5:49 PM

“Yeah?” Brainstorm grins and raises his leg, nearly kicking Spinister in the face, but the mech just takes it in stride. As in, he grabs Brainstorm by the ankle. “Rate me.”

“Ten,” Spinister says immediately, optics intent on the limb he's holding on to.

“Uhh, I'm pretty sure that was a question for--”

Rodimus is drowned out by people raising their voices and flailing their legs in the air and asking to be rated on a scale of one to ten--no, fifty! A hundred! Swerve yells for everybody to calm down. Noble, but a futile effort, really. People are falling out of their seats. Misfire crawls up on the table, lays on his side, and sticks a leg straight up--he's even gesturing to it much like how a sellmech would bring attention to the aesthetic of their product.

All this because First Aid said he liked legs.

“Psh,” Drift stands, pushes everybody aside. “You're all fives. This… is a ten!”

In one smooth motion, Drift brings his leg up and slams it down on the table. Crack! It buckles and crashes onto the floor, completely broken in half, and First Aid inhales his drink. Someone yanks the straw out of his intake and catches the cube before it could spill. Rodimus is yelling. People are scrambling, chairs scraping on the floor. Misfire is being helped up. Another someone pounds him on his back.

“Just keep on coughin’! That's it!”

“My table!”

“Back off, you guys, give him some room!”

First Aid feels lightheaded by the time he expelled most of the wayward engex and tries to fend off the mechs fussing over him. “I'm fine!” He rasps, “Stop hitting!”

The booming thumps stop and there's a whole new level of woozy. First Aid swallows and gasps for air.

“Sorry. You make good sounds,” Spinister says.

First Aid does not understand. “Thanks?”

“Are you okay?” Drift appears out of nowhere, shining like a knight wreathed by the brightest of suns--no, that's just the ugly neon signs behind the bar. “You were coughing pretty hard, I didn't mean to--”

Rumors. That was all Bluestreak thought they were. After all, it was impossible for the Decepticons’ communications officer, so quiet and unassuming in appearance, to have been an undefeated gladiator in the pits of Kaon. Bluestreak remembers the times he had stumbled across Soundwave during their factions’ many skirmishes and immediately fled at the mere sight of him, and he is now grateful for his own cowardice.

But why? If Soundwave is capable of… this, the war could have ended in the Decepticons’ favor years ago. Surely Megatron knew--

The crowd screams.

Another alien lay at Soundwave's feet, its’ head a literal smear of yellow. Soundwave tilts his helm upward and looks straight at Bluestreak. A presence wraps around him--so heavy with bloodthirst, it almost smothers--but only for a moment. As it slithers away, an unfamiliar voice speaks, echoing, I will free us.

Movement catches Bluestreak's optic.

“Soundwave!”

Electricity surges through him and Bluestreak's vocalizer pops and statics. He can feel a wetness seeping down his back. Alien handlers around him chatters, angry and harsh, and Bluestreak can only catch parts of it. Stupid!--bleeding--prize.

A fresh subroutine pings him.

Shockwave inhales through the nose and the air is dull with stagnation; fingers bunch up and smooth out the warm, smooth sheets around him; his left forearm along with the sweeping wing blades are still gunmetal grey and if he were to look into a mirror, he would see that his helm is of the same color.

His HUD comes up empty aside from a friendly reminder regarding today's appointment. Shockwave acknowledges it with a confirmation.

He sits up--and careens to one side, optics brightening in momentary surprise before he compensates for the error. There are grooves on the edge of the berth, multiple sets of five in varying depth, and today's set overlaps another. Shockwave frowns. It had been, and persists to be, a challenge for him to unlearn the habits he had developed after he was retrofitted with a cannon and lived with the massive weight for millions of years. Getting up in the mornings was never easy, and the amount of force he used to push himself up now nearly launch him off the berth each time.

“It's not as easy as uploading a corrective algorithm,” Ratchet had said after Shockwave inquired as to if there was an immediate cure. “To integrate your new parts without risk of psychosomatic rejection or dissociation, you need to relearn basic motor functions through daily and repeated use.”

How inconvenient.

“In fact,” Tarn continues, ignoring him and his report in favor of standing up.

Starscream stumbles back and knocks a leg against a chair. It chatters across the floor. He pays it no mind and lifts his chin instead, tightening every joint in his body so his wings wouldn’t quiver. Don’t show any weaknesses, he reminds himself. Megatron was a few billion years of learning and knowing how much needling is enough. Now… he has Tarn. They all have Tarn.

Tarn, the fanatical leader of the Decepticon Justice Division who would rip a mech apart if they so as much breathe on his badge.

The rank and file has never been so quiet before, so tense with anticipation that someone might actually blow a gasket if something isn’t done about it.

However, in his office, Tarn stares for a long moment then reseats himself, interlocking his hands just above his hips and looking as relaxed as a mech could be.

“I will not kill you, Starscream.”

Starscream reset his audials, certain that he must have misheard. “What?”

“Is that really so hard to believe?” Tarn tilts his head. “The fact that you're still standing here before me, orns after Megatron's demise… is that not a good enough testament of my intentions?”

Starscream crosses his arms, datapad still in hand. “You killed Megatron.”

Silence stretches between them and Starscream watches the slow, wide-opticked realization that dawns upon the brute. Tarn’s inhale cracks at the air like an electro-whip.

“Forgive me,” Tarn begins. “I have stolen your ambition.”