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sturthepotoffanfiction · 9 months

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Hi!i love yours(and anon's) AUs

Repop:*Exist*

*looking at It* Not you, I hate you

Yeeeeeaaaaah, no. Backhanded compliments are not gonna fly here. You don't like the Repop? Sucks to be you, cuz I just wrote 3k words of it sheerly out of spite 😊 to everyone that enjoys The Repopulation Project, I hope you enjoy this angsty look into the first Soundwave's end of days

Not A Sound

Soundwave wakes before the sun, as he always does. He enjoys witnessing the world before dawn; it's near silent, entirely tranquil. The air is so still and peaceful, as if the whole world is sleeping, like Primus himself is slumbering deeply and the entire planet is relishing in dreamland alongside him. There's not so much as a twitch, the atmosphere frozen almost like a photograph.

The suffocating feeling it brings is his only comfort. He slides both legs over the edge of the berth, quiet as the grave, and rises with the softest click and groan of his knee joints. He braces one servo against his belly, the other on the wall; the newspark growing steadily within has added too much weight for his liking, and the pressure it puts on his knee gyros is a hateable thing. On the other side of the berth, his mate recharges peacefully, without a care in the world.

The entire house is silent. Crescendo and Rhythm are curled up together when he passes by their room, dead to the world, arms and legs locked around one another in a mutual vice grip. In the next room Noisemaker is sprawled out like cyberhawk, limbs flung in every direction, one leg dangling haphazardly over the edge of his berth, one arm slung across his face, little mouth smushed sideways against a pillow and drooling a tiny trail of oral lubricant all over his own shoulder. It doesn't at all look comfortable, but Soundwave knows better than to try and correct his position. Not only would it wake him up and make him fuss loud enough to wake the whole house, but he'd also reassume a similarly crazy position not 10 kliks later. Across the hall Blare is peacefully snoozing under his softly spinning mobile, and next door, High Pitch is missing from her berth. Soundwave finds her on the chaise in the lounge, her stuffed petro rabbit tucked loosely in her arms, one ear in her mouth that she's suckling on.

He silently takes the blanket on the floor, surely lost during the night, and drapes it over her. His fingers brush over the top of her helm, and he catches a glimpse of what she's dreaming about--she's running across an endless, open field with her arms stretched out wide. Her bunny is running hand-in-hand with her. She's laughing loudly, squealing at her toy to, "Come on, c'mon!"

It seems like such a nice dream, running so freely.

He moves on to the kitchen and pours himself a full cube of energon, warming it up til it bubbles and steams, adding a small scoop of copper shavings. Normally he can't stand copper, it's so tangy, but this carrying cycle has made him crave it near-constantly. He settles his free servo onto his distended abdomen as he leans against the counter to drink his fuel. His sixth sparkling already… it doesn't seem possible. It doesn't even seem like he and his mate were bonded that long ago.

He can't remember their bonding ceremony.

He can't remember anything, really.

All he knows is this house. His children. His mate. It's all he's ever known.

Or at least, it should be. It's all he's supposed to know.

But Blaster's mind isn't perfect. He's terrible at hiding secrets. He acts the part perfectly well; he's a good conjunx and a better sire. He's kind and patient with their bitties and loves them a lot. He helps with bathtime and gladly plays with them when he's not working. He's always there for bedtime tuck ins and never skips out on storytime. Oh, yes, he's a great sire, but a terrible liar. He doesn't even believe his own lies, that's how Soundwave knows it's not real.

It wasn't always this way. Soundwave didn't always live in here, he knows that. He didn't always have this collar–necklace, his conjunx called it, but it is a collar. It didn't let him open the large windows or any of the doors that lead outside. If he tried, it would send a temporarily paralyzing electric current through his body. Entirely painless, but also entirely effective. Soundwave hasn't a single memory of ever being outside, but he knows he has been.

He sees himself, sometimes, in Blaster's thoughts. When his conjunx thinks Soundwave is entirely preoccupied with tending their sparklings or washing their fine glass energon cubes, his mind wanders and fills up with a sort of aching regret. Soundwave sees himself, with cassettes he doesn't know. With people he doesn't know, a great silver mech with a fearsome canon on one arm, bellowing across a smoking battlefield. He sees himself, armed, masked, face hidden behind a visor and weapons pointed fearlessly at his own mate. He sees a shining silver and blue planet, and he wonders if perhaps that is what Cybertron looks like from afar. He can't remember ever seeing it.

