Chapter Text
If it’d been literally anyone else on watch-duty with the monitors this afternoon, you’re very certain that there’d have been a wildly different reception to your panicked ass running out of the cellblock like your life depended on it. Like that big bad not-robot might come tearing his way out through the metal walls like paper, intent on stomping you flat on his way out of the base.
Optimus, however, was perhaps the chillest person in the entire galaxy, because after he kindly kept you caring company as you came down from the panic attack of a century, he expressed… well. Optimism.
You’re a lot less certain on his claim that the big mech had tried to catch you, only to get caught up on the other half of his restraints, preventing his full reach. It’d looked very much like he had been intending to slap you dead like a mosquito.
On the other hand -- hah, hah -- you… you aren’t dead. He could have, but Big Bad hadn’t smushed you flat.
“He’s still awake. Would you be willing to facilitate an attempt at negotiation?” comes the inevitable question, because this is kinda sorta -- aside from the whole ‘panic.EXE’ program running in your brain from the recent fright -- exactly what they’d been hoping for.
It was hard to have any kind of conversation with a dude who refused to talk.
“Negotiate for what?” you asked tiredly, already dreading going back into the room while the big giant has one arm free. What if he breaks any of the other restraints?!
“For freedom of movement, and the ability to allow Lazerbeak docked recharge. Bulkhead will transport the Casseticon to this facility if he agrees to our terms.”
You have only the vaguest idea what a ‘Casseticon’ is, and they’re apparently even tinier mechs than Arcee’s still-towering height, ones that could fit right inside Soundwave’s fancy chest compartment.
Big Bad was some kind of carrier-class mech, Wheeljack had said when you’d asked, but you’d failed to get further explanations about the curious trait; none of the other mechs you’d met looked remotely similar to Big Bad. Wheeljack however, had been far more interested in telling you how much he hated the ‘slimey Con’ and why, than educating you on his species’ differing configurations.
“Uh… I don’t think i’m really the right person for that.”
“I cannot think of a more suited liaison," Optimus tells you with what sounds like earnest pride, making your face warm. “He will feel your honesty.”
Oh. Right.
Because he could read your mind.
~*~
Big Bad’s engine revs like the thunder of a thousand muscle cars burning rubber on the tarmac when you step foot in the room; you freeze in place, the big airlock door sliding shut behind you with a deafening latch of heavily reinforced locks. Sealing you alone with the enemy, as this captive mech turns a vibrant, blood-red gaze upon you shaking in your boots. He’s half-sitting up on the berth, his free-hand yanking at the blue energy bar that secures his right wrist. His upper shoulder restraint on his left side is as non-existent as the one he’d busted with you in the room, and your wide eyes stare.
Now would probably be a good time to remind him that they can just electrocute him into stasis, through the table he’s strapped to, if he doesn’t--
“Soundwave: not intimidated by threat tactics,” he states with flat, crisp melody that sends every one of your hairs standing on end as you shiver.
“Y-yeah, uh, m-more like a w-warning,” you try to say with a straight face, and that probably works, but your squeaky voice gives you away like a neon light. “They’ll um, they’ll electroc-cute you and f-fix the, uh, the cuffs, unless you, uh, l-listen to-- listen to what I have to say.”
There. You spat the words out. Now if only you could feel confident you’ll be able to do it again, because Big Bad is so still, dangerously still, that ruby visor glowing like an angry volcano’s glow. Your skin prickles under the newly familiar intensity of static-charged air, like a storm is brewing in the room you just entered. The Decepticon officer’s engine rumbles louder, before you’re startled to see him jerk back, visor getting even brighter.
“Demand: deliver status of Lazerbeak,” he asks with sharp enunciation in that digitized voice, the pace faster than his usual, steady vocalizations. “Casseticon; hurt?” he prompts before you can even open your mouth, and you swear you can hear anxiety in what by rights should be a purely emotionless voice.
