Chapter 1: Prologue— Transmission Error
Chapter Text
The first sound was static.
It rolled across the console like bad feedback, not random—measured. A hiss, a crackle, then silence so sharp it cut through the air.
The playback paused. The listener leaned in, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the console’s edge. Not noise. Not chance. There was something under it.
The recording resumed.
"—Blaster, signin’ on. If this made it through, then the Archives ain’t swallowed me whole yet. Funny thing about this place—every corridor feels like déjà vu, like you’re walkin’ the same beat over and over, but the track just keeps changin’ when you ain’t listenin’."
The voice fractured, a word echoing on delay.
"Over... over... over..."
The listener stiffened, recognition landing fast.
"Feels like somebody’s watchin’ too. Can’t see it, but you feel it—like bass in your chest you didn’t cue. Keeps callin’ me by the same word, over and over, like I’m just another file to be stamped and shelved."
Static swelled, drowning the signal, but beneath it came a deeper undertone—jagged, many-layered, wrong.
> “REPORT. REPORT. REPORT.”
The listener’s fingers stilled, no more rhythm—just a hard grip on the edge of the terminal.
Blaster’s voice returned, thinner, distorted, but steady:
"Don’t think you can hide here long. It hunts you. Pushes you into corners, chases you down empty halls. Every exit’s just another hallway with the same lights hummin’ overhead. But somewhere... somewhere there’s a door that ain’t loopin’. I just gotta find it before it finds me."
The recording cracked apart into shrieking feedback. Through the distortion, one last fragment surfaced—faint, stretched, uneasy:
"If I don’t make it out... don’t forget the sound. Keep the signal alive. Don’t let it file me away."
The playback ended.
Silence filled the room.
The console’s hum lingered, faint as a heartbeat. The listener leaned back slow, vents dragging heavy, one hand still resting on the terminal. The shadows around them pressed closer, but they didn’t move.
At last, soft enough for no one but the static to hear, they murmured:
"…I hear ya."
Chapter Text
Blaster’s optics lit in a haze of yellow. The ceiling above him buzzed with strip-lighting, its glow harsh but never steady, each flicker casting a pulse like a bad beat. He didn’t remember lying down. He didn’t remember shutting off at all.
The floor beneath him was wrong. Smooth, sterile, humming faintly with an energy that prickled his plating. He pushed himself upright and the sound echoed too far, carrying into corners he couldn’t see. The walls stretched away in neat, endless rows of shelving—empty, repeating, the same pattern stamped over and over like someone had copy-pasted reality.
He stood, scanning, waiting for the familiar buzz of comms. Nothing. His signal pinged the frequencies, but the return came warped, his own voice bouncing back a half-beat late—familiar, but wrong, like a record skipping on the same groove.
He took a step forward. The floor hummed louder under his pedes, a low vibration that seemed almost alive, and the walls pressed in subtly, as if nudging him along some unseen path. Every corner he turned brought him face-to-face with more shelving, more empty terminals, each flickering with a pulse that never lasted.
Blaster tapped his helm. “Broadcast check,” he muttered. “One-two… yeah, still me.” The echo returned his voice warped, stretched across the hall like it was mocking him. He tried to shake it off, forcing his usual banter. “Alright, ghost-thing—or Soundwave—you're gonna have to try harder than some weird vibes to get under my plating, ya hear?”
A screen flickered ahead, sputtering weak blue light. Blaster approached cautiously, his optics narrowing. Static bloomed across the surface before a single, half-formed image appeared—a face? Or just a smear of light shaped like one. Before he could focus, it vanished, leaving only the hum and the echo of his own footsteps.
He paused, vents humming, and started a broadcast.
[Audio File 1 – Startup Check]
"Yo, yo—Blaster online! Reporting live from... somewhere. Uh, yeah. Don’t touch that dial, folks, ‘cause I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be one strange broadcast. One second I was patching into some dusty old data node, next second—bam!—everything goes sideways. Static, lights out, the works. Now I’m standing in what looks like—uh—Cybertron’s biggest filing cabinet. Reminds me of when Eject, and I had to rifle through the ruins of the Iacon Archives during the early war. Uh, yeah…”
Blaster’s voice carried through the endless rows of servers and terminals as if the air itself were tuned to him. The glow of dim, flickering panels stretched on without end, casting long, sharp shadows that shifted like restless ghosts. The floor hummed faintly under his pedes, alive with power, yet the silence was crushing. No chatter on the comms. No signal bounceback. Nothing but his own voice.
