[IDW] Anamnesis - 02

[dracoqueen22]

Anamnesis
Chapter Two

Hook’s estimate is unsurprisingly accurate.

Megs spends most of a week in a recuperative stasis, waking long enough to down energon and coolant and other fluids, and engage in brief conversation. He’s more functional the second day, and Hot Rod sits down with him for an hour, patiently working through the exercises he’s learned over the past few decades of helping Empurata mechs.

Megs only needs a few fumbling tries before he’s manipulating his claws like a champion, able to fuel himself and top off his fluids. Using a stylus is a bit more complicated, but enough time and practice should take care of that.

Hot Rod reassures him. “You’re not the first,” he explains as Megs huffs with irritation when the stylus once again clatters to the floor. He bends down, picks it up, and hands it back. “It’s like learning any other skill. You’ll get it.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Megs grumbles, but he pinches the stylus with his claws and tries again. Boredom, he’s complained, is his greatest enemy.

He spends more hours awake than recharging, and some of those hours are when Hot Rod is gone from the apartment, either working with Hook or rummaging through the scrapheap.

“I know,” Hot Rod says, gentle and understanding. “But I promise. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I’ve gotten pretty good at showing mechs how to do it.”

Megs grunts and the stylus clicks around his claws. “You’re a good teacher.”

Hot Rod’s face warms. “Thanks.” He touches Megs’ primary digit. “Less pressure here, and more pressure with the tertiary. It’s about balance.”

“Balance,” Megs echoes, and though he doesn’t have a face, something in the way he tilts his head, the way his optical lens focuses, suggests he’s concentrating. It’s a cute look on him.

But learning how to navigate his new frame doesn’t entertain Megs for long. Eventually, his recharge takes on a more natural pattern, and he becomes restless, agitated in his boredom. Hot Rod can’t stick around all day because he has duties to attend.

“Do you have anything I can do to pass the time?” Megs asks, and Hot Rod thinks about it for several seconds before he digs out several gamepads from his room. He hasn’t played them in a while, but they’re better than nothing, he supposes.

“We’ve got a huge stack of novelpads, too,” Hot Rod says as he hands the gamepads over, and Megs looks over them with interest in his optic. “Not that it’ll do you any good. I don’t know why Slinger and I kept them. Optimism, I guess.”

Megs looks up at him, head cocked. “Why wouldn’t they do me any good? Are they broken?”

“No, they work just fine. They just rely on, you know, being able to read.” Hot Rod shrugs and shuffles through the gamepads again, grinning when he hands the next one over. “This one’s pretty good. It’ll help with that claw-optic coordination, too.”

Megs takes it, but he looks up at Hot Rod, and his field flickers with confusion. “Can you not read?”

“Very few of us can.” Hot Rod shrugs, dismissing it. He’s not ashamed. It’s not like education is something that’s provided. If it were, he’d have already hopped on it.

True, he could save up and buy the downloads, but when it comes down to it -- he needs energon and coolant and shelter more. Education? It’s a luxury. He knows the glyphs that matter. He knows enough to survive.

“I mean, Hook does, and his brothers do, but anyone else in Nyon? Nah, not really.” Hot Rod shuffles through the gamepads again. “Don’t need to know it to mine energon.”

Megs drags a single claw along the screen of the gamepad. “I know it.”

Hot Rod cycles his optics. “What?”

“I believe I know it,” Megs says, and taps something on the screen. “I can’t explain why, but something tells me I can.”

Excitement thrums through Hot Rod’s spark. “One way to find out, right?” He dives into the trunk Slinger left behind, and digs out the novelpads Slinger collected and kept shoved at the bottom. There’s a couple dozen here.

“Take your pick,” Hot Rod says, showing his armful of fiction. A couple of them try to slide off, and he shifts his weight to keep them from toppling to the floor. “Not that I could tell you what’s on any of them.”

Megs grabs the one on the top of the stack and plugs into it, optic dimming as he shifts his focus to it. Hot Rod sits down next to him, peering over the bulk of his arm at the glyphs on the screen. Oh, he’s not a complete idiot. He can pick out some of the basic glyphs here and there, things he’s seen in his everyday experience.

“It’s a romance,” Megs says after a moment, and there’s something in his tone that hints of resignation. “And a bland one at that.”

“So you can read it?” Hot Rod asks.

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Hot Rod tilts his head, looking Megs up and down again. Large build, definitely miner, but every miner Hot Rod has ever met only knows the basic Miner Cant. They’re not educated. No one would bother with it.