He can't remember anything from his old life. Can't remember anyone. He knows he's a Host, and it followed then that those cassettes he saw were his symbiotes. Where are they now? He can't feel them in his spark. Are they dead? Had their bond been broken? Had they moved on when all of… this happened?

Blaster doesn't know that he knows, and he intends to keep it that way. The other mech is as much his mate as he is his prison warden. It wouldn't be wise to-

"Mama?"

High Pitch is standing there in the doorway, bunny dragging on the floor behind her, one tiny servo rubbing across her droopy optics. She yawns widely, so hard her tiny helm tilts back and her little head finials shiver and pin down.

"Mamaaa…" she whines softly and trudges across the room to him in waddling steps, pawing at his leg before reaching one arm skyward. "Up, up… uppy p'ease…"

She weighs next to nothing under normal circumstances, but lifting her into his arms while already bearing the weight of her unborn sibling makes his back ache. She doesn't appear to notice the tinge of pain in his EM field, blissfully snuggling down into his frame and rubbing her face into the underside of his neck with a soft little sigh. She murmurs another utterance of, "...ma-ma…" before promptly starting to drowse.

He readjusts his hold, one arm supporting the majority of her weight and the other placing delicately upon her back, rubbing up and down her spinal strut as he gently rocks her back and forth. She's a good sparkling. All of them are. He wishes he could love them like a normal carrier would.

Once his only daughter is back in her berth, due to recharge for another megacycle at least, he settles into his chair in the common room. He's not allowed access to the public datanet, so all he has is individual dedicated bookfiles to pass the time. It's the only time he gets to himself, these early mornings; the rest of his day, every day, is spent looking after the sparklings. He hates it. It's not their fault, they didn't ask to be born and he bears no grudge against any of them, but he regrets the round-the-clock care they need, regrets that this is the life he's been given. What was the true scope of his life beforehand? He can only wonder.

Soon enough, Blaster wakes. Soundwave prepares all the necessary servings of energon, for his mate and for the twins to drink before heading off to the education center. Noisemaker will be going with them next vorn, but by the time he starts going to school the new baby will be here, and Soundwave will still have 3 needy sparklings to mind.

With Blaster and the twins out the door, he's able to get High Pitch her breakfast, then plop her down in front of a light board. She's perfectly happy to play with the neon shapes and letters, and Soundwave thinks he'll have a moment to return to his book when Blare starts crying in the nursery. By the time he gets there to shush him, Noisemaker has been awakened by the wailing and is asking about breakfast. Smothering the youngest with his feeding lines, he barely manages to pick up little Noisy without falling over. Primus, why are sparklings so heavy?! They're so small, they have no business being this heavy.

After gulping down his morning fuel, Noisemaker grabs High Pitch by the hand and all but drags her into the backyard to play; Soundwave settles into a chair with a view of their little outdoor playset. Once Blare is fed he puts the baby on the floor to crawl around and entertain himself with various rattles and things they have sprawled about the room, and finally Soundwave is able to get back to his book. It's not a particularly interesting story, it's not even particularly good, but it's something other than the mind-numbing routine he's been forced to repeat every day for the last several centuries. He makes sure to keep one optic on the sparklings, but he's not terribly worried; this is a very safe neighborhood, and he can feel them all in his spark. They're all fine.

Another presence suddenly snakes into his spark, and he shifts uncomfortably. The unborn baby's sparkbond to him was a tumultuous thing; he could always feel their presence, but rarely any concrete emotions or sensations. They were only in mid-development, after all. As they grew, though, they became slowly more aware, and their spark was reaching out to his. It should've been a magical moment, but the most he can do is sigh and drum his fingers against his belly in acknowledgement. The sparkling kicks at him, and he grunts softly. Primus, he hates this part.

He reaches back to them with his spark, a soft pulse of I'm here, you're not alone. The infant spark anchored to his pulses back an emotion almost like curiosity, and some content warmth. He makes them feel safe. That's good. That's healthy.

