Chapter Text
The driller grew uneasy as they neared the surface. Soundwave could feel it, the cascading flow of warnings, errors, all driving the driller to seek the depths once more. Blades creaked, maw gnashing helplessly for long moments, before the driller crept forward a little at a time. They passed more tunnels now, some even inhabited -- Soundwave caught sight of screaming mecha stumbling back, fleeing, as the worm ate its way through their tunnels. He could not say if any died, lost to the driller’s mindless hunger.
Fighting the worm’s unthinking instincts every length, Soundwave did his best to map out the habitations above, to guide his rebelling vehicle towards the open and uninhabited plains that stretched between Iacon’s great spires.
--
On the rim of the slums, the empties were everywhere. Some fell, and lay still, to be slowly disassembled by those still able to crawl and to gnaw. Others simply staggered, dull, their sparks the merest dying glimmers within their frames. But they lived, and they could feel, in their own rudimentary ways. And now...
...now they knew that something was wrong.
Wheedle kicked irritably at one of the empties, jabbing it back with a crackling, crudely pieced-together electrical prod. Slagging pit slaggers, always tryin’ to creep in and make off with some piece of scrap. It was slagging irritating, is what it was. Mech could spend all orn here on the border, scraping together a piece here, a salvage bit there, and the nanoklik yer aft was turned, there go the empties with yer finds. The slagging crawl-bots couldn’t even use the scrap, what did they think....
“Uhm,” said Freeload, reaching out to poke at Wheedle, almost earning himself a jab with the prod as well. “They always do this slag, or what?”
Wheedle worked to focus his optics, half-rusted optical calipers whirring and grinding. The fuzz slowly cleared. Then his optics widened. Every empty on the border, every half-sentient thing that could still drag itself, was shambling towards the market.
And under Wheedle’s pedes, the ground began to tremble.
“What the frag …?”
The trembling increased, until the ground and everything attached to it was vibrating, shaking. Piled stacks of scrap fell over, to the accompaniment of crashing noises and cries from within the slums. Scattered mecha staggered, trying to keep their balance as the metal beneath their pedes shook, retreating hastily backwards as great fissures tore open. A great swath of the open plains first sank, then bulged upward--
--and then exploded in a hail of iron chunks and sharp-edged shrapnel. The gargantuan bladed maw of a driller burst out of the plain, its saw-toothed bores chewing, devouring everything in its path, wave upon wave of razor-plated, segmented body following, coiling upwards as it writhed, rising impossibly into the air. It hung for a moment, a great shadow of turning blades and saw-edged hunger. Then, with a great heaving arch and a crash that rocketed like thunder in the canyons of Iacon, it fell back upon the surface, turning its blind head towards the scattering, screaming mecha below.
---
Soundwave had reached the limits of his control; there was no lure, no false sensory data that could keep the driller out on the surface, not when every bit of coded instinct it had was sending errors, imperatives to retreat from the open air, to return back to safety of the dark, the places where metal pressed in for the devouring. The most he could do was direct it away from the slums, even as it writhed and coiled, hydra-maws weaving in confusion and frustrated //-hungerwrong!hunger-//.
//Driller: won’t remain on surface for long!// he sent to the others, echoing it with the data-flickers of the creature’s single-minded determination to return back beneath the surface. //Skidbreak, Amplitude: jump clear, towards the slums!// There was still the chance, even now, that they could be crushed if they jumped too soon or too late, or rolled beneath the creature’s coils as it roiled and churned up the smooth iron surface into jagged spikes of torn metal. Such things would have to be left in the hands of fate, however; Soundwave had done all he could.
The driller arched, writhed, driving its bore-maw downward as it broke back through Cybertron’s crust. Soundwave held on, disengaging from the creature’s coding tendril by tendril until only his own presence was masked, watching metal churn, the torn surface rising towards him …. Then he let go, pushing upward and flinging himself as far as he could in the same moment. For a moment, he was weightless--then he slammed to the ground, rolled, scrambled to his pedes and ran again, ignoring damage-warnings and redlined battle-protocols, running until he was clear, was on smooth, unbroken iron once again, and could finally turn to watch the last of those writhing, whipping tails disappear underneath the surface.
