Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Aaaand welcome back everybot! We’ve missed you here at New Iacon Live; where we bring you the hottest hits of the vorn! If you don’t already know who I am – and really, if you don’t, which asteroid were you planted on for the last four million cycles? – my designations’ Blaster, bringing you all the aster!”

“It…could be worse?”

“Top Ten Worst Things to Say to a Bot When He’s Upset: a compilation by Frenzy,” Rumble snorts. 

“Hey! You shut your exhaust pipe before I–”

“Heh, you listenin’ to this Soundwave? I made this hit for you. Hope you glitch out and die! Now playing: Off-Brand Blue Box with No Face AND No Style.”

Soundwave puts his head in his hands. 

Blaster has been the voice of the Autobot movements for eons. The Voice, literally. Soundwave has been listening to that blasted – hah! – sound system rattle off on nearly every available channel throughout the galaxy and beyond, and so has every other bot tuning in for the nearest asteroid belt forecast in the last four million cycles. It’s always “breaking news by breaking tunes! This is The Voice!” or “catchy singles by yours truly, The Voice; featuring equality, justice, and not being straight slaggin’ evil!” or, Primus forbid, “and a one, and a two, and a one two three, with me now folks! Autobots Roll Out: signature style!”

Blaster has been haunting Soundwave’s audials for millennia. Autobot propaganda, deciphered coordinates hidden in between gibberish, clogging up frequencies with obnoxious music as a disturbance for Decepticon communications – and that last one grates at Soundwave’s circuits just thinking about it, because why the frag had it been so fucking effective? – Soundwave has had to deal with it all. From one Communications Officer to the other. It’s been a long four million cycles. 

With the initiation of the Peace Accords – and the subsequent reveal that Megatron and Optimus Prime had been discussing said Peace Accords mid-frag, which is disgusting and horrible and image captures are still being distributed around, ugh – everybot now has a lot to look forward to. Soundwave in particular is optimistic, especially after endless battle, strife, struggle, and having to parse through Blaster’s stupid stupid radio transmissions that he would hail Decepticon ships with – disguised as distress signals, which was so damn smart that Soundwave wanted to bash his helm in for underestimating that blithering fool of a boombox – that would then imbed itself into their log upon acceptance and play annoying alien tunes for cycles on end. 

He’s so sick and tired of being a Communications Officer when his worst enemy happens to be a mech with way too much time on his servos. He’s sick and tired of listening to alien music. He’s sick and tired of opening up a comm request thinking it’s something useful like a huge laser beam with the power of a million suns that can finally end this war, only to receive an image capture of Blaster flipping him off. 

So when Megatron signs the Peace Accords – and has Soundwave do his best to erase all evidence of his scandalous fragging that led to said signing of the Peace Accords, which is so unfortunate, because Soundwave really liked living his life not knowing what the two faction leaders looked like mid-coital – for the first time in eons, Soundwave lets himself feel hope. 

“–and we’ll need some sort of planetary-wide system to relay information,” Prowl continues. “The grid is still being stabilised, but until Shockwave’s team finds a solution, we need to improvise.”

“We could get somebot to yell,” Jazz offers, sitting with a pede kicked up on one of the chair’s armrests. ”Really really loudly.”

“I’ve noted the suggestion,” Prowl nods, “and scrapped it. Anybot else?”

“That’s cold mech.”

“Messenger bots?” Slipstream offers. “Seekers are fast, and we don’t really have anything to do except patrol around–”

“Of course you would degrade the Seeker force and reduce them to messenger bots,” Starscream sneers. “As Wing Lord I reject this proposal and demand this impudent-excuse of a Seeker be thrown back into the Well.”

“Maybe I should throw you into the–”

“Prissy jets,” Megatron mutters into his palms. 

“Oookay then, no Seeker messengers,” Jazz placates. He turns to Soundwave. “What about your little guys?’’

Frenzy manually unlocks Soundwave’s dock, sticks his helm out, shouts, “yeah, fuck no,” and then sinks back inside, closing Soundwave’s casing with a soft click. 

“Right, no messenger bots, period.”

Ideas are thrown back and forth, sometimes literally, in the case of Shockwave throwing datapads at Starscream to get him to shut up for a klik. In the chaos of the fields around him, one lights up, a thrumming stream of threads analysing an idea. Just as Soundwave starts to pry, Blaster starts talking. 

“Hey!” He exclaims, and the room falls into silence. With the attention on him, Blaster continues. “We can change up the tune of The Voice.”

The suggestion makes Soundwave’s spark drop. His spark sinks even further when Starscream of all bots starts murmuring approval instead of shrieking and causing violence like he usually does when faced with a bad idea. 

Oh no, this can’t mean that they’re all seriously considering–

“That channel was horrendous–” Soundwave’s spark flutters with hope at Megatron’s words “–ly efficient. There wasn’t a sector in space that we didn’t pick it up.”

Soundwave’s spark is crushed by his once glorious leader. So this is what loyalty gets you.

Blaster beams at the praise, even though Megatron says it through a scowl. How far the mighty fall. There had been a time when Megatron had been a feared warlord. Now here he is, handing praise to annoying boomboxes. 

“I think that’s a wonderful solution, Blaster,” Optimus Prime’s optics crinkle behind his battle mask, an unmistakable smile hidden beneath. Soundwave can’t believe this slag. “You can use the same system to contact Cybertronian ships still answering our planetary hail.”

“That’s my mech!” Jazz laughs, slapping Blaster on the back. The red bot grins, optics bright, like some sparkling showing off their ugly circuit board construction to proud creators. Blegh. 

Don’t go making a face now, Boss, Frenzy cackles. 

Jealous isn’t a good look, Rumble adds with a snicker. Makes it cramped in here. 

“That’s acceptable,” Prowl nods, scribbling something on his datapad. “We can have one of the foraging teams find you a suitable building–”

“Objection.”

Soundwave doesn’t know what compels him to say anything at all. He doesn’t really speak a whole lot during these strange mix-faction – or no-faction – meetings to begin with, usually taking notes and annotating the analogues immediately afterward. His cassettes all rattle around inside his head, talking over one another within the same bond length. His spark spins hot, a simmering ball of energy that is usually so calm and collected. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, what’s infecting his cranial unit with such visceral dislike at the prospect of Blaster operating a glorified planetary radio. 

Everybot has gone quiet, Blaster included, looking at Soundwave with his stupid round optics that look out of place on such a boxy frame. Optics like that belong to innocent little sparklings or cute cassettes. Not fucking Blaster. 

“What’s your objection, tape recorder,” Starscream hisses, the first to break from his shock. 

“Jealous?” Jazz mocks.

“Negative,” Soundwave grits out. “Objection: regarding…”

C’mon Boss, think fast. 

Fuck, he’s cooked guys. 

“…personnel,” he finishes lamely. 

“You…have a problem with me?” Blaster asks, tilting his head. It would have been a cute look on anyone other than Blaster. 

And Soundwave can’t even say that out loud. He can’t say anything regarding Blaster out loud, because they have a truce now, and they’re supposed to be putting everything that happened during the war behind them. Except Blaster’s consistent ability to fry Soundwave’s circuits isn’t something he can just forget. He can’t forgive the countless cycles he had to sacrifice just to clean their system of grating alien music, or recordings of evil laughter, or the hundreds of image captures of Blaster that Soundwave has yet to delete. 

No, he can’t let any of that go. He can’t let Blaster move on and continue to torment Cybertron with his stupid voice, as The Voice or otherwise. 

“Negative,” Soundwave clarifies quickly, which eases the slight tension that had gathered in the room. “Objection: regarding personnel. Clarification: insufficient number of personnel. Overwhelmed system: highly probable.”

Megatron hums at that, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. 

“He does have a point,” he says to Prime, who nods along. 

“The initial call rate will be high,” Prowl agrees. “Blaster may need additional help maintaining the abundance of hails.”

“Hey, I’m a great sound system,” Blaster pouts. “Me n’ my cassettes ran The Voice for centuries.”

“No bot is discrediting your abilities, Blaster,” Prime appeases. “But now you are representing all of Cybertron. Your work will double.”

Blaster, the gullible fool, seems to pacify at the explanation. 

Now is his chance. A chance to squeeze himself into his technically old position of Communications Officer, a chance to show the entire planet that Blaster is incompetent and stupid and that Soundwave is undeniably superior. This is his chance to get revenge for having Blaster’s voice play loops in his processor for eons. 

“Soundwave: volunteers for position.”

“How convenient,” Starscream snorts, rolling his optics. 

“In assisting Blaster?” Prowl asks, cocking an eye-ridge. Soundwave’s cassettes are roaring up a storm of laughter. He thinks he will keep them in dock-time-out for the next two cycles. 

Wait, what–?

“Position: co-broadcasting. Suggestion: Rotational shifts.”

If all goes well, this will give Soundwave half the planetary cycle to show the world that he’s the better sound system. He can broadcast an immersive experience for listeners instead of blasting – fitting designation, bleh – nonsensical noise. He can better the future of Cybertronian radio all by himself. He'll be able to make history. 

Blaster glowers at Soundwave, because they are both sound systems, and they both know that sound systems don’t like to share. Not that…Soundwave has a lot of experience with other sound systems. Really, the only experience he does have is with Blaster. It must be the same the other way around; cassette carriers were never popular to begin with, too costly; he idly wonders if there’s another cassette player floating around in space. 

They’re probably more tolerable than Blaster. Anything is better than Blaster. 

“How considerate,” Blaster grits out through a straining smile. His optic twitches. His servos clench at his sides. Soundwave’s spark spins in satisfaction. “Always lookin’ out for me, eh Sounders?”

“You: are welcome.”

Jazz leans in to whisper in Starscream’s audial while the rest of the room watch the two boomboxes glare at each other from across the table. 

“Twenty shanix that they clang before the cycle is over.”

Starscream scoffs. 

“Double that; they’re too stubborn. They’re going to draw it out for at least two.”

“Nah, my bet is three,” Slipstream joins in. “Forty shanix for three cycles. Soundwave hates Blaster.”

“Ooh, they’ll get it down rough,” Jazz snickers. “Blaster’s got a whole mixtape dedicated to why Soundwave should have offlined crawlin’ up the Well.”