He turns his attention back to his bookfile, and swipes the screen to bring on the next page. The sparkling flutters inside his gestation tank, and there's a long, prolonged jab, almost like a tiny servo or pede pressing against his insides. Against his will, he reaches to press his own servo to the spot where he'd felt them. Gently rubbing at that spot, and their little spark pulses in response to the stimulus. They'd definitely felt that.

Another sharp kick, and this time his denta clench. He feels their whole body jerk inside of him, and a jab of pain zings up his left side. The baby kicks him again, once, twice, then straight out, and a gasp finally slips out. He drops the datapad onto the little side table and grabs the armrest of his hoverchair.

What…?

A cold feeling like fear, an emotion that felt like mommy, help me! slithers into his spark.

Then, with a great jerk, almost like a wild animal writing with death throes, there's a swift series of punishing kicks in his midsection. A warning pops up on his HUD that there's a fresh dent in the side of his gestation tank, which shouldn't even be possible, before everything in his vision suddenly flashes violent red in warning. He doubles over, and barely has time to brace himself: the sparkbond to his unborn bitlet suddenly shatters. He clamps both servos over his mouth to muffle an agonized scream, a painful screech that leaves his vocalizer sparking and sore.

A dozen messages pop up from his system, warnings that he should seek emergency care now, informing him that his systems are trying to perform emergency resuscitation, that the protoform's systems are rapidly entering lethal failure and arrest.

And just like that, his sparkling extinguishes. Soundwave collapses back into his chair, arms falling limp at his sides, neck lolling so his face is angled toward the ceiling. Tears prick his optics and begin to sluggishly drip down his cheeks. They trail along down his neck, and slip into the seams of his plating. He doesn't sob, he doesn't wail, he doesn't make a single sound. His mouth trembles with the misery of it all, and his vents wheeze softly, but he doesn’t utter so much as a squeak.

His baby is dead.

Blaster doesn't know yet. If he did, he'd surely be inundated with frantic calls and messages. That's comforting, actually, knowing that despite everything his conjunx isn't actually privvy to everything that goes on with his body.

He brings up one shaking hand and drapes it over his belly. Patting at it with a morbid curiosity: he knows the baby won't kick back, they can't, but he still searches for something. Anything. They're dead. He… He has a dead body inside of him. What a strange concept.

Pretty soon his seal will break, and he'll have to go have them removed. He wonders what they'll look like. Will they be developed enough for a memorial ceremony with their body on display? Or will they have to be represented by an empty cradle? He's not sure.

He's not sure how long he sits there staring at the ceiling, waiting for his seal to break. But he's still waiting when Noisemaker and High Pitch come inside, looking for snacks, and he somehow pulls himself onto his pedes to tend them. He sends them off with a pack of rust sticks and they eagerly dash back out to play. And his seal still doesn't break.

Eventually he carries them to their rooms for naptime. It still doesn't break. He gives Blare his mid-afternoon feeding, and it still doesn't break. Crescendo and Rhythm return home from school with stories of playground mischief and interesting things they've learned. Soundwave gets them their afterschool snacks and supervises their take-home activities. Blaster comes home from work. The whole family eats their dinner. The sparklings have their baths and bedtime stories and are tucked into berth. The lights go off in the house, closing out another day.

And still, while Soundwave is lying numbly in the darkness and staring at the ceiling, his seal still doesn't break.

It doesn't break the next day, either. Or the next decacycle, or the next lunar cycle. It doesn't break when the red sun leaves to make way for the blue sun and the temperatures get colder with the new season. It doesn't break on the day Blare finally says his first words, the same as all his older siblings, a clumsy and cheerful, "Ma-mee!". It doesn't break when the planet enters its cold season under the purple sun of winter, and it doesn't break when Solus Forging comes around.

It doesn't break at all. Ever.