You blink. You… Don’t actually know. All you know is the little Cybertronian is going to be brought here, to him, if he’s willing to play nice.
And if the way every panel of armor on his boxy body creaks with minute, whole-body motion like he just tensed up is anything to go by, he probably heard that thought.
“Th-they’ll uh, they’ll let her dock with you, if you, um, agree to their terms,” is what you answer with, resisting the urge to push hair behind an ear. It’s already pulled back tight into its customary bun, the better to keep out of your way while working.
Ruby intensity stares you down with its vivid slash of too-hot color against a cold, gray room, and the deep blue of his armor. The stark white paint is speckled with too-clean patches where you’d washed and treated surface corrosion, which stand out to your eyes at this distance like someone flicked droplets of water at him carelessly.
You don’t dare walk any further into the room with this partially-restrained titan. It’s scary enough when he was still and powered down.
The mechanical being before you is still for so long, you begin to question if he’s actually malfunctioning or something. Pain distracting him? Or just trying to figure out what’s the best choice he can make in this situation?
Before you can chicken out and use his silence as an excuse to get the heck out of here, however, Big Bad seems to sag where he’s restrained, his face dropping to look towards the floor.
Then, that vibrant red slash is aimed right at you again, pinning you frozen in place as your blood runs cold. Your instincts threaten you should run, and run far from this dangerous, intelligent predator.
He’s plotting something. You just know he is.
“Request clarification: Lazerbeak, present on base?”
You can’t tell if you’re just imagining the prickling static that crackles over your entire body like an unwelcomed gaze. Your eyes can’t see what’s so potently felt, but you can feel it. Is he doing this? Or are you just that terrified and anxious and biting it all back, that it’s glitching out your own nervous system from the heruclean strain?
“No,” you answer, and are surprised to see his visor dim like the power got cut. It flickers for a moment, before he lays back against the table, head still tilted to keep you in clear sight.
“Deliver demands.”
“R-right. Uh. Basically, if you um, cooperate with Ratchet’s medical care, and don’t cause problems, they’ll let you visit with-- uh, Lazerbeak,” you say, the name feeling awkward and clunky on your tongue, “Once a week so she can dock and recharge--”
“Query: consequence for refusal?”
You blink. Then, your heart sinks. You’d like to think there’d be no further consequence than things simply staying as they were, which was honestly bad enough; in near complete isolation, utterly at the mercy of his enemies.
From his perspective, you didn’t figure there was much you could assure him wasn’t going to come with some fat helping of this sucks.
“Uh… I didn’t ask him about that,” you admit nervously. “Do you want me to go find ou--?”
“Command: acquire complete data,” your bossy prisoner-patient orders, that prickling sensation skating along your skin, through your hair, tickling your nerve endings as you flinch under the force of it. “Soundwave: willing to hear Autobot demands. Threat: harm to Symbiote, will result in immediate retaliation."
Which would probably mean squishing you. That thought overshadows your knee-jerk revulsion at the thought of hurting the pretty bird-mech, just to prove a point. She was already captured; why make more suffering?
That sure seemed to be how Optimus thought of the situation, but you were no fool, questionable decisions aside. You know the Autobot leader wasn’t the sole force of authority on this base, and while your Uncle Fowler wasn’t without authority himself--
--it was the people even further up than him that made you lose sleep at night, now and then, wondering just what you’d gotten yourself tangled up in.
You know your government. And you know your own species; and human impatience has led to more cruelty than you think this mechanical race could ever outdo. Match, perhaps, but if they could make the ugly side of humanity look pretty, it’d be a terrible feat indeed.
You gulp.
“Y-yeah. Uh… What questions do you have? I’ll go ask them all.” They’re not going to hurt them just to make them talk, are they? Right?
