Chapter Text
The project is a resounding success.
Cycles and cycles of arduous research, meticulous planning and extensive experimentation have culminated in a tangible result worthy of extensive documentation. The adequate groundwork for future recapitulation is finally within reach, areas where consolidation might be applicable already configuring within the finer pathways of his processor in a never-ending stream of analyses, bolstered only by the curiosity borne of his scientific inclinations.
With lives as long as theirs, fickle, waning interests aren’t an uncommon phenomenon. Shockwave has pursued many lines of inquiry over countless millennia, but this is the first to hold his attention so raptly in centuries. A painstakingly pieced together genome borne of both past and present, rooted in methodologies unconstrained by the hypocrisies of a broken system unwilling to evolve past or acknowledge its own heinous, bestial proclivities.
Distantly, he wonders what those who gleefully tore his frame apart piece by piece, who touched and prodded and mutilated his inner fibers with vicious delight might think of the product of his blasphemous pursuits.
Very little, he concludes, skewered at the end of his commander’s blade, left to rust within the ostentatious halls of their crumbling towers.
There remains much to record, much to ponder over and execute on a larger scale once resource scarcity is not a pressing concern and long-term sustainability is a realistic possibility. Tucked away within the remote reaches of his current station, Shockwave is complacent with cataloguing this smaller advancement. He is complacent with contributing to their ambitions and aspirations, to their faction’s ever-expanding vision for the future.
Alone, there is little else for him to do.
It is with purpose that he unseals the chamber, the harsh, cacophonous whistle of pressurized clamps releasing reverberating throughout the laboratory, long made absent of the chatty, solemn and philosophical. Steam billows upwards, life-sustaining fluids leaking down the sides of the compact capsule, draining into fissuring cracks decorating the deteriorating ground below. Idling drones scramble to clean the mess, pulsing irritated signals in his direction, but Shockwave’s attention is fixed on the form cradled in a bed of tubing and circuity, bundled in mesh meant to imitate the instinctual touch of safety and guardianship.
Petite claws flex in the first conscious attempts at movement. Stubby horns crowning a soft helm twitch.
Golden optics flicker on slowly, initiating their first calibration sequence. Lacking in cognizant awareness, they can only passively interpret and internalize data this early into their life cycle. Shockwave is well-aware of this fact, diverging evolutionary traits notwithstanding, and yet when that surprisingly lucid gaze flutters from point to point before settling upon him, there is the oddest sensation of familiarity. Of recognition where none should exist beyond a stasis-hold.
Highly illogical, he muses, plucking away the coagulated remains of synthesized amniotic fluids. The creature squirms in its cradle, eyes squinting shut before a high pitch warble erupts from their underdeveloped vocalizer. Shockwave continues in his task of disentangling supportive cabling, setting aside obstructive tubing as they wail. It is a shrill sound. Unfamiliar, although not unexpected.
Inexperience correlates not to ignorance, however.
Equipment set aside, he tucks a hand below the soft protoform of the helm, angling his cannon to support the rest of the small frame, completely dwarfed by his not inconsiderable stature and width. Almost instantly does the fussing cease. Damp optics focus in on his featureless mien, internal and circuitous nerves and vessels calibrating beneath glossy lenses, zooming in and out in a manner indicative of curiosity.
Sifting through archaic databases pilfered from redacted records, he lays the creature’s helm against his chassis, directly above where his spark chamber should lie. As he expects, the reaction is instinctive, their small form curling closer, comforted by the steady pulse of the nearest life signature, suggestive of companionship and protection. An intrinsic aspect of their kind’s communal values.
Shockwave cannot claim to be well-versed in such practices, but there is little reason to argue with veritable results when the creature is slowly lulled back into recharge, claws curling inward, their quiet venting as cacophonous as any one of Shockwave’s footsteps in a long forgotten laboratory, keeping time with the matching pulsations of their respective sparks.
A steady beat, a unique rhythm.
Sound, after so much silence.
The creature rests.
Shockwave remains as he is and watches.
