FINALE: the duel

[allshock-notalk.livejournal.com]

WHO: Soundwave & Trowa Barton
WHERE: An abandoned opera house.
WHEN: 3:00 PM
WARNINGS: Violence. Angst. More violence. More angst.
SUMMARY: Soundwave invited Trowa to their meeting -- a duel to the death. That's the intention, anyway.
FORMAT: Prose.



Prelude

There is the part of him that is infuriated and loathing of the humans. As a Decepticon, that comes naturally; he'd always figured that they were inferior and therefore deserved to die. Nothing was redeeming about them. True, he began to enjoy their sense of music, but otherwise

Then it came to pass that he amongst others of Cybertronians became human, at least physically. Ever since then, he's been gradually broken down to a feeling, emotional creature, and it's immensely disturbing to him. He's felt loneliness, fear, uncontrollable anger, grief, regret, and several other things that's never been much of a sensation to his systems before. He's done things he would never normally do. All this change in him too fast is frightening and annoying.

Along the way, there was a boy with no name who went by Nanashi -- then informed Soundwave he also went by Trowa. The boy deceived them, and yet he chose to keep it a secret. Because--

Because he felt it was necessary. Felt closeness with that boy. When Trowa's life was in danger, Soundwave chose to brainwash him for his sake, even if it meant earning Trowa's hatred.

And that, he's certain, was one of his most major selfless actions in his entire existence. It gave him nothing to feel proud over.

The weaknesses continued. Shockwave was killed, and for the first time in this human body, he felt something called tears leak from his eyes. That is not something he can admit to Shockwave, either. Emotion is perceived as illogical, therefore unwanted. That had almost always been true to Soundwave as well, yet he cannot control those feelings well at all. Learning Quatre was responsible caused him such rage and a sense of twisted betrayal. It was Quatre's fault for being so naive with war machines -- that was Soundwave's perception.

So Quatre paid for his actions.

Soundwave knew how Trowa would respond. He blamed that boy too.

Eventually began the Major's intentions, a call for war and bloody battle. Eager to fulfill his Decepticon nature of destroying the inferior, Soundwave agreed to help the Major. He killed many, and did not regret the deaths of the inferior.

He could have protected the bomb in D.C. from Juston. However, it was Juston's point that broke through to him.

That he had people he cared about in the City. Shockwave, who he could not bear to see die again. Ravage, who he still cared about although he's certain he's caused the boy enough emotional harm to make himself be hated. Alastair, one of his few human friends. Others and--

And belatedly, Trowa.

Soundwave let the bomb be undone. He was ashamed of his own weakness. Megatron would have been disappointed. Angry with him.

And he keeps this truth to himself.

Now, desperately, he needs to prove to himself of the Decepticon he is. And he will do so by killing Trowa.



Finale

Soundwave waits on the stage. It's old, dusty, and rotting inside of the opera house.

There, he is seated on a simple wooden chair. Slowly playing the violin.

To make that boy angry and hateful.

So he hopes.

Comments

[unnamed-nothing.livejournal.com]

So far, the City has thrown very little at Trowa for which he has needed the help of a mobile suit, but he can't help himself thinking that this is one occasion on which he might regret destroying Arsenal. It would have been child's play to stand from a long distance off and blast the opera house to pieces with Soundwave trapped inside of it--and that's how he prefers to fight. Even if the Decepticon got out in one piece after an attack like that, he could turn off the suit's audio feed and fight deaf.

Still. He had done it, and now the duel will be on a more personal level.

It's probably what Soundwave wants, anyway.

He combs his fingers through his bangs, unused to both the sensation of wearing earplugs and white noise headphones and the consequential lack of most of his sense of hearing. He doesn't have much of a choice but to use them, considering that the present era's tech isn't as advanced as he's used to, and he knows that they won't change with him if he's forced into another shape; they might buy him a few extra moments, however, and sometimes the tide of battle shifts in less time than that.

