Chapter Text
Soundwave led them to Maccadam’s.
He could not be certain if Amplitude was truly an ally, did not know if the resistance would be friend or foe -- but Soundwave desperately needed time to recover, to lay his plans, time to watch the broadcast reports and track the fallout from this rescue. And Amplitude had offered that time.
Maccadam’s Old Oil House was located a level above the Quandary, and Soundwave’s battered and char-streaked state drew a certain amount of very unwanted attention. From the shadows, he opened his armor briefly to dock Buzzsaw, and sent Laserbeak spiralling overhead to watch for any unusual activity. Ravage beside him and Flipsides clinging tight to his shoulder plates, Soundwave brushed off the worst of the stains of battle, and then walked in, as steadily as he was able.
Soundwave had been to the refinery before, of course -- back when his allotments had included such privileges. Even still, the place seemed different, as, in truth, it did every time Soundwave had come here. It was hard even to say for certain how big Maccadam’s truly was; hallways seen one moment seemed to vanish the next, a wall might be close or far away, a small cluster of drinking mecha at one glance was a crowd the next time one looked their way -- always subtle changes, but enough to make an alert viewer uneasy, feeling as if a hidden glitch had somehow worked its way into his processor.
The symbionts, oddly, never had much of a problem with Maccadam’s. But although Soundwave could perfectly access their memories of individual events that took place inside -- specific conversations and the like -- he could make no sense at all of their larger observations. Even Ravage, endlessly loyal and obedient, grew disinterested and frustrated when asked to explain what he’d seen of the the refinery itself. Eventually, Soundwave had given up asking.
Detour, it turned out, was a glossy yellow mech, small even for a mini and scarcely waist-high to Soundwave. He’d incorporated the wheels of his altmode low on his pedes, and switched deftly between skating and walking as he wove between groups of worried-looking mecha hunched over highgrade. When Soundwave transmitted the code he’d been given, the minibot stilled for a moment, sending a few encoded comm pulses, receiving others with a shrug. “Yeah, looks like you’re booked for an orn. This way,” he said, dropping off a tray of empty cubes and leading Soundwave down a hallway.
The yellow minibot swiped a passkey over the reader on one of the many irising doors, then handed the chit and a datapad up to Soundwave. “Have a pleasant stay,” Detour said blandly, and departed as the door irised open.
The datapad was old and battered, scraped by many talons. The screen was blank, save for a single line of glyphs.
Friends appreciated your recent assistance.
--M
The message--and its unknown sender--was more than enough to set Soundwave on edge, though Ravage seemed not to share his carrier’s concern. News might travel fast, but how --? Flipsides squeaked in surprise, getting a good look into the room. The chamber was by no means extravagant, was as worn as the datapad. But it was fairly large and clean, clearly meant for two mecha, with a wide berth and a small holo receiver in the corner. A clear silica door opened onto a small balcony, which looked onto a warren of alleys and walkways -- an easy launching area for jetframes and Seekers, as well as smaller flightframes and glideframes-- and a suitable means of escape, if necessary. There was a tray on a seating platform with a number of bottles and jars. And....
//Whazzit?// Ratbat jerked awake. //Oil bath? I heard someone say oil bath?// The symbiont wriggled inside his dock, an oddly tickling sensation, not quite believing the others and eager to see for himself.
//Still all clear out here, Soundwave,// Laserbeak said, his comment over the bond coming through clearly.
//Soundwave: acknowledges.// Now that they were safely inside the room, he opened the armor over his docks, freeing Buzzsaw and Ratbat to roam as they pleased. //Laserbeak: return. Ravage, Buzzsaw, Ratbat: check room, surrounding areas for surveillance.// Microdrones and remote listening equipment could have easily been concealed prior to their arrival. However, both Soundwave and his cohort had quite a few advantages at detecting such snooping devices. Flipsides also dropped down, intent on exploring this new environment, and Soundwave moved over to the balcony door, opening it to allow Laserbeak entrance.
//Assigned shifts for sentry duty, necessary,// he told all of the symbionts as they explored their surroundings, poking at bottles and corners and anything else that caught their interest, as their natures dictated. //Lack of immediate pursuit, does not negate possibility of future repercussions.// Every micron of his frame ached, felt fissured and rattled and broken, and he wanted nothing so more than to rest, to seal off his hurts and soak in the ridiculous luxury of an oil bath--but that he could not do, not until he was sure they were safe.
Rerouting more resources to his sensory panels, he extended them slightly, tilting his head as he filtered through the comm-chatter and other overlapping, often-encrypted frequencies in the area. Surveillance signals were often very faint and hard to detect; but many had a unique signature, with a very simple datastream twisted into unintelligibility by complex encryption sets.
There was room here to spread those panels, though the largest joint of one made an alarming grinding sound as it opened. Soundwave couldn’t even be certain in which fall or fight it had been damaged; a disturbing realization. The room -- all of Maccadam’s, really -- was shielded against stray comm transmissions, and only a distant babble filtered through the balcony hatch, intensifying slightly as Laserbeak landed and hopped inside, fading again as the door irised shut. The flightframe paused to briefly nibble at Buzzsaw’s injured wing, freeing and discarding a tiny metal fragment -- some piece of another mech’s internals, evidently -- and then both flightframes set about inspecting every surface in exacting detail.
Ravage took the lead, the heavy spines of his flail spread forward to expose the big sensor lines there, his detecting spines flared over face and body. Ratbat found an inverted perch on the underside of a light fixture, and arranged watch shifts with the other symbionts, always with an optic on efficiency. The four symbionts functioned together with the ease of long familiarity, of absolute trust in the others’ abilities.