“Try a datachip full of image captures.”

Jazz whistles low. 

“Yikes.”

“Half a cycle,” Prowl cuts in. The three of them whirl around to stare at the former Autobot SIC in varying degrees of shock. “It’ll take them half a cycle,” and then under his breath, “this truce is just an excuse to legally fraternise with the enemy.”

Starscream starts cackling. Slipstream writes their bet down on her datapad dedicated to trade deals. Jazz whistles again.

“You are so on.”

The scavenging teams manage to uncover a relatively intact building near the centre of New Iacon. It’s one-story with a deep basement level. The interior is infected with nasty patches of rust, and the furniture is upturned and dust lines every surface, but it’s better than most other places. So much so that Prime takes one look at, nods, and declares the building a suitable habsuite arrangement for the two of them. 

This had not been part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen. At least Blaster looks equally as shocked at Prime’s announcement, mouth hanging wide open and optics cycled big and round and stupid-looking. 

“Wh–but, wait, Prime–”

“There is a division of space in the basement; Jazz informed me of two separate rooms. It will make it easier for you two to access the station, and bots will know exactly where the hub for general connection will be.”

Soundwave wants Unicron to wake up, be useful for once, and swallow him up from the floor. He also prays that after Unicron is finished with him, he goes and casts Jazz into the Pits. 

“Suggestion: a bit hasty–”

“Nonsense!” Prime laughs good-naturedly, as if there’s any good nature between them. “I’m so glad you two are willing to show that Cybertronians of former factions can indeed coexist. I’m proud of you two.”

Prime glances over his shoulder, giving Megatron – who has thus far given the wall far more attention than anything else – a pointed look. Megatron catches it, rolls his optics, and then grumbles “yeah yeah, whatever Prime said, all that slag.”

Prime sighs, but then smiles down at the two once more. 

“I’m sure Cybertron will have much to thank you two for.”

Well Boss, I think congratulations are in order.

Yeah, you managed to fuck yourself up!

When Prime (and by proxy, Megatron, who has become Prime’s obedient little shadow because he’s a solid sucker, how did Soundwave miss that?) finally leaves, Soundwave is left to the mercy of his taunting cassettes for all of three kliks before Blaster whirls around to face him. 

“What,” he seethes, steam pouring out of his intake. “The. Fuck.”

Yeahhh, that’s a solid one, Boss. 

I’ve been asking that question for cycles too. 

Soundwave doesn’t bother responding to any of them. He’s still reeling over how his little plan to dominate the radio channel turned into such a living nightmare. 

“What is your malfunction?” Blaster hisses, pacing back and forth in the hallway – their shared hallways, frag – with his helm in his servos. “Stickin’ your helm where it doesn't need to be.”

“Situation: unintended,” Soundwave tries, then backtracks. He didn’t need to explain himself! It’s not like he asked Prime to room them in the same building right across a hallway from each other. If Blaster had kept his intake shut during the meeting, then Soundwave would have been able to bring up the radio station idea a klik later, with himself as the one and only host of the channel.

“Situation unintended my aft,” Blaster growls, glaring from under his helm’s jutted optic cover. “You’re always tryna’ fuck up my groove!”

“Soundwave: has better things to do.”

“Clearly you do not.”

Blaster is still muttering under his breath when he whirls around and marches into the room behind him. Guess that makes choosing easier. Soundwave turns around and enters the remaining room without a sound. The door opens with a creaky whoosh, rust making the electric bits cranky when activated. But the foundation is solid; it wouldn’t take too long to fix this building up into something pleasant. 

As the door shuts behind Soundwave’s back, he can only think of one thing when he looks around the room. 

There’s… no furniture in here. 

This habsuite is stripped of anything useful, leaving behind a desk with one functional leg, broken datapads that date by thousands of cycles, and dust. So much dust. 

Each of Soundwave’s pedesteps kick up fumes of it, a grey-blue-red, a mix of atmospheric dust and rust and whatever else has been floating around in here for who knows how long. There’s not even a berth, and the walls have splintering cracks and the roof has holes that let pockets of natural light filter through. If this is what the scavenging teams were deeming better-than-average, he doesn’t even want to know where every other bot was recharging. 

At the insistent tapping inside his chest, Soundwave releases his fussy cassettes. Well, he releases Rumble and Frenzy, because Ravage is already slinking around the rubble of New Iacon and Laserbeak is stretching her wings by playing messenger hawk for Megatron. The twins waste no time unfurling and bounding all over the place, chattering up a storm. 

“Wow Boss,” Rumble announces, tapping at a dividing wall leading into some internal storage room and watching it crumble into a pile of broken parts and, you guessed it! More dust. “This is some upgrade.”

“The Nemesis had better washracks than this,” Frenzy scoffs, kicking up a storm of dust. “And those washracks were filthy.”

“He’s right,” Rumble nods. “I’d rather sleep outside.”

“In a gutter.”

“Outside.”

“Twins: desist,” Soundwave grumbles. He walks further into the room, toward the shutters that are drawn down over the single rectangular window. It collapses under his digits, and the window is shattered behind it. So this is where the dust had come in from. It was better than nothing, honestly. A little maintenance and tidying up and really, between Soundwave and his cassettes, they could get this place looking brand new in no time. 

“Oh no, do you see that look on his face?”

“Fuck, he’s probably going to say something like–”

“New assignment: clean quarters.”

His announcement is met with two loud groans. 

Blaster gets to the console first. 

Where Soundwave prioritised his room, Blaster had apparently taken one look around the decrepit quarters, somehow dustier than Soundwave’s despite having his window intact, and had thought, well, this ain’t so bad, or something equally stupid, and then proceeded to leave. Soundwave can’t wait for the dark cycle to fall so he can watch that blasted fool sleep on the filthy ground and get rust mites. 

Instead he goes to the main communications array, connected to one of the ships arrays by somebot who physically ripped the array out of the ship and dumped it into their new radio building. Soundwave spends cycles clearing out the dust, fixing up some piping issues, shutting the open window with panelling, and setting the twins out on the task to find some kind of berth. By the time Cybertron’s sun is setting, he feels grit caked within his seams but feels accomplished. Hands on his hips, Soundwave takes in the clean floors, patched roof, and panelled window with a sense of pride.

He walks out of the room, and all his good mood plummets when he realises that no, Blaster did not glitch and die in the span of a few cycles, he’s actually tinkering with the two busted communication arrays to try and make one functional communication array. 

Soundwave thinks about offering some help. With how violent Megatron was when it came to contacting the Autobots, Soundwave is used to fixing broken computer systems. But that would mean approaching the red mech, and talking, and actually offering to help the idiot boombox-wannabe, and then Soundwave would make it seem like he actually wants this dual-radio-host thing to work. Which he doesn’t. The whole reason he wanted this job was so that he could finally get his revenge on Blaster and get him demoted to some lousy messenger bot with a single comm to his name. 

So Soundwave turns and let’s Blaster do the hard work. And anyway, he’s got better things to do. Like looking for a berth. Or a pillow. At least a pillow. 

“Goooood morning New I-a-cooon!” 

Soundwave jolts. Then he gapes. Beside him, both Rumble and Frenzy exchange shocked looks. 

“I know it’s been a while, what with the whole end of the Great War and all that. And ain’t that a headline to talk about? But we are so back, baby!”

“He got it to work,” Rumble says in disbelief. Then pins Soundwave with a pitying look. “Damn Boss, he demoted you to the night shift.”

If Blaster is recording midday, then he’s going to claim the dayshift that Prowl had accepted from Soundwave’s proposal. Which leaves Soundwave with the dark cycle. Which sucks, because most bots are recharging and are probably too busy with that to Soundwave’s explanation on why Blaster should be banished from this sector of the galaxy. His original plan had been to push Blaster into the deserted night shift. Nothing is going according to plan.

“This is kind of sad Boss,” Frenzy adds, crossing his arms. “That’s the second time he’s beaten you to something. You’re losing your touch.”

“I agree,” Rumble nods. 

“Soundwave: did not ask,” he grits out.

The channel is on an open frequency and broadcasted as a public ping. Much like how Megatron would hail Decepticons for announcements, but on a much wider scale that covered practically the entire city. Soundwave looks around for the few working holovid screens plastered to the main towers, and feels his spark simmer when he sees Blaster’s face being projected above. 

“You all have no idea how long I’ve been makin’ tunes for a crowd, so ya’ll are in for a wild ride. But let’s get through the boring news before we start jammim’.”

Bots all around Soundwave pause in their activities to watch Blaster’s “daily report” as he calls it. It’s the first public message since the announcement of the Peace Accords, and everybot’s interested. Blaster explains the open invitation for free passage back to Cybertron for all, the tentative construction schedule, Prowl’s determination to reconstruct Cybertronian Law in a single cycle, and also!

“Feel free to drop by the radio station to offer a song, scandal, or secret! I’ll answer ya’ during the day, and my gloomy boomy overrated counterpart will be available during the dark cycle. You heard it right, mechs! Soundwave is running the night show. Pray to Primus that the console glitches before then.”

Several bots around snicker, as if whatever Blaster said was funny. Blaster is not a funny mech. Blaster is infuriating. Blaster is anything but funny. 

“Well, that’s enough of my voice. Do you bots want some tunes? Of course ya’ want some tunes! Nothing like reconstructing some buildings to Jazz’s latest album: Special Operation. Mind the songs Mission: Tap That and Wire Reconnaissance for, if it wasn’t already obvious, an explicit warning.”

The screens switch back to the latest news Blaster had broadcasted, switching between news displays and weather reports. The construction schedule also pops up every now and then. Blaster’s face doesn’t show up again, and yet Soundwave still seethes. There’s an open channel invitation blinking in his HUD, and when he runs the numbers he finds hundreds of bots already tuning in to listen to whatever abject horrors Blaster is playing through the radio’s frequency. The glyphs at the bottom display the current playing song and the artist, as well as Blaster’s designation typed into the slot where it says “host”.

“Y’know, that Spec Ops bot does have some rhythm to him,” Rumble nods along to a silent beat playing in his audials. Frenzy makes a face at him. 

“Are you really tuning in right now?”

“It’s either this, or I listen to you complain for cycles.”

