do you think his face is so kind so soft it does not macth the life he was forced into it, he has the face of a caretaker the face of a loving mother who is so tired of figthing so much. at first he only puts it on fro his batles to protect himself and
The mask is protection—but not for the brutal world of gladiatorial arenas, but to the death matches that allow no emotion except anger.
And Soundwave has never been good at only anger.
He weeps.
Quietly. Constantly. Behind optics that refuse to harden the way the crowd demands. He looks at his victims with sorrow that lingers too long, too visible, too human for a place like this.
They call him weak. Soft. A waste of a frame.
He makes barely any revenue.
No one wants a crying mech in the pits, while it kills.
Megatronus—friend, caretaker of his cassettes between matches, the only one who ever bothers to sit beside him afterward without judging, tells him he has to improve. Not because he wants Soundwave to become cruel… but because he knows what the arena does to those who don’t adapt.
“You’re good,” Megatronus says, quietly. “You’ve never lost.”
A pause.
“That’s why you’ll die, they will eat you alive if they could”
Kind souls do not survive in the arena.
So they build the mask.
At first it is only a tool. A way to keep his face concealed thru the matches, to make sanix and keep the cassettes fed, to make sure they are not sold off, dismantled, or worse. His popularity rises the moment he no longer shows what he feels. The crowd prefers silence over sorrow. They prefer violence over mercy.
Slowly, the mask stops being something he wears.
It becomes a performance of deliberate silences and walking in shadows.
A way to hide the pain and sorrow that plagues his frame after each fight.
And he learns to perform it so well that even Megatronus stops looking at him like he is fragile.
Then Megatronus comes to him with a dream.
A future beyond the pits. Beyond the Senate. Beyond the cruelty that decides which sparks deserve to starve and which are allowed to burn bright.
A life where Soundwave’s cassettes—his children—would not have to fight for scraps or sleep on cold metal floors.
Soft berth. Warm energon. A safety that does not disappear when credits run out.
Soundwave believes him, with the desperation of a mech who has been brought to edge too many times.
Because no one has ever spoken of survival like something that could also be gentle.
He starts to follow him.
Support him.
Hopeful and carefully, because it feels like handling broken glass and he is afraid it might still cut him.
The mask begins to come off only in rare places. Quiet, hidden spaces. The calm archives with Orion and Megatronus after extraneous days. The bar at night with Jazz, where music drowns out the noise of the pits. Moments where he almost feels like a mech who could exist without armor.
It feels… like breathing.
Like maybe the world is not only built to hurt him.
Then everything explodes.
Orion Pax receives the Matrix instead of Megatronus.
And the world does not shift—it breaks beyond repair.
The revolution becomes fire.
The Senate falls by their hands.
The only time Soundwave smiled after the killing.
The streets become warzones. Names become weapons. Ideals become war manifesto .
There is no more caretaker Soundwave.
Only the silent terror of the pits surviving inside a mech who no longer has time to be anything else but.
Megatron’s most loyal supporter.
At night, the mask still comes off.
Because he needs air.
But even the air still tastes the same—metallic, burnt, heavy with spilled energon and the echoes of what they used to be. Still, he clings to it. To the only thing that remains consistent: his cassettes, curled close to his spark like they always have been.
Like they always will be.
Even if everything else disappears.
The revolution becomes war replacing everything that came before it.
No Senate. No reform. No future shaped by hope.
Only war generals.
Only broken sparks learning to survive by becoming something Soundwave has only seen in the pitts and Cybetrons most broken parts.
It sickens him, because the world changes but Soundwave does not, he just wears a mask that threatens to fuse to his face.
One cycle, he goes to Megatron’s chamber at night.
“Megatron… I think we could negotiate a peace treaty with Orion Pax. He is a sound mech. He stood by ou—”
The energon cube hits the wall before he finishes.
It shatters violently, like the peace they once had.
Liquid spills down expensive carpeting like something alive bleeding out.
“Do not say that fool’s name,” Megatron snaps. “Optimus killed Orion. He knows nothing about us. About what we have endured.”
His voice cracks—not outwardly, but Soundwave hears it anyway.