“Energon is consumed via the intake,” he informs the specimen, observing passively as it forces—with unprecedented strength for its age and stature—the phial from Shockwave’s grip, overturning the contents onto its face.
Their supplies are finite, any expectations for additional drops discarded after the initial dozen thousand years of isolation, but that does not stop the drones from scrambling to prepare another phial, pulsing their irritation and dismay at him. They have become rather taken with the creature, watching over and entertaining it when Shockwave is busy with other endeavors.
He voices no complaints. The intent behind their construction had been providing assistance with both experimentation and general maintenance. It is an optimal use of the time they would otherwise spend pestering him with requests for upgrades.
And yet, whenever he finds himself locked out of his laboratory over some perceived slight or another, he ponders whether programming them with such advanced levels of autonomy was a prudent decision.
Herded into his quarters with Energon, a cleaning rag and the explicit orders to nurture by the skittering robotics not even a quarter of his size, Shockwave acknowledges it was a most illogical choice.
Perching on the edge of his berth, he takes the rag and runs it over the creature’s facial plates. It grimaces, feebly attempting to stop his ministrations. He wipes away the remaining residue. He does not flinch when those small but sharp fangs clamp down on his fingers in retaliation, leaving another set of puncture wounds on the plating. Optics alighting with curious surprise at the texture, it begins gnawing. An instinctual behavior, undoubtably.
Not interested in having his single remaining servo ground to dust, Shockwave extracts it, ignoring the perturbed whine it elicits, offering the phial in its stead. He carefully maintains his grip when it is thrust aside, patiently awaiting for the fussing fit to cease.
In a way, he thinks, it is no different than dealing with the mercurial moods of seekers. Understanding how to traverse those wildly volatile temperaments makes all other manner of interaction pale in comparison.
The specimen writhes and warbles, flailing its soft limbs, refusing Shockwave’s every attempt to feed it. Distressed for reasons beyond his understanding, it fusses.
He isn’t certain what the problem is. At current, all of its needs have been satiated, exempting a fuel-tank bordering at half. Not enough to warrant concerns over starvation. Another passing glance into the archive provides various suggestions and techniques, many for frames of the less bestial variety, none of which manage to calm the incessant wailing erupting from a comparatively smaller body.
Frustrated with his inability to evoke the desired response, he pings the drones. They willfully ignore his demands for assistance. A quick tap into the visual feed reveals they are wasting energy they do not have rewatching trite video dramas dating back to the Golden Age.
Resigning himself, Shockwave looks back at the creature, the exertion of its own unwarranted tantrum taking a toll on its underdeveloped frame. It heaves, vents struggling to cycle hot air from its body. Unsure of how else to proceed, Shockwave defers to instinct.
He lays the specimen on his chassis. His servo runs along its back, careful with its application of pressure.
Gradually, the sobbing ceases, vents cycling down from their harsh whirring. The creature coos, cheek pressing against the cool glass of Shockwave’s chest plates, drifting into a serene lull.
When Shockwave attempts to stop, it immediately recoils and awakens, whimpering and growling and demanding until he begins anew.
Shockwave remains as he is for a very long while.
It is joors later that it rouses and, of its own accord, nestles back into the cradle of Shockwave’s arms. As if only as a second thought, it reaches for the phial, sipping at a pace in alignment with its lethargic demeanor. When nothing remains, it looks to him expectantly.
Shockwave resumes their prior position. It falls into recharge.
His task sufficiently completed, Shockwave pings the drones. They do not respond, likely too enraptured by whatever mundane, scandalous behaviors they are baring witness to on the repurposed monitor they’ve claimed for themselves. He considers calling again, shutting down the power remotely in a bid to garner their undivided attention, their obedience.
Shockwave considers.
He lays back against his cot instead.
The specimen mumbles garbled binary, huddling closer. Dimming the lights, Shockwave sets an alarm for later.
There is much yet to accomplish; always ample reason to maintain a strict level of productivity, even among the ruins of a dead, decaying planet. Regardless of circumstances being what they are, there is very little that can discourage Shockwave into setting aside his continuous pursuit of knowledge.
There remains much for him to do. He’s sure of it.
