforts are almost certainly mingling with local water supplies. If we do not take the appropriate steps to observe and contain, then it would only be a matter of Time before the mines are revealed and lost."
Starscream frowns, ruby opticed gaze piercing Shockwave in place. His sharp talons clack, clack, clack against the edge of the table while he runs his own calculations. He mutters darkly to himself, bio-lights flickering in quick succession amidst the gloom.
"I Hate when we agree with eachother, Shockwave." Starscream grumbles in reluctant approval, obviously conflicted with the satisfaction of his paranoia being justified and the severity of the news. Turning to the warlord, the seeker divines the worst case scenario. "Right now, a majority of our mines sit in the Northern American region. We haven't been able to track down the exact location of the Autobot's base, but my scouts have reported that Optimus Prime has preemptively aligned himself with the massive, aggressive sect that patrols those lands. Regardless of any Autobot involvement, in our current state, we would not be prepared to handle the force of such a large, fully hostile, human military."
"How large of a risk are we talking?" Megatron questions, face warping with a serious frown.
"The American military is by far the largest on this planet. With my own optics, I have seen on multiple occasions, the exchange of munitions and advanced techno-knowledge." The winged mech growls, and a puff of light blue smoke escapes from between sharp dentae. "After that catastrophic failure of an alliance with GHOST—"
"Something you foolishly attempted whilst I was in stasis, need I remind you?" Megatron's optics flare as he interrupts. "It's thanks to your cowardice that they've become a problem large enough to haunt our steps in the first place."
Wingtips twitch, and the seeker's voicebox glitches, silencing any retort. Holding his throat with a taloned servo, Starscream applies pressure to a specific area in an attempt to ease the level of static that smothers his words. Before he can regain his verbal clarity, a certain silver someone huffs out a wave of smog, shrouding the sleek, winged mech's inauspicious, ruby red sight. In favor of ignoring his second in command, Megatron turns to the Lead Investigator.
"Shockwave." The warlord grips the armrests of his seat hard enough to warp metal. Sinking deeply into his throne, he miserably groans. "Do you have any piece of decent news to report regarding this experiment, or will we be doomed to end this topic with another one of Starscream's depressing predictions?"
The purple bot pauses, remaining completely motionless while considering what their glorious leader may prefer to hear. "If you'd rather some good news, I recommend looking into the destruction these humans do to their own populace. When the income dries up, just like back on pre-war Cybertron, communities formed around mining zones are oft left to their own, starving devices."
Their glorious leader makes a face, one Shockwave can not read, and instead of trying to analyze the ex-gladiator's volatile mood, the scientist carries on.
"It's a tale as old as Time. Drones reduce the necessity of a sentient workforce. Poor wages ensure the residents are unable to migrate to better opportunities. And mineral processing companies will poison the local environment with their own careless methods. Luckily, there are simple solutions. We'd need only to follow the proper environmental protocols, set by humans themselves. In doing so, we can greatly reduce risk and contain any outbreaks before they balloon into Something much, much worse."
"Lord Megatron," Starscream takes the opportunity to jump in, ever desperate for the spotlight. An involuntary whine clings to the end of his words, and the damage to his neck remains apparent in hiccups and bursts. "We have already begun implementing these practices throughout several of our outposts."
"If you wish to dissuade any further doubts," Shockwave monotones dryly before the seeker can take further credit. "I recommend we begin regular testing of nearby water supplies for any and all toxic materials that could harm human settlements. If any are found, it would be of little effort and expense to set up periodic purifying stations to ensure the waterways are free of such detrimental contaminants."
Megatron considers the purple mech's words carefully, before humming his approval. "And this is why I keep you around, Shockwave."
Starscream sneers at that, saying Nothing, and raises a polished talon to scratch at a line of dents by his voicebox.
"Yes, and to bring us back to the original purpose of my report…" Shockwave pings for their lab aide to resume preparation. "The results of my experiments are notable and easily visualized. When providing samples of energon in its standard, activated form to the short-lived specimens, we have observed a pattern of decline. I decided on using these specific mammals, colloquially known as, 'Rat' or 'Rattus norvegicus', due to their prevalence as specimens in human research. They are easy to obtain in bulk, and much of their genome has already been sequenced."
Clink.
Another cube is placed.
"While there have been variations with the end results, the methods of decline have been nearly consistent throughout. Truthfully, however, due to the initial, small sample size, I can not say with confidence if these findings are totally relevant or not. Further research will be needed until we have enough conclusive evidence."