He moved on, pacing carefully between the endless rows, the hum growing louder in tandem with his rising unease. Every so often, a panel on the walls flickered—a terminal that had been dark a second ago now glowing faintly. Each time, the light formed shapes that weren’t quite right: letters that melted into one another, half-formed symbols, and, sometimes, glimpses of faces that vanished the instant he focused.
Blaster’s hand hovered over his speakers, ready to fire a warning tone. “Alright, scrap,” he muttered, “if you’re playin’ games, I hear you.” He tapped his comms again, half-expecting a reply. Silence. Only the faint echo of his own voice returned, stretched, warped, and uncomfortably slow.
At one point, he swore he heard footsteps—metallic and deliberate—trailing just behind him. He spun, pedes skidding across the smooth floor. Nothing. The rows of shelving remained static, unbroken, yet plating flared with unease. There was something in the way the air hummed, subtle but constant, as though the place itself was listening.
Blaster shook his helm and forced a laugh he didn’t feel. “Yeah, right, buddy,” he said aloud. “If you want an encore, you’re gonna have to do better than a couple of flickering lights and tiring white noise.” But even as he spoke, a chill crept into his circuits, and the echo of his laughter came back at him warped, twisted, wrong.
He paused again, recording on the fly.
[Audio File 2 – Survey Report]
"Okay, so: picture this. You got hallways. Endless hallways. Lined with old data banks stacked higher than Metroplex’s knees. Everything’s humming, but it’s not active, y’know? Just this low drone, like fluorescent lights. No exit signs, no doors—just hallways and hallways and hallways. Like I fell into an infinite mixtape where every track’s labeled ‘DO NOT PLAY.’"
He moved forward, keeping low and careful, listening to the faint vibrations in the walls. That hum—low, steady, almost like a heartbeat—felt alive now. Every so often, a shadow flickered at the corner of his optics, stretching along the shelving, but whenever he turned fully, there was nothing there.
Then, a screen ahead blinked on suddenly, sharper than the others. Blaster approached cautiously. On it was the flickering outline of a bot—tall, featureless, its optics dark and empty. For a moment, it seemed to look at him. Then, just as quickly, the image dissolved into static, leaving only the pulsing hum and the smell of ozone in the air.
Blaster froze, sparks of unease crawling through his plating. “Okay… okay, that’s new,” he muttered, trying to maintain his bravado. His fingers hovered over the record button.
[Audio File 3 – First Impressions]
"Not gonna lie, this place has weird vibes, mechs. Feels like someone pressed pause on the universe, and I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo. But hey—your bot Blaster doesn’t quit. If there’s a way out, I’ll find it. In the meantime, might as well keep this record spinning. Somebody out there’s gotta be listening."
He paused, venting slowly, forcing himself to focus on the rhythm of his own pedes. “Keep it together, Blaster. Big stage, small crowd. Just gotta find the exit, play the set, and get out of this loop.”
With that, he pressed on, deeper into the endless corridors. The shadows stretched longer, the hum grew louder, and the walls seemed to breathe ever so slightly. The rhythmic clicks of his steps were the only familiar things to keep him company. Occasionally, a screen buzzed to life, displaying a burst of static, a face for half a second—then nothing. Each time he tried to focus on it, the screen would blink out.
The air smelled faintly of ionized dust, like an old speaker coil that hadn’t played in centuries. Blaster’s usual energy kept him moving, but unease coiled beneath it, creeping into his tone even as he kept up the performance.
As he passed another flickering monitor, a voice broke through—garbled, stretched, like a tape warping in slow motion.
> "...repor—ing... Autobot... casualty... dat—"
Blaster focused on trying to match the wavelength, but the screen was blank again, only static whispering into the silence.
“Yo. Who’s there?” he asked aloud, but static drowned his voice out.
He forced a laugh, though it came out thin. Play it cool. Play it cool.