“As long as he is a Prime… he is one of them.”
Silence.
Soundwave steps forward anyway.
“Megatron… old friend…”
His fingers go to the mask.
A pause that feels like falling, like walking into live fire.
Then he removes it.
The room does not change, Megatron keeps looking at him the same—but it feels more fragile.
“Look at me,” Soundwave says softly. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that again.”
His optics are gold.
Not sharp. Not cold.
Just tired, sorrowful.
Full of something that never stopped being care, even when everything else turned into hate and pain.
“Tell me you didn’t love him,” he whispers. “Tell me you didn’t let your ego decide what he became after he was gone.”
Megatron freezes.
For a moment, there is no conqueror, no lord in the room.
Only Megatronus.
Only someone who remembers, someone who feels to much.
Soundwave doesn’t look away.
“Please.”
It´s a plea, because with Megatron with his old friend Soundwave has always shed the mask
The air changes, fractures.
A quiet collapse held together by loyalty that should not have survived this long.
Megatron’s expression hardens slowly like when the crowd had demanded a kill in a non lethal match but you still had to do so, like putting armor back on before the wound can be seen.
“Cover that face, Soundwave.”
The words are sharper than any sword they´ve used. Defensive.
Final.
“No Decepticon of mine will be caught looking at his victims with sorrow.”
His optics glow with cold authority.
But Soundwave has already seen what is underneath.
And that is what hurts the most.
________________________
This started out as a short headcanon, and now I’m sitting here with a oneshot that had me holding back tears because I’m apparently incapable of writing soft comfort.
Hope you enjoy it and suffer as much as I did writing it.
You can read this as part of the I LOVED AND I LOVED AND I LOST YOU fanfic universe. A fanfic where Optimus asks Megatron to stop the war again and again to no abail.
The first time Optimus asked for a ceasefire and peace, the war hadn't even started, and he wasn't even aware that anyone had asked for it.
Or: All the times Optimus asked, pleaded, BEGGED for a ceasefire, for the conflict and war to end. Lots of angst.
Fleurie - Hurts Like Hell (title comes from here)
Within Temptation - What Have You Done
// NEXT >
First time
The first time Optimus Prime asked for a ceasefire and peace, the war hadn't even begun. He wasn't even aware that he had asked for it.
Optimus Prime, the last of the Prime , kept the voices in his head whispering like a haunting mantra. He couldn't believe it— a Prime, he an archivist filled with to much energy, who had dared to seek peace. Outside the council chambers, Orion turned to Megatronus, his dear friend. "Megatronus," he whispered, voice trembling with hope, "we've gotten the council's approval." He spoke of friendship, but his optics shone with love and adoration, longing for a touch, a connection, something bigger than duty. He yearned for the other mech's embrace, for his love.
They were no longer of different size classes. Orion gently rested his servos on Megatronus's shoulders, reveling in the closeness, the ability to look into those deep, beutiful conflicted optics without straining his neck. "We can start changing things peacefully. All we wanted..."
"All we wanted! All YOU wanted! they never listened to my version of the things to the despair of my mecha! just you and your mid-high cast frame!!”" Megatronus's face twisted into a snarl, fangs bared in fury. Orion had never seen him this angry not even in the arena. Megatronus’s shoulders tensed sharply as he pushed Orion away, his voice dripping with contempt and betrayal.
"Megatronus, please! We can make this work. The title of Prime is nothing but a tool for power in the senate. Please, friend. We will fix the despair of your mecha. Of all mecha. Please." Desperation seeped into Orion’s voice; his frame trembled with fear. Was this not what they fought for? To be heard, to bring awareness of Cybertron decaying state.
Megatronus dislodged Orion’s servos with a sharp shrug and took a step back. His golden optics flickering in rage. "I’m not your friend. Prime." The word was spat like venom, each syllable a dagger. As if speaking it disgusted Megatronus to his core.
Orion, shattered, he shook in despair. "It’s me, Orion. The Matrix hasn’t changed anything. Megatronus..." (Love) His voice broke “Everything will continue as planned. We have more power than ever. Your voice will be heard, I will make sure of it."