Left out of the close cohort bond and lacking the specialized sensor suites of the others, Flipsides sat on the edge of the oil bath, doing his best to keep out of the way. When his path took him close to the mechkin, Laserbeak paused in his inspections. “There are some medical supplies on the tray,” he said quietly, “they appear uncontaminated. Could you check?”
Flipsides nodded, scrambled up, went to retrieve the items. Standing on the tips of his pedes, he could just reach them, and he checked the seals on the bottles and tubes, noting the labels with growing appreciation. Selecting several, he approached the big carrier, waiting respectfully until Soundwave glanced down at him. “There’s some liquibond here, Sir,” he said. The stuff was finicky, difficult to apply and set properly -- but it was the fastest way to reattach severed parts, if they’d not been too long separated from a mech.
//All clear. The existent lines appear standard.// Ravage sent, finishing his examination of the holo emitter box.
Soundwave ran a few more scans, and then affirmed the symbiont’s judgement. With a chittering whoop, Buzzsaw tackled his classbrother midair, and both flightframes plunged into the oil bath in a tangle of flight plates and tails.
Even through his weariness and the insistent pain-signals from his damaged frame, Soundwave could not help but find pleasure in his cohort’s exuberant glee. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw’s enjoyment rippled through the bond as they surfaced again, languidly stretching and allowing the thick, clear oil to slick over armor-plates, to sink in and lubricate the fine joints underneath. Unable to resist temptation, Ratbat quickly followed. Soundwave did a quick check to make sure the little glideframe’s injuries were still well-sealed, then allowed them to splash and tussle as they wished. Built to accommodate a mech Soundwave’s size or larger, the bath was large enough for all the much-smaller symbionts to swim and dive freely, luxuriating in their newfound bounty.
Ravage still prowled the edges of their room, and Soundwave sent him a wordless push of encouragement over the bond as he levered himself down to sit on one of the seating platforms. This place was as safe as anyone could reasonably expect, at least for the moment, and he wanted Ravage to enjoy himself while he could.
In the meantime … he uncoiled his two damaged secondaries, regarding the ragged edges of the severed ends with a certain amount of resignation. Even if the tips could be reattached, it would take autorepair a long time to regenerate the complex weave of sensor cilia within. In the meantime, he would have to continue rerouting damage reports and pain signals, and the data-cables would be useless for their primary function.
Still, Soundwave was nothing if not pragmatic. The damage could have been far worse. Unsubspacing the severed cable ends, he looked down to where Flipsides waited uncertainly. “Your expertise, far greater in this area. Flipsides: willing to lend assistance in repairing injuries?” Soundwave’s own talons did not have the delicacy of touch or the sensitivity built in to make such tiny repairs, and while he could attempt to do the work with his primary manipulator cables instead, the pain and constant rerouting of his own sensory systems tended to make self-treatment challenging, to say the least.
“Of course!” Flipsides climbed up onto the platform, using the steprails conveniently set into one of the support legs. This, at least, he could do -- here in the quiet, in the light. Even if he wished he had better tools.... Flipside carefully picked up one of the severed cable tips, examining the damage.
It wasn’t good. The mechkin was well-aware of the importance of data cables to carriers. For most, they were a carrier’s major means of sensing his information environment, of interacting with his symbionts. Usually, carriers had only six or eight cables, and though Flipsides had seen Soundwave employ more, that made each one no less important. The one Flipsides examined now had been shot apart, the edges of three jagged and melted holes evidence of the passage of incendiary rounds.
The cable itself was a hollow, armored sheath for the more complex data transmission filaments inside. The last half-mechanometer or so of those blue-white threads now were little more than a tangle of metal ash inside the severed piece. The multitool collocation at the tip of the sheath was still intact, and that was the only blessing -- replacing that complex transformation device would have taken a true medic or other professional, or a very great deal of autorepair time.
Flipsides took his time in preparing the cable tip. First, he opened it along a lax transformation seam, removing all the dead cilia threads, preserving the few salvageable ones with great care. Then he deployed small grinding tools to even out the melted sheath edges, using his microwelder to delicately repair the few cracks. “This one first, please, Sir?” Flipside asked, kneeling as Soundwave brought the requested cable closer. He looked up. “The cilia have to go on first. I... do you have all the pain blocks engaged? Could you make sure they’re locked down?” This was delicate, finicky work, at the limits of what Flipsides’ frame was capable of performing -- a symbiont simply did not have the power output to support more than a fraction of a medic’s specialized hardware.
The mechkin waited until Soundwave nodded, and then carefully gathered the datacable into his lap, spreading out and manually untangling the limp and broken tips of the cilia as the carrier extended them. Flipsides unfolded his fingers into a pair of pincers -- the smallest and most delicate of which he was capable -- engaged the magnifying lenses on his optics, and delicately picked up one of the salvaged cilia. He treated the severed end with a minute droplet of the liquibond, then aligned the fiber carefully, and pressed the tip to one of Soundwave’s remaining tendrils. Holding the damaged cilia absolutely steady, Flipside channeled a precise electrical charge through his pincers, priming the suspended nanites to set about connecting like to like, in the proper sequence.