Only Soundwave knows the baby inside of him is actually a rotting corpse. He still touches his belly as if they're still kicking and full of vitality. He says not a word of the truth to his conjunx–not that they ever speak anyway. The children are much too young to really understand something like death, and when the twins ask if they can listen for the baby to kick, he lets them try. They always look so disappointed when their baby brother or sister won't kick and push at them, but are soothed with the knowledge that their presence makes the baby feel comfortable enough to sleep. It's an easy lie to tell, and he doesn't even feel bad for deceiving them.

He's entering what would be the final phase of development when he starts to feel sick. Soundwave isn't stupid, he knows exactly why he's struggling with fevers and nausea and flaking paint. It's not just a rough end to a carrying cycle, no. There's a rotting baby in his belly; their little body has long since begun to rust and decay. They're falling apart inside of him, self scans easily show it. They've begun to fester within his womb, all of the dead metal and stagnant fluid a perfect breeding ground for infection. His systems warn that he's playing with fire, that he needs medical attention immediately.

He dismisses every blip, and overrides his systems to mute such drivel. He doesn't care to read it.

Blaster offers to take off work to look after him and lend his support. After all, "You're close to delivering, you know? I… I want to be here. In case you need anything."

Soundwave doesn't need anything. Certainly not from him. He practically forces his conjunx out the door with the monotone insistence that he's fine.

He's practically counting the days til sepsis kicks in. He knows it's coming. Every day it gets harder to move; the raging heat from a constant fever makes him dizzy. It's hard to think. He can't keep energon down anymore, not with such rampant nausea. He always purges anything he tries to intake. His spark races uncomfortably in his chassis, and his audials ring with incessant noise.

His body finally gives out less than 2 megacycles before the twins come home from school. He puts Blare in his playpen and staggers toward his berthroom, but only makes it halfway there before his knees give out. He slides down the wall and his vision blurs, wavering aggressively, and yet another emergency message flashes across his sight. He can't read it, he doesn't know what it says.

He can barely think. Where… where is he? What's going on? His spark is throbbing out of control, and he can't hold himself up anymore. Collapsing to the hallway floor, he tries to drag himself forward but his arms won't work. They're clunky, and heavy, and he can't seem to bend his elbows.

What is he supposed to be doing? He feels like he's forgetting something important.

Where is he?

What's going on?

Where is…

Where are…

Names flit through his mind, so fast he can't quite reach them, but he's so sure they are important. Were important. Perhaps people from before his life in here? Who knows.

He hopes, once he's gone, he'll be able to see them again. Hopefully their deaths were kinder than his. Poisoning himself with his own dead child certainly isn't how he planned to go out, but as he loses consciousness for the last time, he's grateful to the baby for finally giving him his freedom back.

...

And there we go! Poor poor Soundwave, what a way to go, but at least he's finally free 😌

For now, anyways.

#fuck you anon #friend's works #good snippet thing though

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sturthepotoffanfiction · 11 months

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For MegOP Week 2023, specifically Day 6: Atonement.

Takes place in a post-canon au of Animated, and the megop is one-sided.

Also on Ao3 and FanFic.

When he thought of that little red and blue prime-turned-magnus, the first thing that came to his processor was just how determined the little one was and still is. Even after that idiotic acting magnus nearly ruined everything and Ultra Magnus finally succumbed to his wounds (how Shockwave managed to escape being found out from that still eluded him), the red and blue menace managed to claim the title of magnus before that old acting magnus took proper control. He couldn't help but be impressed with how quickly it happened, especially since the little prime was barely on Cybertron before then. He supposed it didn't help that the Magnus Hammer responded positively to the red and blue prime compared to the utter inaction it had to the blue and orange former prime.

Ah yes, former. Especially considering how they reacted to not being moved to full magnus and the leak of what truly happened on that... Archa Seven, though part of him doubted that it was leaked, just conveniently left out for the public to find out. He was sure Shockwave had something to do with it, though the shapeshifter refused to outright tell him. It was odd, all things considered. (Shockwave even assured him he was still a Decepticon their talk just before he saw Longarm Prime throwing his support for the little red and blue prime to become the next magnus.)

If there's something he didn't expect out of the prime-turned-magnus, especially after their last battle on Earth and their escape from Cybertron, he didn't expect the red and blue mecha to be so willing to let them back in. He didn't understand it. And what surprised him more was how easily Alpha Trion and Preceptor were willing to go with that line of thought. Even Longarm Prime showed genuine surprise at... whatever the hell that was. He wasn't going to deny the path so freely gifted, even if he believed it was going to be a trap in the end.