"That’s the problem, Prime," Megatronus hissed, voice cold and hard. "It’s you and your high position in society. I was blind to think you could ever understand the hardship of my mecha. You, who has never starved, who has never fought just to survive. You are all the same. That’s why they gave you the Matrix, someone they could manipulate." His gaze was filled with pure hatred and disgust. Orion’s spark ached deep with unbearable pain.
"I’ll give you the Matrix," Orion whispered desperately. "I’ll rip it from my spark. what must I do for you to believe me? Anything. I’ll do anything. I want to protect your mecha, Cybertron. Please." His whole frame trembled as he took a step closer, clutching Megatronus’s chassis leg struts weak.
Megatronus pushed him away, unapologetic if his claws tore into Orion’s frame. "Don’t ever call me Megatronus or ‘friend’, ever again. I am Megatron, leader of the Decepticons. And I will never be deceived again." His golden optics turned red as he turned sharply, walking away as if proud of his rejection, leaving Orion on the floor trembling, broken.
After that day, Megatronus never looked back. That night, in a high tower apartment, Optimus Prime wept the loss of a friend mourning what could have been. It was the only time Optimus Prime cried. The same night, his love left him, and Orion died.
// NEXT >
Big thank you to my beta readers @lykostheriumfor and @ghiramaita for giving me the idea to write this and the songs.
The first time Optimus asked for a ceasefire and peace, the war hadn't even started, and he wasn't even aware that anyone had asked for it.
Or: All the times Optimus asked, pleaded, BEGGED for a ceasefire, for the conflict and war to end. Lots of angst.
< PREVIUS //
The second time it was a mere week later.
Optimus had been hearing about the escalating conflict in all of Cybertron’s western regions, Vos had cut off all trading operations, Tarn and Kaon had ceased their mining activities. All miners had been liberated by the gladiators of Kaon; they had risen against their handlers and nobles who bet on the downfall of the gladiators. It had been a thing of beauty to watch them revolt. They did it so precisely and perfectly Megatron’s ability to rally everyone with his voice and charisma, combined with Soundwave’s wits and abilities, it had been perfect.
Optimus couldn’t even be mad about the shed energon; a shame mecha had to die, but every time someone called on the Prime to stop it, Optimus had made excuses anything to give Megatron the freedom and venting he needed. After the council meeting, Optimus’s spark still ached when he thought about it. And now Megatron waited for him in Iacon’s most important plaza, waiting for the Prime.
Optimus made his way to the broken plaza. Several enforcers had tried to disarm the rioting miners and gladiators. It had been an energon bath, anyone in their path torn to shreds, civilian or not, and Optimus would not stand for the destruction of those who were innocent. The handlers in the gladiatorial pits had been an exception.
Megatron stood there in the middle of the plaza, in front of his battalion of mismatched, angry warriors painted in red and purple swirls and words of victory, like the gladiators who went to the arena to kill, to win. By his side stood Soundwave imposing as ever in his silence and Starscream, the wing lord of Vos. Their aura was terrifying, a barely controlled mob of angry scraplets waiting to be unleashed. In comparison, Optimus felt rather inadequate. He had no army, no symbols that spoke of power. Several primal guards stood before him, all in their white and gold shining plating. Somehow, they didn’t look as powerful or intimidating as Megatron’s fighters. He knew somewhere hidden was Jazz, gathering information from the corners.
“At ease, soldiers,” Optimus said. He walked until he was just a few body lengths from Megatron. The primal guards poised for battle behind him. Megatron raised one of his cervo, signaling his warriors to stay put, as he took two steps closer to the Prime.
“Surrender, Prime, and we will have mercy on those in the high towers,” Megatron said.
“Megatron, I’m afraid that is not possible. I will not stand for any possible harm to those who are innocent. But we can talk about a better future, where we all work together. No more gladiatorial pits. Mining will become a respected job with proper wages. The high cast will be abolished,” Optimus said, his tone neutral but hopeful. Maybe now they could go back to how things were before, perhaps even better, since they would all be equal now.
There was a gasp, and the rapid approaching steps of a small mech painted yellow, with a polish that only a high cast mech could afford, came standing to the right of Optimus.