Soundwave did as he was bid, his frame as motionless as a statue, clamping down ruthlessly upon any stray sensory data that might trigger a reflexive flinch or jerk. The only movement he allowed himself was the offering a pair of his primary cables for assistance, once it became clear another set of manipulating digits would be of use. Flipsides’ expertise and ability at making repairs far outstripped his own, it was clear--but even the best medic could use an assistant to hold tools and supplies, and help steady torn pieces in place while they worked. The mechkin made use of those extra digits gratefully.
By the time Flipside finished reattaching the cilia he could, he’d descended into a single-minded focus, no longer aware of the splashing symbionts, his own so-recent losses, or the big carrier he treated. When the last of the salvageable tendrils fused themselves, he started on the tips of the cilia for which he had no extensions, applying a film of the bonding agent to seal the ones that were split or frayed, clipping away tips too melted for self-repair. At last, he gently laid all the cilia close, and bid Soundwave retract them -- watching all the while to be certain none of the still-fragile joins broke again. Then he started on the sheath itself, filing away the rough-melted edges, cleaning the wound, and then reattaching the severed tip with the help of Soundwave’s primaries. It was a less delicate job, perhaps -- the pieces larger, easier to work with. But tiny internal sensor and flexor components still had to line up, and no roughness on the internal surface could be permitted, lest they scrape the data fibers inside.
Flipsides finally finished the complex electrical and field manipulations used to program the nanites for different types of metals, and then gingerly released the datacable. The merge seam was ugly, but a mech’s own repair processes would cover that over in much less time than it took to break down a large weld. “You probably shouldn’t run much power to it, or turn sensation back on, for a few joor,” he said, looking up. “Ready for the other one, Sir?”
Soundwave nodded. “A moment,” he requested, and reactivated just enough limb microflexures to coil it back safely into his frame. Even that minimal amount of connection held enough echoes of fiery agony to make him flinch, mouthparts pinched tight, and he rerouted back around the limb as soon as it was safely stowed away, manually setting flags in place for regular repair status-checks and damage warnings instead. Then, turning his attention to the second damaged cable, he extended it for Flipsides’ inspection.
That cable had been severed a little further from the multitool tip, and more of the disunited cilia inside had managed to survive their joors without fuel. Flipsides set to work, just as he had with the other, his movements a little more practiced now. Finally, he finished, and let Soundwave retract the damaged cable.
Knowing a carrier’s likely priorities, the mechkin attended to the Soundwave’s primary datacables next. Those cables were more heavily armored, but they’d taken slashes and dents that painfully pinched the underlying cilia. Flipsides did what he could, though without proper machining tools, it was impossible to completely abate the damage. But with a few minor repairs, the cables might heal more quickly, and the carrier would be more comfortable, and that... at least that was something.
The ash-crusted holes in Soundwave’s heavy armor were more disturbing. Flipsides stood to take a closer look.
Coiling away the rest of his damaged datacables, Soundwave allowed himself finally to slump, just a little, and vent a sigh of relief. “Your skills, most appreciated,” he told the mechkin honestly. “Self-repairs always difficult, with suboptimal results.” Carriers were a hardy frametype; they had to be. But carrier-mecha weren’t medics--once damaged, waiting for self-repair to regenerate lost armor, or seal off lost limbs until replacements could be found or made, was a lengthy and occasionally imperfect process.
“You’ve been repairing yourself? Manually, you mean? Since the... all this time?” Flipsides asked, though he supposed it made sense. No carrier of his had needed to do so, but then, that was precisely why medical symbionts were useful. A carrier was a particularly complex frametype, with a high-output spark and an enormous variety of ultra-specialized hardware. Self repair could handle simple structures much more quickly than complex ones -- one reason why true medics were so protective of their hands -- and running the repair nanites took fuel. Which was in all too short a supply, of late. A mech could try to help the process along with metalmesh, could hammer out dents himself, perhaps even do some welding, but that was a chancy business.
Soundwave lifted one shoulder in a minimal shrug, careful not to dislodge Flipsides’ careful balance as the mechkin inspected the holes in his armor. “Medical allotments, long since expended,” he said simply. One did what one could with what they had; and most luxuries, including that of skilled medics to attend to their hurts, had long since disappeared. “Soundwave, practiced in repairing most symbiont frametypes, so long as materials can be found. Damage such as this …” he looked down at his damaged pede, the missing chunk of armor and subsurface wiring on the upper leg with a certain amount of resignation. “These repairs, beyond my ability.”
Surveying the sum total of the damage to Soundwave’s chassis, Flipsides wished he had a real medic here, now. “They’re beyond my ability, too. The spent slugs have welded themselves in.” A real medic could unfold a plasma torch and use field manipulators and bond disruptors to fragment shrapnel and get it out of anywhere, without further damage. A real medic wouldn’t have to rely on a multi-purpose gel or mesh like this -- they could manufacture specialized nanites within their own frames, and lay them down with all the proper primers and molecular assemblies, in exactly the right thickness to completely rebuild a part. Electron tunneling scanners enabled them to manipulate atom-wide channels and capillaries by field alone -- a medic could quite literally configure a component to function better than when it was new.
Flipsides wasn’t able to do any of those things. He frowned, searching over his memories, parsing beyond the clinical settings to battlefields and the crudest of trench fixes. There’d been a field medic at Valdon who, frankly, terrified Flipsides, along with warframes ten times the medic’s mass and pretty much everyone else in the encampment. Flipsides had observed him from a distance, though -- the medic’s makeshift repairs, often performed in seconds, had been both creative and uniquely effective. Flipsides looked to the little pile of supplies he’d brought up onto the seating platform. Two rolls of metalmesh, plus another two rolls still on the table. Maybe... maybe it was enough. “I... I want to try something, Sir. I only saw it being done a few times, though,” Flipsides said nervously, looking up.