Later, he thinks, optic shuttering, idly stroking the creature’s back. It chitters in its sleep, content.
Later, Shockwave thinks, and rests.
It is commonplace to find the crushed remains of equipment littered throughout the laboratory.
The perpetrator is typically always in near proximity, confused as it struggles to ascertain the cause, staring at its claws as it struggles to calibrate accordingly, wondering why.
Why.
Shockwave thinks of shattered beakers and crushed keypads, data tablets with webbed cracks. He thinks of a destroyed monitor and exposed wiring, fingers hanging from their hinges, joints mangled.
He thinks of steady cobalt servos, of mended metal. Of a long-forgotten song, a dulcet hum.
Logic dictates it makes little sense to involve the creature in his work given its propensity for destroying delicate machinery, but Shockwave perches it atop his cannon anyway. He allows its investigative tinkering. It turns his tools over in its small hands, scenting and gnawing before handing them off. Many are broken. Shockwave sets them aside for later. He fixes and repurposes.
He takes to offering insight into his processes, however futile. The creature cannot communicate anything of meaningful relevance or provide valuable criticisms for his methodologies, but it babbles and warbles anyway. It listens attentively as he speaks.
“The chest cavity of a combiner,” Shockwave says, when he is going over past schematics to abate the tedium of his current in-progress focus. The diagram showcases his most successful attempt at weaponizing the ancient concept of gestalts; a desperate measure to counteract their faction’s considerable disadvantage in size, firepower and infrastructure.
He explains this to the creature. The light of the monitor reflects against its attentive optics; the translucent sheen of its developing armor plates, at least several millennia off from expanding and hardening to accommodate all that remains for its frame to grow.
“The battles to follow were conclusive.” It hadn’t lasted, the enemy quick to develop counter weaponry, but that was within their expectations. “Among the Predacons, there is evidence suggesting they were capable of the same. An evolutionary holdover, likely originating from the Titans.”
It—the specimen—turns to Shockwave, twittering inquisitively.
“I am not certain whether that would be within your capabilities,” Shockwave answers, assuming this is the information it seeks. “My familiarity with your phenotypic make-up is still lacking in many areas. So long as the gene sequence remains active, it is within the realm of possibility. If not, as I’ve mentioned, there are alternatives,” he pauses, spark stirring with discomfort. “I would not recommend the procedure. At current, your frame would be unable to withstand the system strain. There is also the matter of compatibility.”
The creature considers this.
It looks back at the monitor, babbles to itself, and proceeds to become distracted by a nearby data-pad.
Shockwave returns to his work. He does not make much progress, and steps out in an attempt to clear his processor, leaving the creature in the care of the drones. When he returns, it is to both parties reenacting the process of combination, tumbling helm over pede and snarling as only a powerful beast would.
He sits and watches.
At one point, the creature crawls over. Shockwave obligingly accepts them into his arms. It growls, using the drone currently wrapped around its tiny fist to playfully attack his chassis.
Shockwave lies back, as if defeated in the line of combat.
The creature croons, victorious.
Their quota for entertainment sufficiently sated, the drones scatter. Rather expectantly, the fit of playfulness is enough to exert the specimen’s limited energy levels. Its optics flicker tiredly, fixing upon his chassis. It taps the tempered glass with its claw-tips, nudging the center seams insistently.
Shockwave folds them aside, it tumbles in, and he transforms them back shut, ambling over to his console.
With fresher optics, he finds a minor miscalculation skewing a certain subset of equations. It is easily corrected, his graphing and modeling finally resulting in a more sensical analysis.
The processor roadblock now cleared, he proceeds with further investigation.
Occasionally, his servo will come to lay on his chassis where, just atop the fortified casing of his spark chamber, his creation rests.
Cybertron is barren.
Shockwave is well-aware of this fact, as hundreds of thousands of years living within the planet’s ruins would suggest, but it still incurs in him a certain level of dismay whenever he trudges from the depths of their abandoned base to find nothing but arid metal-lands, scorched and dulled by hundreds upon thousands of years of warfare and neglect.
