Endling #1: The Shattered and the Prime 1/??
Maccadam’s.
Open round the cycle, sunlit, moonlit, it doesn't matter. The energon cafe never closes. It's clean pulsating neon lights, buzz of electricity, the soft pouring of energon, the soft quiet music...it's a haven to those who have fallen through the cracks of society and reality both.
A multi-versal nexus of outcasts.
A home for the lost.
Peace for those who have never known it.
Soundwave included.
He sits at his usual table, the hazard paint around it is kept fresh and bright. The lighting over his table is dim for his sensitive optics.
His optics glow toxic-blue through his clear face-mask as he leers at those who veer too close, talk too loud, or brush even an inch too close.
His corner is dark, except for the fuck-off glow of his azure biolights and the warning signs of his lunar-white plating.
Thick claws edge around his energon cube and his antennae prick as he observes the drifting crowds around him.
Such a far cry from the dead empty Cybertron of his own universe.
Soundwave sips at his energon, as one optic records the Honkbiner flock at one table. A pile of scraplets gnawing on some scrap metal at another, and some sharkticons crack open energon crystals with their fangs. Just the usual normal crowd.
Oh fucking Primus.
Why use Cybertronian swears when Terran terms are so much stronger?
A group of Autobots mill around the entrance.
Out of the corner of his upper left optic, behind his now -opaque blank white visor, Soundwave sees Maccadam nod at him in warning.
Another fucking Optimus Prime is now approaching his table.
//
Another night. Another Prime sent out to the dumpster. Another pile of shanix in Maccadam's hands as he won this night's bets on how long it took Soundwave to bridge that Prime out.
0.125 seconds, a new record.
Soundwave's mandibles click in amusement as he watches the live security feed over the alley dumpster. Two of the honkbiners are now pecking the store brand Optimus Prime.
His mandibles pierce open the energon-cube and Soundwave then jabs a bendy-staw into the warm drink.
Claws scrabble at the cheap tile near him.
His optics narrow and his mild amusement is starting to run thin.
Primus.
His stool squeaks as he swivels and sees -
a child. a sparkling.
The little one has big gold optics, and small wings. A honkbiner gosling.
Nir chain-saw wing teeth haven't even come in yet.
The gosling tilts nir helm at him. "Why do you hate Optimus Prime? I thought he was good."
Soundwave looks down.
Scrap. The child is outside his hazard paint, some honkbiners snicker at him realizing this.
Not that he would yeet a little one without good cause.
He ex-vents and all four of his hands rub at his helm.
He signs, his claws slowly make the words so the little one can understand and the translation of his words fly across his face visor, in-case the sparkling is ignorant of the language of the mute
<It's a long story.>
//to be continued
