Soundwave hasn't even opened his eyes, but he already knows today is not going to be a good day.

Hints of his dream whisper to him while he gets ready, but grow fainter the longer he's awake.

By the time he puts on his sunglasses, the last thing to do before going to the mess hall to get breakfast, he barely remembers anything from it.

As he walks down the almost deserted corridors of the Nemesis, he brushes it away, even when the sight of those well known dark walls tries to bring details back.

A dream is a dream, and that's it.

He brushes a non-existent wrinkle from the side of his uniform jacket and adjusts it despite already being as perfect as it can be, using the familiarity of the gestures to push the growing unease away.

For once, the sight of the mess hall's doors is a welcome one.

Not that it usually isn't this early in the morning, with most people still asleep, but sometimes—

"—and bang! Goodbye, love!"

—sometimes there are some late night owls or early birds.

Ignoring the three men sitting at a table by the side, Soundwave makes his way to the coffee machine to get a healthy dose of deep black liquid gold to help him endure the likes of the Nemesis' inhabitants one more day.

"Hey, Sanders! Good morning!"

Keeping a sigh inside, he grabs the mug once it's full and turns around, disregarding the people now looking at him—

Wait, they've called him… Sanders?

No, that's not right, his name is… his name is John Sanders… but… why does he have the feeling it is Soundwave too?

"Sanders? You alright there?"

He snaps to attention at his name—is it?—being called, locking gazes with the dark eyes of their leader—and it's not right, they should be—

He sags dangerously on his feet as a wave of dizziness hits him, hand around the mug losing its grip—

Someone catches him before he falls, another pair of hands grabbing his free arm and helping guide him to an empty bench.

He hasn't heard it break, but the mug is in pieces on the floor under his feet and two other pairs, one clad in white boots with blue toes and the other in black with purple toes, moving along his before he feels himself being lowered to lie on his back on the bench, and then there's only the ceiling over him, and two heads and torsos.

"Carter, call a doctor. Grant, get some cool water and a cloth."

The voice is raspy and with a higher pitch hidden underneath, but the orders are strong and without room for even a second of doubt, so one of the people hovering over him goes away as the other moves, and suddenly something is lifting his feet to have them rest on a hard surface before the remaining man turns around to look down at him.

He has dark tanned skin, dark brown hair falling to under his jaw line and dark eyes he can't say if they're brown or black, looking searchingly over his visor—sunglasses—with a serious professionalism and a small hint of worry.

"Sanders? You with me?" he asks, and his voice is the one that was giving orders barely a second before, but far lower and without a hint of the higher pitch, a soothing rumble instead.

Soundwave closes his eyes.

When a hand caresses his cheek as it grabs the leg of his sunglasses, he quickly grips it without a second thought.

The arm tenses at the sudden movement, but relaxes almost as quickly.

Eyes he doesn't remember opening look up once more into the tanned face showing relief and exasperation, and something clicks in his brain.

Steve Reeds, Air Commander.

"Still with us, good," the dark-haired man comments softly, almost to himself, and he opens his mouth to ask what he was trying to do, to order to be let up instead of held down on the bench by the simple presence of the other male hovering worriedly over him.

But the Seeker—where did he get that word from?—tilts his head to look at something else in the room, probably one of the other two that were with him, and light falls in his eyes.

For an instant, they flash red.

And so, whatever it was that he was going to say gets lost in places unknown between his brain and his mouth, and what comes out in its place is something he had never heard before.

"Starscream…"

Reeds turns to him almost fast enough for his neck to snap, looking startled, before frowning softly in confusion.

"What? No, better yet, don't say anything. Just stay still until the doctor gets here," he orders him, and another bit of information comes to mind.

Second in Command.

Seeing that he is Communications Officer and Third in Command… Well, that's an order that can't be disobeyed.

"Sir, the water," another voice cuts in, one he's sure he's heard since he arrived at the mess hall, and a second man enters his visual field.

This one has curly dark brown hair to his shoulders and a stubbly beard, with brown eyes filled with clear worry, although he's not sure if it's for him.

He's wearing a purple jacket with a black shirt under it, instead of the red jacket and white shirt of the Air Commander, although both their ties are yellow.

