#slave coding

The Prime stood across from him, the mech built to be Megatron’s equal in every way. His footfalls were just as heavy as Soundwave’s lords (former lords?) His armor just as thick.

His field though, was soft. Mournful.

Guilty.

Soundwave didn’t know what to make of it.

“Soundwave.” Optimus spoke softly, not moving from the spot he’d taken, just out of arms length. “You’re safe. I promised you that when this started, and I will keep that promise now. You will not be made to do anything you are uncomfortable with. Only what is needed.”

Chills raced down Soundwave’s spinal strut, but he nodded anyway. It didn’t matter how he felt. Only the slave coding mattered now–newly awakened, attached to Optimus Prime and demanding for Soundwave to submit.

He’d been sparked with it, this coding. It was his purpose–to be a highly ranked, absolutely loyal, personal slave. No room for anything but pure obedience. His telekinesis had been a curse that had gotten him booted from the family he’d been sparked to serve, and he’d wandered the gutters with the coding’s shrieking, burning rage for years until he’d stumbled across his cassettes, and Megatron after them.

The people who had given him a purpose. Modified and silenced the coding that controlled him. Who worked with him for years to erase all the damage the coding had done. Physical, mental, emotional.

Now, his cassettes were gone (fled, as they’d been ordered) Megatron had likely marked him a traitor, and his slave coding was active,  the seething pain already building under his plating.

“I don’t know how you got it offline to begin with.” Ratchet had snarled at the start of it, his medbay over-flowing with mechs suffering from all kinds of newly onlined coding.  A hand ran over his helm, staring in defeat at the quiet Con before him. “This is a complicated, highly unique program. Individual, probably passed down from a higher caste family. Best we can do is work with it until I can examine it further.”

Unspoken was the fact that Ratchet didn’t have the time to examine it now, because he still had other mechs to attend to. Soundwave wasn’t the only ‘Con who’d ended up here, abandoned.

He wasn’t the only one with slave coding, either.

Nor did he think the Autobots would release him. He’d been shot by Shockwave’s experimental new weapon after Megatron had made the mech use it before it’d been properly tested. Which of course meant that, rather than doing what it was supposed to do, it’d gone completely out of control. Spinning and firing wildly, hitting everyone who’d been unfortunate enough to get in its way.

Soundwave had gone down, blocking a hit meant for his Lord. Megatron ordered a retreat shortly after and as per Soundwave’s own protocols, his cassettes (thankfully, all ejected before the battle) retreated right with him.

Leaving the Autobots to try and take down the weapon, and Soundwave convulsing on the ground, as years of complicated overrides, deflections, and hacks were torn away. He’d finally gone offline, only to come to with Optimus Prime staring him down. The first person he’d encountered since the coding had been activated.

Seconds later his processor dutifully informed him that made the mech his master.

A flurry of things happened from there, mostly getting everyone up and back to the Ark, captured ‘Cons in tow as those with less malicious coding tried to explain what the weapon supposedly did. Chaos had kept Soundwave from panicking too hard, until Prime’s rounds had been finished and it appeared no more could be done.

Now two days in, Soundwave had been removed from the medbay to make space, and placed in Optimus’s own quarters.

Was staring down the mech his body had betrayed him for.

“Optimus Prime: Master.” He said, the words dragged from his vocalizer once again. “Soundwave: Will do as ordered.” A small panicked whine, then a painful admittance, equally forced out. “Soundwave: needs orders.”

“Okay.” Optimus said, voice and field still so carefully calm. “What kind of orders do you need? Bare minimum.”

“Service.”

“Okay.” Then, optics glinting in determination; “I promise you, I will do everything I can to get you through this.”

Trepan was his name, and Overlord had spent a good two days finding where he lived. He stood out side the bots door, venting hard from all his constant runing about, avoiding being caught, while tracking down leads.

he did no even bother to knock.he simply slammed his fingers into the door, and forced it open. The apartment was huge, benefiting someone who could do such a special thing. Trepan was at the counter in his kitchen, dropping his data pad in shock.