Metaldust and chunks of rust showered down, pattering on fractured armor. Another tremoring heave rocked the slums, sent Soundwave staggering to his kneeplates amidst all the piles of sundered, broken scrap. The vibrations eased as the worm burrowed its way rapidly towards safety. The tunnels it left were irregular gouges into the depths -- one shallowly sloped, the other arrowing almost straight down.
At long last, and the world went mercifully still. For the first time in a joor, Soundwave dared to turn his audials back on, wincing at the static of delicate parts shaken out of alignment. Every portion of the big carrier was battered, dented, scraped. He limped a little, wires sparking under the great severed bites carved out of his armor at pede and thigh. The places he’d been shot were a single fiery ache. Three of his primary datacables were disabled or nearly so, along with several secondaries. His repair mechanisms ran hot, replicating nanites, drawing pieces back together micron by micron.
As the cloud settled, Soundwave tilted his visor back. The narrow strip of filthy sky overhead, the blur of stars, stirred his spark with their beauty. He reached out for his cohort, sliding his armor open. //Ravage, Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Ratbat.// Twin streaks of silver darted from his chassis, the flyers carving effervescent arcs and whorls in the dusty air, throwing themselves into spirals and helixes. A joor linked to Soundwave’s repair mechanisms had sealed over the tips of Buzzsaw’s flight panels, leaving him only a little wobbly in the air. Ravage paced a slow circle, stretching himself, then sat down quietly beside his Master, spines just brushing Soundwave’s lower leg.
Ratbat had somehow -- in the middle of all the vibrations, the panic and noise -- managed to put himself deep into a recharge cycle, and stirred only slightly as the other symbionts left. Soundwave decided against waking him, and covered the little glideframe over once more.
Soundwave’s hearing began to clear marginally, and he could make out a distant roar. //Query: status? Amplitude? Skidbreak?// A flicker of thought sent the flightframes spiraling higher, above the heaped hillsides of debris and scrap. Two massive piles over, both other mecha were climbing towards the slums and market. The little loadhauler still half-supported the carrier, Skidbreak looking around uncomfortably, Amplitude gesturing them forward with determination. Wings beating hard, Laserbeak powered himself higher. And....
//Made it, Soundwave. You might want to stay where you are. Unless I miss my guess, things are about to get hot.// Amplitude returned, glyphs thick with anticipation, a fierce kind of destructive delight -- the kind that stripped clean and laid bare.
…and a crowd was forming. Gathering what crude weapons they could, mecha poured from the slums, from the edges of the vast market. Empties staggered vaguely in the same direction, attracted by the activity -- so much movement meant power, meant fuel... might mean droplets to spare to the starving. Several groups of enforcers, distinctive in their black and white, were snaking through the mob, doing nothing at all to deter the growing gathering. Very distantly, a phalanx of guards issued from the mines, shoving their way closer, kicking mecha out of their way.
//Mecha of Iacon!// There was nothing at all amiss with Amplitude’s broadcasting relays. His transmission swamped the full breadth of the nearby radio bandwidth, cutting across every other nearby communication, audible to every mech with a receiver left in his chassis. One more staggering surge of effort, and Amplitude and Skidbreak reached the top of the scrap pile.
The broadcast came again, and through Laserbeak and Buzzsaw’s keen optics, Soundwave could see some of the closer mecha flinching at the power of Amplitude’s transmission as it cut through their own comm channels. //Mecha of Iacon!//
//The Senate tells us we are obsolete!// Amplitude continued, Skidbreak standing next to him, half-cringing as if he expected to be strafed by plasma fire at any moment. //All of us, brave warframes and devoted citizens: obsolete, and worthless, no longer able to serve the purposes for which we made! The Towers-mecha, the Senate, even the Prime himself--they tell us that there is not enough fuel. That Cybertron’s supply of energon is finite, and must be conserved, rationed--doled out only to the deserving. That in desperate times, energon can only be given to those mecha who still serve *Tower* functions, mecha whom the *Towers* still need!// He paused; the crowd growing, angry and restless. It was obvious to Soundwave, however, that the mecha collecting on the plains were no longer completely sure where to direct their ire. Who was responsible? The now-vanished driller? The two battered figures that shouted their defiance from atop a pile of scrap? The untouchable mecha who lived atop the Towers, who would never themselves experience the grinding weakness of an empty tank?
