Shockwave - TFP

The infiltration started almost too well.

You, Optimus, Arcee, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee stepped through the Ground Bridge onto a dimly lit maintenance corridor of the Nemesis. The air smelled of energon coolant, scorched metal, and whatever questionable polish Knock Out used on the floors. Your objective was simple: recover one of the Iacon Relics the Decepticons had recently acquired before Megatron could figure out how to use it. In and out. Quiet. Professional.

That plan lasted approximately forty-three seconds.

You rounded a corner and nearly walked face-first into Starscream and Knock Out, who were mid-argument about whether the latest Vehicon paint job looked “tactical” or “tragically dull.” Both of them froze. Starscream’s optics widened. Knock Out’s jaw dropped. Then Starscream did what Starscream does best.

“INTRUDERS! AUTOBOTS ABOARD THE NEMESIS!” he screeched, voice cracking as he slapped the nearest alarm panel so hard it sparked.

Red lights flashed. Klaxons howled. Doors slammed open down every hallway as Vehicons poured out like angry metal bees. Behind them came the heavy hitters: Breakdown charging like a freight train, Airachnid skittering along the ceiling with a delighted cackle, Skyquake and Dreadwing thundering from opposite directions, Soundwave gliding in eerie silence with Laserbeak already launching, and Megatron himself striding into view with that particular expression that promised someone was about to have a very bad day.

“Scatter!” Optimus ordered.

The team split. Arcee and Bulkhead peeled left. Optimus went right to draw the bigger guns. You and Bumblebee bolted straight ahead down a narrower corridor, dodging plasma fire that scorched the walls around you. Bumblebee beeped a rapid series of panicked binary curses as you both skidded around another corner—

—and slammed face-first into something tall, solid, and extremely purple.

You bounced off a broad, circuit-lined chest plate and landed hard on your aft. Bumblebee stumbled beside you. Slowly, both of you looked up.

And up.

Shockwave stood over you like a walking war crime wrapped in neon-violet circuitry. One massive red optic locked onto your face. For a long, frozen second, neither of you moved.

Recognition hit at the exact same moment.

You had last seen that optic through smoke and fire on pre-war Cybertron, when the lab complex had gone up in flames during the earliest days of the uprising. You had tried to reach him. Someone—Autobot or Decepticon, you never knew—had dragged you out before the structure collapsed. You had spent millions of years believing the brilliant, dry-humored scientist who used to argue philosophy with you over cubes of energon had been reduced to slag.

Shockwave, for his part, had received reports that you had been executed while trying to defend a group of civilians. He had filed the information under “regrettable but inevitable losses” and continued his work, logic dictating that grief was an inefficient use of processing power.

Now that same optic stared down at the friend he had quietly written off as dead.

“...You,” Shockwave stated flatly, as if confirming a particularly annoying data error.

Bumblebee, who had no idea about any of this history, simply let out a panicked series of warbles that roughly translated to “RUN RUN RUN BIG PURPLE SCIENCE GUY.”

Then pure survival instinct kicked in. You scrambled upright, grabbed Bumblebee’s arm, and ran like the pit itself was on your heels. Shockwave’s heavy footsteps thundered after you immediately—measured, relentless, and somehow still managing to sound vaguely disappointed.

“Illogical,” his deep voice echoed down the hallway. “Fleeing will only delay the inevitable. And waste energy.”

Starscream and Knockout, who had been chasing you from the other direction, skidded to a halt at the junction and just... watched. Starscream’s wings twitched in pure secondhand embarrassment. Knock Out tilted his head, one hand on his hip.

“Is he... actually chasing them?” Knock Out asked, fascinated.

“Apparently the great Shockwave has discovered cardio,” Starscream muttered. “I give it three halls before he starts calculating the exact trajectory of their doom.”

You and Bumblebee tore around another corner, nearly colliding with a pair of Vehicons who immediately opened fire. Plasma bolts sizzled past your head. Shockwave simply walked through the crossfire like it was mildly inconvenient rain, one arm raised to casually bat a stray shot aside without breaking stride.

“Your current velocity is insufficient,” he called after you, almost conversationally. “Also, the left corridor loops back to the detention block. Inefficient route selection.”

Bumblebee made a sound that translated roughly to “I hate everything about this.”

Somewhere behind you, Megatron’s voice thundered again. “Shockwave! Report!”

“Busy,” Shockwave replied flatly into his comm, never slowing.

