#shockwave x reader

Author's Note:

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.

• Venting in annoyance, he spots you and heads your way. "Your progeny has painted his plating and lined his optics. He's also had someone paint flames on him,” he growls and you make a noise, kneading energon dough. ‘He's that age and it's probably going to get worse, so enjoy,’ you mutter as you lean to grab the rolling pin and his antenna go back. ‘What?’ You ask when he’s silent and he rumbles. "He also said science was lame,” he admits and you look up at him, eyes widening.

• Trying to not laugh as his single optic dims and his antenna go back, you lean your shoulder into him. “Oh, sweetie. I'm sure it's just a phase. Give him time and he'll realize that super sketchy, unethical science is the coolest,” you say and he stares at you as you turn back to trying to flatten your energon dough enough to cut out shapes. ‘Sarcasm?’ He finally asks and you do laugh, surprised. "Hey, good job. I was sure it was going to go right over your head."

• Venting at you, he rumbles as you grin up at him. “The paint isn’t hurting anything. He’ll either get bored of it or he’ll start trying to figure out how to pierce his plating,” you tell him, cutting shapes out and transferring them to a sheet of aluminum. Staring at you, he watches you dust crushed bismuth on the treats and tries to figure out why you’re not more concerned. ‘And the correct response is to just ignore this behavior?’ He growls, trying to follow your logic.

• Feels less out of control when he can touch you. It’s like you somehow ground him. Or maybe you’re the only thing he’s certain of anymore. Before, he hadn’t cared. The fragments of memories had been errors that meant nothing to him. Now they haunt him like your eyes, your anxiety. Isn’t sure that he likes this feeling, this dependency, but he can’t give you up, either. Needs you even though you distract him, complicate everything, make him question his goals. Head bowing toward yours, his servos flex against your arm. Wants to remember.

• Wish you could tell what he’s thinking better. Can sort of gauge his mood with his antenna or the restless tapping of his cannon against his thigh, but those things just clue you in on when he’s agitated. “You still haven’t answered me. What am I to you?” You whisper even though you know this question bothers him. The way he reacts makes you think that he doesn’t know himself. And his antenna go back as he stares at you. His head bumps your forehead, that single optic bathing your face in red light. Stumbling into his chassis and almost clipping your chin on his chest when he tugs you to him, he presses your palm firmly against his chassis.

• “I don’t know what this means,” you say, shoulders slumping. “I can feel that thrumming inside you, sort of like a heartbeat, but if you’re trying to tell me something, just say it.” Antenna flicking, he wonders if there’s even anything to bond to. Organics aren’t compatible that way. Knows that, but he can’t deny the obsessive need to confirm it. To try to bond you anyway. To claim you as his in every way possible. ‘I want you,’ he growls and you huff out a laugh. “Already?”

• He’s just staring and your free hand goes to the blanket wrapped around you. Not about to take it off unless he insists. “Sex doesn’t make a relationship,” you mutter. Even toe curling, urgent, distractingly good sex. And his plating shifts as he moves your hand away. Transfixed by the pulsing, writhing mass of light in his chest, a shiver of awareness whispers through you. Making you realize that you’re leaning toward whatever that is. That you want to reach for it. Making yourself rock back, you look up and he’s just watching you. “I don’t understand,” you say. What does he want you to do? Why show you this? Feel like this matters to him, like it’s important, but you’re left confused and in the dark. Fumbling to figure out what he wants from you.

• Antenna flattening back as the primitive display crackles with static, he’s aware of you sinking even lower in your chair, your hands over your face as dramatic music flourishes play and the image skips before settling into a placard that says ‘Sexual Harassment- It’s Just Not Cool.’ Looking from you to the screen, he vents as human adolescents act out scenarios and the voice over lectures on personal boundaries, verbalizing consent, and unwanted advances.

• What did you do to deserve this? Staring at the ugly ceiling tiles as the stilted and awkward acting becomes almost physically painful even as some of it gets lost in static, you just want to escape. Head turning to glare at the HR rep, you wonder that they’d do if you just got up and walked out. Probably write you up. Maybe dock your pay. Can they do that? You’re not sure as you listen to the announcer recapping what to look out for, emphasizing to speak up. Sitting up when it finally ends, you go still when the rep ejects the tape and slots a second one in, making a Herculean effort to avoid meeting your eyes.

• ‘Healthy Relationships and Safe Sex’ scrolls at the top of the screen and he sits up slightly. “What did I freaking do to you?” You snap at the other human and they stare at their shoes as the video plays. Head tilting while the announcer explains human reproduction, he rumbles. ‘Fascinating,’ he murmurs as you groan and slide down in your chair, heels drumming on the floor and face in your hands. And you seem to be threatening the other human under your breath, but he’s more interested in the helpful hints being offered about healthy, human relationships and interfacing.

• Shockwave just left. Scaring you with the possibility that he might have forgotten something. Might come back and find your lover here. “He’s been acting different lately. Something’s wrong,” you whisper, hands on the wall of your enclosure as you go up on tiptoe to warn Longarm. Because the Decepticon has been playing more attention to you. His touch lingering as that single optic stares like you’re a puzzle he means to solve even if it means taking you apart piece by piece to do it. Shivering, you want to reach up. To be held. Comforted. ‘Different how?’ He asks with a frown, servos stilling in the act of pulling food and water from subspace for you.