//THEY dictate who is the deserving. The Towers receive energon, and repairs and more, while we, the forgotten and the obsolete--we drink their dregs. We starve, all in the name of preserving Cybertron -- when we, WE ARE CYBERTRON!// A low metallic rumble went through the crowd, and the mine-guards began pushing their way forward more quickly--only to find themselves boxed in, more and more mecha only slowly moving out of their way, even under the prod of shocksticks and pointed weapons. And some, the largest--heavily scarred, with topcoats worn away in places, yet still showing the remnants of warbrands--some refused to move at all.
//We starve--and they stockpile energon enough to fuel us all beneath our pedes!// Amplitude flung images over the open channel, still frames laced with transmission static and the ripples of poor archiving but unmistakable nevertheless, timestamps and data-sourcing clear for all to see. Images obviously gained from Skidbreak’s optics: of the vast cavern and its piled crates, of packing cubes being opened to reveal the warm glow of energon. Of a mech, looking down at the big storage cube held in his battered hands, the fuel glowing pink and clear and full of energon, unmuddied by adulterants--the kind of energon none in the slums had seen for hundreds of vorns. All the images, Soundwave noted, were carefully chosen not to reveal his own presence, or that of his cohort. More images came, thrown like plasma grenades to the ever-growing crowd: of energon, ranks upon ranks of cubes, marked with Senators’ sigils and official stamps, filling a cavern so vast that the rearmost portions of the stockpile couldn’t even be seen. And then, maps of the twisting route -- down through the mines, through the driller-carved tunnel. //We starve on their scraps. We see ourselves and our neighbors become more like empties every orn. We are deceived, while *they* feast on OUR FUEL!//
The crowd stilled, some remnant of doubt holding them in place, even as the metallic growl of revving systems rose ever higher, the air so heavy with comm-signals that Soundwave was sure he could have picked them up from the other side of the planet. The sharp optics of Laserbeak and Buzzsaw detected enforcers circling towards the mineguards with weapons at the ready. A few of the little black and whites had found scrap piles of their own, and stood with their small sensor panels spread... amplifying the signals, or recording. Neither flightframe had military training, but even to them, nothing about the enforcer activity looked even remotely like peacekeeping.
//--it’s a trick--//
//-a lie--//
//--that’s a Chronicler, haven’t seen one in vorns--//
//--those datamecha are slaggin’ creepy, but I ain’t never heard of one handing out false data--//
//--talks big, but they’re just trying to save their own plating. No way there could be--//
The crowd surged, a little forward, a ripple on the sides, brief scuffles breaking out within as neighbor shoved against neighbor. Amplitude turned his visor, just slightly, any comm lost in the background noise. Then, in an apparent fit of inspiration, Skidbreak stepped forward.
“You fraggers don’t know him, but some of you know me. Don’t wanna believe us? Fraggin’ fine. You can slaggin’ believe *this* instead!” With that, he unsubspaced an energon cube, holding it high over his helm in both talons. The clear pink glow was an incandescence, a beacon in the darkness, casting an expanding ripple through the crowd and reflecting in the glow of a thousand avid optics. Then Skidbreak threw the big cube into the gathered mecha.
Gleaming energon splashed over the starving. And the crowd erupted into a riot.
Someone -- impossible to tell who, in the chaos -- opened fire on the mine guards. Screams erupted in the gloom, mecha swarming over one another, scrabbling for any mouthful of fuel. Skidbreak started to flinch back, was forestalled by talons wrapping tight around his arm. //You’re a hero, Skidbreak,// said Amplitude. //Lead them down!//
“Whaa--” Skidbreak started, optics spiraled wide. But already Amplitude was broadcasting, flashing the tunnel maps up again and again, interjecting the little loadhauler’s name into every babbling conversation, along with //-warrior-// and //-ally-// and //-champion-//.