“You want to give those barbarians such luxuries? They aren’t capable of proper interaction. They are nothing but brutes, they can’t hold any other job in this society besides mining and killing each other. There is no greater entertainment,” the small mech sneered. Optimus turned to him in disbelief, utterly baffled by the other’s ignorance and sheer stupidity.
“They are mechs of Cybertron. They deserve to be free. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. No one should ever die to amuse you or anyone else. They are the ones providing the fuel you consume every cycle. They must have the same rights as you,” Optimus said sternly, chastising the yellow mech.
“You see how things are, Prime. We don’t matter to them. We are nothing but machines, dirt beneath their pedes,” Megatron said contemptuously. “You said you’d make your voice heard, Prime. I don’t see that happening. You’re nothing but their puppet.” Megatron raised his arm, his fusion cannon pointed at the high cast mech.
“Megatron, please. He will be punished for this, but there is no need for more energon to be shed. I am Prime, Primus’s envasator. By my law, all this can be fixed,” Optimus said, turning around to face Iacon. He had no desire to pull the ‘I am Prime’ card, but if it could fix this, so be it. “Iacon, we shall become kinder to our mecha. The gladiatorial pits will be destroyed and replaced with medical facilities. Miners’ shifts will be of eight groons like anyone else, and wages will be equal to ours. We are all the same!” He looked at Megatron, hope shining in his optics, trusting that this could fix the corrupted system.
“You can’t no senator will ever-” Megatron shot the small mech. “Listen to me! They will never change. Prime was chosen by the Senate; he is one of them. THEY WILL NOT GIVE US ANYTHING, SO WE WILL TAKE IT OURSELVES!!!” Megatron roared, firing into the air, his mecha roaring in agreement, fists raised.
“Surrender now, Prime. This is the last time I will show mercy,” Megatron declared.
“Megatron, I swear on my spark and on the Thirteen, I will make sure Cybertron is united in freedom, where all frames are equal,” Optimus knelt beside the fallen mech.
“They have to die. They are nothing but barbarians,” the small mech fired a small hidden gun at Megatron. It hit the gladiator’s shoulder, barely denting him. Optimus was stunned at the small mech’s audacity. He quickly took the gun from the mech’s servos. Megatron stepped closer, walking calmly, making him all the more menacing.
“I tried to be kind, to give you another chance, for the old times….. for Orion. But I will not stand for this disrespect,” Megatron swung his arm, blade glinting in the air, aiming to strike the high cast mech. It happened in the blink of an optic. Optimus lunged to protect the smaller mech. Megatron’s blade severed the yellow mech’s neck; the blade came up in a perfect arch, cutting through. Optimus’s faceplate was sliced; blue energon stained the plaza.
Megatron’s optics were impassive, no emotion, just a deep stoicism. In his decorated gray plating, he looked like the messenger of death.
“Next time we see each other, Prime, I will kill you.” he said coldly.
Big thank you to my beta readers @lykostheriumfor and @ghiramaita for giving me the idea to write this.
Agony, deep brutal agony was all Optimus could feel, kneeling on the floor of the plaza, dead body by his side, energon dripping from his split dermas. Watching Megatron retreat, not looking back, neither of his warriors did. It hurt, and not just his dermas; everything hurt, deep and agonizing. The primal guards knelt by his side. “Prime, Prime Sir, are you okay?” “Call the medic, he is bleeding.” “Prime Sir, you need to….” Optimus couldn’t really hear them; it was all white noise as he stared at Megatron’s back. No. It’s Megatron. Megatronus died with Orion Pax. He closed his optics, embracing the dark nothingness.
When he woke, Ratchet was by his side, face grim, tired. “Optimus, I a… I’m sorry for what happened.” Ratchet placed a servo on his shoulder. His optics stung with tears, but no liquid would come out of them. “Ratch—” Something pulled at his dermas; it hurt. He hissed in pain. He touched his dermas; there were ridges and stabbing pain when he touched. “Don’t touch it. Faceplate wounds are really tricky since it’s all protoform; you’ll have a scar for the rest of your functioning.” Ratchet’s optics were filled with sorrow; he handed him a mirror.