“Soundwave: trusts your judgment,” he said, letting the warm reassurance reflect in his field, trying to soothe the nervous little symbiont. “Your memory, impeccable.” Soundwave let his amusement show, the corners of his mouthparts curling up in a small smile beneath the ever-present visor. “Soundwave: learned early on to defer to the experts.”
Flipsides straightened a bit under that accolade. He’d been valued for the knowledge he carried, of course, as all symbionts were--but he’d never been deferred to as an ‘expert’ before! “... all right. This should work, I think.” He scrambled downward, crouching to inspect Soundwave’s injured pede. The razor-edge of the driller’s armor had severed off the first two segments of the appendage, shearing cleanly through armor plate, wiring, coolant and energon lines, as well as the underlying struts in one swift stroke. Autorepair had already sealed off the leaking lines, and the nanomachines were doing their best to close the rest even as they busily worked to rebuild the missing portions, but large gaps remained, many well-infiltrated with rust and other debris from their trek out of Iacon’s lower levels.
Flipsides reached for a bottle of solvent, as well as some of the less-specialized meshcloth that had come with their accommodations--only to find it waiting and ready, held securely in the grip of an uninjured primary cable. He pinged a quick thanks to the silent carrier, then bent to work, carefully working to free tiny bits of metal from the still unsealed areas. For the most part, self-repair nanites could be counted on to cannibalize foreign metals, but parasitic creatures did exist on Cybertron, and many of the metals in the mine could be toxic if introduced into a mech’s protoform or dissolved into energon lines. Once the damaged area had been carefully inspected and cleaned, Flipsides called up the memory of that long-ago medic, and set to work. Covering thick pads of metal-mesh with nanogel, he packed them into the wound. It was hard not to cringe every time the carrier above him flinched, though Soundwave never made a sound. He had probably, Flipsides belatedly realized, taken his vocalizer offline to ensure he did not distract the mechkin in his efforts, since blocking all signals from such large areas was unwise.
That thought kept his touch gentle as he took scrapings from several sections of undamaged interior seams. The carrier’s autorepair immediately summoned nanites to the area, and Flipside scraped again in the same place, collecting fresh samples. Then he deposited the invisible smear of collected nanites on the gel and mesh that packed the wound. Flipsides used another roll to bind and seal the entire assemblage in place, ensuring the self-repair nanites could work undisturbed--then sat back on his pedes, slumping a little in both worry and relief once the job was done. “That’s all I can do, I think. At least without more supplies--but this technique worked well, the few times I saw it used,” he told Soundwave. “This way the nanites will be working from all sides to convert and rebuild your components, and they’ll have an ample supply of extra raw material to work with. Uhm.” Flipsides looked up, suddenly even more worried. “The sealant is oil-proof, but. You should stay off it for a while, Sir.” What if the big carrier planned on going somewhere?
“Soundwave: will forego evening constitutional,” said Soundwave dryly.
“Uhm. Ok.” Flipside eyed him for a moment, uncertain. Then he climbed back up, and started on the rest of the big carrier’s injuries. The thigh wound was jagged but not terribly deep, and the mechkin was able to patch the few cut wires, and cover them over. There wasn’t enough metal mesh to try to replace the whole section of missing armor, though -- and Flipsides doubted that he could tie such a bandage in place very well, anyway. He’d have to wait, see how the self-repair progressed.
The bullet holes came next. They’d have punched through even a warframe’s tempered plating, but they’d struck Soundwave over the chest, and the two sections of armor there were perhaps the densest grade of high-test molecular shielding produced on all of Cybertron. The Prime himself probably wore better, but... not by much. The rail-feed uranium incendiary rounds hadn’t even penetrated half the armor’s thickness, and impact burns marked where the armor had simply deflected other shots. The mechkin could only hope that Soundwave’s own self-repair mechanisms would dissolve the slugs on their own. As he’d done with Soundwave’s pede, Flipsides packed the holes with metal mesh, gel, and the carrier’s own repair nanites -- and then realized he couldn’t really wrap the bandage in place. Soundwave’s chest was simply too broad.
Frowning in concentration over the dilemma, Flipsides almost didn’t notice as a primary manipulator reached out, opened and picked up a large jar, then brought it close. But once he read the label, Flipsides brightened. Of course!
Thoroughly pleased with the solution, Flipsides dipped a little of the glossy wax from the container, and coated the mesh-packed wound with it, sealing it against the elements. A few more small spot-welds on other places of Soundwave’s armor, and Flipsides finally sat back, satisfied.
He’d done everything he could, unless the carrier discovered other damage or they found more supplies. Flipsides glanced around, surprised at his chronometer reading. They’d been at this longer than he thought. Both flightframes and the glideframe were piled together at the edge of the oil bath, in a mess of slick-coated limbs and tails and wings and necks, all thoroughly exhausted by their sport. Ravage had slipped into the oil, swimming a slow circle with supple serpentine undulations, optics a gleam just at the level of the liquid.
//The mechkin is competent,// Ravage pointed out quietly over the bond, while Flipsides started cleaning up the scraps and empty tubes his efforts had left scattered over the platform.
//Affirmative. Diligent, as well.// Once given direction, the little mechkin had not hesitated to do what needed to be done, even for a carrier not his own and a function he had never been framed for.