“I can’t!” Skidbreak protested, even as the carrier turned to slip back down the scrap pile. More shots rang out, and horrible, crashing, splintering sounds. Someone started a chant, quickly taken up as the riot surged forward.
“Skidbreak! Skidbreak!”
//Lead them,// Amplitude sent, a hard gleam in his optics, cables extending for balance as he staggered, limped away, //or they’ll crush each other in their fervor.// And then the carrier was gone, lost in the flurry as mecha surrounded Skidbreak, heaving him up on solid shoulders.
“Skidbreak! Skidbreak! Skidbreak!”
--
A klik later, the paths of the two carriers crossed once more. Amplitude had found a long metal pole to use as a support. The thing had once been a specialized bracing strut, running the length of a sniper’s back, shoulder to cross hip; now it was just one piece of scrap among a multitude.
Amplitude’s vocalizer crackled softly as he picked his way towards Soundwave, across a broken field. The crowd roared behind him, so loud that both mechs could feel the vibrations through the scrap underfoot. It took effort for Amplitude to direct a comm channel tightly enough to communicate over the background chaos, even at this close distance. //That went well,// he said, pausing at long last to let his cohort free. Pyrite, Flipsides, and Bainite unfolded themselves quickly, all the turbofox’s jointed legs flashing as he darted in and out of jagged openings in the scrap piles, exploring, while the other two stayed closer to their master.
“Amplitude: has unique definition of ‘well’,” Soundwave replied dryly. The initial euphoria of their survival still lingered, making every bit of sensory input crystalline, intensely clear. Both Laserbeak and Buzzsaw’s victorious glee, as well as Ravage’s satisfaction, were infectious as they filtered across the bond, and Soundwave found himself hard-pressed to maintain his normal equilibrium. “This chaos, your ultimate objective?” If so, Soundwave wasn’t sure he saw the point. Nothing was likely to change. The mecha of the slums would rapidly consume their newfound windfall, a few of the powers behind the secret stockpile might, if they were lucky, be investigated. But no one would ever be brought to answer for Minebreak’s murder. Once the energon was gone, everything would be as it was, with the outcast and the obsolete scrabbling for survival, killing each other for fuel.
Not for the first time, Soundwave thought of leaving Cybertron. Of finding a new place somewhere between the stars where they could thrive. With their newly-acquired energon, it might even be possible. Cybertron’s far-reaching war with the Tr!klcctch had not endeared it to many of their neighbors, which would make such a search difficult. Even so, it was possible that he might find a remote world on which they could survive, perhaps even teach what they knew to other species, other civilizations.
But … it would mean abandoning Cybertron. Abandoning their function: for what good were chroniclers who no longer lived in the world born of Primus and the Allspark? Who turned away from their duty to witness and record, to be Cybertron’s living memory, from the very first age to the last?
No. Leaving was not an option--all it would achieve would be to trade one kind of death for another.
Amplitude slanted the other carrier an unreadable look. //Not ultimate, no. These mecha have been crushed under the pedes of the mighty for so long, they no longer remember what it’s like to have power. Political power. Perhaps this will remind them -- and all of us.//
There was more to it than that, Soundwave was certain of it. The flightframes kept their watch for him, helping them steer clear of those whooping groups of mecha who raced to join the riot. The long-hated mine guards had been torn apart, and now scraps of them were being tossed around, like prizes, like icons. The starving mecha were already delving into the tunnels -- they would face more mercenaries below, undoubtedly, but most had nothing left to lose. Soundwave found a rusted iron pathway, relatively clear of scrap, and started along it, doing what he could to reroute damage warnings and disguise his limping progress. Ravage paced alongside, his presence a subtle support for his unsteady carrier.