The chase wound through three more corridors, past a very confused Soundwave (who simply tilted his head and recorded everything), and around a corner where Airachnid had been preparing an ambush. She took one look at the purple juggernaut barreling toward her with an Autobot in pursuit priority and decided the ceiling was a much better place to be.

Finally Optimus’s voice crackled over the team frequency. “Ground Bridge inbound—coordinates locked. Everyone move!”

A swirling green vortex opened at the end of the hall. Arcee, Bulkhead, and Optimus sprinted through. Bumblebee looked back at the last second, optics wide, and saw Shockwave’s massive clawed servo close around your midsection with surprising care—enough force to stop you cold, not enough to crush.

You were yanked backward with a startled yelp, arms windmilling, as the Ground Bridge began to collapse. Bumblebee spun around fully, optics wide with horror, reaching for you—

—but the portal snapped shut with a final, merciless whoosh.

Silence fell for half a second.

Then Shockwave adjusted his grip so you were held more securely, his massive clawed servo moving to grip the back of your Chestplate collar instead (and slightly less like a sack of stolen energon cubes), turned, and began walking back the way he came at a calm, dragging you behind him at a measured pace toward his laboratory.

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The battle on the Nemesis’s open flight deck was pure chaos.

Energon bolts cracked through the air like violet lightning. The sky above was a bruised twilight of smoke and distant thunder from the ship’s engines. Autobot and Decepticon frames slammed into one another amid the roar of thrusters and the screech of metal on metal. Optimus traded heavy blows with Megatron near the edge of the deck, their weapons lighting up the night in alternating flashes of blue and purple. Bulkhead and Breakdown were locked in a brutal shoving match that left dents in the plating under their pedes. Bumblebee darted between Vehicons like a yellow streak, while Starscream screamed orders that no one seemed particularly interested in following.

You fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Arcee, your weapons discharging in tight, controlled bursts. A Vehicon went down under your combined fire. Arcee kicked another off the edge of the deck with a sharp “Clear!” and you both moved forward—

—and then your optics locked with his.

Shockwave stood near the center of the Decepticon line, towering and still amid the violence. His single crimson optic burned steady and bright against the dark purple of his armor. The glowing violet circuitry along his frame pulsed once, slow and deliberate, as if the entire battlefield had suddenly narrowed to the space between the two of you.

The world seemed to drop away.

You had last seen that optic through choking smoke and rising flames on pre-war Cybertron, when the lab complex in Kaon had gone up during the earliest days of the uprising. You had tried to reach him—screaming his name, shoving past falling debris—only for unknown servos to drag you out before the structure collapsed. For millions of years you had carried the quiet, aching certainty that the brilliant, dry-humored scientist who once argued philosophy with you over shared cubes of energon had been reduced to slag and ash.

Shockwave, for his part, had received official reports that you had been executed while attempting to defend a group of civilians. He had filed the information under “regrettable but inevitable losses,” overridden the small, inefficient spike of something that might have been grief, and continued his work. Logic dictated that lingering on the dead served no purpose.

Now that same optic stared across the flight deck at the friend he had quietly written off as gone forever.

Your optics began to tear up—hot, traitorous lubricant gathering at the edges. Shockwave’s optic narrowed the slightest fraction. He took one slow step forward. Then another. His heavy pedes struck the deck with increasing force, the measured pace quickening into something almost urgent.

You started walking toward him without thinking.

“Hey—what are you doing?!” Arcee’s voice cut through the gunfire. She grabbed your arm, trying to haul you back. “That’s Shockwave! Snap out of it!”

You shoved her off harder than you meant to. The push sent her stumbling a step. Then you were running—full sprint across open metal, weaving between blasts and falling frames, optics locked only on the purple giant coming to meet you.

The Decepticons paused in visible confusion. Starscream’s wings flared. “Is he going to—? Oh, he’s definitely going to blast that one into scrap.”

Knockout tilted his head. “Bit dramatic, even for him.”

On the Autobot side, voices rose in alarm.

“Get back!” “What are you doing?!” “Don’t—!”

Shockwave reached you first.

One massive arm swept out and gathered you up against the broad, armored plane of his chassis with surprising care—firm enough that you couldn’t slip free, gentle enough that the plating didn’t dig painfully into yours. Your pedes left the deck entirely. He adjusted his grip once, securing you high against his chest so that your helm rested near the glowing circuitry of his collar, then turned without a word.

The Decepticon line parted for him almost automatically.