Of course, it also means he can't hear the violin.

There's no point in trying to hide his approach--he remembers how the other knew he wasn't really a Cybertronian. Could hear his heartbeat in place of a Spark. It'll be the same this time, too; of that much, he's certain.

So Trowa stands at the entrance to the opera house and thinks of the betrayals he and his friends have suffered. Of the violations of trust and space and life that have so far ended with Ravage hiding in the Autobase, Quatre half-living in the sub-basement of Winner Corp. and denying himself anything remotely resembling the kindness of himself or others, and his own slow slide back to the boy he used to be. Of how much time and effort he spent trying to teach Soundwave, and the people they both stepped on in the process.

...Of being thrown aside and ignored because the other option was to die.

The boy shoulders the hefty guns weighing down his sides, pats his back pocket to check that the knives were still there, walls off the last of his thoughts, and pushes open the cracked and grimy doors.

[allshock-notalk.livejournal.com]

The communications officer doesn't have to think of it much. What sort of tune he's playing (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B42dozDeEfA), or how to play it. He already knows music and what kind of notes it intones, and perhaps that is part of the power's base. Who knows.

Only he himself can find use in it.

There is that familiar heartbeat. Every pulse in ever human is but a fingerprint to him. The different skips, flutters, and beats; he knows this one, and knows it's his opponent.

Then comes the crescendo as Trowa makes his approach. The walls echo the music, informing Soundwave of how very alone he is right now, even as a former companion comes to visit him for their battle.

It's better this way, he has told himself in all bitterness.

His empty chest claims differently.

It can't be changed now.

Once he sees Trowa, he stops. In a fit of frustration, or a fit of violence, or a fit of attempting to goad Trowa, he throws the violin down onto the stage, hard enough to break it mostly in half, only clinging together by its strings.

Not unlike Quatre, he suspects.

Soundwave sits there a moment, his posture momentarily slouched, unlike him. He peers up behind his goggles, past falling bangs. It's hard to say if it's a furious glare or a pained look.

Then he stands finally, waiting.

/finally finds suitable music god

[unnamed-nothing.livejournal.com]

Trowa watches, unmoving, as the elegant instrument crashes to the ground in what appears to his mind to be a kind of slow motion; his eyes are all that follow its path downward, and only one of them visible at that.

He isn't sure why the sight hurts him. Perhaps he's picked up enough knowledge from Quatre to know how expensive violins can get. Maybe some part of him steals Soundwave's suspicion about the blond for himself. Or it could be that such a display was never one he intended to cause. There are a million possible reasons, so it doesn't really matter in the long run that it's because Soundwave is once again throwing aside something good in favor of fighting; the effect is the same, whatever the answer.

Oddly, it isn't a weapon that Trowa pulls free from the long, thin case hanging horizontally against the side of one of the guns.

Not by the usual definition, at least.

The boy closes his eyes, treats himself to a comfortable seat on the floor, and after a few seconds of silence calmly begins to play a distant, melancholy tune on a battered old flute (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h00Dc9u4esE#t=00m21s)--not faltering despite being unable to hear himself.

[allshock-notalk.livejournal.com]

The music captures his attention immediately. The Decepticon isn't startled, simply confused. The invitation had been clear to Trowa, had it not? Their presence here meant battle.

And yet, there he is, playing on an old instrument.

Soundwave cannot deny him this, nor can he deny himself the pleasant notes.

He finds himself trapped, standing there; despite the fact that the communications officer is on stage, he is the captivated audience to Trowa's performance on the floor.

At this time, he is unmoving. Studying Trowa, listening.

Not attacking. Not yet.

[unnamed-nothing.livejournal.com]

The boy quickly finishes moving through the entire piece, given how short it is, having trusted the other not to use his inattentiveness to his surroundings against him; he almost regrets not having Quatre there to feed him the knowledge of what went through his opponent's mind at the incongruous display before reminding himself that it would be as equally violating to Soundwave as the brainwashing was to him or the feeding of emotions to Shockwave.