Amplitude followed. Pyrite looped himself up to his Master’s ankle assembly, and from there wound his way along the seams and ridges of Amplitude’s armor, to lightly encircle his upper arm -- one of the few places the serpentframe could find that remained undamaged. Flipsides walked quietly along behind. //I thank you for the rescue, as much as I regret the necessity of it. You have a bolthole, a place to recover? I warned the laborer against mentioning us, but the Senate may eventually discover our involvement.//
Soundwave hesitated, then shook his helm. “Negative. Only accommodations, assigned quarters in the Quandary.” He would need to take steps, make plans in case their enemies learned of their identities. Use their stolen energon to set up supply caches, perhaps. Make arrangements with certain accommodating mecha for escape routes, dispose of the mine inspector ident-badge in such a way it could not be traced back to his cohort .... All of these things, however, would take time. He vented harshly, impatient with his wounds and his own earlier naivete. “Consequences of symbiont rescue, unforeseen,” he admitted.
//The assignments, the allotments.// Amplitude shook his helm. //Yet one more way the underclasses are controlled, the obsoletes made to forget their purposes. Maccadam’s is a haven for sympathisers. Detour is a server there. You can give him this code. He can, at least, see you safe. It is the least I can do.// Amplitude offered an encrypted key code over a tight band. He moved a little better, once they reached the mainly-deserted marketplace, started the long, slow walk back up to more settled levels. The pair of carriers kept to the less frequently-travelled ways, avoiding the occasional band of High Iacon enforcers rushing to the disruption down below. Most other mecha in the district were wise enough to stay inside.
Flipsides flinched backwards as Bainite found a new cranny to explore and raced by a little too close, the turbofox’s many sharp legs flashing. The little medical specialist shivered, clung even closer to Amplitude’s shadow. //There’s always a place in the resistance for mecha with your... resourcefulness, Soundwave,// said the carrier.
“Resistance.” Soundwave stopped, leaning against a rusted rail. He waited until Amplitude had also stopped, turning back to look at him inquiringly. “Query: objective of this resistance?”
//Objective? We want to make things right. Mecha shouldn’t have to scrape by on allotments, to starve just because--//
“Ratbat’s foci, macro- and micro-economics, energon use and efficiency studies. Soundwave: analyzed data thoroughly. Energon shortage, real.”
//There *could* be enough, Soundwave. Not for full tanks, but enough to keep us from dying on our bellies as empties. We could explore for more energon, as the council did in ages past. Instead, what fuel we have is wasted in parades and lightshows, in the drones that replace us and in the tanks of bureaucrats. // Amplitude shot back. //You and I -- our functions are performed by AIs and databank archives, and the Towers deem chroniclers unworthy of existing.//
Soundwave regarded the other carrier for a moment, evaluating him. “Query: your solution, to replace the Senate? The Judge-Consuls? Overthrow the Lord-Protector, the Prime? New leaders, able to guarantee no mecha ever starves?”
Vocalizer crackling, Amplitude shook his helm. //I don’t...//
Soundwave took a step forward, releasing his hold on the rail. “Or your aim, reduction of population through civil war?”
Amplitude bristled. //Turn your ire on the Towers mecha, who forbid the sparking of ‘obsoletes’ and warframes, who tolerate the gladiatorial pits. Slow genocide is murder just the same. We fight for something better.//
Soundwave took another step forward, ignoring the protective bristling of Bainite and Pyrite, Flipsides’ uncertain retreat further into his master’s shadow. He straightened, and held out a hand. In it, were the tiny, silvery shards of a broken spark-chamber. “Your politics, worth Minebreak’s death?”
Amplitude’s vocalizer crackled, as if he would have cried out, and he steadied himself with his makeshift walking staff. He shuttered his optics for a long, terrible moment, then shuffled the step to Soundwave... and took those small, broken pieces from the Archivist’s hand, cradling them in his own palm. A symbiont’s sparkchamber was shaped very differently from that of most mecha -- it was narrow and sculpted, with very few primary power relays. //Minebreak.// Physical wounds were a small ache, in comparison with this wrenching void, this emptiness where the warmth of a symbiont should have dwelled.