How prosperous they could have been, a veritable beacon of galactic advancement and evolution had their concessions been met. Victory had been a calculable certainty, but cornered beasts only lash out more viciously. The skewered remains of the Prime hadn’t been enough to deter resistance from a cowering council quick to hide behind a barrier of willfully complacent fodder.
What a waste, Shockwave thinks.
Perched on his cannon, the specimen coos, taking in their surroundings with rapt interest. There is nothing that especially warrants the enthusiasm of their twittering, but after having their movement constrained to the perimeter of the laboratory and their quarters, it is only logical that it finds wonder in what is ostensibly a dead planet.
It squirms in his grasp, tugging at the antennae framing either side of Shockwave’s helm, demanding his attention.
“Attempting to traverse large distances would be inefficient,” Shockwave flicks his fins out of reach. “Cybertron’s terrain is unstable. The likelihood of injury is high and your ability to resist infection is low.” At its displeased whine, he adds, “I will ferry you. Where is it you wish to go?”
The specimen babbles and points.
Shockwave lumbers over dutifully. They are trailed by drones not otherwise collecting samples or finding reasons to bicker among themselves, goading each other on with clawed servo while the rest gleefully instigate the conflict further.
There does not appear to be any singular destination in mind. Shockwave goes where he is directed, explaining various objects of interest to the creature. Occasionally, he hands them over for it to investigate on its own terms. Many are crushed between its still relatively delicate fangs, the remaining glimmering ores and stones tucked away jealously in Shockwave’s chassis compartment, likely to join the rest of the conspicuous hoard hidden beneath its cot back at the base.
“Fault lines,” he answers when it points out the fissure marks stretching into the distance. They are an amalgamation of differing patterns, uniform in their distinctive consistency. The most appropriate visual comparison Shockwave can make would be to the transformation seams unique to Cybertronian anatomy. Disparate puzzle pieces meant to transfigure, connect and function. “The result of Cybertron’s primordial reconfiguration sequences. The predominant theory is the planet’s database, Vector Sigma, decides upon and executes beneficial formations depending on a variety of different factors, including population size, spatial coordinates and resource availability.”
“…I do not subscribe to this theory.” Shockwave thinks of storming the capital, of the depths of Cybertron’s fiercely protected core, shielded from the sullied optics of plebeians deemed unworthy to gaze upon its spiritual splendor and magnificence.
He thinks of a dormant processing center, of torn and blown out circuitry, corroding metals stripped of their paneling and dark monitors, cracked and shattered. As cold and decrepit and lifeless as the frames strewing the path cut by the commander himself.
The commander, who had scoffed before urging them back the way they came.
Two servo rest on either side of his helm, rousing him from his meaningless musings. They are small, barely able to grasp anything at all.
He cannot feel them, not really. Direct sensations, tactile contact, he has not been able to properly sense them since—
He has not been able to. He has not been able to and yet—
“It is nothing,” Shockwave says, optic on the faults, faded and dull.
It was never anything at all.
Their visit outside continues unimpeded until a thunderous echo reverberates in the far distance, accompanied by menacing streaks of crackling electricity. The skies stretching across this sector have always been heavy with soot and ash. The menace of acidic rains are as reliable as the reasoning for a Cybertronian’s arrival to the most remote reaches of a dumping ground for functionless degenerates in the first place. The unpredictability does not lend itself to survival within a region already lacking in the resources necessary for the long-term sustainment of an entire population.
Shockwave calculates the probability of arriving back to base in his vehicular form before they are caught in a squall that will assuredly corrode and liquify their frames within seconds. The odds are, calculably, not in their favor.
For a moment, Shockwave laments the idea of off-lining over a reason as unquantifiable as inconsistent weather patterns.
He feels a tug at his finials. His creation is chirruping, gesturing frantically where the fault lines they were observing earlier lie. The surrounding panels are undulating wildly, scattering panicked drones as the ground begins to quake and rumble. Shockwave keeps a firm grip and stance as the seam-like fissures steadily pull apart, the violent shriek of grinding mechanisms piercing his audial receptors. The terrain splits, and Shockwave is certain they are about to plummet to their deaths, but everything comes to a halt right before his pedes, where instead of a chasm perfect for entertaining the concept of terminal velocity, a staircase unfolds.
