#backgroundseeker

[adashofmanuka-blog]

I love you

“Wait, that’s supposed to come later in poems, isn’t it?”

Acidstorm

“No I can’t start it like that either…”

Like Lord Megatron’s presence You draw the attention

“Should I mention Lord Megatron? Of course I should, it’s only logical I’d compare him to someone so important.”

Like the distant stars we orbit My thoughts centre on you

“Hmmm… Acceptable? Not acceptable…?”

My intelligence and logic Does not tell me how These ‘poems’ are properly done But I want to tell you I love you And I’m trying very hard To say it And actually gather the composure To show it

Affectionately, Shockwave

“No no, recycle this-”

[adashofmanuka-blog]

Being a scientist for the Decepticon kingdom could be immensely tedious. For a start, not only were you asked to make ridiculous and absolutely impossible things happen, but when it was your leader asking you had to creatively tell him no without it sounding like you were. You arranged it so the project slipped from his mind and was forgotten so you could focus on possible and infinitely more suitable things. For instance, you could check on the growth of the kelp. And not so subtly spy on a certain, adorable green mermech with wide, pretty eyes. He knew he was utterly hopeless, staring at him every time he saw him, but he retreated to the age old excuse of ‘I can’t help it’. He loved watching him move about, and listening to him laugh. And he kept trying to make suitable gifts to open a courtship, but inevitably he always wound up scrapping them for being unworthy. He had a large pile of disappointments. And yet he kept trying. Perhaps hammerheads were truly as stubborn as Starscream always complained. One of these days he would actually swim close to Acidstorm. One of these days he would actually speak to him. One of these days he would actually have a gift to give him… Someday. In his head, pale visions danced, of holding Acidstorm close and just tucking the smaller mermech against himself to simply sleep, of Acidstorm potentially carrying a bellyful of little ones, of kissing Acidstorm’s darling cheeks… As the mermech in question turned his head, Shockwave ducked his own out of sight, probably looking like a lovesick adolescent spying on their crush.

[adashofmanuka-blog]

If there was one universal thing that could both motivate and hold people back, it was fear. He recalled being aided or crippled by it in the days before Empurata had been performed on him, and had found the absence of it holding him back to be refreshing. The absence of anything inspiring fear in him as a motivator was also refreshing. Past friendships were left behind, and with a few exceptions so were most of his frivolous possessions. Those exceptions were a datapad of nursery rhymes and fairytales, a datapad with a collection of photos of Cybertron before and during the Golden Age, two holo cubes (one that projected a model of Praxus, one that projected a model of Vos with tiny fliers moving around) that could fill up a room or fit neatly in one's palm... And the last item, perhaps the most precious, was a music box. It had a tiny holo cube of its own, and various frame types would dance above the box as it played whatever music went with the style of dance. You could change the dance style to whatever you wanted to see and hear. It was a good thing to own, and since acquiring an almost identical one (it had a few more modern dances and pieces of music), he had been planning to gift the newer music box to Acidstorm along with the holo cube of Vos. This was where the fear came in, because Acidstorm was missing. No matter how many drones he sent searching or how much he increased the patrols and stretched the length of them, no sign of his seeker was seen. He himself even left the tower, pretending not to have seen the message from Lord Megatron that ordered him to stay put. Fear drove him tirelessly across Cybertron's mostly dead surface, searching, searching... When Acidstorm was found, he was in very, very bad condition. He had been shot down on patrol, and the crash had damaged his communications array, among other things. As Shockwave had the tower's only medic slam the medbay door in his face, he stared at the wall of purple. Fear was a great motivator. Turning on his heel, he went to request the presence of the Constructicons. If they couldn't come, he would risk Megatron's wrath and try to enlist Ratchet's help. Acidstorm's life was worth more than the war, even if the seeker did not yet know of his feelings. And then, perhaps, a shower, so that he would be presentable once Acidstorm woke. He steadfastly ignored the echoing 'if'.