Mangled, disfigured was all he could think of. His torn faceplates, his dermas had been more than cut, ripped to the point his upper dentae showed; the scar reached a digit beneath his dermas and ended below his right optic. He dropped the mirror, incapable of staring at his own broken reflection.
“Optimus…” Ratchet let out a deep vent. “I’ll personally monitor the wound and make sure it heals properly. You are actually showing great progress; your nanites work quickly. For the healing process I recommend you wear a mask to help keep the area clean.” Ratchet showed him a simple gray mask that fitted his paint job exactly; it wouldn’t look out of place on a soldier on a leader. “You know I never trusted him, but I never expected he would go to war over the Matrix. With you in the Senate, it should have been enough.” Ratchet sat by his side, servo around his shoulders, EM field steady with reassurance. “I’m here, Optimus. You don’t have to be alone.”
The mask fit perfectly, secured by Ratchet. It made him a perfect leader, no emotion, incapable of crying—the Matrix made sure of that. It was the creation of Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots.
The war started two days later. Senate members were being killed and left in public spaces, serving as warnings. The petty riots were now fully organized battalions, hitting where it hurt: most memorials to the Thirteen and Primus were being defiled. Their regal postures were they branded their weapons, the ones that helped shape their world, now impaled civilians and innocent mecha. Optimus couldn’t even pause to mourn or give them their deserved rites to the Well of All Sparks, busy organizing his troops, organizing how to contain the Decepticons; his spark clenched every time.
The idea of having to search for mecha to help in the war effort sickened Optimus to his core: no one should fight, no one should have to die, and yet there they were. Polyhex was quick to ally themselves with Iacon and Optimus; they said what Megatron did was unthinkable. The amount of lost lives was something Polyhex would not stand for. Jazz, a Polyhexian, greeted the mecha of his city and presented Optimus with a white-and-red mecha, Red Alert. “You will never find better audials or optics out there, OP,” Jazz grinned that mischievous grin of his as he pushed the mecha forward. Optimus took the mech to Blaster’s station, where communications and vigilance took place. Without greeting Blaster, the mecha sat at a station and started rifling through cables and code.
Next was Praxus. Praxus was a city filled with Enforcers, righteous to the point it generated hate, but they worked in sync; their plans and organization impossible to beat, and all of it was because of Prowl Praxus’s head enforcer had a tac unit that could think of thousands of possibilities at once—nothing escaped him. He didn’t bother with niceties. He came and sat beside Optimus at his personal table and took data pad after data pad, showing Prime all the possibilities, all the ways the Decepticons would attack and all their unguarded frontiers.
Kup, a really old Cybertronian who fought in the ancient war against the Quintessons, presented himself in Optimus’s office, saying he would train all the young forces, teach them the actual ways of war, tactics that would work, how to fight dirty, desperate if push came to shove. To teach novices, civilians war.
Slowly Iacon armed itself, weapons engineered especially for war; the best scientists corralled into developing new ways to kill. It was terrible, and each time Optimus thought of what was happening, something in him broke. Iacon was no longer a city but a fortress. No more civilians; they were all soldiers. The few remaining civilians had fled the planet, hid themselves or made settlements.
Optimus hated how fast everything had evolved, how he was now in charge of a well-oiled machine of war, how he was the leader, in charge of choosing what to destroy, who to kill. He hated how no one questioned him; they took his side, picked up weapons, but did not question him. Elita-1 did. She was his oldest friend, the only one to yell at him to question him, to defy his orders, and he was thankful for it—so very grateful. It made him feel normal; it made him feel humane.
Prowl and Jazz became his right and left servos, respectively. Prowl offered insight, tactics, and contingency planning; Jazz, head of Special Operations, was in charge of information gathering and sabotaging operations, alongside his unique perspective earning him his title. But when Optimus doubted, when he was unsure, he turned to Elita and Ratchet, to an old friend whose ideas were clearer than his ever would be, and to a medic who vowed to heal everyone regardless of caste and affiliation: to the mecha unafraid of telling him the truth and his wrongdoings; to the mecha who saw more than Optimus Prime and could see Orion Pax, the pieces of himself he could no longer see.