Shockwave stands there, nonplussed.
It is his creation that rouses him from inaction, grabbing at his antennae, its warbles now fearful as the storm approaches. The menacing display of light and sound—the tinge and taste of toxic ozone in the air—it’s grounds enough for a decision.
Directing the drones to hurry ahead of him, an order they are curiously very eager to comply with, Shockwave hazards a singular glance backwards.
A clap of thunder booms.
His creation whimpers.
Shockwave descends.
Upon clearing the hatch, the panels shuffle together, clicking and snapping into place with finality, just in time for the steady cadence of precipitation to evolve into a powerful barrage. It briefly plunges the passageway into darkness, pressure-locked junctions pulsing faintly with energy, breaking away into individual fractals before connecting to a mural of intricate patterning lining either corridor wall, ancient sigils illuminating a decline into shadowy depths.
Shockwave is not foolish enough to deem this mere coincidence. He follows the path laid out for them, tuning out the incessant pinging ahead. A glance at the creature finds the safety of cover having tempered its anxiety. It tugs at his antenna almost idly, underdeveloped horns twitching, its fangs clicking. Examining the acoustics.
Their arrival at the base of the staircase greets them with a circuitous gate, whereupon the steps disengage, folding back and integrating into the walls. The space they occupied closes in, disparate pieces connecting and walling off the path from which they’ve come.
His creation rests a servo against the blockade, startling when the spot alights with a golden hue, trailing off and fading into dark indents carved onto lustrous platelets. It travels the perimeter of the cavity, imbuing the gaps chiseled into the gate opposite with light, disengaging whatever mechanisms lock it into place. With a shrieking grind, it spirals open, revealing a large vacuous chamber, devoid of anything apart from a conspicuous center console, illuminated by a halo of hazy, desert luster breaching the transparent ceilings above. The floor panels ripple, the gate’s placement shifting back and cycling shut behind them.
The drones scatter, eager to explore and analyze, uncaring of any latent dangers inherent in exploring an area with perceived sentience. Shockwave leaves them to their whims, well-aware his warnings would be no more sufficient here than they ever are at his laboratory.
He strides up to the console instead, peering at the tablet and the glyphs inscribed onto it.
His creation beeps, waving its servo, gesturing back towards where the entrance no longer lies. It flexes clawed digits to emphasize its intent. Shockwave holds them forward, grip firm as their tiny frame stretches over and all but slams a hand onto the opalescent tablet, a gleeful warble erupting from their vocalizer.
There is no immediate change.
His creation preemptively deflates, likely believing itself to have failed.
Before Shockwave can explain the likelihood of the same simplistic method functioning for what has thus far served as an unconventional experience, the console emits a high-pitch keen, the artistic mosaics decorating its pillar igniting. The entire chamber begins to vibrate violently, a chorus of muddled, panicked pings erupting in the backdrop of Shockwave’s processor.
Cannon whirring to life, his creation’s insistent croon draws his attention back towards the tablet, where a single indecipherable glyph—ancient characters familiar to the tomes and records he often sifts through—distorts and twists, rending itself into something he can plainly understand.
{Hi.}
Shockwave inclines his helm.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hello!” his creation exclaims.
It is a vital phase of development, Shockwave notes, for the specimen he has spent much of his time cultivating to utter its first complete vocalization. A testament to the intelligence of a species long condemned as nothing but a scourge of mindless beasts, ordained to forcible eradication. This would normally be of more immediate significance to him, had the chamber not ceased its shaking and the console not folded into the floor, the very fibers of his internals not jolting as a rumbling tenor speaks—
{So tiny.}
Normally, Shockwave thinks, saving the recording for later analysis. For now, he has many questions to ask.
Their name is Trypticon.