“Flipsides.” The mechkin looked up, stopping short in the midst of throwing the trash into the cycler. Soundwave did his best to gentle his tone, though given the … unique qualities of his voice, it was a difficult task. He extended a hand downward, shifting his field to reflect his concern. “Your care of your cohort, myself, noticed and appreciated. Query: will Flipsides allow the same? Your own injuries, still untreated.” Flipsides had been nowhere nearly as badly damaged as Pyrite, but he was still battered and scuffed rather thoroughly; and some of those dents might well be concealing deeper, less visible damage.
“Oh! Uh.” Flipsides said, twisting as well as he was able to take a look at his plating. He understood that Soundwave would aid him in finding another carrier -- though where they would look for one, the mechkin wasn’t sure -- but didn’t know how far that offer of assistance extended. To repairs... and energon? Supplies? Parts? Would Soundwave dock a symbiont that wasn’t his, when it became necessary? Soundwave had said that courtship was, perhaps, a possibility... if the carrier didn’t come to his senses and decide against keeping five -- Flipsides wasn’t sure how he even kept four maintained, in these hard times; certainly Amplitude had found it difficult. Soundwave had said it depended on whether the mechkin was compatible. If he had to fight again, like the rest of them had so effectively … Flipsides didn’t think he wanted that.
No, it was best not to assume too much.
Still, the carrier’s field was a warm comfort, and there were things a carrier could do to make repairs without expending many resources. “...Alright, Sir,” he said, and approached. He started a little as Soundwave set a primary cable, tip down, before him. Flipside’s first carrier had often offered such conveniences so that Flipsides did not have to climb the furniture, but for Soundwave to do so....
Nervously watching the carrier to make certain he did not misunderstand the gesture, Flipsides carefully stepped up, onto one of the heavy multitool blades clustered at the tip, and pressed a hand to the cable shaft to steady himself. Soundwave lifted the cable smoothly, letting the symbiont step off onto the carrier’s heavy thigh plates. A hand as big as Flipsides’ whole torso, talons lightly curved, was there to keep him from stumbling. This close, Soundwave’s field was tempered and even, deeply calm, warm enough to send a shiver through Flipsides’ circuits.
Soundwave kept his touch light and careful, even as he inspected the small plates of the mechkin’s surface armor, skimming talon-tips and sensors over ragged claw marks and unhealed dents. There was no bond between them, which meant he couldn’t sense any sudden spikes of pain or discomfort. He also was careful not to presume more intimacy than Flipsides was willing to allow; the mechkin might have severed his ties to his former carrier, but that did not mean Soundwave could assume that same authority unasked.
For the most part, Flipsides’ injuries appeared to be minor, he noted with relief. The few gouges that had penetrated the symbiont’s outer armor had already been sealed over by self-repair nanites, and much of the rest of the damage appeared to be mostly cosmetic in nature. Still--he frowned as he traced talon-tips down the overlapping plates along the mechkin’s backstruts. A blow had dented one inwards, and it had caught, binding up against another. Bringing a secondary cable to assist with the fine work, he gently urged Flipsides to lean to one side; then quickly popped the offending plate outward, dislodging a few sharp-edged bits of debris as he did so, and tweaked it back into proper position over the mechkin’s thorax armor.
A startled, half-stifled squeak escaped Flipsides’ vocalizer as the plate was realigned, and Soundwave froze. “Flipsides: in pain?”
Half draped over Soundwave’s hand, the mechkin shook his head. “Oh, I... no. Thank you. I didn’t even realize that was dented.” The debris had been under the bent plate so long, they’d almost started to feel normal to him -- an ache to be tolerated and ignored. He worked it back and forth a few times, stretching the armor-adjusting flexures gratefully, flaring and folding the plates along his back.
Soundwave was wonderfully thorough, checking each plate, touch gentle. Amplitude had preferred to let his autonomic repair processes handle such injuries on his symbionts -- being docked for a while would also fix such misalignments, but being manually attended was far more relaxing. Coupled with the warm, calming lap of the carrier’s field, Flipsides felt himself easing towards recharge. Soundwave’s electromagnetic field was broader than his first carrier’s, deeper, but... similar in some respects. The little mechkin cycled a quiet vent, then shivered a little as Soundwave’s talons ghosted over several deep scrapes along the length of his leg. The armor there had not been pierced through, but even still, the gouges ached.
Soundwave hesitated over the spot, then folded his palm over the damage. The surface wounds were nothing he could help with, even had they more supplies at their disposal, but the flickers of remembered fear were easy to see in the mechkin’s aura. He blocked the carrier protocols that made him want to bristle, to look for the cause of that fear and eliminate it. Anger would not help Flipsides now.
Instead, he tweaked slightly the balance of energon and coolant lines in his hands, allowing the armored surfaces to warm to slightly higher than normal operating temperatures. Not enough to cause discomfort, but enough that the warmth could radiate comfortingly through a symbiont’s much-thinner armor. As the mechkin relaxed again by slow degrees, Soundwave looked down at him, stroking talon-tips over the red and white plating.
“Flipsides, Soundwave: both dented, but still intact. Recommended course of treatment, long soak in the oil bath.” He tilted his head inquiringly. “Flipsides: willing to join us?” Ravage was still in the pool, lounging now, with his head propped over one side and optics half-shuttered, watching them. Otherwise the pool was empty, and the warm heat of the opaque oil that rippled against the basin walls was a potent and inviting call.
