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The tunnels below the arena were dark, and warm, and never quiet.
Even when the rings above were abandoned, the depths below echoed, whispering voices and distant traffic and the ever-present thrum of moving parts that kept the coliseum apparatus running through the off-cycle. When crowds gathered to witness a fight or an execution or a fight so one-sided it might as well be an execution, the sound of them filtered down through metal in a rumble easier heard than felt, shuddering like a seismic quake straight down to Kaon's core. A mech could lose his way too easily in the seemingly endless maze, following a sound that could have come from above or below or been nothing more than a trick of the echoes. Few mechs could navigate the tunnels with anything approximating confidence outside their own designated sectors; rumor claimed they had been designed that way on purpose, to keep the arena’s inhabitants from straying too far into the dark.
Above, the crowds roared, thunder on a cloudless day. If Soundwave took the tunnel to the left, followed the slope up toward the sun and the sound, he knew what he would find at the other end: blood and sand and a voice bringing the crowd to their feet or to their knees, a city shuddering under the force of their response. Perhaps one day it would break in the face of the sound, like the tidal waves of the Rust Sea that Soundwave had seen in a hundred records smashing through docks and ships, Kaon shattering under the weight of its own inhabitants.
After all, Megatron had always known how to work a crowd, and one day soon he would ask them for more than applause.
Soundwave waited in the darkness, and listened. Laserbeak's signal pinged in the depths below, steady and strong, a tiny beacon guiding the gun-runners through the tunnels with unerring accuracy worthy of Soundwave himself.
It had been Megatron's plan, of course, in the broad strokes. That was usually how it was: Megatron's ideas, and Soundwave's execution, and things ran smoothly. Above, the crowds screamed Megatron's name loud enough to rattle the foundations of the city; below, the preparations that would one day crack those foundations from the inside out moved forward under Soundwave's listening audial.
They never timed it. There was little point when at any moment the arena masters might decide to cut Megatron off early, for once, or the gun-runners might be late, or any number of things might go wrong. It was Soundwave's role to know which was happening, and adjust accordingly, and he had never failed no matter what chance threw at him.
Today, luck or a twist of probability Megatron would have no doubt called fate was on their side. Laserbeak pinged the all-clear in the moment before the crowd's roar redoubled to fever pitch and the arena mechanics rumbled to life, metal grinding and shifting as the configuration reset for the next event of the day.
In the darkness, Soundwave waited, and listened.
He heard Megatron before he saw him. Megatron entered every room like a small avalanche, every footstep a warning: stand in his way and be crushed, or step aside and be swept along in his wake.
"Soundwave." Megatron's optics glowed like burning energon, fever-bright under the adrenaline rush of a fight and a death and a speech. He could have been a statue of some ancient Prime, carved from steel with fire for optics, if not for the energon drying dark blue in seams and scars and splattered in arcs that could only come from severed high-pressure vital lines. "Is it done?"
Soundwave inclined his head.
"Well done."
Praise from Megatron was not unheard of - at least, not for Soundwave. But it was a thing to be remembered.
Megatron took the tunnel that led back to the gladiators' quarters. He did not look back; Soundwave followed as he always did, two steps off Megatron's left hand.
They did not speak again until they reached the washracks at the very back of the underground compound. Soundwave regularly swept their quarters for bugs, but it was a never-ending cold war with the arena masters, who while they might not know the details of what went on below ground, knew very well what an uprising would cost them and took steps they hoped would prevent it. In a way, Soundwave admired their persistence, rather like cobalt crabs trying to chew their way through an armored vehicle. Hopeless, but optimistic.
But persistent or not, the bugs were useless in the back washracks, where rippling veins of copper distorted comm signals sent for more than a few yards. Strictly speaking it was no more private than any other part of the gladiators’ quarters, but none but Soundwave had dared disturb Megatron there since his third match in the arena.
Hot oil and solvent filled the washracks with a haze of steam, filtering the harsh overhead lights into something less stark and clinical. Overhead, the crowds still roared, a muted, distant rumble easier felt than heard through layer upon layer of tunnels. Quieter now, Soundwave knew, than they had been; no other gladiators drew Kaon’s crowds and Kaon’s fury to the surface quite so effectively as Megatron.
Tucking his data cables away, Soundwave stepped into the steam, turning his view of Megatron from shadow to solid figure.
Diluted energon ran pale-blue down Megatron’s frame, pooled around the drain and burned off in little smoke spirals. By Soundwave’s relatively experienced assessment, all of Megatron’s wounds appeared superficial: shallow ragged slashes from claws not strong enough to tear through his armor, dents marked with the yellow-smeared paint of his unlucky opponent. An easy victory today, then, if no doubt still one that would fuel his legend in Kaon’s streets.
Megatron grinned, bared fangs and glistening silver, the face of a mech who had seen the mythical Unmaker himself and stood his ground. “Ah, Soundwave, did you hear them today? Kaon knows a reckoning is long overdue.”
Soundwave played back the relevant datafile, a tunnel wall vibrating under the force of a crowd screaming for blood, a single name roared into Kaon’s ash-grey sky by ten thousand voices. Megatron chuckled, a rumble as deep and dangerous as the tunnels themselves, and Soundwave followed it with a second datafile – Laserbeak’s confirmation that the weapons had been received, a staccato ping in miners’ code.
“Excellent. You never disappoint, Soundwave.” Unlike some others I could name went unspoken, as it often did. Soundwave heard it anyway, as he heard the other things Megatron did not say. “And the next shipment?”
This time, Soundwave pieced his response together from two recordings, the gun-runners’ leader and the automated voice announcing the arena schedule. “Locked and loaded for delivery – the next kill match will take place in three days – we’ll be ready to go.”
“Good. We’ll need them.” Megatron stepped out of the steam, a wall of steel-cold determination glowing dull silver in the muted light. “Any news from Vos?”
Soundwave played back the response in miners’ code: a simple negative. Megatron rumbled in dissatisfaction. “Contact them again. Starscream may think himself subtle, but I will not tolerate these power games. He will stand with us, or he will stand aside.”
“As you wish, Megatron,” Soundwave played back ironically, in Starscream’s voice. Megatron’s laughter echoed loud enough to drown out the sound of running solvent, filling what little of the space Megatron’s sheer presence didn’t.
“I can always count on you. My right-hand mech.” A massive silver claw descended to Soundwave’s shoulder, tracing a data cable. Soundwave allowed it, as he would not have from any other mech, and even permitted the tip of the data cable to coil loosely around Megatron’s forearm. “One day, all of Cybertron will know your name as well as they know mine.”
In Soundwave’s estimation, the planet knowing his name was unimportant. What mattered was their cause, their voice, and Megatron carried that well enough. But the subtext was clear enough: you will stand with me when we rise.
Soundwave inclined his head, and responded in a voice that was not quite Megatron’s but close enough the source was unmistakable. “Soundwave: will follow.”
Not, perhaps, the obvious answer. But Megatron would hear what it meant.
The crowds would rise in Megatron’s wake. Kaon would fall and the arena masters with it. And Soundwave would be there, at his right hand, to see it done.