{Your accent is strange. You pronounce Trypticon’s name wrong.}
Trypticon is a Titan, this much Shockwave is able to conclude based on the fluidity and control of his transformation sequences and imposing size, the laboratory a mere extension of his alternate form. Rather, one form of a varied assortment of configurations, a fact he goes to great lengths to demonstrate through an unsolicited property tour, contracting and expanding as he desires to best exemplify his housing capabilities.
{Would Shockwave prefer more lighting? It is dark and depressing in here. It is no wonder you appear so dour.}
“That is just my face,” Shockwave responds, saying nothing on how a skyline instantaneously comes to be above his laboratory. His creation cries happily, holding its servos upwards in delight. “I am, in fact, rather overcome with emotion.”
{Trypticon will take your word for it. May he hold your progeny? They are tiny and delicate.}
That isn’t really up to Shockwave, but his creation has no qualms about being handled by a being that towers over him in every respect, unafraid as it puffs its chassis out to best assert its dominance. The drones are of much the same mind, skittering excitedly across the claw Trypticon constructs of various layers of wiring and piping.
{So tiny.}
“They are small, yes,” Shockwave agrees.
{Much time has passed since the winged ones were decimated. Will you create more?}
Shockwave ponders how long the Titan could have possibly spent observing them from a distance if he knows about his experimentation. He asks and gets a rumbling hum in response.
{Not long. Trypticon was asleep. He woke up and everything and everyone was gone. Except for tiny Shockwave and his tiny progeny. Cybertron is dead but you were not. It would be boring otherwise, there is nobody to fight, so Trypticon watched Shockwave instead. He rested and he woke and he watched more and he rested more.}
“The Titans were not thought to still be extant. Why were you asleep?”
{What is a Titan? Powerful? Like Trypticon? He likes that. Trypticon was asleep because the others were afraid of him. Metroplex is a coward. He cowered before the insignificant specs and aided in putting Trypticon into stasis, because Trypticon was right about their depravity. He will regret doing that when Trypticon rips his favorite city-state from his solar generators.}
Fascinating. Instability and in-fighting between figures thought to be above petty grievances. Shockwave makes a note to request further elaboration at a later date.
{Why is Shockwave alone?}
“I am not. We are conversing.”
Trypticon scoffs.
{Such malicious intellect. Metroplex is no different, hiding behind obtuse truths.}
“…there was much civil unrest. It lead to inevitable collapse. Those who did not flee splintered off into various factions. My own left to engage capital forces.”
{You were left behind.}
“That is not what I said,” Shockwave accepts a fussing creation back into his arms, yawning, exposing glinting fangs. Its imperious stare is expectant. It is never anything else. “Through what means did you wake?”
{Trypticon stopped sleeping.}
“Did you not require Energon after your extensive period of stasis?”
{What is Energon?}
Hm. “You do not require it as a means of sustenance.”
{Trypticon does not understand. He sleeps when he is tired and wakes when he is not. The winged ones do the same.}
Shockwave shuts his chest compartment with a click. “You have provided invaluable information for various lines of inquiry I am pursuing. Will you be staying?”
{Trypticon will. He thinks tiny Shockwave is amusing and stasis is boring. He wants to play with your tiny progeny. He wants to see Predaking soar.}
Shockwave’s finials straighten, curious.
“Predaking?”
{Your winged one. That is his name.}
Shockwave wasn’t aware binary could be understood; that it was anything beyond an early stage of verbal development. “He said this?”
{In essence. He forgives your ignorance.}
Servo on his chassis, Shockwave’s optic dims briefly.
Above his spark chamber, a warm weight settles.
Familiar now.
“Predaking,” he repeats, committing it to his lexicon. “Very well.”
Aside from providing valuable first-hand information for ages deliberately obfuscated from public record, Trypticon’s assistance also extends to aiding in powering systems long-left dormant.
The ongoing rationing of their energy supplies remains a pressing issue. Shockwave’s research and investigations into alternative methods of conversion remain a work-in-progress.
When Trypticon offers help—in his own words, to spruce up the scenery—Shockwave does not hesitate to accept, redirecting precious resources where they will be most advantageous. It hastens many projects along, including the continued gestation of more Predacons, a development which delights both Predaking and Trypticon, who spend much of their time observing and cooing over the two embryonic sparks from beyond the safety of their capsules.