"Is he sick? Is it catching?" he asks the tanned man, who rolls his eyes as he accepts the pot with the cloth over the side and, at the lack of answer, the newcomer steps away. "If it is catching, I'm holding both of you responsible."

"Shut up, Grant. Go wait with Ted and keep onlookers away, if you're so worried," Reeds orders, and the brown-eyed man sticks out his tongue before leaving.

Theodore 'Ted' Carter and Sky Grant, Second and Third Wings of the Air Commander.

Somehow, those names don't ring true.

A hand hovering next to his head makes him forget about names to turn his attention once more to the tanned man, who is looking down at him with an almost emotionless visage.

Almost. He can see the hint of worry deep in his dark eyes.

"I'm going to take your glasses off. You have a fever, and until the doctor can give you a once over, you'll have to make do with myself."

Despite the no-nonsense tone the words are spoken in, Soundwave knows they're a warning, not an order, that if he asks not to have the sunglasses removed the other won't do it, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he closes his eyes and forces himself not to tense too much when he feels cool skin against his temples and the loss of the familiar weight of his favorite accessory when it's taken away.

A soft clicking sound after that, something cold and wet touches his forehead, and he flinches.

The thing vanishes, but the coldness of the water droplets lingers.

"Easy, Sanders, it's just a cloth," that soft raspy voice rumbles soothingly, and he lets out a shuddering breath when the cool sensation comes back full force, but doesn't try to move. "Sanders? Still with me?" Reeds asks after some seconds of silence, where he can hear shuffling and mutterings as well as Grant's bored orders in the background, and he nods minutely. "Know what happened?"

"Get away I said, you bunch of idiots!" a louder and annoyed voice cuts, eliciting a wince from Soundwave at the volume as the ill man tries to move away, only managing to dislodge the cloth and have strong hands grab his shoulders to keep him from rolling off the bench. "Air Commander, what happened?"

"Hell if I know. He just came in, went for his coffee like always, and suddenly turned white as a ghost and dropped limply. He was lucky Grant got him before he fell on the broken mug," the tanned man answers, the higher pitch once more in his voice, and the hands on his shoulders soften their grip. "We got him lying here and called you. He's boiling up."

"I'll have to get him to Med Bay to give him a thorough examination—" the doctor says, voice softer, as a cold hand is suddenly pressed against his neck, and he squirms, but the grip on his shoulders holds him in place. "—but I can see that. Can you carry him?"

"Me? Huh, well… maybe, if I get him on my back, but—"

"That will do," the newcomer cuts in, and the hands on his body vanish, leaving him feeling much too conscious about how warm he is, and how tight his clothes suddenly are. "Come on, I'll go ahead and get things ready. Don't dwindle!"

Fading steps follow those words and the mutterings on the background start anew, somehow sounding louder and more painful than before.

"Look what mess you've got me in," the Air Commander groans before the surface he's lying on moves a bit. "Carter, help me get him on my back. I swear, if my reputation suffers for this, you will pay for it," he adds, the last part far softer and obviously directed at Soundwave, but the Communications Officer keeps his eyes closed and tries to fight off the dizziness slowly getting hold of him.

Hands are on his shoulders and legs, and suddenly he's moving, and the world is whirling and his head is hurting—

"Easy! We don't want to get him worse," the Second in Command hisses, and there's something dangerous in his voice, so Soundwave tries to get his eyes open just a sliver to see what's going on.

Everything's blurry, but he makes out a blue-clad man with short black hair and pale brown eyes next to the red-clad one, before his head protests against the too intense light and he closes his eyes again with a soft whimper.

Oh, Primus, his whole body hurts, but his processor is just—

Primus? Processor?

A sharp stab at the back of his head makes him double forward, and there's a startled yelp as his face collides with slightly coarse fabric covering taut and warm muscles.

He moves a bit after the impact, better burrowing his face against a piece of much softer and warmer fabric, with wisps of something silky caressing his head, the muscles tenser now.

"Al-right. Creepy. Hurry up, will you?"

There's laughter in the background, but Soundwave only worries about the hands guiding his arms over strong shoulders and towards one another, so that he can grab his own wrist for stability as those hands get on his sides and the world moves again.