He began walking back toward their side of the deck at a steady, purposeful pace, one arm holding you securely while the other raised his heavy cannon. The weapon discharged in precise, aggressive bursts—more forceful and rapid than his usual calculated style—driving the Autobots back and covering his retreat. Energon bolts forced Optimus and the others to dive for cover. Arcee shouted your name, voice raw with disbelief and anger. Bumblebee’s distressed warbles cut through the noise.

The Nemesis’s flight deck was a storm of plasma fire, shouting, and the heavy clang of metal on metal.

Team Prime had forced a confrontation right on the open deck under the cold stars, and the Decepticons had answered in force. Optimus traded devastating blows with Megatron near the edge of the platform. Bulkhead and Breakdown slammed into each other like living wrecking balls. Bumblebee darted between Vehicons, blasters flashing. Arcee moved like living quicksilver at your side, blades humming as she carved a path through the chaos.

You were right there with her—firing, dodging, keeping pace—until your optics locked with a single glowing crimson lens across the deck.

Everything else dropped away.

Shockwave stood near the Decepticon line, cannon arm half-raised, the neon-violet circuitry along his armor pulsing steadily. For a heartbeat the entire battle seemed to mute itself. The roar of weapons, the shouts, the thunder of footfalls—all of it faded under the weight of recognition.

You had last seen that optic through thick black smoke and roaring fire on pre-war Cybertron. The lab complex had gone up in an inferno during the earliest days of the uprising. You had tried to reach him, pushing against heat and collapsing support beams, only to be dragged out by unknown hands before the structure finally gave way. For millions of years you had carried the quiet, bitter certainty that the brilliant, dry-humored scientist who used to argue philosophy and theoretical physics with you over shared cubes of energon had been reduced to slag and ash.

Shockwave, for his part, had received fragmentary reports that you had been executed while attempting to defend a group of civilians caught in the crossfire. He had filed the information under “regrettable but inevitable losses,” then closed the file. Grief, he had decided, was an inefficient use of processing power. Logic demanded he continue his work.

Now that same optic stared across a battlefield at the friend he had quietly written off as dead.

Your optics began to brighten with coolant—tears you couldn’t stop. Shockwave’s free hand lowered a fraction. Then, without a word, he started walking.

His heavy pedes struck the deck with increasing force and speed. The measured, deliberate stride of the Decepticon scientist lengthened into something closer to urgency. Around him, Vehicons scrambled out of his path. Starscream actually stopped mid-screech to stare. Knockout’s door-wings flared in pure confusion.

On your side, Arcee’s voice cut through the haze. “Hey—hey, what are you doing?!”

You took a step forward. Then another.

Arcee grabbed your arm. “That’s Shockwave! Snap out of it!”

You shoved her off harder than you meant to and broke into a run.

The Autobots’ shouts rose in alarm. “Get back!” “Don’t—!” “That’s a Decepticon high commander!” “{{user}}!?”

The Decepticons, watching Shockwave close the distance, assumed the obvious. “He’s going to finish that one off,” one Vehicon muttered.

Starscream’s optics narrowed with malicious interest. “Finally. Something entertaining.”

Neither side was prepared for what actually happened.

Shockwave reached you in a few final, ground-eating strides. Instead of raising his cannon, his large clawed servo closed around your frame with careful, deliberate strength. He lifted you clean off the deck and pulled you firmly against the broad plating of his chassis, securing you there with one arm as though you weighed nothing. The glowing circuits along his armor flared brighter for a moment, almost like a pulse.

Then he turned and strode back toward the Decepticon line without a single word of explanation.

Plasma fire from the Autobots intensified immediately. Shockwave answered it with uncharacteristic aggression—his cannon arm sweeping in precise, punishing arcs that forced Optimus and the others to take cover. He fired more rapidly, more forcefully than anyone had seen from him in a long time, as if daring anyone to come closer to the Autobot now held against his chest.

Arcee stared in pure disbelief. Bulkhead’s jaw dropped. Even Megatron’s optics narrowed with sharp interest from across the deck.

Starscream’s voice cracked with outrage. “Shockwave! What in the Pit do you think you’re doing?!”

Shockwave did not look at him. His single optic remained fixed forward as he continued walking, your frame still locked securely against his chassis. When he finally spoke, his voice was as calm and deep as ever—yet something beneath the usual monotone was slightly off, as if certain calculations were still resolving.

“This one,” he stated simply, “is no longer available for termination.”

He kept walking, carrying you through the startled Decepticon ranks toward the relative cover of the ship’s interior, cannon still firing in controlled bursts to keep the Autobots at bay.