Within the second, clear container, nine, pure-white, lab rats lay in neat rows, all much smaller than their counterpart in the first cube. At varying levels of severity, each corpse has pronounced physical abnormalities, easily spotted, even from across the room. Large, discolored growths sprout from some, their limbs blackened and mangled, bent at odd angles as if reaching for some unseen afterlife. The remaining are extremely gaunt and malnourished. If it wasn't for the labeled needles pinning the fleshy collection in place, the rodents might've blown away with the deafening rush of air escaping from the whirrrrr whirrring internal fans of the gawking onlookers. Each and every one of the organics sport nearly identical collections of bloodied, gouged wounds. With closed eyes, the beasts seem almost peaceful, content with the reprieve from suffering that death has generously afforded them.
"These nine samples were given purified water, laced with energon, alongside a diet typical for their species. In a short span of Time, the radiation from their fuel brought on significant internal mutations." The scientist tilts their helm, golden optic shifting to enhance their view. With the needle, they point to the discolored lumps and ulcerated cavities on each. "We can see here and here. Cancerous tumors, or rather, uncontrolled cellular growth, would occur. What manner of cell that mutated would vary, but in all, there were disruptions to the rodent's normal homeostatic pathways which would have eventually lead to their death."
"Would have?" Someone mutters to their neighbor nearby.
"Oh yes! We had to cull the lot earlier than anticipated due to unforeseen damages." The lab aide suddenly speaks up with a disposition far too cheery for the current setting. "Apparently, rodents can be quite prone to cannibalism." They gesture with a smile and a free servo to the opened wounds and gory partings of fur.
"Yes… To start—" Shockwave brings out the first cube and its occupant from where it was hidden by their chassis and limb, setting it side by side with the second. "We had eleven rodent specimens in total. Originally ten were given energon, but we lost one to the unexpected appetite of the lone control group here in my servo."
With their other limb, the end of their pointed needle digs into the soft surface of one of the many cancerous lumps growing from a smaller corpse. With the same amount of pressure spared for the human Primary Control, force is applied to demonstrate the shifting of organs, muscles, and tissues. Shockwave's digits, still covering the top of the first cube, flex briefly with the associated memory of that silken touch. Internally, they set another reminder for after the meeting. Starscream's little pet is due for their very first checkup now that the rodent experiment is concluded.
"Obviously, the results thus far are clearly visible, so it was not a meaningless end to this trial, despite the early cessation. I have noted the prominent symptoms in the document I've attached to the agenda, and I advise all scouting parties to be on alert for these changes, should they be seen on any native life."
Ping!
The room buzzes with fluctuating charge, and the diligent members of the Decepticon command remain silent as they review the material while the rest gossip in this brief window of quiet. The purple scientist takes a moment to mute any persistent notifications before grabbing everyone's attention again with a loud CLINK, lifting and slamming the first cube down onto the table. The metal surface shivers minutely, and all optics return to the noisy Lead Investigator.
"I'd prefer to conclude on that note… However, I have another finding to bring to everyone's attention. A rather remarkable discovery was unveiled during the process of dissection."
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Shockwave's HUD blurs with the sheer influx of warnings regarding overheating internals. The edges of their vision grow hazy, and they lock their lower limbs in place to keep balance. Both finials flick at the ghostly sensations tickling up their struts. Trapped energy rises within their chassis, and they emotionlessly unveil the main feature of their new discovery.
"Before anyone accuses me of misappropriating resources again, I will reaffirm. My original intention here was to analyze the effects of activated, locally sourced energon on organics. As I stated prior, these nine were given their respective doses and observed. And this one—" Shockwave turns the first cube, so everyone can get a better view. The shifting motion causes their servo to jerk, unintentionally flopping the rodent onto its side. Gears grind softly with unexpected resistance, shaping the settling dirt and grime into even smaller particulates. Like sand through an hourglass, the fine grit trickles down further into the unlit depths of their purple armor. "Was originally intended, as a control sample, to be kept separated from the rest and supplied an untampered, nutritious diet. Regardless, it appears solitude and confinement do not suit these highly metabolic creatures, and the control rodent proved difficult to contain. It had managed to escape its cage. Logically, I assumed I would find it starved to death in a corner somewhere, as, after all, these beasts can not survive for more than a chord without food or water, but unfortunately, this was not the case. Instead, this specimen continued to leave proof of life for a whole quartex, having left evidence of 'teething' on any and every surface coated with electrical insulation, including the wiring intended for one of my other projects. Ironically, if it wasn't for the Primary Control human, this rodent would have been presumed lost for good."