The only real issue with their growing reliance on the Titan is Trypticon’s abrupt bouts of boredom and fatigue, often requiring lengthy periods of recharge wherein he is unavailable, obligating Shockwave to prioritize and reroute where necessary.
Nevertheless, it is a great deal better than their prior circumstances, where anything nonessential was left to the wayside to ensure their continued survival.
Not ideal, but vastly preferred.
{Trypticon is itchy.}
“So you have mentioned," Shockwave replies idly, his servo tips clicking against the console, focus unwavering despite the Predacon currently settled upon his nape. Predaking tugs his finials and whines a series of scrambled notes, settling down only when Shockwave acknowledges him with a brief poke to the cheek. He trills contentedly.
{Trypticon's signal receptors feel crawly. Like filthy scraps walking in him without wiping off their pedes first.}
"Would you prefer we vacate the premises?"
{No, Trypticon's tiny bots are different. Shockwave and his progeny aren’t crawly. They feel steady, like laborers. Is Shockwave a laborer from The Wastes?}
Kaon, Shockwave presumes he means. “I am not.”
{But he is not here coincidentally, is he?}
Coincidentally.
Had it been? If it was, perhaps it wouldn’t matter nearly as much. Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered at all. If it had been coincidental, there would be no reason to ruminate on everything that came before, to mull over and pick apart every detail beyond and within his control. If it had been coincidental, he would have rolled back along the way he came and presented himself as changed, as having reverted, if only to keep what little they were willing to charitably return.
If it had been coincidental, if he had not strayed—if he had not been changed—there would be nothing. Nothing to stumble upon in a rusting, decaying pit of crushed frames and shattered processors. Nothing to dig from coarse sand and gravel and corrosive toxins.
Nothing to grasp and piece back together, fragment by fragment, reflecting crimson and cerulean against a hazy violet sky.
“I don’t recall,” Shockwave says, and that is the end of that.
They subsist.
Cybertron is no less dead for it.
Shockwave focuses on science, because that is what he has always done and that is what he will always do. That is all he can do. He experiments and researches and rereads records until they bore him so thoroughly he expunges them from his memory banks only to memorize them, word for word, again and again. He watches over his creation and its developing kin, taking note when the nubs on its back begin to sprout into the beginnings of frail, spindly wings.
Predaking often cries, seeking comfort from the growing aches and pains, small and fragile and defenseless for all the menace and destruction its teething and endless curiosity cause.
This, of course, brings Trypticon no small measure of amusement, no end to the cooing and teasing as Shockwave is smothered and smothers in return. Unfortunately, it is not enough to offset his near constant complaining, the shuddering of his internals becoming an excessively common occurrence.
“Would you be opposed to a thorough system scan?” Shockwave has never conducted an examination on a Cybertronian of Trypticon’s scale, but he cannot imagine it is anything more complex than regular building upkeep and maintenance. If anything, it should be far more practical given Trypticon’s sentience and ability to directly communicate any abnormalities within systems he is already vastly familiar with, considering they are his own. He explains this to the Titan, who is reticent despite his continued discomfort.
{Trypticon hates scans. Deranged bites scanned Trypticon and locked him out of his own systems and processor. He was trapped. He hated it. That’s why he crushed them.}
“Your reaction was logical,” Shockwave dismisses the memory of glaring surgical light and leering blue optics as quickly as it develops. “I do not require remote access. It is more efficient if you retain primary control and specify which receptors are causing you discomfort.”
{Shockwave promises.}
It is not a question.
“I will not override any permissions against your consent.”
The proceeding silence is hesitant, but Trypticon ultimately agrees. He allows Shockwave a distant glimpse into the foundation of his frame’s complex network, an expansive nexus of inter-connecting systems and sub-systems, each more elaborate than the last. Similar to an average mech’s anatomy, yet scaled to accommodate massive, sprawling layers of integrative mechanisms. To accommodate constant transformation and rearrangement. It is a fascinating basis for further analysis, but Trypticon’s discomfited rumbling intensifies for every moment he lingers, so Shockwave moves along, following the indicated trail of intricate nerve wiring and hyper-reactive synapses towards the ‘itchy’ receptors.