Soundwave ignores the twins going back and forth with each other. He’s still stuck staring at Blaster’s obnoxious designation written in neat glyphs along the bottom of his HUD. 

“New Iacon Live,” the little pop-up window in the corner reads. “Current Host: Blaster. Playing: Wire Reconnaissance by Jazz.”

Of course Blaster would play the dirtiest song first.

This little radio scuffle of theirs has already started, and much to Soundwave’s dismay, Blaster’s already pulled the first move. 

“Damn, these lyrics are rancid,” Rumble snickers. 

“Wait, for real?” Frenzy’s already tapping his digits to his audial. “Let me hear! Let me hear!”

Behind his visor, Soundwave’s optics narrow in thought. 

“NIL: now running,” Soundwave announces into his mic. He’s all wired up, literally, with several cables attached to his helm and within his dock. The communications console is still in shoddy repair, and produces static if Soundwave doesn’t project his voice modulator through a direct line. It’s not a problem more than an inconvenience, because he needs at least one cassette connected to him to steady the connection and secure the broadcast frequency. It’s Ravage that’s here with him tonight, a cable pressed into the slot behind her head. This is what they had been built for, after all. “Host: Soundwave.”

Once Ravage gives him the green light, Soundwave activates the live feed, turns on his internal mic, and begins speaking. 

“Night cycle: in two breems,” he begins. Both Blaster and himself are updated by the cycle with news relating to pretty much anything that concerns the general Cybertronian populaces’ attention. Construction shift changes, patrol routes, weather patterns; it’s an All-In-One Radio, as Blaster had so obnoxiously put it during his recording session. Soundwave is tasked with sharing the new patrol route for the Seeker force, the minute change in the scavenging parties’ designated areas, and an update on the vessels arriving to Cybertron after answering the Peace Accord hails. 

“Faction: undetermined. Expected arrival: twenty cycles.”

He goes over the latest weather changes, which involves a chance of acid flurries sometime tomorrow evening, according to Perceptor. 

“Queries: can be brought to NIL. Communication feed: open.”

So far, they haven’t received any notifications of incoming messages being left at their station by their listeners. Not that that’s very surprising. It’s only been half a cycle since New Iacon Live became active. So he skims past the slot he had dedicated to reviewing listener intel and goes straight to his personal session. 

“Fact: fewer bots tuned in. Fact: most bots in recharge. Fact: Soundwave: aware of situation,” he says, already sifting through his internal storage. “Regardless. Soundwave: prepared revised melodies. Purpose: to soothe overworked processing threads. Alternate purpose: to erase Blaster’s horrendous music taste from bots’ audials.” 

Soundwave can’t tell how many bots are tuning in, what with the grid not completely fixed up just yet. But he’s confident that there are at least some bots listening. Some bots who will hear Soundwave’s pleasant symphony and realise that Blaster is just a fool wearing sound system armour. A cause starts small; Megatron had taught him that. And Soundwave is a patient mech. He’ll start small alright. He’ll play his cards right and have the whole world know that Soundwave is the superior sound system. 

He hopes Blaster is tuning in. 

“Cover name: Balm Over Blast.”

And then Soundwave mutes himself and hits play. 

Soundwave is in a meeting when Blaster goes live that following morning. 

He’s with the Seeker force, getting an updated version of the Cybertron’s landscape from their patrols. He’s going to be displaying the map on the screens at the Centre – such a creative name for the area in the middle of the city where all the screens are plastered, yes – for the scavenging crew to download. He’s also on weather duty again. 

“There are clouds brewing three-hundred hics east from here,” Starscream reports, pinging Soundwave with an image-still and drawn-on calculations, already predicting wind speed, trajectory and intensity. “It will probably skim by the edge of New Iacon in two cycles. Worse than the flurries we got this morning.”

Soundwave nods, saves the image still for the displays, and writes a note on his datapad. 

Slipstream reports signs of infrastructure near where the storm is currently raging, which Soundwave also notes. This information will be taken to Jazz, who organises the scavenging patrols, because during his own off-shifts from the radio Soundwave acts as correspondence between the new High Command and literally everybot else.

“Well, that’s it for our report,” Starscream drawls, and the dismissal is followed by most of the Seekers wandering away, looking a little aimless. They really needed something better to do in between patrols that went beyond just walking around to cool their thrusters. Soundwave makes a small note in the corner of his datapad to look into it. 

“Hey hey hey New Iacon!” The NIL frequency lights up with activity, and suddenly everybot is perking up, probably tuned in and also hearing Blaster’s grating voice. Soundwave feels his plating quiver. In disgust most likely. “How’s everybot hangin’?

“We got some fairly boring news here, seeing as not much changed since last night. Who got hit by those flurries, by the way? I got our first public complaint, and it was Ratchet shouting at everyone to ‘cover up or die’. Gotta’ love that mech!

“Guess y’all also got a little taste of ol’ Sounders too. I feel sorry for ya’–”

Soundwave bristles. 

“–’cause he’s really just one sad tune away from puttin’ us all to sleep! Hey Sounders, you listenin’ in? That remix was terrible! Either bump up the skill level or quit while you’re ahead, but don’t embarrass us boomboxes like that.”

Starscream snickers into his fist. Soundwave turns to pin him with a blistering glare. 

“Any-who, I feel I owe everybot for having to put up with dear idiot Soundy, so I’ve got my own little playlist here for you all. Up first on our list of hits: Crashing Your Sound Waves.”

Music starts filling up his audials, a fast-paced electro-bass stringing up a storm that scratches at Soundwave’s audials like claws on metal. He immediately mutes the channel, seething when he sees a few Seekers bop their helms to the same beat. Fuck, all of Soundwave’s previous good mood has plummeted into oblivion. 

When most of the Seekers are out of hearing range and Soundwave subspaces his datapad, preparing to leave, Starscream clears his throat loudly. Soundwave looks at him, tilting his helm in acknowledgement of the obvious tell. Starscream glances around, sees that it's only his trinemates who are within vicinity, and then leans toward him. 

“I heard that NIL takes listener feedback,” he starts, optics narrowing along with his grin. Soundwave, with a wave of excitement that makes his wilted spark flutter, leans closer. He’s going to be getting the first bit of feedback since they aired, which, really, it’s only been a cycle, but still! He’s getting an edge against that idiot Blaster. He’s being trusted with listener feedback in the metal. 

“Statement: correct.”

“Ah, perfect. Okay, so, a little breeze informed me that your lovely little co-host–” Soundwave’s spark spasms at the mention of said stupid little co-host “–has been caught sneaking into the Iaconian Security Division last night.”

Soundwave’s spasming spark freezes. It takes a few moments for him to get his voice modulator to work. 

“Query: source of rumour?”

“I don’t know,” Starscream shrugs, but his grin is too evil to be anything but, well, evil. “But Skywarp has footage.”

Footage of his aged-old enemy sneaking into the Security Division? Why in the Pits would Blaster be sneaking into the Security Division? Is he sending encrypted transmissions beyond orbit? It’s the only reason Soundwave can think of as to why Blaster would take interest in the Security Division. They have the only other console strong enough to send those kinds of intergalactic transmissions, beyond their own radio station. 

If Blaster is sending encrypted messages, who would he be sending them to? Allies? No, he could do that publicly on their own console. Was it a private matter? To a friend perhaps? A…a lover, maybe?

For some reason, the thought has Soundwave’s spark feeling odd. Like the very idea of Blaster having a lover before Soundwave himself has found one is such a blasphemous idea that his spark is having a physical reaction. No way somebot like Blaster bonded to somebot. He’s an idiot. He’s such a junkie sound system. No rational mech would fall for him. 

“Starscream: knows reason for visit?” Soundwave asks carefully. 

“Starscream: does not,” Starscream rolls his optics. “But you know, you’ve got those insufferable minibots. Did you forget you have those? Make use of them.”

Soundwave should probably be more suspicious of how invested Starscream is with Blaster’s mysterious activity. Starscream has never even mentioned Blaster’s designation before. However, Soundwave’s priorities are being rearranged, and since the Peace Accords, Starscream’s potential betrayal has been shifted to one of low importance. 

Soundwave releases Laserbeak, who flies in two graceful circles before landing on his shoulder. 

“Laserbeak: has new assignment.”

Laserbeak squawks something. Probably a confirmation. 

“Assignment: spy on Blaster.”

She cocks her head in question. 

“Evidence: suggests suspicious activity. Laserbeak: will conduct reconnaissance.”

The little avian eyes him strangely, like she usually does when Soundwave spends hours as a cassette player hiding in the storage closet to avoid having to deal with another one of Blaster’s infuriating hails. Soundwave stares back, confused, because he thinks he’s being totally reasonable right now. They have found suspicious activity. They need to confirm if everything is okay. 

Laserbeak clearly does not agree, but if she has something to say, she keeps it to herself. Instead, she side-eyes him once, twice, then takes off into the air. 

“Well then,” Starscream sighs, leaning back on his heels. His wings are hitched up high on his back. Behind him, Skywarp snickers. Soundwave has an inkling that he should be wary. “Do tell us if anything… exciting is discovered by your little parrot.”

“Parrot?” Thundercracker cuts in. “What’s a parrot?”

“It’s a little avian from that organic planet!” Skywarp exclaims. “I think they’re usually green?”

“No they’re not,” Starscream frowns at him. “They’re red.”

“Mmm, no, I’m pretty sure they’re green.”

“Wait,” Thundercracker raises a servo, “which organic planet are we talking about?”

“You imbecile, the ones projected on their two-dimensional holovids are usually red!”

“But I saw one that was green!”

“Guys…”

“For Primus’ sake, TC,” Starscream seethes, whipping around to face him. “It’s the same planet that your disease-ridden fleshly robohound got blasted to bits.”

Thundercracker’s optics widen for a klik, and then his face crumples. Soundwave gets to experience watching the novel sight of Starscream cringing at his own choice of glyphs, looking almost guilty as Thundercracker’s optics begin to spark. 

“You idiot!” Skywarp hisses, punching Starscream’s shoulder just as Thundercracker starts to sniff. “You know he’s still sensitive about that!”

“It’s been centuries,” Starscream tries defending, though he still looks pained at Thundercracker’s quivering wings. “I thought he’d be over it by now.”

