Blasted (Blaster/Soundwave RP)
Blasted
I tend to keep moving. Be it to a beat, or just to stay ahead. I can't afford to be still. So I figured slouched in a bar was probably one of the better places for me to hide.
The reflections in Macadams windows appear drowned out by the neon lights of the street. A lot of them forming supposedly uplifting messages in huge letters, disrupting the skyline.
āThis is the best day of your life!ā
āAnother?ā Automated bartenders apparently don't know when to cut a mech off.
I mean, seriously, I've been watching my levels rise steadily.
It's optic is dim and flat. Much like the rest of it.
What makes us so different?
Automated. Makes one proud to be called an āAutobotā, doesn't it?
We say it stands for autonomous, and perhaps we managed to change it's meaning along the way but it originally stood for automated. Is the difference in the eye of the beholder?
I look at the little droid again.
āSureā.
It fills my cube with mathematical precision, oblivious to the two other cubes still half full.
Maybe not.
āBest day everā, indeed.
Mentally I see Beachcomber's face. His optics squeezed shut and his vocalized contorted, hick upping static. The mind control nanite's attempt to silence his screams. I'd provoked someone in attempting to silence me three times, or at least what I stood for. āThe Voiceā the bot who will tell it like it is. Only thing I don't ever tell is how tired I am of being āthe Voiceā. I've heard too much. Seen too much. I actually want a break from being.. me. Not enough to make getting rid of me easy for anyone of course but I'm tired of walking in my own shadow. If my best friend can be compromised simply by an injection, then it can be said that I have no friends left. All the same, it was a quick and dirty form of mind control. As shown by Beachcomber who actually managed to overcome the nasty little bug in the end. The finger was pointed straight at Soundwave who apparently had developed a way to take away an individual's self control by means of microscopic droid bugs. It seemed odd to me.
Few people are privy to some of the personal communications between Soundwave and those few he chooses to grace with a direct com. I stumbled across it once, a long time ago. Information is power, so I filed it away and occasionally intercepted some chatter over the years, logs and the like. Nothing super-useful yet strangely intimate. It didn't jive. Silent Soundwave has a way with words, I learned that much at least. Some of the messages contained something in a journal format and it was long and thoughtful. In it he even expressed his frustrations that come with watching his friend become the Decepticon leader and move further and further away from their ideals. His worries. His sense of loneliness in the crowd that he can't help but feel. I'd almost call them letters, addressed to no one. Musical in rhythm and word choice. There is a harmony to it. In the music of Soundwave's vocabulary, controlling another mech by means of destroying individuality was a note that fell sour. Perhaps it is only because we both have transmission alt modes but it was as clear to me as any of the neon signs telling me how my day is shaping up, and just as annoying.
It just didn't seem his style to me. Almost as if whoever had included the visual memory file of Soundwave injecting mind control nanites expected no one to know him well enough to question it.
Come to think of it, I am not sure any other Autobot really does. I hadn't thought about it before but I guess I feel I've gotten to know him better than any other Autobot, and most Decepticons, through those messages. For all our differences I believe he favors equality between mechs as much as I do. As Prime does. As Megatron once did. Besides. Persuasion is a far more intimate and powerful game. Subtle. The nanites and the successive attempts to end me weren't subtle at all. He wasn't one for quick and dirty. The cubes became blurrier as I downed the little row I'd created. Being slagfaced would give me a way to back out of this. Just in case he'd been the one to try to kill me repeatedly after all. I know being drunk is a flimsy excuse but it'd have to do. As worried as I am that he will simply ignore a com from me, I am far more worried that he will answer me.
My internal Fuel Intake Moderation Chip reads āintoxicatedā.
Good enough. I ping the frequency.
::Hello Soundwave, I am finding nanites in my friends along with a good picture of you. If I didn't know better I'd say someone thinks you're an easy scapegoat. Who did you tick off lately?::
I attach the little file I'd fished out of Beachcomber's memory banks and wait.