• What are you on about? Lying to try and play on his nonexistent sympathies? Mass shifting as he steps over the wall of your enclosure, you run to him and your arms go around him, face against his chassis. “Did he hurt you?” He asks, willing to play this game as his spike stirs when your hands slide down his chassis. Cupping his modesty plating to make him growl. You rest your head against him, shoulders lifting and falling. ‘He’s always staring at me now when he thinks I don’t notice. Last night I woke up and he was brushing his servos against my back,’ you whisper with a shudder and he stills. Hadn’t noticed your field shifting when he’d touched you and his plating barely lifts. That wasn’t a secret for you to know.

• “How you must suffer,” he growls, a servo tipping your chin up and the anger in his tone loosens up the knot inside you. Because he’d promised to help you. To free you as soon as he can. Even if that day is never today. Hand cupping your face, he starts to pull away. Desperation to not be left alone has you moving to stop him, pressing your body up against his as you hook your fingers into the seam of his modesty plating and pull at him. Trying to coax him to your mattress and blankets. Wanting to feel something besides fear. Wanting him. Your protector. ‘Stay,’ you plead and his optics shutter even as he lets you pull him after you.

• Staring at the little sparkling fussing in your arms, he feels almost out of control. Thoughts chaotic. Is this the other him’s face? The stranger whose memories he can almost remember? “We need to think of names,” you mumble, expression softer than he’s ever seen it as you smile at your son. ‘He has an adequate name. Progeny,’ he says and that smile disappears as your head lifts to stare at him until his antenna flick back. “No,” you say, tone so cold that he’s taken aback. Uncomfortable under the weight of your attention, he taps his cannon against his thigh. ‘Though the name is open to debate.’

• “I’ll name him,” you mutter, eyes dropping back to the tiny sparkling as he fusses and squirms. Hungry, maybe? Do the little ones just drink regular energon, too? Should have paid more attention to the other humans with hybrid kids, but you’d been stressing over having a kid as weird as his dad. Had fully expected a tiny cyclops with no face. Aware of Shockwave moving around hunting for something, you smile as those big optics stare up at you. “Your daddy can’t be trusted to help with your name, can he? No, he can’t.”

• Antenna back, he glances at you. “Sparklings that size are incapable of holding a conversation,” he says and you give him a look that he doesn’t particularly like. “He can’t answer you,” he adds, gesturing with his cannon since you’re just staring at him. Antenna flicking, he continues preparing a bottle. Wherever you just stare at him like that, he feels off balance. Like he’s missed a step. “His processor is still developing.” How can you not know that?

• He’s just going to keep digging that hole. You know he is, but you don’t bother to help him. Does he really think you don’t know the baby isn’t going to answer you? “Don’t worry. You get mostly used to him eventually,” you tell your son, ignoring his dad completely up until he holds out the bottle and you take it, fumbling to cradle your sparkling and hold the bottle. Unsure if you’re doing it right or already messing up as you try to feed him. ‘Progeny would be a perfectly adequate name,’ he mutters and you scowl. “Not happening.”

• Reaching out a clawed servo to touch your hair, he swallows a chuckle when you lean away, eyes widening. “Not shy, are you?” He croons, delighted as you fight to keep your expression neutral. Because it’s all too obvious you don’t like him at all. Maybe you’re a spy. A kindred spirit, trying to infiltrate the Decepticon ranks in search of secrets? That at least he can understand. Do you really think you can best him, though? It’s adorable. Breaking you is going to be a delight.

• He’s absolutely doing that on purpose. His clawed servos flexing as that single optic focuses on you. Trying to make you uncomfortable. Maybe he’s trying to make you quit. Eyes narrowing, he set the bucket down, splashing your boot in the process. If he thinks he can screw with you and make you run away crying, he’s got another thing coming. Not about to let Cthulhu Bambi win. “Aren’t you considerate, but you’re so tall still,” you breathe and he hesitates as you plant your palms on his warm chassis and shove. Not even budging him. “Sit down so I can reach.”

• Head tilting with a rumble as you bare your blunt little teeth in a smile and try to push him, he stares before recovering. Trying to ignore a little frisson of heat and attraction that lifts through him. Because you’re doubling down on pretending you’re not scared of him. That you want to be his conjunx when it’s obvious to him that you don’t like him. Sitting suddenly on your cart, he catches your arm and you stumble when he tugs you into him. “Clumsy,” he growls not even trying to sound apologetic, reaching to slide the back of a servo against your cheek as you catch yourself, hands on his chassis.

• The single optic dilates as he stares at you. Messing with you. Does he actually think you’re going to cry off and forfeit that sign-on bonus? “Are you okay?” You ask, voice breathy and patently fake as you sit straddling his lap and cup his weird non-face in your hands, his plating lifting slightly. “You didn’t hurt yourself, right?” You coo as he rumbles at you, the sound almost a growl. But he’s frozen, no fake innocent comeback and you smile sweetly. Score one for you and zero for creepy space deer. “Poor baby,” you add and that optic narrows to a malevolent point.