“Oh Buster…” Thundercracker whimpers. Starscream takes a step forward, but Thundercracker is already stumbling away, jumping into the air and transforming into his signature four-winged jet. It’s a hazardous transformation sequence and he almost crashes into the ground. But then in the next klik he’s blasting off into the sky, a thundering boom following his wake. 

“Idiot!” Skywarp screeches, already transforming to fly after him. 

“Fuck!” Starscream snaps, seemingly at himself. Or the deceased Buster. Who knows. “Fuck this!” And then he’s shooting off behind his trinemates as well, leaving Soundwave standing in the middle of the landing deck, terribly confused. 

Then again, he muses to himself, Seekers are known to be aggressive with their bondmates. Lot’s of violence. Soundwave wonders if that can be categorized as a love language. 

“Greetings New Iacon. NIL: now live. Current host: Soundwave. 

“New weather map: posted at Centre. Scavenging teams: report to Jazz. Seeker force: new assignment pending. See Jazz for details. 

“Soundwave: aware of torture Blaster subjected to citizens. Blaster: has horrendous music taste. New Iaconians: must forgive Blaster. Blaster’s processor: scrambled. Soundwave: offers remedy. Soundwave: offering superior playlist for listening enjoyment. 

“Now playing: Get a New Paintjob, Red is Out.”

Laserbeak comes back three cycles later with news. 

::He’s fragging the Autobot Security Officer.::

Soundwave has a processor that’s built to be powerful, able to process several hundred threads of data at one time, able to parce external communication while maintaining internal firewalls and run through datanet after datanet. He has been built as an information hub. And yet, despite all this, Soundwave’s brain module still stalls for a few kliks upon receiving Laserbeak’s comm. 

“Repeat.”

::He’s fragging that red Security Officer.::

“Holy shit,” Frenzy gapes. “I can’t believe Laserbeak’s been bought.”

“Will you shut the frag up?” Rumble hisses, elbowing his twin in the chassis hard enough to dent. Frenzy goes down in a fit of wheezing vents. 

“Soundwave: does not understand.”

“There’s nothin’ to understand, Boss,” Rumble shrugs. “He’s fragging somebot in the Security Department. That's why he’s sneaking around. Mystery solved.”

Soundwave’s spark does strange twists inside his chamber, as if trying to do a backflip. He doesn’t really understand. Is he jealous that Blaster is somehow managing a relationship on top of being a radio co-host? Is he upset that Blaster seems to be treating their rivalry like a second-hand importance, something lesser? He feels his spark burn when he thinks of Blaster putting Soundwave and their radio rivalry on the backburner to go frag some stupid security bot. He should be focusing on trading blows with him! He should be putting all his effort into giving Soundwave the fight he’s been egging him with for eons!

Soundwave’s optics narrow behind his visor, and he automatically unmutes the NIL channel that he’s constantly connected to. 

“–made my optics just about crumble under the pressure!”

It’s Blaster’s voice that rings through his processor, because of course it’s Blaster. 

“And by the way, whoever is posting these image stills really needs to show me a thing or two about encryption; I won’t rattle ya’ out if you show me how you’re avoiding both me and Sounders and still getting those pornos out.”

He’s talking about the anonymous postings featuring Optimus Prime and Megatron going crazy on a meeting table. Blaster is right about the fact that the encryptions are hard to find and bypass, what with all the other work piled on top of their plates. But he doesn’t have to out the two of them like this. 

“Speakin’ of Sounders–” Soundwave’s spark skips a rotation, probably out of anger “–did y'all hear that atrocious mixtape last night? Mech, I was ready to gouge out my own audials. He’s makin’ my show look bad! But I’ll show him! Soundwave, baby, I altered this remix just for you. Femmes and gentlemechs, I present to you: Waving Malfuction.”

“He’s fuckin’ the Security Director and dissin’ you with mixtape titles?” Rumble whistles long and low. “Paint me impressed.”

“Laserbeak: has proof?” Soundwave manages to croak past a glitching modulator. He doesn’t know if Laserbeak having image stills would make him feel better or worse. 

Unfortunately – or fortunately? His spark is doing weird Seeker-level aerial somersaults in his chest. He doesn’t like it – Laserbeak shakes her little helm in apology, pressing her wings tighter against her back and nestling deeper into Soundwave’s shoulder. 

::I wasn’t able to get past the second layer of defenses.::

“It’s almost like you were snooping in the Security Division,” Frenzy scoffs under his breath. 

::All I was able to record was Blaster being greeted at the door by Red Alert.::

There is a moment of stony silence while the three bots go over what Laserbeak sent in their comm-link group chat. When Soundwave manages to process the information, it’s already too late, because Frenzy has already started swearing up a storm. 

“You fuckin’ idiot!” He nearly shrieks. “You moron! Useless bag of bolts! Pit-spawned prissy little parrot–”

“What the fuck is a parrot?” Rumble whispers. 

“–you had one fuckin’ job! One! And you don’t even speak; you had to type that blunder out, look it over, and send it! What are you, stupid?!”

Soundwave is a bit confused as to why Frenzy is so upset over the fact that Laserbeak wasn’t able to capture provocative footage of Blaster and the Security Director mid-frag, beyond being frustrated at the lack of blackmail material. Was he upset on Soundwave’s behalf? No, that’s not viable. Frenzy is a very self-oriented little minibot. He throws Soundwave’s feelings into the dirt several times in a single cycle for lesser things.

“Cool it Frenzy,” Rumble hops over to place a servo over Frenzy’s pauldron. “You’re makin’ it worse.”

::Yeah Frenzy,” Laserbeak cocks her head and looks at Frenzy from down her beak. ::Shut the fuck up.::

“I’ll gut you–”

“Conclusion:” Soundwave cuts in before Frenzy can do something stupid like jump at Laserbeak and subsequently crash into Soundwave’s face, “no video evidence. Results: speculation. Rumour: has little worth.”

“If you’re a blind mech, then maybe,” Frenzy snorts, crossing his arms. 

“Blaster: cannot be in relationship. Blaster: must prioritse NIL. Fight for NIL ownership: utmost importance. Soundwave: must prove superiority.”

His cassettes all look at him like he’s lost an optic or something. 

“Qeury: what?”

“Nothin’,” Rumble says before anybot else. “Just…wow.”

“Damn,” Frenzy nods. 

::Does this count as a backfire?:: Laserbeak asks. 

“I mean, can we even consider it working?”

“It’s definietly progress, no?” Rumble offers. Frenzy nods along, appeased. Laserbeak chirps her agreement, hopping off of Soundwave’s shoulder to glide down, resting on Rumble’s helm instead. 

As the three walk away, murmuring amongst each other, Soundwave can’t help but feel like he’s missed out on something extremely important. 

Soundwave has thus far managed to sneak into their shared complex without running into Blaster. Their alternating shifts means Blaster is either out collecting information at night, or recharging with half the rising city. Soundwave spends all of his time off-shift doing much of the same, on top of compiling the obviously superior playlists to keep playing on the radio channel for bots to tune in to. 

Tonight it seems his luck has run out. 

Blaster is walking toward his room, which lies right across from Soundwave’s. He’s got his arms stretched high above his head, arching his back in a strut-popping stretch while he yawns the static out of his voice box. Soundwave’s own room door swishes shut behind him, because he’s just woken up, and he’s about to take his shift at the communications table and plug himself in for another long shift. 

Blaster spots him immediately. It’s hard to miss each other, what with them being the only points of color in this dreary little hallway. Soundwave’s half of the complex is cleaner though, because he spends his off-shifts actually being useful instead of wasting time of stupid remixes involving unbecoming alien music.

The two of them spend several kliks just staring at each other. Blaster doesn’t have his visor, and this means Soundwave has full view of the way Blaster’s optics widen to an impossible setting, looking stupid and huge on his face. Like a sparkling caught with its servo in a goodies jar. And Blaster is looking at Soundwave like he’s the one stealing goodies. 

They’ve been trading insults over the radio channel back and forth for cycles now. Soundwave hates the fact that he’s actually having fun with this new co-host position. He tunes in everytime Blaster opens, and finds himself more often than not lowering the volume to keep NIL as background noise while he works through his errands. It’s a moritfying situation, but Soundwave can’t lie to himself. He’s having fun, and it’s so embarrassing. 

But this is the first time they’re seeing each other in the metal since NIL aired. Soundwave’s battle protocols ping tiny warnings at him that he forces himself to dismiss. The Peace Accords are active. He can’t just go up and shoot Blaster in the face plates and call it a night. Plus, the thought isn’t even as appealing as it used to be. Now it makes his spark twinge. Like the potential of Blaster offlining and leaving Soundwave to run their new station by himself is actually a horrible prospect. 

Must be because he’ll get bored again. Soundwave has always detested boredom. 

“Uhh,” Blaster breaks the silence first, snapping Soundwave out of his musing. He really does have such big optics. “What’re you doing here?”

“Soundwave: lives here.”

“I know, but, like, what are you doing here?” Blaster presses, gesturing to their hallway like that adds anymore sense to his nonsense. “Right now?”

“Soundwave: has shift. NIL: on pause. Query: Blaster stupid?”

That seems to snap Blaster out of whatever stump he’d found himself in. He shakes his helm and bristles, plating flaring. 

“No!” Blaster shouts at a volume several decibals too loud for what could be deemed appropriate in their little hallway. “I’m tired, ‘s all. Carrying our radio channel on my back gets real difficult with a deadbeat on the night shift.”

Soundwave knows that this is a pathetic dig, trying to rile him up and make him lose his cool. Soundwave knows this, he does. He’s been dodging Autobot insults for millenia; it’s become second nature to tune out lowly jeers and move forward. It’s in his programming. He’s not supposed to get emotional. He’s not supposed to get riled up. 

Maybe it’s a carrier bot thing. He doesn’t know what it is about Blaster that makes his spark spin so fast, so blindingly hot within his chest that it feels like he’s about to fry out his dock. It’s the color of vivid red and that stupid yellow dock with the same dimensions as his own and it’s those big fucking optics that look so fucking stupid and it’s everytime Blaster opens his intake and says something. Cassette carrier to cassette carrier. As if breaking boundaries by being built by the same schematics. His jeers are harder to ignore. His spark can’t help but latch onto every glyph. 