The little mechkin took a moment to rouse, reluctant to move away from the carrier’s heat. “Mmn. Oh! Uhm, yes, that sounds...” he started to straighten, to climb down, then squeaked softly in surprise as Soundwave stood instead, hands cupped to cradle him. Most symbionts liked to be carried -- especially mechkin, who lacked the sheer speed and jumping ability of most other symbionts. Guiltily, Flipsides craned his neck, watching to see that Soundwave did not further injure his pede. But, using a few primaries for support and balance, the carrier seemed to have no trouble taking the few steps to the bath.
Soundwave held the meckhin steady as he lowered himself gingerly into the oil and seated himself on the submerged step. Char and metaldust dissolved from his armor, fogging into the liquid, to be gradually filtered out by the bath’s self-cleaning mechanisms. He reclined a little, then spread his hands, providing the mechkin a choice of places to sit. Flipsides looked to Ravage, worried about possibly offending the legendary memory-keeper -- but the bladeframe seemed entirely undisturbed by the new additions to his pool.
Heartened, the mechkin slid down into oil, chirping a little as the heat pressed against his thin armor. The liquid was buoyant, but Flipsides was densely built for a symbiont -- before he sank too deep, he paddled back to Soundwave’s chest and settled himself into the big carrier’s hand. The sultry temperature of the oil was echoed by the lingering warmth of Soundwave’s touch. “This is really-- wow,” Flipsides said, feeling the slow-circulating currents sweep grit and debris from his seams. Minebreak would have loved.... the little medic shook his head, cutting off that processor thread.
Soundwave hummed a little in agreement, optics dimmed as he savored the sensation. How long had it been since …. ? The numbers quickly piled up far too high, and he killed that sub-thread of calculations before it could ruin his enjoyment. It seemed impossible to believe that he had once taken luxuries like this for granted; the ability to simply soak char and grime away, to let oil sink into roughened surfaces and ease worn or damaged joints. He felt some of that last lingering tension seep away, soothed by full tanks, the sight of his cohort safe and happy, the warm lapping ripples of the oil against his armor. Later, he would plan and think; for right now, he just wanted to *feel*.
Lazily, he tilted his down to look at the mechkin currently cradled against his chest. Their earlier introductions, down in the dark and everpresent fear of the mine tunnels, had hardly been lengthy; even so, Flipsides had still chosen to throw his lot in with mecha he hardly knew. That the mechkin was still apprehensive was hardly surprising.
“Soundwave: was an Archivist, ranking historian at the Academe Philosophia in Iacon, once,” he said, letting his field unfurl with warmth as he remembered earlier, happier times. “Originally created by Recast, on Xyr, many vorn ago.” No need to give a precise number, not for this--past a certain point, age became irrelevant to carriers, who did not establish their rank based on their own age and experience so much as that of their symbionts. Thinking of Recast, his expression softened with affection. “Recast, once stated Soundwave was one of his most challenging creations.”
Flipsides listened, his expression a bit uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure why Soundwave was telling him this. Soundwave nodded over to where Ravage still lay, half-submerged and pretending not to listen. “Ravage: was and is my First. Cohort, originally much larger--eight mecha, almost a full bonded complement, upon ascension to Archivist. But …” The words locked up in his vocalizer, and not for the first time, Soundwave regretted his lack of facility with them.
Ravage’s crimson gaze slitted open. “They left, when the lean times came. They didn’t want to, but Soundwave was running himself to fumes trying to support us all. So some of us--Raindance, Sundor, Erasure, and Patchjob--chose to leave, to go to other carriers, so that the rest of us would survive.” It was only what needed to be done; but carriers--even Soundwave--tended to be irrational about these things.
Flipsides put a hand over his mouth, trying to hold the squeak back inside his vocalizer. Ravage was Soundwave’s First? As a mere mechling? They stated it so simply, like it was just a bare fact, and not an event so rare as to be practically unheard of. Did it happen in war? Some desperate necessity? An accident? It didn’t seem to be something they thought needed discussing, though, so Flipsides filed it away to think about later, in favor of patting the carrier’s big chest gently in sympathy.
The mechkin let his sadness filter through his field. “I know some of what happened, then. We were just the two of us, with Waveguide, at the end of the war. Entanglement joined us from a big cohort like that. Though, uhm. Not eight. I’m really sorry.” Eight was a huge complement, and Flipsides let himself smile a little, thinking on what it would be like to have the chatter of seven other symbiont brothers running through his comms all the time. A symbiont would never really be alone, in a cohort of eight like that. And Soundwave would have lost all four at *once* -- or within a few vorns. The very idea of it made his spark ache. The loss of a symbiont, to death or to transfer, was not an easy event for a carrier to weather. The pain could linger, and it was nothing even a medic could fix.
“Did you say, uh. ‘Almost’ a full-bonded complement?” Flipsides asked, certain he’d not heard correctly.
“Affirmative. Soundwave: framed for ten.”
The mechkin gaped. He looked to Ravage, who nodded in confirmation, amused. “Really?” he gasped, looking up.
Soundwave arched a brow ridge. “Affirmative. Soundwave: counted recently.”
“Oh. Uhm.” Flipsides said. Right. Of course. He hadn’t realized that Soundwave was an archivist, either, though it made sense. Heralds like Amplitude were much more common a carrier subtype - perhaps that was why Soundwave ‘felt’ to the mechkin so much like his first carrier. Kind of strange that a historian should do so much fighting.