“What... What is this?!”

Overlord pointed at him. “You. You will get rid of it. My slave coding! I refuse to have it.” Overlord grabbed at trepan’s hand, practically ready to pass out form overworking himself. “Now. Remove it now.”

Trepan kept his calm, Looking at the huge hand clutching his. “It will cost you a bit. But I can do it.”

Overlord snarled, grabbing Trepan and slamming him into the wall. “No, now. Now or I will kill you and find someone else to do it!”

“Well aren’t you in a rush.” trepan coughed, and Overlord was tickled impressed by how calm he was, “Fine. But i warn you, i could mess up. It could trigger and yu could be tied to me. Its always a risk.”

And that could never happen. Overlord was OVERLORD the very best fighter in the pits, who only lost because his owner forced him to. “Do it.”

Trepan curled his lip, slapping overlord away. “Get on your knees so i can get at your neck.”

“I do not get on my knees for anyone.” Overlord stated, picking Trepan up and simply holding him to the right level. He flinched as Trepan sank his needles into his neck, and then he waited.

Trepan did no routing around. Overlord had heard of Mnemosurgeons and their abilities to invade his mind but Trepan didn’t seem to be doing that. Good he was behaving.

“There it is...” Trepan mumbled, tilting his head slightly. His face contorted in concentration, then he made a disconcerting sound. “Ah...”

Overlord felt it. That familiar feeling. He became enraged. “You did it on purpose!” He shoved trepan away, hand in a fist and ready to punch the little thing until he was nothing but a pile of scrap.

Trepan did not flinch, and Overlord’s fist froze mid swing. Trepan smiled, fingers lacing together in a pleased manner.

“Consider this poetic irony, for not paying me. I still could of taken it out, even if activated but... Well no need now.” Trepan cooed, “Kneel.”

Overlord fought hard, but it hurt to refuse the command. Blinding horrible pain. His knees buckled, and soon he was on his hands and knees, head bowed.

Trepan clapped his hands, reaching out and petting one of his smoke stacks. “Good boy... You’re Overlord, right? The Gladiator.” he held out his other hand, palm down. “Kiss my hand.”

Overlord gave in faster. Kissing a hand was not as humiliating, and he had done it before. He pressed his lips to the metal, and Trepan chuckled.

“Give me your personal number. I’m going to let you keep fighting. You can even keep your money, i have no need for it. But... You’re mine now. My protector. And oh, someone like me needs protecting.”

Trepan turned his hand over, sliding his fingers under Overlord’s chin and tilting his head back, running his thumb over the gladiators over sized lips, “And when I call for you, you will come to me. And do as I say. Yes?”

It wasn’t the first time there had being greivous injury to Whirl’s head. It probably wouldn’t be the last time, either, by any means, but still, it was…well, it was bad. Maybe Swerve was just a little sensitive to someone having their helm rebuilt, considering what had happened with Rung, but it bothered him deeply to see it.

“It’s not your fault.” Rung had explained when they were both sitting at the side of the medical berth.

Swerve wasn’t sure he believed that. After all, Whirl had gotten into this particular fight, docked at an alien station and sampling local oils at a bar, because of Swerve- defending the minibot, actually. A local had been very insistent that Swerve had a mouth, quote, “made for a sexbot” and when they hadn’t taken the hint, Whirl had taken it very personally on Swerve’s account.

Rung sat with him for a time, and they talked- well, Swerve talked, Rung listened as he talked about everything and anything. About his and Whirl’s relationship, about the bar, about how everybody kept offering him platitudes he felt he didn’t deserve, about how scared he was. The psychologist listened and said a few deeply comforting words before leaving Swerve alone with his unconcious lover for the night.

Swerve talked until his optics grew dim and he fell into a fitful recarge resting against the berth, as he had every night for the past week since Whirl’s helm had been all but blown off by an overzealous alien packing a very powerful weapon. This time, though, when he woke, Whirl wasn’t laying back, prone and still anymore.

