((Yes, I am back, and I have brought ye faithful readers yet another one-shot. This one deals with my interpretation of Shattered Glass Prime Soundwave, whom, like near everyone else, I've decided to make like Bumblebee, yet with a twist. It might seem a little rushed and disorganized, mi mal on that, I plan on possibly revising it later. Until then, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own any Transformers.))

Pain lanced through Soundwave's body like a concentrated electric blast, causing his arms and legs to tingle and his spark to pulse kinda funny. Rough, calloused hands carted him forward by his shoulders, not even bothering to support his lower half, which resulted in his knees screeching along the metal floor and grinding off ribbons of mesh in the process. His head was so heavy he couldn't even dream of lifting it, optics focused intently on every little pockmark in the floor's surface. Oh look, another drag mark over there, an Energon stain right there, shattered red optical glass right under him. His processor swam; where was he? What had he been doing before now?

'I'm going in; the ground team's gonna need cover if they're gonna pull this off.'

One of his legs hit a bump and his head was knocked up, revealing the platform high above and the body parts scattered all about. One body hung off the ledge over the abyss, one hand practically melted into the ground, broken optics holding nothing but horror. This place had long been an Autobot dumping ground, holding the remains of the Decepticons too damaged to repurpose. However, these corpses were too familiar. Soundwave felt a chill run down his spinal strut as he recognized faces of the ground team. Blitzwing, Wildrider, Lockdown, Mixmaster, Lugnut…he recited each name off in his head at a rapid pace and his processor cleared; he raised his head. A figure was illuminated at the top of the pillar, looking down. Another chill.

'Soundwave, what in the name of the Pit are you doing? Get back into formation, now!'

'Scream, listen, I can handle this. Me and my mini-mechs got it covered. You just tell the GT to hurry up and break that sucker. Oh, and if Megs asks, I was never here.'

"So," the baritone voice was thoughtful, almost, laced with an undertone of malice, "one survived." A thick hand forced his head up and blue light suddenly filled 'Wave's vision. The Prime's armor was splattered with cyan liquid, most of it dried. A long, curved sword was stabbed into the ground beside him, coated with Energon. "Ah, and if it isn't Megatronous' communications officer himself? Tell me, Soundwave, what brings such an important mech like you to a wasteland like this, hmm? Must be important business, wouldn't you say?" The Prime's face was dangerously close to his face. His optics held a certain detachment in them, a sociopathic light that was not unnoticed by the TIC. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me. If you did, I'm certain that your death will be much faster than your comrades."

Giant bodies clashing, blue light flaring from the top, five voices screaming as Superion's blade pierced Menasor's midsection and the gestalt broke apart into five separate parts, fleeing from the combiner's feet as scuttling antdroids. Motormaster cleaved in two, Drag Strip crushed, Wildrider dragged off for interrogation and Dead End blown to bits. Breakdown, huddling beneath rubble, sobbing as four bonds unraveled in a single stroke…

Soundwave paused, jaws working, before he reared his head back and spat. The glob of Energon struck Prime squarely in the cheek and trickled down to drip off his chin; blue optics darkened. The two Autotroopers drew back as Prime's fist met Soundwave's faceplates and the communications officer was thrown to the ground. A foot slammed into his midsection and then clamped down on his body, squeezing, crushing. An agonized cry escaped Soundwave's lips as he felt rib struts crack and his sparkbeat kick into overdrive.

"On his feet," the Prime ordered gruffly and the two 'Troopers wrenched him up. The sword's edge kissed Soundwave's neck cables gently, just enough to draw the faintest trickle, and he saw his terrified reflection in the polished blade. "I may not have my medic's…touch for torture, but I am perfectly capable of making you suffer, without allowing you the respite of death. Is that what you wish? Is that your goal?" No reply. "I require an answer, Soundwave, and you had best give me one. Where have the Decepticons taken the AllSpark?"

Soundwave smiled faintly. "Don't know," he shrugged. An instant later pain seized him as the sword, ever so delicately, sliced off a panel of his arm. The sword lowered and the Prime twisted his arm, the other hand clenching a wire.

"That is not an answer," the Prime whispered. "Where is the AllSpark?"

"Still don't know," Soundwave's shrug was fainter now. "Maybe they fired it off into space or something."

The Prime tore the wire out of his arm without a word and Soundwave shrieked as an electric current tore through him from the torn wire. He'd had those wires in him forever; each ran an electrical current throughout his entire body, producing a secondary EM field to overlap his natural one. He had never been sure how exactly—science was Starscream's field, not his—but he had a gut feeling that the wires were what gave him his natural telepathy powers. Something about reading the electrical currents of the processor or that slag. He seized up the minute a second one was grabbed.

"Didn't the ground team tell you?" Soundwave asked. "Or did you just kill them because they couldn't tell you anything?"

The second wire was pulled and this jolt was more powerful, one that had him sinking to his knees and near-babbling. He was pulled back to his feet and the Prime gave him an expectant look.

"I'm not telling you," he shook his head. "You'll have to do a lot better than that."