“Well, since we’re doing introductions, I’m Flipsides,” he said, looking up. Strangest circumstances for an introduction he’d ever had, for sure. “Medical teaching and history of the Parhelion war, line-sparked one thousand, eight hundred, eleven vorns ago. Bonded to Waveguide of the Urayan Sciences and Repair Academy, until recently.” Uraya was a small city-state bordering the rust sea -- not of any great political or strategic importance, but it had once hosted a very good clinical teaching hospital. Before the AIs had taken over the training of medics.
Soundwave nodded, acknowledging the introduction. “Flipsides, welcome. Your foci, most intriguing. Query: familiar with the Lord Megatron’s Great Incursion through the Planarii Nebula?”
Ravage made a chuffing noise, his field rippling with fond exasperation. //If you say yes, be prepared to talk about nothing else for the next orn ...// Leaving off his pretense of napping, he heaved himself out of the pool, padding over to sprawl upon the tiles near his carrier, letting the excess oil drain off his plating.
“Soundwave: interested, not obsessive,” the larger mech retorted. “Half an orn, at most.”
Flipsides watched the exchange with wide optics, not sure which surprised him more -- the carrier’s easy willingness to tolerate his symbiont’s byplay, or Ravage’s evident affection. Or even Soundwave’s interest in the Planarii Nebula. Which was totally worth discussing! “Wasn’t that amazing, though, Sir? Out near IK 301, right? The idea of using the Nemesis’ grav units to gather up dust and plasma and drag it along behind... a full scale orbital bombardment would have taken vorn, and never been as effective.” Flipsides splashed his hands in the oil, in apparent illustration of the whole process. “And without all those scientists on board, they might never have noticed which black body radiation particles were actually penetrating those shielded underground bunkers. Such foresight!”
Soundwave nodded. “Military commanders willing to listen to civilian advisors, rare,” he commented. “Lord Protector Megatron, has unique ability to apply unconventional solutions to battlefield strategy. After-action analysis of his engagements, always fascinating.” A thought occurred to him. “Query: Flipsides has met the Lord Protector in person?”
It was something he had never been able to learn, for all his study; what their current Lord Protector was like, past the battlefield glories, past the rituals and respect. The current Prime and Lord Protector had ascended to their rank only shortly before the outbreak of the Parhelion war, and the Lord Protector had spent most of his lifetime in the front lines as a result, fighting to push the Tr!klcctch away from Cybertronian space. Relatively few symbionts had either the inclination or been given the opportunity to join that vanguard, and fewer still had ever been given access to the Lord-Protector himself; an oversight, Soundwave thought, that might yet have very real consequences.
Flipsides squeaked in shock. “No, Sir. Never. I mean, I’ve seen him a couple of times, when we went with the medical crews. But meeting him... that would be quite the experience, wouldn’t it, though? I know that Pyrite did, before we joined them, but we weren’t together long enough to share that.” And the serpentframe had been... reluctant to do so. It must have been a very valuable, unique memory, Flipsides supposed.
Flipsides reclined back against Soundwave’s chest, half-submerged, supported by the side of the carrier’s hand. Ravage’s optics had slid shut, he seemed content to just rest, though his audials were pricked forward. The symbiont was strikingly large even for a bladeframe, the mechkin realized; he’d known that but hadn’t understood just how much. Flipsides was a bit more than a full mechanometer tall; Ravage was over twice that, from sensory whiskers to tail tip, and his back crested Flipsides’ chest. Every gear of him was exquisitely, sharply crafted. Even in repose, he made a mechkin’s own frame look simple in comparison, which was probably no less than the truth. It was hard to believe that he was looking -- actually looking -- at one of the sources of the First Memory, the memory that all symbionts received as soon as they could transfer files.
“You were a ranking historian at the Academe Philosophia?” Flipsides asked, impressed. The Iacon universities were the best on the planet, and the five ranking historians arguably the finest mechs in their field. It was no light honor, and no small duty. “What... what was that like?” Flipsides asked aware of the inadequacy of the question. He could feel the subtle aura of the carrier’s spark, spinning slowly under his helm. It seemed peculiarly bright, though perhaps the satisfaction of the moment was just making the mechkin more sensitive.
Soundwave considered the question. How did one encapsulate the achievement of one’s lifetime into a few words? “Archivist position … humbling,” he admitted. One never quite realized just how much more there was to learn until one reached those rarified heights, only to be confronted by exactly how much one still didn’t know.
“Exhilarating, frustrating … demands on time, many; data-loads entrusted to Archivists for analysis, categorization and cross-referencing, massive and complex.” Soundwave did his best to keep the regret from creeping into his field. He had fallen so far from what he had once been … “Soundwave: enjoyed every moment of it,” he admitted. “Considerations of rank, secondary; access to data and the time allowed for research, to learn, unparallelled before or since.” Almost nothing had been beyond his grasp as Archivist; the most sensitive data had been at his cable-tips, other mecha, the greatest minds of the empire, almost always available for consultation.
A particular memory surfaced, pulled out of archives by his search-string, and Soundwave let humor suffuse his field. “Academe, also location of Buzzsaw’s introduction to Soundwave, cohort.”
Ravage snorted again. //Not sure being chased by a crowd of angry mecha counts as an introduction,// he sent, making sure the band was wide enough for all to hear.
“Really? What happened?” Flipsides asked, interested.
Ravage and Soundwave exchanged looks.
From the jumbled mound of tired flyers came an irate click. //You show this story every time, Ravage!// Buzzsaw protested, trying to cram his head a little further under Laserbeak’s body, as if that would block out the comms. Ratbat, jostled, squeaked and kicked at the flightframe with stubby, oil-slick little pedes.