He moans pitifully, soft whimpers escaping his lips as the grip on his sides helps him get on a comfortable position on the taut and warm back under his front, hands under his thighs keeping him up, and he wiggles a bit closer to that wonderful warmth.

There's a soft squeak when his cheek finds warm skin and he presses against it, the hands on his sides vanishing and those under his thighs tightening their grip.

He can feel the rhythmic rush of blood through the vessels hidden under the skin against his face, and he relaxes almost without thought.

"Shit, he's hotter than I thought," the Air Commander growls softly as the world starts moving again, although in a soothing rhythmic sway this time.

Raucous laughter explodes far too close, and he presses closer to the body carrying him with a pained whimper, feeling the vibrations of the skin against his face as a low rumbling voice says something from somewhere over his head.

The laughter cuts off with a yelp.

"Thanks, Ted," the tanned man grumbles, and, slowly, Soundwave relaxes.

"No need to," a deep voice answers, soft enough not to aggravate his headache, with a hint of a not so sincere smile.

"… You won't let me live this down, will you."

Two 'no' answer the not-question, one from the deep voice and the other from one far too cheerful, but still low enough not to be painful.

"You owe me one, Sanders. Or more like one hundred," the Second in Command grumbles, the body rumbling along the voice, and he relaxes further, although he nuzzles the skin a bit more, trying to find the pulse again. "Would you stop that?" the Air Commander squeaks softly as the body shivers, and if he complies is because he can feel the rush of blood once more. "Seriously, if you were that sick, why did you come to the hall? Ted, Grant, go to your posts, tell Commander Storm about the situation and that I'll be by as soon as I can."

There's no audible answer, but the two sets of echoing footsteps vanish. If such a thing was possible without him falling off, he would've relaxed even further.

"I'm going to get back at you, Sanders, so don't be so—"

"Soundwave."

"What?" the tanned man questions as the swaying movement stops, and he nuzzles closer, his head throbbing in response. "Sanders? What did you say?"

"Name's Soundwave…" he whimpers, tensing and pressing tighter against the body, and the swaying starts again.

This time, though, it does nothing to alleviate his pain.

"Easy, man. You're going to get better."

That's the last he hears from the Air Commander before there's the whooshing of doors opening and footsteps, and too cold hands prying him away from the warm body carrying him and lying him on an even colder surface, and there are loud voices talking all around him, and lots of noise that only make him feel worse.

As Soundwave retreats deep in his own mind, he ponders over the last words he said to Reeds… And realizes that the name 'Steve Reeds' doesn't suit the man any more than 'John Sanders' does him.

There's something really wrong with the world…

Now, if only he could remember what…

UPDATED 25/02/2016: Corrected Grammar.

AN: There will be no OCs in this story.

Now, on to other things.

Rabid plot-bunny monsters everywhere...

I could have sworn I'd encountered the worst of them... Turns out I had not.

What's worse that a rabid plot bunny-monster grabbing you for a whole weekend and not letting you sleep until the story is complete?

The answer is a zombie rabid plot bunny-monster. Every time you think it's done with you, it comes back to life.

And when the result is this... Torture.

I've never suffered (still suffering) as much as with this. It's not finished, because every time I think I have it, the ZPBM (zombie plot bunny-monster) comes back to life and... well, lets just say, I need to read things after I've finished writing, because I don't even know what I've written.

So, I decided that if I have to suffer as much for a story like this one, then it better be worth something. So, the obvious conclusion? Post it. Let people enjoy (either the story or kicking me for writing it), so that it may be worth all the ZPBM is putting me through.

I can't promise scheduled updates, because the writing process is not constant nor something that's my choice, but I'll try to steadily publish the chapters I have. I've decided on once a week, so that I may have time to polish what is getting written.

If it works, good. If it doesn't... Well, my bad.

Lets just hope I survive it.

Update: By the by, just realized I hadn't posted it, so here are my inspiration sources in the physical area (meaning, how I imagine the characters). Take off the spaces and brackets, and the URLs are ready to use:

- doubleleaf . deviantart (.com)/ art / Commission-Seekers-287530695 : Characters + Uniforms. The rest of the gallery is also awesome, but it was love at first sight with this one.

- wakachiko . tumblr (.com)/ tagged / humanformers : Uniforms, again, but these ones should be recognizable right now.