Empurates always keep their basic frame. Hot Rod’s never met or helped one who didn’t. The punishment takes away their hands, their facial features, but keeps them in their original frame. Probably because a full-spark transplant is too costly.

“Who taught you?” Hot Rod asks.

Megs’ shoulders sink. One claw taps on the screen of the datapad, his field flickering with a cold agony. “I can’t remember.”

Hot Rod rests a hand on Megs’ arm. “Hey, don’t try too hard. You remember what Hook said.”

Megs huffs a ventilation. “I want to remember. Clearly, it’s an answer that matters.”

“It’s a clue is what it is.” Hot Rod pats him consolingly. “Can’t be too many miners wandering around here who know how to read Cybertronian Standard. I’ll ask around a bit, see if I can’t find someone willing to talk and in the meantime, hey, you got some entertainment, right?”

“Yes,” Megs agrees, but his tone is subdued, not nearly as reassured as Hot Rod would like. His field buzzes with his discomfort, not that Hot Rod can blame him.

Every Empurate he’s ever rescued has struggled with the initial memory loss. Granted, Megs is one of the worst cases Hot Rod has ever met. It’s almost like they were trying to wipe his memory without turning him into an Empty or a drone.

“I’m kind of jealous actually,” Hot Rod admits as he peers at the datapad again. A romance? He doesn’t care how stupid it is. He wishes he could read it. “I’ll bet it’s an interesting story.”

Megs stirs, sitting up, and his head turns toward Hot Rod, focusing on him. “Do you want to learn?”

Hot Rod cycles his optics. “What?”

Megs fumbles the novelpad for a second before he manages to get a firm grip on it and wave it in front of Hot Rod. “I could try to teach you,” he says. “It’s the least I can do for your kindness.”

“Well, I mean, it’s not like you have to pay me back or anything,” Hot Rod says, but he’s still holding the stack of novelpads he’d pulled from Slinger’s trunk, and now he’s clutching them closer. He looks down at them, imagining that he might power one on and actually find out what’s on it for once.

“I will teach you,” Megs says, as if it’s a foregone conclusion. He cycles a rattling ventilation and something in his vocals turns a bit distant, like he’s recalling a far memory. “Every mech has the right to an education. You deserve to know this.”

Hot Rod grins. “I’m not going to turn you down if you’re serious about it. I promise to work hard and learn quickly at least.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Wait. If you can read, does that mean you can write too?”

“Perhaps.” Megs holds up his claws, clicking the three digits together. “With practice.”

“Wow.”

Megs looks at him again, and there’s an impression of a gentle smile in the tilt of his head, in the soft glow of his optic. “I will teach you that, also. Once I’ve practiced.”

Hot Rod absolutely does not throw his arms around Megs in an enormous hug to express his glee. But he wants to. Instead, he sort of vibrates in place and grins, feet tapping the floor in a burst of excited energy.

“You should get some rest first,” he says, trying to be responsible rather than shoving all of the novelpads at Megs eagerly. He bounces to his feet and carefully lines the novelpads on the empty desk. “And I’ll look for more novelpads for you to read, too.”

He sweeps the romance novelpad from Megs’ claw and adds it to the pile, flicking his hands at Megs in a shooing motion.

“Come on. Lay down. You need to recharge,” Hot Rod says.

Megs gives him a look, and a quiet, hollow sound pours out of his vocalizer -- a soft chuckle. “The faster I am recovered, the sooner I can teach you, yes?”

“Did I say that? I don’t think I did.” Hot Rod grins. “Shhh. You need your rest.”

Megs laughs again, but obeys, sliding back into repose on the berth, his field admitting a fatigue the rest of him tries to hide. “Thank you.”

He always says that, Hot Rod realizes as the days continue, and Megs gets stronger and stronger. Every time Hot Rod walks away. Every time Hot Rod brings him a pouch of coolant or energon or a new novelpad or gamepad or a bit more padding for the berth. Or when he sits down and patiently walks Megs through manipulating his new digits.

Thank you.

There’s a lot of gratitude in Megs, like someone taught him to be grateful, taught him vestiges of polite behavior. Hot Rod’s not used to hearing thank you so much. Oh, sure. He’s heard it a couple of times from mechs he’s helped before, but it’s always kind of an afterthought, the last comment before they go their separate ways, and Hot Rod is left alone again.

