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.