“Blaster: is an incompetent DJ. Soundwave: has received complaints.”

“What?!” Blaster gawks. “No you haven’t. No way. There’s no way. Liar!”

“Soundwave: not lying.”

“Yes you are!”

“Soundwave: superior.”

“Soundwave: needs to cool his ego before he bloats and explodes and offlines.”

“Description: inaccurate. Processor: cannot–”

“It was a jab!” Blaster seethes, throwing his arms in the air. “It was a jab, you pit-spawned boombox!”

Soundwave harrumphs as best as a bot with no mouth can, crossing his arms over his dock. He walks past the prickly red bot, making sure to bump into his shoulders before stalking down the hall. It feels good to shove him, even if the force isn’t enough to do much more than clang their armour together. Blaster throws curses at his back, and then the tell tale sound of a door opening and closing sounds. 

Ravage is stabilising his connection tonight, and already has a wire plugged into the back of her head. Soundwave isn’t surprised to see her. Who he is surprised to see when he walks into the comms room is Blaster’s three felinoid cassettes lazing around near the heater built at the back with her. 

The sight is a strange one, and it’s mostly because of the Ravage 2.0 curled around the original Ravage like they had never even separated: he hasn’t seen Nightstalker since he’d defected early into the war. Soundwave has no idea what kind of work Ravage’s spark sibling did for the last few eons, but they haven’t crossed paths for a long long time. He looks good in the light of the setting sun. His plating is glossy. His metal shines. He looks healthy. 

He looks up from where he’s curled into a tight ball with Ravage, nearly identical to his sister, and blinks up at Soundwave. Soundwave’s visor blinks back. He’s a bit in shock right now, honestly. Realistically he knows that he was bound to see the rest of Blaster’s cassettes around at some point, what with the whole ‘living together’ situation they have going on. But for some reason, he hadn’t ever prepared himself for the actual possibility. 

“Nightstalker…” Soundwave starts, and his voice modulator glitches midway. His dock suddenly feels strangely empty, even though Ratbat is currently napping inside. 

“Soundwave,” Nightstalker nods back. His optics are a lazy pink. Soundwave wonders if he had ever changed them to the Autobot blue. Probably not. He’s a stubborn, prideful little minibot. 

“Soundwave: has not seen Nightstalker in a long time.”

“It has been a while,” Nightstalker agrees easily. He ducks to rub his cheek against Ravage’s ear. It’s only then that Soundwave notices his own cassette is awake too. “I had thought our next meeting would be a bit more exciting though.”

Ravage snorts, batting her brother with her tail before getting up. She stretches against the ground, and for some absurd reason it reminds Soundwave of Blaster from mere moments ago. He shakes his helm. 

“He’s still trying for the nonchalant vibe,” Ravage deadpans, “even after millions of cycles spent being a glorified camera drone.”

Nightstalker’s tail flicks in annoyance. 

“And you a glorified house cat,” Nightstalker sniffs, snout held high. “Always being spotted during espionage. I heard all about it every time. Might as well have changed your paint to pink.”

Ravage rolls her optics before taking her place at the console. 

Soundwave still hasn’t moved since he set pede into the room. It’s such a novel experience, and he feels a bit like he’s living in a recharge flux right now. It’s been eons, and yet Soundwave remembers exactly how Nightstalker’s cassette felt nestled in his dock. He remembers, in vivid detail, the pang of not-pain when their bond had severed. He remembers long cycles of experiencing a phantom grief, something that barely existed; something there but vacant, occupying his processor with little physical effect. Much like Nightstalker’s existence. 

“Soundwave:...” he resets his vocal components to no avail. “Nightstalker: appears well.”

Nightstalker dips his head in acknowledgement, already scooting over to where Blaster’s two other feline cassettes lay curled into one another, not a single care even as Soundwave moves toward the communication array. 

“Blaster was kind to me,” he states. “Is kind to me.”

And Soundwave is about to say something to that, but then–

“He installed the heater,” Steeljaw suddenly mumbles, shifting ever so slightly to accommodate Nightstalker’s longer body. “Buzzsaw and Laserbeak spent all afternoon here. Up your game, lousy boombox.”

Nightstalker snorts once, then dips his head back into his paws, engine rumbling loudly in tandem to the other two purring ones beside him. Soundwave feels the strongest urge to run his servos over the three of them. Which is strange. None of these cassette belong to him. 

When Soundwave turns to Ravage, he sees her eyeing the cat cassette pile with pitiful longing. 

“Helloooo New Iacon! I’m Frenzy, your host for tonight. Before the program starts, we’ll be reading some of our dear listeners’ comm messages. Remember folks! You can write whatever you want to us: comments, tips, complaints. Also remember! We will be scrapping any complaints.”

“Frenzy, get on with it.”

“Right, right. Whatever. ‘Kay, first message we have here is requesting we keep her designation anonymous. Well guess what sucker! I don’t give a frag! Slipstream wrote: Is writing disstracks for your co-host a form of courting–”

The sound of a loud crash resonates through the mic, followed by muffled cursing and a series of what sounds like somebot hitting another bot again and again. 

“Fuck off!” Frenzy hisses. 

“Give me the mic!” Rumble shouts back. Clanging and swearing follows for a few kliks before Rumble resets his voice box directly into the mic. 

“Anyway. Slipstream, to answer you question: how about you stop cheating and trying to expedite something we all agreed not to fucking interfere with–”

“Don’t be a wuss!” Frenzy shouts from somewhere in the background. 

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you made the stupid slaggin’ mistake of agreeing with her!”

“Whatever,” Frenzy’s voice clears up on the line. “Read the next one.”

“Bumblebee asked: which room do the cassettes sleep in when Blaster and Soundwave start clanging? Slag mech, way to keep it PG-13.”

“In the hallway,” Frenzy answers. “What the slag is PG-13?”

“Why are you lying? They haven’t fragged yet.”

“Yet. Now what is a PG-13?”

The sound of shuffling, and then Rumble continues. 

“Sunstorm asked: why are the distracks low-key homoerotic?”

“Pits if we know. Maybe they get off on it.”

“Knockout asked: does it count as fanservice if you two – I’m assuming he means Blaster and Soundwave – frag with the mic on.”

“You should have your medical licence revoked.”

“Starscream asked: is Blaster a spike mech? Or does he take–”

“Rumble. Frenzy. Desist.”

“Oh…! Heyyy Boss.”

“Ah ha, we didn’t…we thought you were rechargin’!”

“Yeah! Yeah! We were just…uh, fillin’ in for you!”

“Yeah, until Frenzy started fuckin’ shit up.”

“Hey! Just admit you’re a loser and pay up instead of dragging me down with your sorry aft–”

More background noise, suspiciously accurate to what it sounds like when somebot is thrown into a wall. 

“Soundwave: apologises. NIL: now officially live.”

“Read the comm messages Boss!” Frenzy exclaims right before a loud bang is heard, presumably Rumble inflicting bodily harm on his twin. 

“Wait, Boss, don’t–!”

“Submitted query: Starscream asked: is Blaster a…”

Eerie silence follows for all of three kliks before static explodes through the mic. Several listeners later pile into Ratchet’s clinic for audial adjustment after their wires started frying from the high pitch…whining? Choking? Screaming? It’s hard to say, really. Soundwave had flooded the channel with random alien music before anybot could try and dissect just what happened.

Soundwave can’t seem to shake the idea of Blaster fragging the Security Director. 

He’s heard countless rumours ever since the Peace Accords came to fruition. This mech’s fragging that mech, these femmes were going at it yesterday, Optimus Prime and Megatron being worse than turborabbits. 

Being a communications officer under the name Radio Host has its perks, most of which include knowing every little bit of news circulating through the masses. Bots can’t seem to keep gossip to themselves, even post Great War mid-construction of a new society. 

And for some reason, for some inexplicable reason, Blaster’s designation has been flooding his rumour channels as of late. 

“Hey, you hear? Blaster was caught in Red Alert’s office for the third time this megacycle!”

“Soundwave, did you see Blaster and Prowl spent nearly three cycles together after that meeting? That’s some music taste.”

“You won’t believe this! I heard somebot say he saw Blaster and Jazz leaving the party last night together. Apparently they looked heated.”

It’s starting to drive Soundwave crazy. 

Even his cassettes can’t seem to stop talking about Blaster and his supposed open panel with every bot Soundwave is beginning to despise. 

“Jazz and Blaster, huh?” Frenzy sips at his energon ration, lounging languidly over the second chair at the radio console. “I’m not surprised. They got the same music taste.”

“Frenzy: acquired proof?” Soundwave asks. He hates that he sounds like he’s borderline begging. But he’s desperate. These rumours are spinning Soundwave’s logic matrix into complicated twists, and his spark rotation has never been higher. He might just short-circuit if he ever witnesses Blaster frag somebot in the metal. 

“Why,” Frenzy smirks against the rim of his cube. “You wanna’ watch, Boss?”

Soundwave is very tempted to eject Frenzy into Cybertron’s orbit. 

“Soundwave: must disapprove of rumours. Rumour: interfering with Soundwave’s concentration.”

“Ain’t that suspicious,” Frenzy muses, somehow smug despite the visor hiding half of his face. “Ever wonder why?”

Soundwave hesitates at that. Which is stupid. He’s built to be one of the most powerful processing units this side of the galaxy. He’s built as an information hub. So why is it so hard to translate the strange burn in his chest whenever his stupid slagging co-host is mentioned. 

“Blaster: must focus on NIL,” he manages to say. 

“Why?” Frenzy presses. 

“Explanation:...” Soundwave pauses again, his processor churning out thread after thread of logical reasoning that his logic matrix is rejecting just as fast as they’re being made. Because his processor isn’t making any sense. There isn’t any logic behind his reasoning. It’s all…illogical. It’s all emotional.

It’s a matrix he’s not used to having active. He doesn’t even remember when it came online. 

“Query: Soundwave’s brain module tampered?”

Frenzy shakes his helm, something like pity in his expression. 

“Sorry Boss,” he murmurs, “this is all on you.”

Soundwave’s logic matrix is spitting out warning after warning. Error: Loading. Error: Loading. Error: Faulty Coding. Error: Faulty Coding. 