The purple bot gestures to the large rat. After nobody vocalizes any opinions on the information just shared, Shockwave reaches down to prod at the rodent with a digit, nudging the side of the animal's limp, malleable torso. They lock their servo and limb in place, so as to not shove the dissection away with an unsteady touch.
"Having left a trail of oily paw prints over the recently melded metal, I was aware that this specimen had likely tampered with my latest project involving dark energon, but I'm unable to say exactly how much they may hav—."
At the mention of dark energon, the conference room is thrown into a screeching cacophony.
The scientist lets the mayhem run free for a moment, internally checking their schedule. It seems that Starscream's depressing requisition reports are all that remain. At least, given his current grime covered appearance, the seeker will likely be eager to put an end to this, preferring not to waste any more Time today.
Ignorant to the way the group's EM fields fluctuate with charge and chatter, Shockwave resumes emotionlessly. "In light of this, I had anticipated the presence of the substance in its waste product or tissue. Unfortunately, this was not the case when we checked the contents of its postmortem stomach. We were able to successfully identify the remains of the tenth rodent, a gluten-based, jelly filled desert, and Nothing else. However, as anyone with working optics can see, there is a stark size difference between this specimen and the others. Not only is this one's overall mass greater, but their organs lack the typical coloring. In tandem with the notable physical changes of the other nine rodents, I believed it prudent to mention this, even with the lacking data. I advise you to relay this information to those on the ground, so that they keep an optic out for these differences as well."
The purple mech pauses, quickly glance towards their fellow High Command. Starscream is arguing with Megatron about Something through a private comms channel, and Soundwave remains helm-down in a datapad, swaying ever so slightly and skillfully ignoring the heavy silence that begins to grow. Any potential optic-contact with the resident telepath is blocked by a series of illegible alerts.
In contrast to the chilly depths of the Nemesis, Shockwave's HUD warns of rising internal temperatures. One by one, the blocky bot smothers the blinding annoyances, dragging a stiff digit down the control beast's back to feel the soft brush of silken fur for a final time. A tingling sensation, like a pinched wire, creeps up their rat-holding limb, and it becomes difficult to discern how much heat has begun to transfer from their overtaxed plating to the dead mammal. When the nervous noise dies down, the Lead Investigator turns their focus back to the crowd.
"Does anyone have any questions before we move onto the final agenda of the day?" Shockwave asks.
When silence is all that answers, they turn to hand the floor to Starscream. The blocky bot goes to withdraw their servo to begin cleanup, but Something within them refuses to override the locks they've put in place. Unable to fully move, their digit prods and pokes the vivisection, flipping its front to be face-down. The tingling sensation surges, likes a giant whale slipping by in the pitch-black, deep sea, sending a ripple running through the shadows of their mind. Distracting themselves from the sudden urge to glance behind them, they set another reminder to look into some form of repairs.
The weight of an unfeeling Something sits in their chassis at the mere thought of the medical team's presence. If they seek out help from the Decepticons, any procedure required will most certainly hurt. Their faction's medics are uncaring in the callousness needed to reach far enough into Shockwave's chassis to manually override their pain receptors, and Shockwave refuses to let anyone or Anything get that deep. The scientist would rather brave agonizing surgeries than lose the only sensation they have left. As their processor churns, fighting off the ever-encroaching shadows, to properly data tag and store the reminder, their golden optic unfocuses.
Distantly in Shockwave's awareness, Starscream chitters as fast as he can, beeping in a sing song, almost melodic manner. While the seeker drones on about the latest to-dos and fetch quests, the scientist requests the lab aide's assistance with collecting the other cube. They keep a single, purple digit over the control rat, sharing their warmth. The heat seems to almost rebound, and they make a mental note of the observation, attributing it to the abundance of insulating fat.
Just before the note is registered, it blends together with some unnamed and intangible emotion, corrupting the data and triggering a cascade of error messages. In response, uncontrolled charge from their Spark chamber shoots through their system, surging through whatever channel it can. The scientist quickly adjusts the settings of their cannon limb to accept the blunt of it, planning to release the excess energy as a slow, steady wave of heat. Instead, however, the jolt zips down and out of their chassis, through their other limb, transferring from the tips of their digits to the specimen. In turn, the beast below twitches and spasms in a series of seizure-like contractions.
Something seems to have woken up.
Swiftly, the purple bot fully overrides their glitching limb to withdraw their servo, bringing the digit up for inspection. Grabbing the container closer and standing slightly off to the side, they hold it in better view of their blurry vision, frustrated at their current disabilities limiting the array of scans they could've run.