For the first time since moving in, you genuinely feel a need to re-read some legal documents. What did your work contract say again, about how to leave your job? Because if you were gonna have to be the messenger of threats like ‘hey we’re gonna cut her wings off if you don’t tell us what we want to know’ then you might actually break. Nope. Mortal peril and uncomfortable stress of magnificent proportions, you could handle. Heebie-jeebie awfulness like that? You didn’t care how scary the Decepticons were-- you didn’t want to enact the very brutality they were claimed to engage in, the very reason they were the enemy.
And good stars above, thank goodness you brought the tablet with, because Big Bad has a lot of questions.
~*~
“Are any parts missing?”
“No,” Ratchet says, sounding ever more annoyed as your face warms to dangerous temperatures, but you’d promised to be a good little negotiator, and you’d promised to ask every single question Big Bad tasked you with. His name is Soundwave, you correct your own thoughts with chagrin.
“Are any parts going to be missing?” you ask next with a cringe, to which Ratchet flings his hands up with an angry hiss, and you flinch.
“Oh for--! No, no, and no again! We’re not savages of Decepticon brutality, however much he might like to think us the villains!”
You swallow thickly, mastering your patience as you jot down that answer in a simple ‘no,’ then dutifully ask;
“Will she have any baffles at risk of interrupting their ‘link?’” you ask, uncertain what the surly prisoner meant by the terms, but knowing it was of high priority for him to know. You assume it has something to do with whatever happens when she docks in his chest compartment.
Ratchet eyes you narrowly.
“Yes, but only to her communications, weapons’ system, and telemetry. She’s incapable of precise flight, but should have no problems with transformation. He’ll be able to safely let her dock without risk of harm to either one of them.”
“Has her code been tampered with?” you ask, the next of what feels like a thousand questions all relating to is Lazerbeak okay?
“Only in the same way his has been; nothing harmful or permanent. Are you almost done? I have things to be doing.”
The tablet in your hand feels warm where your fingers grip it tightly, and you flex your jaw. Just be glad you’re not the one having to go -in- the room, you think with mild frustration. Ratchet had been obliging enough when you first requested him as you’d been tasked to do, but his patience with your parroted questions wore off fast.
“This is worth our time to address,” your only other company announces patiently, the only truly calm person in the room as Optimus nods for you to continue.
You take a deep breath, then keep on reciting your dutifully transcribed list, and jotting down the answers.
~*~
It’s a trap.
Soundwave knows this. Knows he had to prepare himself for this particular mental anguish, had tried to; but months apart from his Symbiotes, and just as he’d feared, the mere hope that he might be allowed to connect with even just one of them is enough to make his Spark’s cradle feel the crushing pressure of a fracturing weight. He knows it’s only in his mind, of course; his chest isn’t actually shattering apart, the metal layers peeled up one-by-one as his Spark spins itself into unraveling static.
But it feels like it is.
The organic dutifully went back-and-forth between his captors and himself, until her eyes and shoulders were droopy, and she wavered where she stood, just inside the door to his cell, reading out the latest communications for his discernment.
I should decline.
He should. Perhaps if he actually held anything of true importance on his erased drives, he even would.
But even a mech as strong as he, can only endure so long under brutal torment. And the Autobots were cruel, after all; they knew him too well.
They need not pry up his plating, snip his sensory net’s dampening module, or dump painful, code-warping viruses into his systems.
They need only dangle his family under threat of harm… or simply the unknown of painful isolation. Of not knowing, but knowing that she was in their clutches, under the threat of their whims. Without comfort, for he knew they’d be smart enough to keep his Cassettes separated; they were a force to reckon with as a group, a battle-forged team as much soldiers themselves as they were family.
Apart, their tiny frames could only accomplish so much. Their cleverness was their greatest asset, and the Autobots had learned very well how to dampen that threat.
In the end, he gives into impulse, pushed over by a single, errant thought. One not his own, one laced with paranoia and doubt, and a strong reluctance as the human reads out the latest set of answers.
Wouldn’t it be easier for him to try and escape, if he has help coming and going?