Faulty coding coming straight from his spark. He’s not used to this. He’s not used to his finicky spark burning so hot that it overrides his processor. He’d been built for logic. He’d been built for communication. A series of commands, countless threads of data, all wrapped up in blue and silver armour. He’d been Senator Ratbat’s favourite carrier, despite having made several copies after Soundwave’s successful onlining. You’re the ideal, Soundwave, he’d say. Soundwave could never find any feeling within him whenever the Senator would say stuff like that. He had been built as a computer. You cannot be cruel to a computer. You cannot be kind to a computer. 

It’s been eons since his spark has had such a tantrum within its chamber. The last time he can remember it happening was when he’d been a gladiator, cast away from the Senate after proving himself beyond a simple functioning computer system. Back when he had listened to a silver champion rave on about justice. 

His spark has been eerily quiet since then. Not a single blip. Not a single flicker. 

Well, that isn’t really true. It jumps and spins and lurches every now and then. Soundwave had assumed it had been annoyance stirring his dormant little spark into indignant action. He had assumed it had been hatred. He had assumed it had been anything except…except…

Frenzy slinks out of the recording room as silently as he had come in, leaving Soundwave to ponder over the fact that his spark only really lit up when he’d seen Blaster’s designation plastered on a false Decepticon hail. 

“Good morning New Iacon! This is your host Blaster. How’s it hanging in post-apocalyptic Cybertron, eh? …too soon?

“Anyway, I have a little announcement to make. It ain’t that big of a deal, and hopefully it’s a temporary thing once certain bots – I’m mostly looking at you, Starscream – stop harassing NIL with ridiculous rumours. We’re closing the comm message system while me and Sounder’s filter through all the remaining posts left, which is so fraggin’ uncomfortable, let me tell you, when half of ‘em are askin’ how big Soundwave’s spike is. Pits if I know! Why would I know?! Why don’t you ask somebot else, huh? Maybe somebot who’s seen it, actually? It’s not like–!”

Somebot coughs loudly in the background. Blaster, whose vents are blasting so hard they crackle against the mic, takes a moment to calm down. Audibly. As everybot can hear the grumbling under his breath and the loud clicking of manual temperature overrides.

“Well, anyway. Since everybot is sooo interested in my disstracks for Sounders, I got one for y’all. Here’s Mind Your Fuckin’ Business, by yours truly.”

“Soundwave, a glyph before ya’ go?” Jazz waves at Soundwave from across the table. Nobot bats an optic as the rest of them filter out of the meeting room. Nothing good ever comes from Jazz’s attention, so he clamps his armour tight against his frame and settles back into his seat with a healthy amount of trepidation running through his mind. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jazz laughs, throwing himself back into his seat. He props a pede at the edge and rests an arm over his knee. Casual, some bots would say. Stupid, Soundwave would argue. “It’s like I kicked your cassette or something.”

“Query: reason for meeting?” 

“Ah, nothin’ too serious, don’t worry,” Jazz waves him off. His visor winks at him. Soundwave is tempted to rip it off. “Just wanted to talk about the…the sound system in the room.”

Jazz is choking back on a snort, laughing at some private joke that seems to pass right over Soundwave’s helm. 

“Soundwave: leaving.”

“Wait!” Jazz says through his obnoxious cackling. Soundwave begrudgingly sits back down. “I wanna’ talk to you about Blaster.”

Soundwave’s spark stutters in its next rotation, and then seems to stop altogether. Hundreds of tactical threads go loose within his processor, all pointing to possibilities of what Jazz may say next. Each one seems worse than the last. Soundwave, stop fighting with Blaster. Soundwave, Blaster isn’t interested in your little rivalry. Soundwave, Blaster isn't interested in you. Soundwave, Blaster is in love with somebot else. 

That last one makes Soundwave’s spark freeze over.

“Now, I ain’t against any cross-faction fraternising, as you know,” Jazz starts, his voice murky in Soundwave’s audials. He has to manually tune back into the conversation. “I mean, our leaders are contributing top-notch incriminating evidence for all of us. It’s the least of my concern.”

“Soundwave: does not understand.”

“‘Course ya’ don’t,” Jazz grins. “Stubborn boombox. Listen.”

Jazz gets up and places both servos flat against the table, leaning in until his shadow casts a long strip over the metal. His visor flashes, less of a wink and more of something else. A shiver runs down Soundwave’s spine. 

“I’ve placed a bet, and I’m about to lose some heavy shanix if you two bolt-heads don’t get your slag together. So I’m gonna’ let you in on a little secret; get your slag together faster and frag that–”

The meeting doors burst open, and Starscream flies into the room in a flurry of metal parts and half-on thrusters. 

“Fragger–!” He spits, spraying plumes of dust and smoke in his wake as he lands heavily on the opposite side of the room. His vents are on full blast, and his optics are feverishly bright. “This is sabotage!”

“No it’s not,” Jazz leans back against his seat. Soundwave whirls around to face him. When had the little bot sat back down? “And I’m the former saboteur; I think I know sabotage.”

“This is most certainly it,” Starscream hisses, throwing an arm out to Soundwave. “You’re putting ideas into his head!”

“I’m putting professional suggestions into his head,” Jazz corrects. “Friendly advice from one officer to the other.”

“Friendly advice my aft–”

“Jazz: mentioned shanix.”

Steam pours out of Starscream’s mouth. Jazz has the decency to look sheepish. 

“You and those pesky bolt-licking pit-spawned cassettes!” Starscream shrieks. “This is cheating of the highest order! I’ll hang your pathetic little helm on a spike out for all of New Iacon to see.”

“A little dramatic much,” Jazz mutters, then pauses, considerate. “Kinda’ kinky actually.”

“Oh I’ll show you–” Starscream takes a shuddering in-vent, and then promptly spins around to direct his blistering glare at Soundwave instead. “Blaster is fucking Red Alert.”

Soundwave’s spark drops right through his pedes. 

“What?” Jazz frowns hard. “No he’s–”

“I saw him and that jumpy little red bot fragging like turborabbits yesterday.”

“Fuck off, you did not–”

“In fact, I think it’s getting a little conjunx-serious between–”

Jazz launches himself at Starscream from over the table, and the two go tumbling to the floor with a mess of flying wings and loud screaming. Both bots are yelling at each other, but Soundwave can’t really hear them. There’s a distant ringing in his audials. From within his dock, Buzzsaw gives a concerned mental nudge. 

“That’s worse than what I–”

“Oh yeah, real fuckin’ rich–”

Boss? Buzzsaw prods. Boss, he’s lying ya’ know. 

Buzzsaw does not need to lie. 

Boss, I’m not lying. Starscream’s lying. He’s just saying things because we’ve got a–

Shut the fuck up Buzzsaw, Frenzy hisses suddenly. Soundwave jolts a little. The minibot has been so suspiciously silent all cycle that Soundwave had forgotten he was even docked. We’re still on this stupid bet. 

What bet? Soundwave asks. 

Both his cassettes remain silent. 

Soundwave ends up walking out of the meeting room as silently as he had arrived, leaving Jazz and Starscream to brawl it out on the meeting floor. 

“Dark cycle: has begun. NIL: officially live. Current host: Soundwave. 

“Updated schedules: posted on boards. NIL: no longer accepting queries. NIL: has no new reports. 

NIL radio: currently playing: Shut the Fuck Up About the Rumours.”

Slipstream mentions something about Blaster and something about Red Alert and something about a potential conjunxing sometime next cycle during her patrol check-in. 

She has to fight back a raging Rumble and Laserbeak for some unknown reason the moment this particular tidbit of information leaves her intake. Soundwave doesn’t really bother checking in if she’s okay or not. He’s too busy trying to walk away with a blackhole for a spark. 

He figures he should stop being such an afthole and go congratulate his co-host. A millennia long rivalry shouldn’t make him so disdainful as to wish ill tidings upon the conjunx-to-be. Not to mention, going back and forth with Blaster has been the most…the most fun he’s had in a really long time. Soundwave feels like he owes Blaster at least a solid congratulations. Even if he doesn’t mean it. 

So Soundwave makes his way home, pedes dragging a bit heavier with each step. As if walking toward his execution and not, in fact, going to simply give well wishes to a bot he’d rather…he’d rather…

“It’s okay to admit it, you know.”

He must be out of it if he didn’t even sense his own cassette sneaking up on him. Something must be unaligned or something. Or something. 

“Query: Ravage well?”

“Don’t pull that slag with me,” Ravage rolls her optics. “Steeljaw just beat me in a race and I’m about to rip somebot’s optics out if they vent wrong.”

“Steeljaw: faster than Ravage?”

“Marginally,” Ravage hisses venomously. Her tail lashes behind her like a whip. Soundwave wisely chooses not to pry. 

“So, where are you headed?” Ravage asks conversationally. Unusual. Ravage is not his most chatty cassette. 

“Destination: Home. Soundwave: offering good-will.”

“…what?”

The last thing Soundwave wants to do is to say this is regarding Blaster’s future conjunxing out loud. It feels like if he does, it’ll make it a reality. Something that he has accepted. Which he can’t. His spark can’t and he doesn’t even know why.

 “Blaster: Conjunxing Red Alert.”

The glyphs ring loud and lonely in the emptiness around them. Ravage looks at him with her narrow optics, built to slant up in dangerous slits whenever she narrows them, but otherwise sit in seed-like shapes that bore into Soundwave without an ounce of energy. Without an ounce of danger. It’s just a cassette and her carrier. 

“Soundwave…” she starts slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. “How do you know Blaster’s conjunxing the Security Director?”

“Slipstream: revealed truth,” Soundwave admits. “Starscream: confirmed relationship.” Then he straightens up, resetting his voice box. “Soundwave: does not care. Soundwave: simply offering congratulations.”

Ravage shutters her optics at him. 

“Soundwave,” she tries again. “You can’t lie to your cassettes you know. We’re literally in your head.”

“Soundwave: not lying,” he bristles.

“You can’t lie to yourself either.”

Soundwave’s spark feels like a dying star, sapping him of his strength and sinking deep into his struts. 

Ravage sighs, sits back on her haunches and wraps her lithe tail around her paws. She looks up at Soundwave, burning red optics meeting a dimmed visor, and there’s determination thrumming through their bond when she opens her intake to speak. 