[adashofmanuka-blog]

The ubiquitous air of activity - whether it be minor or major - found in Shockwave's lab, control room, and personal quarters was completely absent in his office. A little-used space with dust in the air and every surface - including the towering, lonely stack of reports. He had already dealt with the digital copies, but these physical ones dated a good few vorns, years, at least. All reports from Earth had started using the local units of time, and Shockwave would be lying if he said that that new habit did not frustrate him. It had taken him awhile to work out that one year wasn't even a tenth of a vorn. He might have had an impassioned argument about 'report lingo' with Starscream. He wasn't confirming anything. His somewhat petty revenge over the 'report lingo' continuing unaltered involved leaving the physical reports as they were; woefully abandoned. This completely unnoticed revenge was now in the way of his plans. If one wanted to even just merely fantasize about spreading a seeker out over their desk and possibly leaving paint transfers on green paint, one needed to have a clean desk. And possibly gadgets to protect more delicate items and keep them from breaking if he swept his arm grandly to clear the space. Would Acidstorm like that? he wondered, pausing in his game of makeshift jenga with the datapads. Would Acidstorm be the sort to enjoy being laid down and taken sweetly on top of a desk? Mournfully, he considered the fact that his office was not the least bit romantic in terms of atmosphere (it was an office, after all), and that he'd only really got the seeker as an assistant. That meant they worked together. That did not mean Acidstorm would be interested in makeshift, awkward snogging. One didn't even dare imagine the seeker's possible reaction to Shockwave fantasizing about interfacing with him. Best to keep that under wraps. When his office was clean, and he found he had no ideas for improving the atmosphere, he called Soundwave. Buzzsaw and Laserbeak choked, falling out of sight, and Ravage made a sound like an organic feline attempting to cough up a ball of fur. Sounding rather pained, Soundwave informed him that he would get back to him later with ideas about giving his office a romantic atmosphere. And really, a romantic atmosphere was only 'necessary' because threads of his old self had woven into the new and insisted that even in fantasies the atmosphere must always be romantic, and Acidstorm must always be given whatever he wanted and spoiled horrendously. There also needed to be lots of hand holding. Because that was important. --- Before Soundwave's vague 'later' arrived, a datapad did. On it was loaded a book of pick up lines. On the back was scribbled 'from Rumble and Frenzy. If you can't find the ball bearings to say any of this stuff while sober, get yourself smashed and say it to him while drunk.' He didn't know of he should be amused or irritated.

[adashofmanuka-blog]