A lot of Hot Rod’s projects leave while still bitter about what happened to them. Angry and resentful. He’s been cursed out a few times because the mechs hadn’t wanted to survive, hadn’t wanted to recover, hadn’t wanted to accept what happened to them. Sometimes, they wanted to die, because they can’t find a reason to keep functioning.

Hot Rod has his fair share of new friends, too. But there’s something about the quiet way Megs says ‘thank you’ that makes Hot Rod’s spark flutter and his face warm. There’s something precious about it.

He wishes he could explain why.

“Dare I ask how your new project is coming along?” Hook asks as he drops another crate of soiled parts next to Hot Rod’s wash station. The crate rattles noisily and gives off a fetid odor that has Hot Rod wrinkling his nasal ridge.

Sometimes, the things that come off mechs in the medclinic smell worse than the grime and grit Hot Rod sloshes through in the Heap.

Hot Rod rolls his optics. “Stop calling them projects already.” He dumps another part into the solvent and reaches for the wire brush. “And Megs is recovering. He hasn’t gotten any memories back though.”

“That you know of,” Hook corrects. He folds his arms, staring at Hot Rod without cycling his optics.

“I’m sure he’s genuine about it.” Hot Rod sloshes the solvent around as he scrubs. “Oh, but we did find out he can read and write Cybertronian Standard. He says he’ll teach me.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.” Hot Rod points his sudsy brush at Hook. “Mechs can be nice just for the sake of being nice, you know.”

Hook vents a rattle. “Botlet, you do know you’re the exception to the rule, right?” He leans against the haphazardly stacked crates, the weight of his gaze searing into Hot Rod’s left side. “I am merely suggesting you be careful. There are more Enforcers in Nyon lately, and that’s never good.”

“Why?” Hot Rod asks. He frowns, concentrating on his scrubbing. Come to think of it, he has noticed an uptick in the amount of patrols, but since he hasn’t done anything illegal lately, he hasn't paid it much mind.

Besides, with Slinger gone, a lot of the heat surrounding Hot Rod is gone, too. Slinger might have been part of some semi-terrorist group, but Hot Rod has never been.

“You need to actually pay attention to the newscasts,” Hook says with an aggrieved sigh. “There’ve been riots in both Tarn and Kaon. Mechs have been stirred up thanks to the writings of that Megatron fellow.”

Hot Rod rinses off an elbow joint and sets it on the rack to dry. “You might have a point. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Why do I bother?” Hook sighs, but it seems to be rhetorical. He straightens, flicking one hand through the air. “Ask Scavenger if you want to know more. He’s Megatron’s biggest fan. As for me, I want nothing to do with any revolution.”

Hot Rod tilts his head. “Why not?”

“Because it’s going to be squashed just like all the others, and I don’t have the luxury of wasting my time on things doomed to fail,” Hook says. He pats the crate of dirty parts pointedly. “You can leave once these are clean. Go take care of your pet.”

“He’s not my pet,” Hot Rod says, but it’s to Hook’s back as the medic sweeps out of the room and back to the main office.

Hypocrite.

Hook talks a good game about not wanting to waste his time on lost causes, but he’s the head medic in a clinic attached to a mine where he repairs workers doomed to offline in the field of duty. It’s the same repairs, day after day, year after year. Hook’s job here is the definition of a lost cause.

And, Hot Rod knows, it’s also something of a punishment, so maybe that’s why Hook isn’t interested in change. Maybe he’s already tried, and this is what it got him. Maybe he’s lucky he didn’t get sentenced with Empurata, too.

Hot Rod doesn’t know. Hook isn’t particularly forthcoming about his past. None of the brothers are. Hot Rod hasn’t even managed to get the ever loquacious Scavenger to give up the details.

Few mechs come to Nyon because they want to. They are either sparked here or exiled here, and once mechs arrive in Nyon, they don’t leave. The only way out is through the scrap pile.

Hot Rod’s not dumb, contrary to popular belief. He knows Cybertron isn’t much of a place for a mech to make a living unless they’re already at the top of the heap. Nyon isn’t the only city where mechs go to labor until they offline.

If there’s a mech out there preaching something that speaks to the downtrodden, well, Hot Rod isn’t surprised. This mysterious Megatron wouldn’t even be the first, though that he dares to do so after what happened to Dion, well, he’s a brave, brave mech.

A mech Hot Rod ought to listen to.

He finishes the crates of used parts, sets them out to dry, and peeks in on Hook, but he’s busy with a patient. Rather than asking for another task, Hot Rod heads into one of the back rooms, looking for Scavenger. Hopefully, the youngest brother will be in. Scav spends a lot of time in the Heap, looking for the next piece for his next great inspiration.