“Those idiots promised me their rations for the next stellar cycle if I kept quiet, but this is getting ridiculous,” she huffs. “Soundwave,” she says for a third time, conviction lacing her glyph. “Blaster isn’t–”

“Soundwave?”

Ravage shuts her mouth with a loud clang, and they both turn at the same time to see Blaster standing at the entrance of their complex. Soundwave is starting to think there is something seriously wrong with his processor; he hadn’t even realised the two of them had walked all the way back to the studio. 

“Blaster,” Soundwave nods to him. Ravage lets out a low murmur, something that could have resembled a proper greeting if she wasn’t too busy side-eyeing Soundwave. 

The three stand in mutual awkward silence, where the only sound is the distant chatter of bots packing up for the dark cycle, and Ravage’s tail swishing back and forth against the ground, and Soundwave’s internal fans, which he hadn’t noticed hitched up two notches. He manually turns them down. 

“You, er…” Blaster rubs the back of his head. The twisted little horns on either side of his helm wilt down as he glances to the side. Soundwave doesn’t know why he hadn’t noticed this particular fact before. He doesn’t know why it’s sticking so hard in his mind now. “Were you coming in?”

It’s a stupid question. Why else would Soundwave be here, right before his shift on the NIL, in front of their shared habsuite. 

“Affirmative,” Soundwave says anyway. Blaster slowly shuffles out of the way, and Soundwalk walks ahead of him and into the building. Ravage doesn’t follow. 

Soundwave walks the staggering ten pedesteps it takes to reach the main hallway, and it’s there, in between his and Blaster’s separate rooms and only a few more steps away from the radio station that he stops. Turns around. Ducks his helm so that all he can see is the dark gun-metal grey of Blaster’s pedes. 

“Soundwave: offers congratulations,” he manages to choke out. His glyphs don’t have a single positive additive and fall embarrassingly flat, full of static and lies, but at least he’s said them. At least he got them past the stone wedged in his voice modulator. His spark spins painfully fast. He wonders if it’s trying to kill him for lying. 

“Uhhh,” Blaster shuffles, “thanks? I guess? I mean, I’m never one to pass up an excuse to party, but, uh, for what exactly? …is this about Steeljaw winning that race?”

Soundwave chances a glance up, catches the confusion painted over Blaster’s silvery features. He’s got these big optics, big enough to look a bit stupid. Like they belong to a sparkling and not a full grown pain in the aft. 

“Soundwave: is aware of…” he resets his voice modulator. When his vocaliser refuses to say the stupid fucking glyphs he needs to say, he lowers his helm and manages to choke out, “Red Alert.”

Soundwave catches Blaster’s face light up in recognition, and his spark curdles.

 “Oh, Red? So you heard?” Blaster grins, his smile wide and almost painful on his face, like if his face plates stretched anymore they would simply fall right off. He’s got big optics. He looks stupid. 

“Affirmative,” Soundwave nods, tries not to think too hard on the several bonds within his spark that pulse in question, in worry. He must be projecting his despair. How tragic. 

“Yeahhh,” Blaster sighs wistfully. “It’s pretty amazing, what that bot did.”

Soundwave has no interest in hearing what Red Fucking Alert is capable of doing. Soundwave is sure that whatever the jittery Security Director can do, Soundwave can do it ten times better. 

“Affirmative,” he repeats instead of saying all that. Soundwave wants to hit something. Maybe Red Alert. “Soundwave: wishes best intent for you.”

“Huh?” Blaster cocks his helm, exactly how one of his felinoid cassettes would. Figures they’d rub off on him. “I mean… thanks? What I do, though? I thought we were talking about Red.”

“We…” Soundwave narrows his optics, confused. “Are.”

“Yeah… we were,” Blaster nods along, and his little horns twitch. Soundwave doesn’t know why it took so long for him to notice them. He’s hit with the strangest urge to touch one. “Uuuuh, want me to extend congrats for ya’?”

With nothing making sense, Soundwave nods. 

“Right,” Blaster perks up again. “Okay! I’ll even make some slag up for you like how you were impressed by how fast he managed to decrypt those transmissions. Faster than you maybe.” Then Blaster frowns again. “Wait, is that what this is about? Red decoding alien transmissions faster than you? I’ll remind ya’ that you were the one who signed up to be my radio co-host, so it’s your fault you're not in Security.”

Soundwave’s processor had been built to piece together data faster than any other living computer in the entire galaxy. He’d been made with the purpose to translate data into thought, into understanding, into something that can be used and taken apart and replaced. Processed. 

So his logic matrix is taking the tidbits of information Blaster provides in his backwards explanation and spins them through a thousand different possibility threads. Each one is calculated with probability, and then each one of those is run through with background checks in his tactical unit. Piecing together data. It’s what he’s built for. 

It takes a few kliks for him to realise what’s going on. But that realisation blooms in his logic centres. His emotional subunit is, in contrast, slow. He’d been built a computer, so his makers hadn’t given him much leeway with feelings. They put in a little chip in his head and called it a cycle. His emotional subunit is slow, and usually Soundwave keeps it deactivated, or at least as a secondary priority to decision making. 

The conclusion his logic centre provides just doesn’t stick. And it’s because that little chip that his makers had given him is running hot, it’s running fast and loose and it’s running Soundwave’s systems. He jolts when the reality of his little malfunctions comes to light. Or rather, not malfunctions at all. Emotions. Soundwave’s systems were running on feelings. 

Soundwave doesn’t know what to say next. He’s torn between spitting out facts and spitting out the truth. And for some reason, these two things are not the same. They used to be. And now they aren’t. It’s driving him mad. 

“Blaster–”

“Soundwave…you functionin’ okay?” Blaster takes a step forward, ducking the scant difference between them to catch his visor. “You look a little hot…”

“Blaster…not conjunxed?” Soundwave croaks out, and it’s amazing, considering that he’s got a voice modulator and no real voice box. He’s not supposed to be able to emote like this. And yet. 

“What?” Blaster chokes, reeling back, and the little vents on the side of his helm puff out steam. “Whuh–...Sounder’s, where the fuck are you getting your gossip material?

“Soundwave: has been following rumours,” Soundwave rasps, taking a step forward, and another when Blaster doesn’t flinch away. He feels like he’s going crazy. He probably looks like it too. “Soundwave: has been following Blaster. Blaster: is everywhere. Soundwave: sees Blaster everywhere. Hears Blaster everywhere. Blaster: is in here. All. The. Time.”

Soundwave taps a trembling digit to the side of his helm with each glyph. His fans are blasting so loud that they almost drown out Blaster’s fritzing voice box. Almost. 

“What are you…”

“Soundwave: does not care for NIL,” he continues, another step forward, another heaving vent in and out, another rotation of his spark that threatens to burst. “Soundwave: does not care for rumours. Soundwave: does not care for Red Alert. Soundwave: does not care for–”

“Fuck Sounders,” Blaster whispers through his static-laden vocaliser. It sounds like he’s malfunctioning. Maybe he is. Maybe Soundwave is. “If I didn’ know any better, I’d say you were obsessed with me.”

Soundwave is close enough that their docks brush against each other when he pitches forward, tilting his helm up so that he can look Blaster in the optic from his angle a scant distance below. They’re so close that when Blaster’s big big optics spiral and dilate, Soundwave can see each ring of fibrous material move, and it’s a little addicting to look at, a little addicting to get swept away in. 

“Soundwave: does not obsess,” he says, in the lowest pitch his modulator has programmed. He cannot emote, cannot tone his voice up and down into pretty tunes the way most bots can. But he can annotate. He can decorate his glyphs in additives. He’s a communications bot. He’s been built to process data. When he speaks his language pack expands and paints his glyphs in every single inflection he cannot simply express himself. 

He lets his function express it for him.

 “So…” Blaster whispers, leaning a little bit too, a little bit forward, a little bit down, and the protruding visor of his helmet brushes the crest above Soundwave’s. “Soundwave: does what instead?”

“Blaster: has been a nuisance for eons. Infatuation: illogical.”

“And yet,” a wide smirk curls over Blaster’s lips, and it makes his optics crinkle, makes them glow brighter. “Here you are. Soundwave: infatuated.”

(Soundwave isn’t the only mech in the world that doesn’t have a proper face. 

Before the war it was for functionality; Soundwave hadn’t been built for interaction. He was built a disposable. A glorified datapad that was programmed to follow his master around and take notes and store information and relay communication between the Senate and everywhere else. Senator Ratbat hadn’t been kind, but he hadn’t been cruel. Soundwave had been little more than a computer; you can’t be kind or cruel to a computer. 

Soundwave had been given optics, but that was about the extent of what his makers thought he needed. They’d given him two optics and then stuck a voice modulator in his face and then welded metal to make his face look face-shaped. 

So Soundwave doesn’t have a lot to offer when he slides his battle mask back. It’s nothing but construction beneath, unfeeling metal sheets protecting the round modulator. It’s not pretty, but it’s not ugly. A computer can’t be pretty or ugly, it just exists. Soundwave had been constructed to simply exist. 

Blaster’s got a face that Soundwave thinks was made to be broadcasted. A communications bot since the moment he onlined. He’s got big optics. Optic size doesn’t usually make a difference within visual feedback, so Soundwave has to wonder why Blaster’s makers chose to give him such big fucking optics. He’s got a nice mouth too, a mouth made to smile, with delicate face plates that are littered with the tiniest of scratches. 

He’s one of the lucky ones; he doesn’t have any scarring metal. Soundwave is glad for it. Gives him a clean canvas.

But the point to all this is this: Soundwave had been built for communication. He doesn’t have a mouth. He had never been made with the intention of being let go, away from his masters, out into the world where he could meet others bots and become saturated with passion for a gladiator with a vision and then fall in love with a bot who talks so fucking much he never even gave Soundwave a chance to tell his own spark no. 

Soundwave hadn’t been made for kissing, and yet–)

Blaster’s lips are hot against Soundwave’s modulator. It’s the only piece of feeling metal he’s got on his face below his optics. Blaster presses his lips right there, at the centre of the speaker mesh built over where, on any other bot, a mouth would be. And Soundwave can feel it. Can feel the heat transfer through the sensitive mesh, can feel the molten steam Blaster vents into him. The feedback travels up his circuits and straight into his spark. Because it’s not his processor that’s running his frame. It’s his stupid fragging spark. A spark controlling a frame built for processing. What a way to live.  