[Audio File 4 – Closing Thoughts]
"Well, first real transmission from the Archives—‘cause that’s what I’m calling it, dig?—is officially logged. If you’re picking this up, congratulations—you’ve tuned into the strangest station in existence. Blaster out... for now."
He cut the log, but the static didn’t fade. Somewhere far ahead, another flicker of light—another shape—wavered just beyond reach. And somewhere inside him, a spark of certainty whispered: he was no longer alone.
> "...Blaster... stay... stay... stay..."
Blaster’s grin faltered. His optics flicked down the infinite row of databanks. He straightened his posture and started walking again.
And the Archives hummed on.
Notes:
Made at the same time as all the other chapters, only ironed out and completed now. Will I post the rest? Will I not? The world may never know.
Chapter 3: Echoes in the System
Notes:
New tags to reflect the atmosphere. Also I'm really tired, so I apologize for any mistakes in this one.
Chapter Text
Blaster’s optics adjusted to the dim glow of the next corridor, the hum of the floor beneath him now a low growl. Every step felt heavier, like the air itself resisted his movement. He paused, scanning the walls, the empty shelving, the faint pulse of distant lights that seemed just out of sync with reality.
He tapped his comms, almost instinctively.
[Audio File 5 – System Check]
"Broadcast check, one-two, one-two… yeah. Reporting from the Archives: still me. Still stuck. Still no exit, no signal, no reply— well, none from outside the Archives, anyhow. I’ve walked... Primus knows how long. Everything looks the same. Every hallway, every flicker. I even dropped one of my spare energon rations on the floor, doubled back about—oh, about an hour later?—and there it was. Untouched. Like the place reset around me. Creepy, huh? Anyway, you’re tuned into Blaster FM— AM? The signals are strange here— straight from the void. Hope you’re enjoying the ambience, ‘cause I’m not."
This hallway was new. Not the same few he'd been walking in an endless loop through for however long it had been. This one was more worn down, he noted, stepping over an odd, jagged crack in the floor. A support beam was out of place, but it looked as though it was intentional— or at least it was repaired after the fact. It was bolted into the ceiling, still doing its job despite the bizarre new angle. Some of the monitors were cracked, broken, and knocked onto the floor. Strangely, there was no broken glass on the floor.
One of the few screens left unbroken flickered to life in the distance. Blaster froze mid-step. Something shifted behind it—a shadow, angular and jagged, but not fully formed. It clutched at the monitor, almost possessively. He leaned closer, trying to get a read, but the shadow dissolved the moment he focused, and the screen shattered.
He swallowed a vented sigh, forcing a laugh he didn’t feel. “Alright, Archives,” he muttered, pacing cautiously forward. “You want to freak me out? Well, you've done it. Congratulations.” Still, the feeling in his spark grew heavier, like a thousand tiny sensors were tuned into him, waiting for a single misstep.
The walls themselves seemed to pulse in time with the hum beneath his pedes. Every corner he turned repeated the last one just slightly off: a shelf a hair too far forward, a terminal a shade too bright. Blaster’s fingers brushed along a rail, following it for balance—and caught a faint vibration he hadn’t noticed before. Not from the floor. From somewhere else. Something… moving. Blaster’s pedes shifted, testing the vibration. It wasn’t random; it had rhythm, a pulse that matched the flicker of the lights above. He ran a hand across a data terminal, leaving a streak in the dust thick enough to choke an intake. The panel pulsed to life for a moment, spilling dim blue light across his plating. He strained his optics down the corridor, and a hologram flickered. A Cybertronian soldier with no identifying brand—helm dented, voice caught in a loop:
> "...status green... status green... status green..."
Blaster leaned closer, optics narrowing suspiciously. “Hey—yo, soldier, you read me?”
The projection didn’t respond. The same words, looping endlessly. The tone, however, was wrong—flat, stripped of identity, like a recording that had been copied too many times. After a few cycles, it fizzled back into nothing.
He muttered under his breath, voice tighter than usual. “Whoever—or whatever—you are… I hear you. I see you. But I don’t stop for ghosts.” He tapped the recorder.
[Audio File 6 – Encounter Log]
"Yeah, so, a hologram just fizzled out. Not the first time, either. I’ve been seeing these—call ‘em echoes. Ghost signals. Spark records stuck on repeat. They look like bots but... they ain’t them, you know? Just fragments. Some of ‘em Autobots. Some... not. Doesn’t matter. They don’t hear me. Don’t see me. Just keep running the same line till the tape burns out. Kinda like Jazz’s mixtapes—but way less catchy.”