“…Whirl?” His voice cracked. The Helicopter was sitting up, his new helm just like his old, single optic narrowed and focused on his claws, which were slowly flexing open and closed. “Whirl! You’re awake!”

Whirl turned to him, the motion jerky and unsteady, and the helicopter buzzed with static and awkward clicks before it seemed he could get his vocalizer to function. Swerve waited, beaming, eagerly- he was awake! At last!

His joy was cut very short, though, when Whirl managed a sentence.

“Who are you?”

“The part of his processor that regulates memory recall and organization was partially destroyed- his processor can recover, self-repair will eventually rebuild the structure, but for now he’s going to be somewhat…confused. We’re still trying to understand the full extant of the effect on his processor.”

Swerve nodded and swallowed hard, listening to Rung and First Aid and watching as Whirl kept trying to pick up a cube clumsily, constantly holding too gently and dropping it or squeezing too hard only for it to skid away across the table’s surface. He had to re-learn how to use his claws.

He had to re-learn how to do a lot of things. Whatever parts of his memory were responsible for his body, it wasn’t exactly accurate. He kept twitching, trying to express with a face that wasn’t there, trying to move his fingers individually instead of opening and closing claws. “Frag.” Whirl grumbled, as his meal slid away again.

“Here, I can help-” Swerve moved to pick it up, and Whirl jerked a bit.

“I can do it myself- just let me-” THey’d barely had time to talk at all, since Whirl had woken up and been surrounded by medics and Rung, frantically trying to gauge the extent of his damaged memories, whether or not he could tell anything about where he was- who he was.

It was garbled. “Frag!” Whirl snapped as the cube tilted and spilled.

“Just let me feed you.” Swerve sighed, and…Whirl froze. Setting the cube down in front of Swerve with a fast, unsettling motion. Swerve blinked, startled, as Whirl’s probiscus unsheathed without prompting and he stayed still. “…Whirl?”

Whirl didn’t respond, but his field went from carefully restrained to confused. Swerve gently picked up the cube and slowly guided it up to the probiscus, letting Whirl drink. He’d fed Whirl before, many times. It had always been intimate, pleasant, but this felt strangely mechanical. Once the cube was empty and Whirl’s probiscus retracted, the awkward silence in the room became unbearable.

“Whirl, what just happened?”

“I obeyed.” The answer was flat.

“…We need to conduct a few tests-” First Aid’s voice was tense. Swerve felt faint.

The memories had no context. No order, but they were there, shaping him. He was in a cell, beating a mech with reflective mining tape on him, ignoring his cries for help, for mercy.  He was moving very carefully with tiny tools as he guided wires into the right places, the timepiece in his hands coming to life. He was a wrecker, he was here to break things, and people. He was an enforcer, but he wanted to be anything else.

He was mad. He was scared. He was so, so furious and he couldn’t quite piece together why, so many reasons all jumbled up when he tried to remember.

“Whirl, you really don’t have to- I mean, if you want to sit, you can-” Swerve babbled nervously, trying not to feel uncomfortable under Whirl’s gaze, the helicopter standing just behind her bar, posture tall and straight.

“I’m fine.” Whirl lied. The minibot’s name was Swerve, and he couldn’t begin to imagine what a bright, energetic little thing saw in a broken-down copter like him. Swerve had explained that they’d been dating for a while, nervous and talking too much (but Whirl kind of liked it, even though it was hard to listen, hard to follow the sounds) and he was…taking care of Whirl, for now.

There were a lot of names for the problem- compliance coding, insurance, obediance protocols, but everyone called them by what it was now- slave programming. Whirl couldn’t remember it being installed, but according to his medical records he’d known. He’d known, and it’d been deactivated during a war- one he also couldn’t quite remember correctly.

Fighting on a battlefield, a gun clutched in claws tightly, laughing and laughing because there was nothing to think about in the middle of a battle.

“If you’re sure.” Swerve frowned, that cute mouth turned down at the corners, and Whirl felt a tug on his spark- followed by a sharp mental reprimand. He trusted Swerve, absolutely, and if there was anybody for him to imprint upon he was lucky it was Swerve- but it was…unsettling, for everybody involved. In no small part because slave programming had varieties- different lines of work needed different treatments, and in Whirl’s case, it was military- or maybe enforcers coding.