Soundwave pushes up, presses harder against Blaster’s blazing hot lips in an imitation of a kiss. It’s the best they can do. And it feels good. It feels really fucking good. It sends searing heat – heat from Blaster’s lips, because Blaster is kissing him right now, Blaster’s lips are on him and kissing him and – racing down his spinal strut, through even fibre of his being, down to every little nanite. His fans are working at the highest speed and yet his spark still threatens to burn right through its casing.  

Then Blaster does it again, shifts his destination the slightest bit up before kissing him again. Then moving left. Kiss. Moving right. Leans up and, with a strange hesitance, slides Soundwave’s visor off. Soundwave doesn’t do anything to dissuade him, because he wants this, he wants to see Blaster optic-to-optic, without a screen between them. So he watches Blaster subspace the visor, watches in the reflection of Blaster’s massive fucking optics as his own amber ones cycle and adjust to the light. 

Blaster kisses each one. Then his crest. 

Leans to the side. Kiss. Dipping to his chin. Kiss. Nosing past his jaw, trailing hot hot kisses down his neck. Soundwave servo’s dig deep into Blaster’s red armour, probably denting it with his blunt digits. When had he grabbed him? He can’t even remember. His processor is scrambled. He’s a lousy communication’s bot. 

To make up for the lack of mouth, Soundwave trails his servos over Blaster’s frame. Dips his lithe digits into his seams, drawing out every shiver, every rattle of his plating. He pulls at loose wires within his shoulder; Blaster lets out an obscene sound as a result. Soundwave saves the audio before he even realises he’s recorded it. 

“You’re pretty good for a bot with no mouth,” Blaster grins, levelling their optics once more. He’s got one arm thrown over Soundwave’s shoulders, and the other resting at Soundwave’s neck, covering over the trail of blistering hot kisses he’d left behind. Soundwave already misses that mouth on his metal. 

“All talk,” Soundwave leans in, dragging his voice speaker over Blaster’s audial, watching in delight as the little horn there twists back and shivers. “No shock.”

“Duh-don’t tell me you’re gonna’ pull a Soundwave: superior on me,” Blaster huffs a half-laugh. 

Soundwave can’t smile, not in a conventional way. Instead he feels his optics flare, knows they crinkle into crescents, watches in the reflection of Blaster’s own optics as his amber ones dilate. Allowing as much light to filter in as possible. Allowing as much of Blaster as he can possibly get inside his head. 

Soundwave’s got both hands planted on Blaster’s hips, and he trails one further until he can dip his digits into the ridges of Blaster’s spinal struts. 

“Blaster: welcome to find out.” 

“You fragging CHEATERS!” Is the first thing Soundwave hears upon entering the meeting room. It’s Starscream who’s screaming, which isn’t that much of a surprise. What is a surprise is who Starscream is screaming at. Which happens to be Jazz. Usually Starscream is screaming at Megatron. 

“How did I cheat?” Jazz scowls back, leaning against his chair so hazardously that Soundwave is surprised he hasn’t fallen off yet. “I lost too.”

“You tried to cheat!” Starscream shrieks, brandishing a claw toward the little Spec Ops bot. “When you tried fucking with the natural timeline with that stupid personal meeting of yours.”

“It was personal!”

“Yeah, and it was cheating!”

“You fuckin’ cheated too!” Jazz exclaims, jumping to his pedes and slamming his servos on the table. Soundwave has never seen the bot look so angry before. He wonders what warranted such a visceral reaction. “You tried using the bot’s own cassettes against him!”

“So did you!”

“I only did it because Slipstream did it first,” Jazz points to the purple seeker, who bristles at the sudden spotlight. 

“Oi,” she seethes, her wings twitching high above her head. “Don’t bring me into this. It’s not my fault no ground rules were written.”

“I wrote ground rules,” Prowl offers. He receives several glares, not that he seems to notice. He’s too busy counting up…is that shanix? Is he counting shanix right now?

“Well it’s kind of common fucking sense when you place a bet on something nobot should have control over, you blithering pit-spawned malfunction,” Starscream spits at Slipstream. 

“You’re just upset I thought of it first!”

“Of course I am!” Starscream shrieks, throwing his arms into the air. “Frenzy doesn’t give a slag about anything! I ended up having to bribe the more useless ones. Do you know how hard it is to try and get a parrot to convince her carrier to frag somebot?! She can’t even talk!”

“What’s a parrot?” Megatron whispers to Prime, both nestled in the corner and observing the debacle go down. Prime shrugs. 

“Try getting a buncha’ cats to cooperate,” Jazz grumbles, scowling. “And all Eject did was send me pictures of Blaster mopin’ around.”

“I don’t mope!” Blaster shouts, cutting everybot off. He shoots out of his seat and slams his servos on the table. The little vents on either side of his chassis are red and steaming. Soundwave finds his mortification cute. “I never fraggin’ moped or did anything like that–”

“He didn’t mope while fragging either,” Eject offers from Blaster’s dock. Blaster slams it closed, smoke trailing up his horns. 

“–because nothing happened! And you know what we should really be talkin’ about?”

“How you just lost me forty shanix,” Slipstream hisses.

“How you used my own cassettes to win a bet!” Blaster throws his servos into the air. “Or even better: how you betted on us in the first place. Who the fuck does that?!”

“Stupid idiots,” Prowl offers, stuffing his newly-earned shanix into his subspace. Jazz is glaring pure loathing at him. Prowl – who hasn’t twitched a single face plate out of place from his perpetual scowl – somehow looks smug. 

“Don’t even try that slag,” Starscream drawls. “You’re in charge of arranging meetings. You set Blaster up in the Security office on purpose. Don’t think I didn’t notice that little stunt.”

Soundwave perks up at that. 

“Sightings in Security Office: staged?”

“Of fucking course!” Jazz slams a fist into his palm. “I was wonderin’ where those rumours were comin’ from! I thought Slipstream just made ‘em up.” 

“Oh please,” Slipstream rolls her optics. “That’s sloppy work. I just rode the wave.” 

“You were literally the catalyst, you moron.”

“You…” Blaster gawks at Prowl, mouth hinged wide open. Soundwave, from his newly self-appointed spot beside him, pushes his intake shut. Blaster shakes his helm. “You made me interview Red on purpose?”

“Everything I do has a purpose,” Prowl tuts. 

“Don’t even slaggin’ start–” 

“You were tryna’, what, make Soundwave jealous?!”

If Soundwave had a mouth, he’d be frowning by now. 

“Soundwave: does not get jealous.”

Jazz snorts so loud he produces static. 

“Yeah right,” he snickers, “and I’m a fuckin’ boombox.”

“Statement: inaccurate.”

“Okay loverbot,” Starscream rolls his optics. “We were playing How Long Will It Take Them to Frag. We ended up with Soundwave Keep Your Panels Shut Challenge.”

“I preferred Who’s Gonna Tap That First.”

“I thought we were going with Sound System Sexy Time.”

“By the Pits…” Blaster mumbles, sinking into his seat. Soundwave offers him a sympathetic pat over the helm. 

“I wanted to see a hate-frag,” Knockout suddenly says, cutting Slipstream off mid-tangent. “Or at least listen to one. My NIL comm message had been genuine, unlike all these fake glitches.”

Blaster’s optics are so wide Soundwave is half-worried they’ll pop right off. That, and also all the smoke pouring out of Blaster’s vents that curls up his head. 

“Statement: inaccurate,” he repeats, for his own reputation's sake. 

(His emotional subunit – ever since that mind-blowing frag session that Soundwave is still storing image captures of – has since simmered to a background hum once again. With that comes the benefit of stuffing any potential embarrassment down through his logic centre to be dealt with.)

“All of those comm messages were genuine,” Slipstream points out. “We all wanted to win.”

“I know mine were,” Starscream grins suddenly, vicious and sharp. Soundwave’s spark sinks. “I never was given a proper answer. Is our dear Blaster a spike mech?”

(The same cannot be said for Blaster.)

“Shut up!” He shrieks, slamming his servos over his optics. “By Unicron’s forsaken aft, shut the fuck up! I’m leaving this meeting! I’m leaving this planet!”

“You can’t do that now. Soundwave won’t be able to run New Iacon Live by his lonesome,” Jazz pouts, though it looks anything but innocent. Behind him Slipstream snickers. Prowl subspaces another handful of shanix. “Bots were only tuning in for the sexual tension and horny disstracks.”

Soundwave’s vents begin to warm. Blaster, steam already curling through his seams, bangs his helm onto the table and screams. 

“Goooood morning New Iacon! How’s my favourite race of technological transforming robots hangin’?

“My designation’s Blaster, and I’ll be your host for this light cycle. It’s lookin’ nice and sunny today, with a mild chance of cloudy skies sometime near shift exchange. For more information on that and where scavenging routes will be, refer to the giant panels you can’t miss at the city centre. 

“Now, before I begin today’s list of tunes, I have a little announcement to make. To ‘appease the masses’, according to High Command, because apparently NIL isn’t actually a news channel. It’s a frequency where bots tune in to get tidbits of hate-flirting via disstracks and public humiliation. You guys are all fucked. Seek help. Rung is situated on the second floor of the hospital ward.”

“Blaster: straying off topic.”

“Right right. Well, anyway. It has been a long-winding journey of self-discovery, and it’s taken a few road bumps to get where we are now, but–”

“NIL: officially regular radio station. Soundwave: courting Blaster. Inquiries: can be sent to NIL voice message: Inquiries: will be deleted.”

“Efficient Sounders. I like it. Just like I–”

“Blaster: focus.”

“Well, you heard it folks! Me n’ Soundwave are officially together. If any of you slaggers put bets, pay up like the sick malfunctions you are. Seriously, who the slag does that–”

“Up next: All's Well That Ends Well. Artist: Jazz and Sky-Byte. Recording: originated from New-Maccadam. Now playing live.”

NIL’s channel switches to a live-stream of Jazz and Sky-Byte’s performance at the new central city oil house, but not before the tell tale sound of two frames falling into each other, full of static and soft laughter, resonates through the mics.