Trowa gets back to his feet, flipping the flute a short ways into the air and catching it again on an outstretched fingertip, where it stands precariously balanced on one end... and waits to see what Soundwave makes of it.

Do they remain peaceful, as much pain as they may otherwise be in?

Or does the brunet have to throw his emotions away too?

[allshock-notalk.livejournal.com]

With normal sound from his throat, he cannot force Trowa to buckle and become sick, or sleep, or become brainwashed with his voice. Trowa has himself protected that way. Yet, there are other ways he can destroy him. It'll be a challenge, but it would not be impossible.

Slowly, after the music ends, Soundwave steps down from the stage and begins his way towards Trowa.

What will he do? What should he do?

He wants to protect Trowa, as he had tried to before. He was to destroy Trowa, to prove to himself that he is still the war machine he was meant to be.

He wants to walk away, and wish that he'd never started becoming human.

Soundwave stops before him, just five feet away. He raises up one hand, palm out towards Trowa. A threat, at least.

Yet he appears to be waiting to see if Trowa will take the first shot or not.

In his own mind, he screams, wishing he could slide back into a life where all he had to do was take orders.

[unnamed-nothing.livejournal.com]

As heavily-armed as he might be, it is not Trowa's wish to take the first shot. Or the second. Or any other number. Not if he can help it--not if they can avoid it. It is, however, his intent to take however many are necessary to finish the fight if Soundwave is determined to be his enemy. And he's still not sure that's not the case.

He once thought of Soundwave as family, of a sort. Not the kind you're born with, obviously, but the sort you choose, just as he'd done with the other Wingboys. Someone who understands. Someone to protect.

The notion was, by the other's own words, never reciprocated.

So he tenses slightly at Soundwave's approach, although neither his heart nor his breathing rate speed up to match; his left hand drops to the matching weapon, resting over it without touching.

Trowa ignores the exposed palm, the old mask preparing to slip itself back in place, fully aware that it is not a gesture of surrender, instead looking straight into the eyes behind the goggles and speaking face-to-face with his old companion for the first time in more months than he can count--possibly for the last, if one of them is meant to die in the opera house that afternoon.

"You make yourself who you are," he advises, softly, and tosses the silver music instrument back into the air.

[allshock-notalk.livejournal.com]

"NEGATIVE," Soundwave hisses out, knowing that Trowa can't hear him. That it's impossible.

But he expects the boy is probably talented enough to read lips.

"I AM ONLY WHAT I WAS PROGRAMMED TO BE."

And yet, he's become something more than simply the Decepticon known as Soundwave -- the communications officer. Before even that, he'd simply been the servant of the Senate. His programming dictated loyalty. Loyalty first to the Senate, then to the Decepticon cause.

However. Where did that cause go? When did he become this way?

He wants to go back the way he was. Becoming a pure android is the only way it can happen.

Right now, right now he cannot--

Cannot. Kill him. Even if Trowa was strapped down to a table and on his last breath, Soundwave could not do it. Cannot bring himself to do it.

There's a wail of despair and Soundwave whips around, kicking one of the chairs against the wall. He called him here to his grave. What once had been a simple thing became so complicated.

It's only been a year, nothing but a breath to a Cybertronian, yet so long in this aging body. So much has changed and he's becoming human.

[unnamed-nothing.livejournal.com]

He is that talented, yes. One doesn't learn to infiltrate and spy without the help of a few necessary skills. Disappointing, in a way, to see that Soundwave still clings to the issue of his programming. Trowa realizes with a mild look of surprise that he is still alive, though, and actually forgets to catch the flute; it clatters to the ground with a series of metallic clangs. The confusion changes to annoyance, and he bends to pick it up, sliding it back into the case it had come from.