He’s an artist apparently though Hot Rod hasn’t seen a single example of his work. Scav is notoriously protective of his endeavors. He won’t even let his brothers see them. He finishes his projects, throws a dropcloth over the completed work, and moves on to the next one.

The door to his room is cracked so Hot Rod raps his knuckles along the frame as he peeks his head inside. “Scav? You in here?”

“In the back!”

Of course he is.

Hot Rod eases into the room and eases around the stacks and piles, some of which climb all the way to the ceiling. Scavenger is something of a hoarder, but at least he’s an organized one. He knows everything he has and where it has been stored.

“I can’t stay long. I have to get back and check on Megs,” Hot Rod says into the cluttered dim -- dim only because the towering piles block some of the overhead lighting. He flicks on his headlights for extra illumination. “I just have a question.”

“About what?” Scavenger shouts back, and Hot Rod takes a left at the next junk intersection, following the sound of his vocals.

Hot Rod scrunches his nasal ridge. “Megatron of Tarn. Hook says I need to pay attention to current events more.”

“And Megatron is absolutely current,” Scavenger says as he pops into view from behind a carefully stacked tower of crated circuit boards. “He’s the real deal, Roddy. It’s like he’s speaking right to our sparks.” He thumbs his chassis, the dull thunk of it buried in the excited, clattering twitch of his scoop-tail.

“Real deal?” Hot Rod echoes.

Scavenger flaps a hand at him. “Yeah, all those other revolutionaries, they were too much talk, too much patience, too much peace. Megatron though. He’s calling for action.”

“Action?” Hot Rod twists his jaw and folds his arms over his chassis. “You mean violence.”

“I mean… if we have to.” Scavenger shrugs and vanishes back behind his tower, gesturing for Hot Rod to follow. “They sure don’t seem to have a problem using violence on us, and all this peaceful lobbying and begging for someone to listen isn’t doing any good either.”

Well.

Hot Rod supposes Scavenger isn’t wrong. All of the petitions that’ve been signed and set before the Senate hasn’t done any of the average Cybertronian a bit of good. Every minor concession on the part of the Senate is always accompanied by some severe blowback as if to put the common mech back in their place, reminding them who’s in control.

Talking about the inequalities and hardships isn’t a big deal, but complain too loud and an Enforcer might come along to remind a mech it could always be worse. Hot Rod can’t watch a vidcast without some propaganda from the Senate interrupting every ten minutes or so to remind him how Cybertron prospers because of their leadership. Every cog is vital to the Cybertronian machine.

Blah, blah, blah.

So maybe. Maybe violence has its place.

“What’s Megatron think we can do about it then?” Hot Rod asks as he follows, and draws up short as a datapad is thrust in front of his face the moment he rounds the corner.

“Here. It’s copies of everything he’s published,” Scavenger says, giving the datapad a shake. “It’s not my personal copy so you can keep that one for a while.” He grins, waggling his orbital ridges. “That’s Crusher’s copy. He won’t mind.”

Hot Rod’s cheeks warm but he takes the datapad. Bonecrusher’s infatuation with Hot Rod is an open secret. Part of him wishes he could return the sentiment, because Bonecrusher is unexpectedly sweet to those he cares for. But it’s also not fair for Hot Rod to indulge in that care when he can’t return Bonecrusher’s feelings.

“I’ll take good care of it,” Hot Rod says.

“Good.” Scav turns back toward his work bench and hops into his stool. “Keep it hidden, too. An Enforcer catches you with that, and it’ll be the last we see of you. Just ask Dent.”

Hot Rod tucks the datapad away, in the safest compartment he has. “Wait. What happened to Dent?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him in two weeks.” Scavenger gusts a heavy vent and adjusts the lamp, pointing it at his newest project. “Not since he was reciting one of Megatron’s passages at the Oil Rig and a passing Enforcer overheard it.”

Hot Rod frowns, a familiar anger brewing in his tank. Dent’s a beggar, too injured to work in the mines anymore, so he wanders the streets, doing odd jobs for chits to spent at the Oil Rig while begging for energon scraps from anyone with pity still in their spark. He’s a good mech who got dealt a bad hand, like so many in Nyon.

Hot Rod’s offered him a spare berth on occasion, not that Dent takes him up on it. He’s got his pride and all that. Dent’s a good mech though. Works hard when given a job, and his biggest sin is occasionally grumbling about how unfair functioning can be.