He kept snapping to attention whenever he tried to relax, he couldn’t stop looking for potential dangers- especially to Swerve. Swerve was a commanding officer to his processor, and Whirl found himself bristling anytime someone so much as looked at Swerve too long. The closest he could get to comfortable was here, in guard mode, standing behind the bar and waiting, itching under his plating and unable to do anything about it.

“We should have some drinks tonight, I’ve got some new earth shows you might like, we can watch ‘em at your habsuite.” Swerve tried to carry on like things were okay.

“Yes, sir.” Whirl responded on automatic, before they both flinched and Whirl rubbed his helm, mortified. “Slag. Sorry- I mean-”

The damage was done, though, and Swerve nodded, uncomfortable. “I know, uh…we don’t have to do anything tonight. I mean, stuff’s kinda weird, anyways-” He babbled, even as he mixed drinks, and Whirl thought about curling up into a little ball of shame and frustration.

The coding told him to stay standing, that it wouldn’t do to show weakness, to keep watch, so he did that instead.

“Your coding was neutralized several centuaries into the war, but right now your processor can’t recall the counter-coding. It should be able to recreate it on it’s own, but if not, there are medical overrides that First Aid could attempt, or failing that, there is a mnemosurgeon onboard.”

“That seems kinda drastic.”

“It wouldn’t be ideal, but it would grant you freedom of behavior again.” Rung smiled softly, adjusting his little glasses even though those things were designed to lock into optimal position on a face. It was a nervous habit, Whirl had noticed. “…You’ve been very quiet this session, Whirl. Would you like to tell me what you’re thinking of?” That was something Whirl liked about Rung. Rung was very good at wording things, making sure he didn’t order Whirl to answer anything.

So it took a minute for Whirl to decide if he wanted to tell, or not… “Maybe I should keep it.”

“Beg pardon?”

“The slave coding. Maybe I should just keep it. Even with my memories gettin’ more organized every time I recharge, it’s…I dunno, doc.” He waved, vaguely, claws clicking together. “I think people prefer me this way.”

Rung stared for a moment, shocked. “…Whirl, I assure you, nobody wants to see another suffer under this coding-”

“Come on, eyebrows! Don’t tell me that everybody feels sorry for me- I’m a partial amnesiac, not an idiot. They like it better this way, so that they don’t have to worry about me gettin’ to fights with them, or breaking shit or doing…whatever the pit I want, really. The only two mechs who actually care enough to feel bad for me are you an’…an…” He trailed off.

“…And Swerve.” Rung ventured, and Whirl’s helm bobbed as he nodded, optic dimming. “Oh, Whirl.”

“M’better off this way.” Whirl looked down at his claws and flexed them, fighting the desire to scrape at his own plating to try and relieve the frustration. The coding said not to. Self-damage was not acceptable under it’s parameters.

“Whirl, I promise you, you are not better off like this. You seem miserable to me, and I wish to help you.” Rung reached out, and carefully put a hand on the edge of a rotor, noting that Whirl was very subtly shaking- a low-level vibration of distress.

A Deca-cycle later, and Whirl woke up from a particularly deep recharge on the spare berth in Swerve’s habsuite with the realization that he was whole again, and he quieted a chuckle as he walked over to Swerve’s berth and gently nuzzled the recharging minibot, careful not to wake him before he left.

Not even an hour later found Whirl in the brig, energon on the knuckles of his pincers, shouting gleeful obsceneties at Ultra Magnus for no reason other than he -could- now that he didn’t instinctively treat the huge enforcer as a leader and felt compelled to give him respect.

When Swerve came to get him out, take him back to his habsuite, the minibot was too overjoyed by Whirl’s recovery to even pretend to be upset that Whirl had immediately went out and instigated a fight just to reassure himself that he was free. Whirl bent down to his level and Swerve laughed and peppered his helm with kisses, until Magnus told the both of them to scram.