//Peace,// Soundwave ordered, before the whole pile could devolve into squabbling. Carefully, routing power around the damaged ones, he unlimbered a half-dozen datacables, the serpentine appendages slipping through the oil and across the tile. Three of the tips presented themselves to the pile of flyers, who managed to squirm enough to lazily bare ports. Each of the three tips blossomed with cilia, socketed into place carefully, slowly. Flipsides watched, his optics a little wide. He’d felt that connection often enough -- the sudden and utter sense of dominion, of being taken, frame and spark -- but not frequently watched it. It was always amazing to see how many cilia fit within the small socket, how deep into a symbiont they truly threaded.
Ravage took another two cables. And the final one... presented itself to Flipsides, cilia demurely retracted. //Query: Flipside will join us in recharge?// Soundwave asked.
It was an alluring offer. Most mecha did not dream in the way of Primes, but Chroniclers could come close -- one member of the cohort stayed functioning and offered up a vivid memory file, while the remainder sank deep into recharge, borne up on the wings of the experience. A lone pair of symbionts could do much the same, though the memory was a thousand times better over the wider, deeper lines a carrier provided. But when hardlined by a carrier, Flipsides would have no protections against intrusions, save the firewalls Amplitude had left. And those were already thinning.
The little mechkin cycled a vent. And then nodded.
The big socket across his chest was not Flipsides’ to offer. But he drew himself a little further out of the oil, and slid back the cover on a secondary port, over his hip. He watched the tip of the cable nudge him there, warm metal just brushing Flipsides’ somewhat battered protoform. The bladed multitools unfolded, feeling out the little locking mechanisms around the port, a tickling sensation. And then the first of the cilia touched him, a cool electric tingle that flowed deeper as they began to slip inside, a few at a time.
It was a strange sensation, in this rarely-used port -- raising little shivers as the fine tips explored his internal architecture, finding the right places to make connections. The mechkin was sure this carrier had more cilia than usual, too -- the full sheaf of them packed his small port densely, a feeling just this side of discomfort, and he wasn’t even sure if Soundwave had tried extending them all. Then the multitool locks slotted into place, keeping the thick hardline steady, while inside, the fiberoptic tips continued to search out their proper places. Cycling another slow vent, Flipsides ran his hand lightly over the cable sheath, and leaned back against Soundwave’s chest.
The first datapulse brushed up against the mechkin’s firewalls. Flipside shivered, a subtle tremor that seemed to emanate from his core at that exploratory touch. It was the furthest thing from a hack; utterly polite and restrained, and yet … The skill behind that touch, the restrained power of the carrier now linked to him, was almost palpable. If he wanted, Flipsides was suddenly very sure, Soundwave could crack his firewalls open in a sparkbeat. A symbiont’s firewalls were simple things, and it was clear that this carrier had a great deal of experience with them. And here there was no bonded carrier, no cohort-siblings to defend him ….
//Your fear, unnecessary,// Soundwave sent before that first tremoring of fear could turn into true panic, layering that narrow-banded channel with patient warmth, with acceptance. //My intention, only your pleasure, your happiness.// But words could deceive, and trust had to be earned … and so he opened up a hole in his own defenses, offering a recursive response-loop that, if accepted, would link Flipsides’ basal sensory-data with his own. Any pain the mechkin felt, Soundwave would also suffer … and the same would also hold true for pleasure. He offered it to Flipsides, allowing the symbiont to examine the code, keeping their connection open but resisting the urge to widen or deepen it. Without shared firewalls, hardlining between two or more mecha was a delicate, cautious dance of exploration, a negotiation between two competing sets of guardian protocols. Which was not to say it did not have its rewards; and Soundwave patiently waited, hoping to share those with Flipsides.
Flipsides hesitated, tentatively exploring that opening. Then, with an oddly determined air, he accepted Soundwave’s offered connection. Their systems twined together, and Soundwave felt his pleasure echo in the mechkin’s smaller frame, their fields flaring before phasing closer, reflecting one another. Soundwave could feel Flipsides’ vulnerability, his awareness that he lay in the talons of a much larger, stronger mech; and at the same time, a profound sense of protection, cradled against a carrier’s spark, a carrier’s broad shoulders a wall between him and an angry world. The mechkin shuddered, curling inward as if he could climb inside that warm plating, and Soundwave echoed faith/protection/treasure back at him, gathering him carefully close.
With Flipsides’ assistance, the carrier built a careful tunnel through those firewalls, a stream of data checked only briefly by the guardian protocols, and then flowing on, sinking deep. Slowly, the twining presence of the carrier built within the mechkin, a latency inside his memory well. Even bottlenecked by the incompatible firewalls, that presence seemed immense, a shadowy and half-sensed expanse of data transfer relays just lightly brushing up against his memory grid. Despite himself, the Flipsides could not help but wonder what a full connection would feel like -- whether a carrier like this could receive more data, maybe even several whole and unpared memory files at once.
But Soundwave made no effort to access the little medic’s memories. Instead, a trickle of data filtered through, date stamps and locators placing it in Iacon, during the start of the Parhelion war. Trailing blunt fingers unconsciously across the carrier’s slick chest armor, Flipsides relaxed into rich color, intense sensations, feeling Soundwave’s talons cupped around him even as he sensed rough iron plating under his paws, a stirring of the atmosphere across sensory whiskers....