The display of anger and frustration at being lost going on in the background doesn't bother him; he's vented his own the same way almost every day on his wild runs. This place belongs to no man.

Trowa gingerly sets down the rest of the weaponry, even going so far as to drop the knives to the ground atop the firearms, and removes the things blocking out the sounds around him, dropping them as well.

In silence, he moves to stand next to the communications officer, relaxing with his hands rest half in the pockets of his OZ uniform, and looks at where the chair had been.

"...Hey."

[allshock-notalk.livejournal.com]

"WHAT."

It'd be easier if he had someone to blame. Primus, really, he wishes he could place some of it on Trowa for infiltrating his life. For causing some of this change. For becoming something he should not be in Soundwave.

But it's hardly Trowa's fault. It was Soundwave's choice to keep him alive. His choice to try to protect him in his own way.

It was Soundwave's decision to do those things while attempting to follow his programming, because he cannot deny that either.

Perhaps because he does not know what benefits the Decepticons now.

"I WILL KILL YOU."

To most anyone, it is a flatly spoken line. Most know to take it seriously.

However, at this point, Soundwave knows it is an empty threat. No, he won't. He can't. It's pathetic, but he can't kill him.

whoops /fixes html

[unnamed-nothing.livejournal.com]

The threat slips in through one ear and back out the other--Soundwave had never yet physically carried it out, and it rings bells in his head that calls to mind a certain other soldier who generally also says it and then changes his mind on a regular basis.

And so it is that he happens to have nothing to say to it at first but a thoughtful 'mm', acknowledging the comment but not the content.

Trowa spends a great deal of time locked in his head, however, thinking busily away, and it is not very much longer before he decides that he has the need to remark upon it after all.

"You already did," he begins, in much the same casual manner as one might normally use to mention the need to check the mailbox or to let someone know that their shoes look very nice. It seems odd to remain standing this way, standing shoulder-to-shoulder almost, but unnecessary movement might give the wrong impression; he continues without changing position.

"He doesn't trust me anymore," Trowa adds, the blank lack of tone meant to cover up any pain the truth has caused. "I can't talk with him. Or be around. And I'm not allowed to see."

He makes an odd gesture at this with one hand, somewhere between dismissal and a half-assed one-armed shrug.

"I don't even know if the incisions Shockwave made have healed."

There's a pause during which nothing happens, awkward and heavy. It's such a bizarre thing to be talking about something so personal with a being who might still turn around and attack; who probably doesn't care. But he's going somewhere with it--trying to make a point, not looking for sympathy--and because of that, he keeps speaking.

"He won't let me touch him anymore. For anything. Just panics. Gets angry. Attacks me."

One short beat, Trowa's eyes flicking to the Decepticon, watching him; for a split-second it looks as though a spark of hatred is finally going to flare up behind them, but it's gone again just as quickly as if it had never been there at all, leaving behind an empty look and a mirthless smirk at just how funny everything isn't.

"...Thinks I'm you, actually."

Another calm breath, and Trowa tilts his head back to stare at the intricate but filthy and cracking painting covering the ceiling.

"So now I'm nothing. I'm not Arsenal. Or Rumble, Nanashi, or Trowa. They're dead. I'm just you, borrowing someone else's body."

The boy drifts for a moment into the back of his own mind to listen to the Deep Voice--the bloodthirsty piece of the war form's consciousness that stays with him even when he's human--and hears it try to press him into changing, calling for him to turn in rage at the destruction of his fragile little patchwork construction of identity and splinter Soundwave's skull between his jaws.

For a minor eternity, he considers finally giving in.

As he thinks of it, Shockwave hurt Quatre and Quatre hurt him in return, only to be tortured himself. So it should be the communication officer's turn to feel pain... but he already had, when the other Cybertronian died. The blood had long stood repaid, then, and his own life had been spared several times over the better part of the last year by Soundwave.

In the end, he simply continues to stand there.