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Shockwave groaned as he lay sprawled in the sand, processor aching and spark throbbing. His fans were working overtime, trying vainly to supplement his seizing, struggling ventilation system. Four million mega-cycles and change were playing through his processor at incomprehensible speed, and every atrocity he had committed, every moment he hadn’t been able to recognize his own hard-coded emotional responses, tore at his spark like no weapon ever could, the wildly flaring corona turning the edges where some of his casing had been excised into twin slits of raw agony.
A low, desperate keen left his vocaliser, and he twisted to claw at his chestplate. This frame had been his for over half his functioning but still it felt wrong, too blocky, too monochrome, his optic snapped on, and his hand lifted to claw at that instead, a broken noise leaving him as his processor throbbed anew and began to run a second stream of memories in parallel to the first. His early life, defined by standards he hadn’t been expected to meet and had met anyways with all the fire characteristic of a mech from his city. His ascent to the Senate, moving to Iacon, that fateful session interrupted- his processor snagged on that memory, and he curled back in on himself as it sped through his processor.
Orion. His memories jumped and stuttered, switching from himself to the Prime enforcer, their first proper meeting, the first time Orion opened up to him, Orion’s hands on his frame, on his face- he clawed at the horrible mockery of a helm atop his shoulders once more, hand trembling and spasming, fingers weak where they pressed against the lense of his optic. Orion’s face, hidden behind his mask but still so expressive as Shockwave gave himself up. The cold, logical programming which had dominated his processor these past millions of mega-cycles demanded to know why he’d done that. What logical purpose did it serve, to give himself up to spare the life of a pawn?
There hadn’t been one. He had seen the determination in Orion’s optics, felt it in his field. Orion would have let Roller die to save Shockwave, but it would have torn him apart afterwards. As if failing to save you didn’t hurt him just as badly a poisonous, bitter voice in the back of his processor hissed. It sounded oddly like Starscream.
Shockwave shook his helm, forcing himself up onto all fours, flinching at the grit in his joints. He’d not known what they would do, when he gave himself up, but Orion had been too important to let break. Not when he was the one mech Shockwave had granted a matrix-bearing plate whose spark was truly good. Orion had mourned him, but he had been able to move on. He had found the true Matrix, had become Prime, had opposed Megatron for all those millions of years. And then- Shockwave’s arms trembled under him, and he pushed himself up to sitting. Optimus- or, no, he’d gone back to calling himself Orion after the war hadn’t he- had found him again, had stopped him from making one of the biggest mistakes of his entire functioning.
Had reunited Shockwave with his emotions, and then- then he’d wound up here. Wherever here was. The Afterspark was the most logical conclusion, but he didn’t feel dead. Quite to the contrary, he felt more alive than he had since that night he saved Roller’s life. Also, he didn’t think the Afterspark would be this uncomfortable. The sand in his joints was gritty and itchy, and a hot breeze was slowly raising his internal temperature despite the best efforts of his cooling fans.
Faint sounds drew his optic to the figure cresting a nearby hill, and Shockwave pushed himself to his pedes. If he wasn’t dead, then Orion had given him an incomparable gift. Shockwave didn’t intend to waste it.