Fickle was what they had called him to try and undermine him whenever they didn't like what he was saying. A word the public had taken to spark. If they hadn't, perhaps he would have been the one gathering support, and Megatron might have come to him. Would they have become the Decepticons they were now? It is irrelevant, but he cannot help but wonder, when he slips from the realm of consciousness and what parts of his brain module and processors are original assault him with screaming in the forms of memories; memories of being taken to the New Institute and thinking he could probably survive the experience, only to suffer as he was immobilized, laid open in mind and body, taken apart and violated slowly while he could only watch and desperately try to escape this cruelly inventive prison they were trapping him in. Depth perception had never been so important as when they'd started tugging out his optics one at a time, a mouth had never been so important until he was stuck knowing the last thing he'd taste with it would be the blood he was choking on. His delicate, musician hands had never been more keenly appreciated than when they installed the new, clunky one, and a cannon. He was not even allowed to have two hands. He went numb after a point, even though his vocalizer was still trying to release screams. He only really started trying to struggle again when the mnemosurgeons deployed their needles, their sadistic pleasure fully observable in their electromagnetic fields as they approached to lock little bits and pieces of him in his subconscious, and tear away the rest to replace it with something new and cold that didn't know how to properly feel. A personal hell, a nightmare... One he would have to endure the rest of his life. In the Decepticon army, none could call him fickle. If anything, he was predictable. Intimidating. Alarming. He was cold, and remained willingly in logic's iron grip, her kiss making him impossibly chillier to everyone except Soundwave and Lord Megatron. Most of the troops did not bother with logic most of the time, which was part of why the purple scientist was so frightening for them. Would he see killing them as a logical course of action? Would anyone even stop him? And now, after weathering the ages and surviving a couple million years of war, stuck on Cybertron and largely having cat fights with Elita-One's femmes, he looked back over some of his past actions, and saw no reason for them. They were logical, but that did not mean they were good or right. The only explanation he could state with any degree of certainty was that he had been healing. During millions of years of warfare, his head was trying to heal itself; rewrite the lost things, pull up the buried things. His feelings on this were split. Detached joy at this miraculous healing and detached, vague fear over losing what new personality he had grown into made for confusing sessions of dedicated thought. The fear was largely due to one seeker. One precious, seemingly insignificant seeker that he had built. A seeker who's life he had spared. A seeker who smiled at him, whether or not he was looking. A seeker who was always punctual. He'd felt something for Acidstorm, as he'd built him, but he could not place what it was and thus label it for convenient dismissal. He eventually ignored it, reluctantly labeling it 'The Feeling'. He'd made a mind map about the seeker before he realized what he was doing. Was he truly observing the seeker enough to know what types of energon he favoured out of the candies Shockwave left conveniently laying around by the Rainmakers' quarters? Was he watching enough to know that he'd have to drag Hook up to Cybertron to check Acidstorm and see what needed to be replaced to fix the slight limp the seeker probably hadn't noticed? And most importantly, why was he watching so much when he still didn't know how to describe and label his feelings for the green mech? The answers were, irritatingly, not forthcoming. Or perhaps he knew, yet sought to deny them? Regardless, they were doubtlessly linked to The Feeling. And The Feeling just kept getting stronger every time he interacted with Acidstorm. He would easily describe the seeker as charming, intelligent, and fascinating. But nobody else seemed to share his opinion, so he was left to wonder and worry over whether or not The Feeling might be severely effecting how he saw people. But no, it was only Acidstorm. After much thought, he finally admitted to himself that he needed a confidant and someone to ask for advice. Fortunately, he knew just who would be willing to help him. Unfortunately, his brats had been eavesdropping, and they burst into view with incredibly lewd suggestions for how he might discover what The Feeling was. In the end, he decided to do the 'boring' option; wait for an opportunity. An opportunity that ended up coming far sooner than he expected, in the form of an annoyance - his lab drones being reprogrammed.

[adashofmanuka-blog]

((Shockwave might not know what these 'tits' or 'boobs' are that the troops speak of, but is he going to let this stop him from telling Acidstorm that he's got nice ones? The answer is 'no'.))

[tea-and-sortie]

"That's not how you use it," said Sortie as he held out his hand in silent request for the tool.

[adashofmanuka-blog]

(( backgroundseeker)) Whoever had reprogrammed his drones was going to pay. And they were going to regret ever getting themselves assigned to Cybertron. His lab was a complete mess, the blasted shells of a few drones laying on the floor, close to where they'd been set to ram into extremely sensitive equipment and experiments that had the potential to blow up a good chunk of the tower. As he aimed and shot the last one, easily suppressing a flare of annoyance, he considered the possibility that this was a poorly planned assassination attempt, then brushed it off. Cleaning up was more important, really. The only problem was that it would take him far too long to do it, one-handed as he was. He was set to check in with Lord Megatron today. If the mess was not cleaned up by then, he'd be laughed at by Starscream, and Lord Megatron might be disappointed. That was a distinctly distressing thought. So he did the only logical thing he could have done. He commed one of the calmest and least likely to talk back individuals in the tower. Who he also happened to have something of a fondness for. Or as the cassettes put it, a crush. Which was completely impossible, not to mention ridiculous. Everyone had favourites. ::Acidstorm, report to my lab immediately.::