“You are certain this is the source of the sensation.” Shockwave receives an annoyed growl in response, so he does not ask for further confirmation. Instead, he double-checks the results of his reports, re-running various system scans to ensure he isn’t overlooking anything of relevance, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Shockwave is no medic, but he is confident in his ability to extrapolate likely conclusions based on gathered information.
He finds nothing to suggest Trypticon is suffering from infection or ailment, nor does he detect any external small-bodies irritating the affected area. He requests a timeline of the Titan’s most recent ongoings and behavior, but nothing he is told is especially noteworthy or indicative of common environmental irritations or configuration rejection.
“How often are you linked to the lab’s machinery,” Shockwave asks abruptly, a theory striking him. “specifically your communication arrays?”
{Trypticon is linked only when he is helping Shockwave, because Shockwave said he is more productive when he has energy to power his machines.}
“To clarify, when I am not working—when you are otherwise occupied elsewhere or resting—you are not connected.”
{Of course not. Trypticon is sleepy because he is helping Shockwave not die. Why would he waste his energy when Shockwave does not need it?}
“And it is your signal receptors bothering you.”
{Tiny Shockwave makes Trypticon repeat everything. Yes, his signal receptors are itchy. They are itchy right now!}
“Right now, when you are directly connected to the laboratory’s machinery.” External technology brought into the base, not part of it. “To foreign, unfamiliar hardware.”
{...Trypticon’s signal receptors are rejecting Shockwave’s computers?}
“In a sense.” A rather peculiar conundrum. The equipment Shockwave uses has always been outdated by capital Iaconi standards, but by Trypticon’s, it is technically several million years ahead of his time, give or take when he was forced into stasis.
An illogical contradiction with a logical explanation. Shockwave’s finials flick back and forth with glee. “It is likely an issue of compatibility. A firmware update should alleviate the discomfort.”
{Trypticon hates updates.}
“Would you prefer to remain itchy?”
{…tiny Shockwave is fortunate he is Trypticon’s.}
It’s a simple fix.
Trypticon grumbles petulantly the entire installation, his petty retribution taking the form of Shockwave’s files being rearranged into an impressively detailed angry expression. Irritating, but ultimately harmless.
The second the installation is complete however, the shrill sound of garbled static erupts from the console speakers. Trypticon growls with discomfort. Predaking whines, burrowing his helm into Shockwave’s neck.
Resting a servo atop his creations crown of horns, Shockwave listens carefully, waiting for the interference to clear.
He grows still when it does.
A rattled off list of coordinates, hasty yet concise. An abbreviated anagram. A set of ancient glyphs, the distance between two points.
And sound.
A long-forgotten song.
Trypticon rumbles.
{Shockwave understands the meaning?}
“...It is a request for aid.”
{Help fighting? Trypticon can fight. He will destroy what Shockwave says needs destroying.}
"No, it is not a request for reinforcements." Shockwave pulls up a set of schematics, already toiling over materials and labor and the vast amounts of energy this project will require. If this is to work, if he is to surpass everything he has accomplished thus far, there can be no room for error. “It is a plea for extraction.”
Predaking pats Shockwave’s helm, warbling inquisitively. Shockwave settles him on his cannon, idly nuzzling a servo against his cheek. Predaking trills, pleased.
“You mentioned not requiring Energon for sustenance. That you rest to recover energy.” Shockwave looks up, past the transparent ceilings and their weather-resistant glass, fortified against the uncontrollable forces of nature. “How is that possible?”
{Environment. Trypticon converts what he needs. He doesn’t need strange cubes.}
“Explain it to me,” Shockwave requests. He doesn’t plead but— “Everything. All of it.”
Trypticon hums, considering.
{Okay. Trypticon will, but only because tiny Shockwave is his.}
And he does. Trypticon explains all that he knows.
And Shockwave does as he always has.
He focuses on science.