Under Shockwave's intense scrutiny, the rat's nose twitches ever so slightly, whiskers trembling with the minor movement. The mammal's arms shiver and twitch, blindly stretching down to its tail. As if feeling for Something, its tiny paws swipe at its slippery organs, pulling the viscera free from the minuscule pins holding it to the base of the cube. Their single optic watches as the rodent flips itself, in an almost involuntary spasm, onto its other side. When the beast then curls into a tight ball, a million questions begin to rise to the surface of their processor like bubbles rising from the unlit depths of Earth's ocean floor.
Clink. clack.
Just as Shockwave sets the cube down, Soundwave places their datapad at the edge of the scientist's peripheral. In one fluid movement, the telepath leaves their awkward perch to stand by the purple mech. The two bots look on in silence while the dead organs below flush with blood. Something causes the mound of flesh to suck back up into the chest cavity with a horrific squelch. The organic's intestines wriggle like parasitic worms, knitting themselves back together before sealing up any and all wounds left.
With the same digit as before, Shockwave prods at the animal's other side, poking into the newly healed stomach with a firm nudge. Under the emotionless bot's inhuman touch, the ribs of the beast begin to bend, cartilage warping under the pressure. The mech's fine-tuned sensors relay a rapid pulse from within the chest cavity. Beating at a rate of 500 per minute, the fluttery movement of the cardiac muscle is almost too infinitesimal to detect. A glance towards their glorious leader reveals Megatron lounging in his seat, scrolling with blatant disinterest at some other report, while Starscream drones on and on.
Shockwave removes their touch after four, full, Earth minutes, and immediately following, the specimen's chest expands with its first lungful of air. The movements appear more purposeful, rather than some muscle spasms triggered by the transferring shock. Prodding again, the scientist gently tries to turn the rodent over for better examination, but the animal remains tightly curled up. The small creature's panting breaths fog up the bottom of the clear container. With no change, the purple mech drags the container even closer and peers directly down into it.
Something once named Ratthew von Ratticus moves to rub their paws over their face, scratching in a manner the scientist recognizes as a grooming pattern. Aggressively, it itches its snout, capturing the full attention of Soundwave. The telepath steadies a servo on Shockwave's pauldron, leaning in close for a better view. Shaking its head as if its ridding itself of some clinging weight, the rat blinks furiously. With bright, ruby red eyes, it gazes up towards the skylight that illuminates the meeting room from above.
The blocky bot shifts their cannon-limb, creating a U-enclosure between their weapon and their chassis, so that the rest of the table is hidden from view. Carefully, the container is tipped, pouring the recently resurrected lab rat out onto the space created for it. The creature slides out, falling clumsily onto its back. The whole time, the two members of High Command observe with rising interest. The organic begins to seize again, and Shockwave's processor works overtime to run several branching logic trees, trying to make sense of Everything.
«Observation»: Something has changed.
«Hypothesis»: ?̸̟̐?̷͚̀?̵̝̅
With rising internal charge, the Lead Investigator looks towards the cart now holding the nine dissections, before returning back to observe the breathing, moving corpse. Vibrantly ruby red, watery eyes stare up at them in response, unfazed by the blinding intensity of the mech's golden optic. Shockwave does not blink. The resurrected mammal begins to blink again.
«Observation»: Something has changed. The control has been exposed to dark energon.
«Hypothesis»: Could dark energon work in the same manner as it does with bots? Can it reanimate those who are deceased and sparkless?
If this miracle is the cause of dark energon, then who or what has control of its processes? What dictates this animal's motions? Their motives? What has become of this creature's soul, if there even is one?
A change has occurred here, and it's all Shockwave can do to pursue this loose thread, mentally tagging and cataloging every scan and action taken since the start of this meeting. As the Lead Investigator of the Decepticons, it's their responsibility to find a modicum of Hope in the efforts of their research. To reap the fruits of their scientific labor. To share the gift of knowledge with the rest of their kin. To uncover and define the divine. To find and confirm the Truths of the universe.
Shockwave sends a comm to the hovering Chief Communications Officer, requesting their input on the matter. Soundwave does not answer their question, instead lowering into a crouch by the edge of the table to be optic-level with the rat.
«Observation»: Something has changed. The control has been exposed to dark energon. The control has returned to the land of the living.
«Hypothesis»: Could this planet truly be haunted?
«Note-to-Self»: Need to establish baselines before any experiments on humans can begin. Requisition the immediately retrieval of Starscream's pet human. As the last sentient organic to interact with the rodent and as a medic, they may also be able to share additional insights.
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