At his feet, Flipsides sat down on the dusty ground, too stunned even to keen.
Amplitude cupped his talons against his own chest. //I found them... in Kalis. It was just after... after we lost Reset. So I had the space for them. They were the first other Chroniclers we’d seen for half a vorn, Soundwave, and their carrier had been gone for nearly as long. He’d been caught hacking an energon dispensary, had been sentenced to one of the moons for ‘civilian rehabilitation.’// Amplitude looked up, his optics too bright. //We’re all dying, Soundwave. Minebreak was just a little quicker about it.//
“Perhaps.” Soundwave dropped a hand to Ravage, who shouldered underneath it in silent support. “Soundwave: a Chronicler. Not a Prime. Not a Senator.” He looked up where Laserbeak and Buzzsaw had perched, feeling their uncertainty, their worry at the confrontation between the two carriers. “Cybertron moves on; a carrier’s function remains. Primary responsibility, still the protection of symbionts. Survival of cohort, paramount.” He returned his gaze to Amplitude. Had the other carrier seen what he’d seen--the patterns and fractures spreading about them? “Resistance, possibly necessary. Prime, Lord Protector, no longer united; schism between warframes and civilians only growing. War is coming. But risking symbionts on the front lines of that war, unacceptable.” Especially symbionts such as Minebreak.
Several of his own cohort had known war before, had been embroiled in battle--some symbionts, like Ravage and Bainite, were even uniquely suited to it. That still did not negate the fact that they were not warframes. They were not sparked for battle, designed to both take and inflict damage and still survive. Each symbiont was a piece of Cybertron’s living memory, precious and irreplaceable. With each spark that winked out of existence, another part of that memory was lost. Soundwave had few illusions about their future, or even their survival. His function, however, was still clear; and it did not include throwing his cohort into the jaws of a coming war.
Amplitude’s faceplates were pinched, angry. //Thank Primus, then, that isn’t a decision you have to make. Yet.// He closed his talons carefully over Minebreak’s tiny remains, subspacing the broken, empty sparkcase. //Come,// he sent, looking to Bainite and Flipsides, bringing them to heel as he turned to leave. The little medic walked behind and to Amplitude’s left, while Bainite darted ahead. Pyrite lifted his head, observing with serpentine grace, but said nothing.
Soundwave watched them depart. “Determination, not solely mine to make. Nor yours.”
Amplitude bristled. //Have you been too long from the company of other Chroniclers? Or perhaps your so-knowledgeable cohort simply has not had time to instruct you. A carrier directs -- the symbiont follows. That is the way.//
“Affirmative. But a symbiont choosing to leave a carrier, also the way.” In another age, under better circumstances, such a declaration could be seen as an attempt to court away a dissatisfied symbiont. Here and now, however, it was simply a reminder of a carrier’s primary duty, and the only limitation upon that obedience--no carrier could command or force a symbiont to stay. Not if a symbiont decided to sever their bond.
“Your responsibility: to protect, to defend. Your actions, threaten your cohort’s survival.” Soundwave bent his gaze on a bristling Bainite, an inscrutable Pyrite, a quiet Flipsides. “Their loyalty to you, their choice. Honoring it, a carrier’s responsibility.”
//The present political situation, Soundwave, affords few of us any choices at all. And unless you can remedy that -- the discussion is academic.// Amplitude set the point of his makeshift walking staff. //Come,// he directed again.
This time, Flipsides didn’t move. Amplitude took a few uneven steps before he realized that the little mechkin, the battered red and white symbiont, was not following. //Now, Flipsides,// he repeated, this time turning back. There was a shade of confusion in his glyph, a worried modifier. Flipsides stood uncertainly, optics downcast.
“Our choices, our own,” Soundwave said, looking down at Flipsides’ small frame. “Outcomes, never certain, but choice still remains.” He met Amplitude’s growing anger with equanimity. “Soundwave: chooses to remain a Chronicler, to protect and guide. This cohort, chose to rescue yours. Not for politics. Not for the resistance. Not for energon. Our way out of the dark, still remains our own.” He reached out along the bonds to his cohort, feeling their loyalty, their worry and fierce approval. “Soundwave: will stand for any other symbiont who wishes the same. Other carriers, still exist--other paths, still can be found.”