Then, with a simple stroke, Prime severed all of the wires in his arm.

Primus frag slag scrap glitch pile of slagsucking scrapping glitch of a mother of Primus! Dark thoughts, evil thoughts, hatred, a constant fight, constant fight, good, evil, evil, good, pain, so much pain, always pain, how much pain until he talks, I'm growing bored of this, he's quite stubbon, I'll make him talk, he'll talk to me, he has to talk, HE HAS TO, eventually, yes, eventually, I'm patient, I can wait, so much pain, I can wait.

Soundwave was quite aware that he remained screaming even after the reflexive mental shield was thrown up, and that Prime was cursing for him to get up, that he was rolling around on the floor and Lazerbeak was chirping frantically on his chest. He'd seen it, oh Primus, that entire mech's mind flashed through his for the briefest, the briefest, of seconds. All of his thoughts had torn through Soundwave's skull, as had the mindless directives of the Autotroopers, the fading, delirious thoughts of the near-dead on the pile below, Starscream's frantic, worried thoughts a half mechano-mile away…too much, way too much. He'd cut a control line that balanced out his psychic powers; he couldn't control it now. Not just one mind, all minds, met his. The pain of it faded as he controlled his ventilations and he was on his feet yet again.

"Never," Soundwave managed in a hoarse voice. "Never tell."

"You're quite the determined one, aren't you, little 'Con?" Anger laced the Prime's voice. "I see that threatening your own life won't force you to tell. So how about another's? Will that convince you?"

Another's? Did he have another Decepticon prisoner with him? The sudden, horrifying thought hit him a minute after the 'Troopers pinned him down and Lazerbeak was torn off his chest.

"NO!" he shouted, flailing. "Leave her alone; do whatever you want to me, but leave her the frag alone!"

"I see," Prime held the feeble Deployer by one wing, expression impassive. "You care for her, don't you? Enough to talk, I'm assuming. Unless you wish for harm to come to her."

"I don't know," Soundwave mumbled. When the Prime didn't reply, he repeated, "I don't know! They didn't tell me! I wasn't even supposed to be here; I came on an unauthorized mission! I really don't know." His optics flickered to Lazerbeak, whose single red optic met his own in a look of desperation. "Don't hurt her. Please, I'm begging you."

The Prime paused, clearly hesitant. Another hand moved up to grip Lazerbeak's other wing and, in a single motion, the Prime tore the Deployer in two, flinging her remains into the Pit below.

"NOOOO!" the scream tore itself from Soundwave's voicebox as the knife pierced into his spark, agonizing pain as another part of him was wrenched away, leaving a cold, aching void. The pain radiated through him and anger fueled him as he kicked the Troopers pinning him aside and leaped up, lunging for Prime with a feral snarl, all reason having left him. The extended tentacle was easily severed and the Prime grabbed him by the throat, pinning him in mid-air, not at all phased by the thin digits clawing at his arm.

"A shame you couldn't have been more help, or perhaps she might have lived," the Prime shook his head. "A pity, really. I have no need for you now. But, I suppose I can deliver a coup de grace, should Megatronous find your rusted corpse." He waved a hand and Soundwave was pinned yet again, a thin, serrated knife dancing in his vision.

He could not see; he had no optics. He could not hear; he had no audios. He could not speak; his voicebox was torn and broken. All he could do was sob and cling to the broken remains of his beloved Deployer, the rusted limbs and bodies and heads of the fallen digging into his body. Shudders wracked him, both of pain and of sorrow, and he screamed mentally at the tear in his spark, at the complete sensory deprivation. He was alone; he was all alone, with only the dead to comfort him. The dead, to drag him down to the Pit and leave him yet another rusted corpse in this sickening grave. His sweet, dear, dead Lazerbeak, no longer there to rest upon his chest, to lull him to sleep with soft humming and chirring, or to worry through their link when he plunged so carelessly into battle—because Soundwave was a tough mech, a mech on the edge, and tough mechs never cried, except they did, especially concerning the dead. It was all gone and soon he would be too, carrying nothing but the image of cold blue optics to the Well.

He could not hear, yet feet crunched on armor and voices shouted. He could not see, yet medics swarmed around him, tools drawn. He could not speak, yet he cried with relief when familiar, steady arms bore him up and took him away as he clung to their leader as the only anchor he had left in this twisting, shaking world.

He would never admit he ever cried. He would never admit that, behind his new visor, which served as his eyes and ears since the Prime had torn the others out, coolant welled in his vacant optical sockets and sobs slipped out of a ripped vocalizer that stuttered and stumbled over words and required audio clips when he couldn't quite make it.

He was happy, joyful, cheerful, bombastic, enthusiastic, reckless, ambitious, loud-mouthed, attention-craving, the life of the party. He wore more than just a physical mask.

And he never, ever cried.

((Quick note: the whole 'psychic powers' thing is basically just telepathy. I've seen numerous incarnations rumored to have telepathy and I decided to add it. The science behind it was entirely implausible, I'm sure, but I'm grasping at straws here, people, cut me some slack.

Anywho, R & R.))