However, it wasn't. Barely a vorn passed before the law that originally banished the Decepticons was repealed and an act making sure both civilian frames and warframes were equal was put in place. Through the test of time over that decade of vorns period between then and now, it held up strong, and the terms of Autobot and Decepticon began, slowly, to become past. Even if it required a rehauling of the system, he couldn't deny that times were better.

There was still corruption, of course, but it quickly became dangerous to do so, especially after the AllSpark was fully restored and it began to act on its own, taking matters into its own spiteful glow. If even the AllSpark wanted peace and refused to let corrupt spread its seeds, then why try to make those seeds in the first place?

Though, hindsight became apparent to why some reacted the way they did. Longarm wasn't outed as Shockwave until a handful of vorns after the repeal due to Alpha Trion's interference, making it seem (seem being the key word, he knew what was spouted was lies for the people) that a hired assassin was the one to target the old magnus and Shockwave disguised himself as Longarm due to no longer agreeing with the Decepticon's actions. Brainstorm (how that scientist was still alive, he didn't know) managed to worm into Preceptor's life and reignite the Autobot scientist's emotions. Somehow. He honestly doesn't want to know how that mess worked out.

However, the entire time, that little red and blue frame stayed within his mind until it became obsessive.

So, Megatron decided to take a risk.

One, he would learn in time, it was more work than what he had thought.

-()-

It started with getting back into the politics of Cybertron, if only as a viewpoint of what to fix so the circumstances of what caused the rise to the first civil war wouldn't repeat again. The energon mines and farms, though harsh and sometimes unforgiving, were kept fair in a way that held up the new balance of rotations, simpler tasks, and the need for rest and off time. The gladiator pits were still brutal and unforgiving, but it shifted to games nearly without bloodshed and only worked off of volunteers. The stability of having riches came at the price of needing real proof a small chunk of it was being used for systems made to help mecha at the bottom rungs of society. Simple changes, really.

Megatron didn't run for anything, just served as a first person source of the times of old. Perhaps that was how he got further than intended at first, with Alpha Trion (the documenter he was) inviting him over multiple times to just... talk, about the past, about current events, or anything else of interest.

He hadn't yet denied Alpha Trion's invites, anyways.

But, he realized that this didn't matter with his goals. Alpha Trion was not a path to Optimus.

-()-

Shockwave, or rather Longarm Prime as he was still known as still held up the façade Alpha Trion helped him put up. He didn't know why the other still did so, but decided not to bother about fixing it. Sure, it was deception, but Longarm pulled the façade up well and stayed clear of him every time he tried to approach the grey and teal bot.

However, it didn't help that it seemed like Longarm (or would he still be Shockwave?) was one of the few, rare ways to connect to Optimus Magnus. Well, not that 'Magnus' was still a proper title. The only reason the small bot kept it was because he was the last one before the complete rehaul.

That didn't matter. What mattered to him was that the path to finding and speaking to Optimus to be unlocked.

He abandoned trying to reconnect with Shockw-... Longarm after accidentally eavesdropping on Longarm breaking down in front of Alpha Trion. Hindsight had boiled over and his former spymaster became the mask.

Megatron couldn't find it in himself to blame Longarm Prime (though, like the title of 'Magnus', 'Prime' wasn't a true title anymore, only kept due to familiarity) for his decision.

-()-

When he decided to visit the head engineer in SpaceBridge mechanics, he didn't expect the AllSpark shard-made Constructicons to be there when times finally aligned enough for them to meet. Why Bulkhead took so long to finally respond to his request, he understood. Megatron was once an enemy. An understanding between them had to be made at some point, sooner or later.

He realized after the first meeting, though, Bulkhead was not a path to Optimus.

Megatron still agreed to meet again, if only because Bulkhead wanted someone to talk to that wasn't as brainless as the Constructicons. He decided that was fair, so continued to meet.