Leaving a carrier … it was not something ever done lightly. To set aside a bond with one’s carrier, to walk away; just because it was a symbiont’s right did not mean it was easy. Especially now, when there was no guarantee of a new host mech with whom to bond.
Amplitude clenched his talons. //Before I found them, they’d already been refused by another carrier. No one has the resources now to care for more than their own -- and some don’t even have that. Do not think to imagine --//
Flipsides’ shoulders were hunched. “Minebreak,” he said, interrupting his carrier, vocaliser soft and unsteady. “Minebreak was refused. I wouldn’t leave him. But I still have skills. I can still do something. But. Just... not that. Not again.” Down in the dark, in the tunnels, the fighting and the running. He looked up, turned his optics finally to each of Soundwave’s symbionts in turn, and then finally to the tall mech himself. “You would really....”
Amplitude made a choked, hissing sound, sharp and harsh through his broken vocalizer. //Flipsides, no. We require your medical expertise. The entire cohort does. And so does the cause.// It was, perhaps, just this side of a command.
“Soundwave: offers sanctuary, energon, until Flipsides chooses new carrier or another path,” Soundwave said in turn. It would stretch their already-meager resources, even with the newly acquired energon, but he would stand by his words. Symbionts required protection, and if Amplitude was unwilling, than it was up to another chronicler to remedy the lack. “Contacts among frameclass, extensive; assistance offered in locating new carrier.”
He pinged a quick query to Ravage and the others--then added, “Courtship, possible; depending on cohort and compatibility.” Five symbionts … most carrier mecha would think twice about docking so many in times like these. Soundwave, however, was not one of them, and Amplitude was correct in this, at least--a symbiont with medical foci could be very valuable to both him and his cohort.
The reply from both flightframes was encouraging, hopeful -- both were sociable, Buzzsaw’s occasional personality clashes aside. Ratbat’s sleepy contact was a little confused, glyphs for //-huh-// and //-efficiency calculations-// and //-high fuel economy-// trailing over one another -- which Soundwave took to be an approving commentary on the efficiency of the mechkin frametype. Flipsides was likely quite similar to Ratbat in his range and depth of knowledge, and the little despot was always pleased at the prospect of having another mech to order about in the name of efficiency. Soundwave would have to keep an optic on him.
Under Soundwave’s hand, Ravage nodded, just once, a subtle dip of his powerful head.
Flipsides looked back at Amplitude, who seemed frozen with shock. The carrier’s field was a morass of spikes, violent and heaving. Then he turned, and walked to Soundwave.
//You--!// Amplitude started, was drawn up sharply by his injuries. A carrier’s protocols rebelled on an instinctual level against any attempt to sway a bonded symbiont. Carriers could be roused to combat by a lesser insult than this. And Flipsides was no mere newspark, had megavorn of experience and specialized knowledge....
....but Soundwave was more valuable still, if he could be swayed. And Amplitude, as every movement reminded him, was in no condition to fight. The carrier grit his jaws, flinching as he felt the little mechkin begin to unwind the symbiont bonds. It was a terrible sensation, peeling a scar back, laying bare a wound. Bainite whined, darting twice to Flipsides -- who flinched from him -- then back to Amplitude, trying in his own young way to ease his Master’s ache. Pyrite simply watched, optics old and knowing. All carriers endured the transfer of symbionts, occasionally. That, too, was the way.
//...I... very well, Flipsides. You can contact me through Detour, at Maccadam’s, when you wish to return.// Just turning away was wrenching, when every instinct Amplitude had was demanding he stand his ground. It took all he had to simply leave. //Soundwave. Let us know when you change your mind.//
Soundwave watched the other carrier limp away, accompanied now by only two symbionts. “Acknowledged.” Choices--they would all have to continue to make them, if they wished to survive.
He only hoped that, in the end, he would make the right ones.