“What do you think happened?” Hot Rod asks.

“I think we’re never going to see him again.” Scavenger digs a soldering iron out of his drawer and pushes it shut. “And it’s because of slag like that so many mechs are listening to Megatron. Including me.”

Hot Rod swallows a sigh. The world is what it is and sometimes, Hot Rod loathes that this is the world he has. A world where a mech can’t even mutter about how bad he has it without some representative of the Senate deciding he’s not grateful enough. That he’s too much trouble.

“I’ll give it a look,” Hot Rod says, patting the compartment. “And I’ll keep my mouth shut. You know I can, Scav.”

“I do.” Scavenger gives him a fond look and reaches back, grabbing Hot Rod’s shoulder to give it a squeeze. “We all kind of like you so be careful, Rodders. I’m getting tired of mourning my friends.”

“I’ll be careful,” Hot Rod promises.

Scavenger was right to warn him.

Hot Rod pays attention on his way home this time. He looks for the Senate’s Enforcers and counts them, noting that there are at least twice as many as usual. They no longer patrol with an air of bored indifference. They’re alert, peering intently at faces, stopping mechs on occasion to ask them questions Hot Rod is too far away to catch.

They’re looking for a specific someone or something, Hot Rod wagers. It was like this for a week before Slinger disappeared, and Hot Rod knows Slinger had something to do with the small group of revolutionaries gathering in Nyon. They’re all gone now, just like Slinger.

Hot Rod keeps his head down and uses the alleyways and shortcuts to avoid unnecessary scrutiny. His worst sin right now is the datapad in his subspace, but still, he knows good and well that what a mech is actually guilty of doesn't mean much to an Enforcer determined to prove how frightening he is.

Megs is awake and alert when Hot Rod arrives, and even without a face, there’s delight in the way he greets Hot Rod, looking up from the most recent novelpad he’s decided to consume. He’s going through them so fast, Hot Rod is worried he’ll run out. He might have to visit Divulge and see if he’s found any new ones lately.

“Romance or adventure?” Hot Rod asks as he preps their energon for the evening, indulging in some sweetness for himself, and some energizing supplements for Megs.

“Bit of both,” Megs replies with a quiet, raspy chuckle. “It’s also somewhat tawdry. I applaud your taste.”

Hot Rod leans over, peering into the room at Megs perched on the berth. “Tawdry?”

A single optic gleams back at him. “There is smut in this story, Hot Rod. It’s quite inventive as well. Some of these positions I have never heard of.”

Hot Rod chokes on a vent and pays dutiful attention to his mixing. “Well, it’s not like I knew,” he splutters. “I just picked them at random.”

“We are going to change that. It won’t be long before you’ll be able to choose novelpads by reading their titles and summaries,” Megs says. “We can continue your lessons tonight if you are not too tired.”

“I’ve got plenty of energy,” Hot Rod declares as he bounds into the room, carrying their energon. He hops up onto the berth next to Megs.

“Just like the two mechs in this story,” Megs says with a teasing hum.

Hot Rod’s cheeks flood with heat. “Good for them,” he says, proud he managed not to stammer. “Are you going to teach me with that story then?”

“No, I don’t think you’ll learn much. It’s too distracting.” Megs sets it aside and draws another from the pile -- far more dexterous today than he was yesterday, grabbing it without so much as a fumble. “This one’s a collection of myths and seems to have been written for the newly bloomed. It’s easier.”

“Myths?” Hot Rod perks as he takes the novelpad, flicking it on. “Does it have anything about the Knights of Cybertron on it?”

Megs leans over to peer at the screen, optic skimming the title page. “One of the stories does seem to include these Knights. Why?”

“Um. No reason.” Hot Rod’s face heats, and he ducks his head. “I don’t mind starting with easy either. I’ll do whatever it takes to learn.”

Megs gives him a long look before he leans back into his own space and pops his intake line into the energon pouch. “You’re very smart, Hot Rod. You’ll be reading in no time at all.”

Hot Rod’s spark flutters with warmth. “I hope so,” he says, and shuffles closer, so they can both see the screen, their fields touching -- Megs feeling content and at ease for once.

Is he like Dent? Is that why he was punished with Empurata? Or did Megs do something far worse? Surely his lack of memories hasn’t also wiped away a terrible nature. How can someone so kind and gentle have earned such a fate?

“I know so,” Megs says, and taps the screen with one claw. “Now point out all the glyphs you recognize. We’ll start from there.”

Hot Rod grins. “Yes, sir.”