-()-

He didn't expect to be allowed to speak with the current cyberninja master (sensei? One of the two), but he was, so he spoke to him. It took some time, but he eventually got something out of Jazz towards the path to Optimus. Though, if he was being truthful, he didn't expect what he got out of it.

Optimus visited the cyberninja tombs once a year with Rumble. Without fail. It was always those two.

How the frag did Rumble become friends with Optimus?

Maybe Rumble would be the path to Optimus, for all this time.

To Megatron, while Jazz didn't open the path to Optimus, he got a direction, and that was all he needed.

-()-

He knocked on the door a few times, then waited. His vents smoothed out once again and he relaxed his frame. (He was nearly there!)

The door opened and he looked at who opened it. The golden visor that covered Rumble's optics stared up at him, shining slightly onto their orange armor. The smaller mecha clearly did a double take at seeing him, but eventually asked, "Megatron? Why are you here?"

(Now or never-)

"Have you, by chance, seen Optimus?" Megatron asked.

Rumble tilted his helm slightly. "Uh... what for?"

"I want to speak with him," Megatron answered.

Rumble stared at him, but didn't automatically reply.

They stood in silence for a while before Rumble finally answered, "I dunno where he lives, but he visits the Garden of New Time every joor. Only exception is when we go visit Frenzy and Prowl."

Frenzy and Prowl. It suddenly made more sense why those two would show up together to the cyberninja tombs now.

"Alright," Megatron replied. "Thank you, Rumble."

Rumble seemed to have squinted at him under the visor, hesitantly saying, "Sure..." before closing the door on him.

The path was clearer, and it was still a mess, but he was one step closer to Optimus.

-()-

He realized, as he explored the Garden of New Times, that his obsession with Optimus had always been a curiosity and will wrapped up in the wish to love the red and blue frame as his own.

Megatron hoped that it would come through as such, even if it took time.

-()-

After three joors of exploring the Garden of New Times at various times, he finally found Optimus.

The lovely red and blue beauty was found sitting in the cybernetic grass, quietly staring into a pond surrounded by gold roses with a black stem and a small gradient to black at where the petals connected to the stem. Optimus's frame was scratched and covered with dirty and grime, and he spotted a slowly growing infection at the little lovely's right ankle. There were even some dents scattered across his frame and pieces of poorly applied welds that tried to hide open wounds but failed to cover completely.

He frowned, for the moment not approaching him. What had happened to the little beauty since... everything?

A few kliks passed before he finally approached Optimus Magnus, sitting down beside him. Megatron watched as Optimus glanced at him and his optic went wide when he saw how pale the other's optics were. Optimus looked back at the pond as he whispered, "Why are you here?"

Megatron took a moment to reply, those sad optics burned into his processor, then he replied, "I wanted to find you."

Without looking at him, Optimus muttered, "Why me? Why not Cinderdeal or Bumblebee or Strika or anyone on the new council?"

"Because it is not with the new council," Megatron began. "It's with you."

Optimus looked again at Megatron and he saw the hatred in the smaller bot's optics. "You killed Prowl... It was your actions, so the blame is on you," Optimus quietly stated and his field leaked out slightly. Megatron was hit with a wave of utter despair and pain and sadness and anger and mourning from the field and he was forced to hold strong against it.

The field was locked away and Megatron just stared at Optimus as he finally turned to properly look at the warframe, sparks jumping from his optics without any other way release his emotions in a non-devastating way.

"He was everything to me. How could anything make up for Prowl...?" Optimus quietly questioned.

He reached for the little beauty's servo and he realized that his wish could never come true, not while the beauty in front of him was like this. Once Optimus's servo was in his own, Megatron answered, "Time, living. Whatever it takes for you to recover from the pain."

Optimus stared at him for a good few microkliks before removing his servo from Megatron's, looking at the pond, and stating, "I... don't think I can ever forgive you..."

"But is atonement enough?" Megatron asked.

Optimus looked at him again for a few moments before looking at the ground. "Atonement," he whispered. "I... I think I can accept that."

Megatron stood up, then reached a servo down. Optimus looked up at the servo, then at his faceplate.

"Shall we begin, then?" Megatron asked.

#transformers animated #tfa #megop #tfa megop #megop week 2023 #there is past implied prowlop so... yea

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