~

The apartment is small and cramped and rusting. It’s a single room with a single berth and a single window looking out on the dark and dingy streets of Nyon. It also happens to perfectly suit Soundwave’s temporary needs.

He does not intend to be here for long. His Master has sent him for one purpose alone, which conveniently coincides with Soundwave’s personal motivations.

He peers into the dark, counting the shapes hurrying through the streets, the increased patrols of Enforcer duos, the mechs skulking in the shadows, the mines further out, belching their smoke and ash into the air. Nyon is not the worst city Soundwave has visited, but it’s crawling to the top of the list.

“They’re going to get caught at this rate.”

Soundwave inclines his head to acknowledge Ravage, melting out of the shadows to his right. “Neither skilled in subterfuge.”

“No. Which is going to make our job even more difficult.” Ravage sits on his haunches, audials twitching. “If only he had his memory, he would understand the danger he’s in.”

Soundwave makes a non-committal noise.

“They were sloppy,” Ravage says. “Which works both for and against us.”

“Yes,” Soundwave says. He glances out the window, but nothing has changed. “Deliver the items.”

Ravage flicks his tail. “Are you sure? It could backfire.”

“Time short.” Soundwave dims his visor and extends his senses, reading the tension rising in the air, the reek of fear and exhaustion, the miasma of hate.

“Yes, and how long can we keep up this ruse before he realizes we aren’t doing his bidding anymore?”

Soundwave pulls back into his frame, shaking off the riot of darkness, centering himself. “As long as it takes.” He pulls the screen over the window, preventing anyone from peering in at them. “Megatron important.”

“There are other revolutionaries.”

Soundwave gives Ravage a sharp look. “Megatron important.”

Ravage sighs. “Yes, yes. So you’ve said.” He rises and winds around Soundwave’s feet, coiling their fields and leeching away some of the clinging external emotions. “Just so you know, I’ve found three potentials already. If we need a body, I mean. There are plenty of miners to spare around here.”

“Good.”

Megatron is more than a revolutionary. He is more than a name and a face and words to stoke the fire of a rebellion. Megatron represents a future which will benefit all of Cybertron. Yes, there are other revolutionaries, but none so charismatic as Megatron. None who will unite the disparate rebellious groups into a single, determined force.

So yes. Soundwave will kill a no-name miner and use their frame to throw off the Senate’s Enforcers if he must. He has done it before. He will do it again.

Cybertron must be reborn.

“I’ve flagged them for your review,” Ravage says, and with one last wind around Soundwave’s ankles, pads silently toward the door. “I will make the delivery, and keep an optic on the grounder. You know where to find me.”

“Caution,” Soundwave says, but Ravage is already gone, though he’s quite sure the warning was heard. He does not have to worry, however.

No one has ever caught Ravage, and Soundwave doubts there is anyone with such skills capable of doing so in Nyon. For one, there are none who know to look for him, and Hot Rod and his charge certainly don’t know enough to be wary either.

It is crucial that they receive the items in Ravage’s possession. Megatron’s recovery requires those supplements, the medical grade energon, and the recently refurbished fuel pump, of which Hot Rod has been scouring the Heap to find, with little success. There are too many miners in Nyon in need of parts for something to suit Megatron to be easily discovered.

Finding his way into Hook’s medical record system had been laughably easy. There is apparently no such thing as patient privacy.

A ping captures Soundwave’s attention. He returns to the window, disengaging the lock and pushing it open, letting in the tepid, ash-choked air, and the clattering noise of the mechs scurrying about below. He shutters his vents to block the odor and steps back as Laserbeak soars inside a moment later, chirping her greetings.

Soundwave closes the window behind her as she flits around the room. He pops his dock for her to return, and she nestles in, uplinking to him immediately and downloading the results of the last half-day of surveillance she’s acquired.

“Stinks here,” she transmits to him. “Don’t like it. My vents are clogged.”

“Maintenance later.” Soundwave moves to his portable console and starts to work, first on the data Ravage had delivered via wireless uplink. He’ll attend to Laserbeak’s reconnaissance after.

“With a bath?” Laserbeak asks, her transmission canting toward hopeful.

“Perhaps. Recharge now.”

Laserbeak grumbles a chirp, but settles down into the dock, quietly unspooling the day’s footage. If there is anything or anyone else hidden in Nyon, Soundwave will find it. If there is a threat to Megatron’s recovery, Soundwave will destroy it.

For Cybertron’s future, there is nothing Soundwave won’t do.

***