The hum under his pedes deepened, rising into a bass note that vibrated straight through his frame. The shelves rattled in unison, a soft metallic tremor like thousands of voices whispering all at once. Blaster froze, his optics darting from corner to corner, but the corridor remained empty—too empty.
A noise cut through the static. Not feedback. Not machinery. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, echoing down the corridor behind him. The rhythm was wrong—too steady, too slow. They didn’t belong to him.
Blaster’s vents hitched, his bravado slipping for half a beat before he forced it back. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he called, his voice bouncing off the shelves and coming back warped. “Creepin’ ain’t my style, but I’ll give you points for dramatic effect.”
Then the hum shifted. The lights overhead dimmed, one by one, like the air itself was being pulled toward whatever was following him. The shadows stretched long and jagged across the shelving, until one of them didn’t shrink back when the light returned. It lingered, tall and angular, frozen just at the edge of his vision.
He picked up his pace, pedes tapping against the smooth floor, following the faint vibration. The farther he went, the more the halls shifted—corners stretching, terminals rotating slightly as if the place itself was tilting to block his path. Every time he thought he had a straight route, the rows bent back, leading him toward shadows that weren’t there moments ago.
A screen lit up to his right, sputtering blue light. Blaster flinched away, raising his fists to protect himself. Across its surface, a jagged outline formed for an instant—a warped version of himself, nothing like he’d ever looked. His optics were deep pits of black, his mouth was gone. And then it disappeared. Static hissed across the screen as if it had exhaled, leaving Blaster to swallow the sudden chill crawling through his sparkplate.
He stopped, venting slowly. “I don’t fade. I don’t loop. I don't die quietly.” He pressed a hand to a rail, feeling the faint tremor again, and realized—it was following him. The echo or the Archives itself, he wasn't certain.
He kept walking, but the space was shifting. The hallways that had felt straight began to tilt, the floor subtly sloping until he felt off-balance, but nothing more. Screens flickered ahead of him, each catching his own reflection—distorted, delayed, not matching his movements.
For a moment, one reflection smiled after he stopped.
[Audio File 7 – Personal Note]
"Okay. Uh. Yeah, not gonna lie—starting to feel the nerves. I mean, I’ve played some wild gigs, but this? This is different. There’s something... watching. Haven’t seen ‘em, but the air changes, like the bass drops in the wrong track. Real low. Real heavy. And—hah—hey, if you’re out there listening, don’t panic. Your bot’s got this. I always bounce back. Always."
Blaster slowed his pace, the echo of his own footsteps chasing him down the corridor. The air pressed close, heavy with static, and the lights above sputtered in uneven rhythm, like a broken track skipping beats. He passed another wall of shelves, each one lined with terminals that should have been blank but instead flickered with half-formed symbols, scripts that shifted the instant his optics lingered on them.
He turned a corner and found the same crack in the flooring he had stepped over minutes ago, the same crooked support beam leaning in the same impossible angle. The loop had reset. Only this time, the light overhead buzzed louder, harsh and uneven, filling the silence with a pressure that made his chest feel too tight.
The shelving rattled softly as he moved past, though no vibration carried through the floor this time. A bookend of terminals ahead powered on in sequence, left to right, casting a cold glow down the hall like a stage being lit just for him. Their screens flared bright for a second, and for that second, dozens of hollow faces stared back—faces he recognized, Autobots and Decepticons alike, frozen mid-sentence, their mouths open as if speaking words the static refused to carry.
He stepped closer, and the faces melted into nothing, leaving only jagged patterns of light. The hum beneath the floor spiked again, stronger now. It was familiar, mechanical—it was pulse, a rhythm, a living beat that picked up its tempo with every step Blaster took.
Further down the corridor, the shelving bent inward as though the structure itself had shifted, forcing the passage narrower and narrower. The walls pressed too close, and the shadows stretched long and sharp across the floor, crowding in until they seemed to reach for him, black fingers scraping just shy of his plating.
Another hologram appeared further down the hall. A tall, narrow frame, the light rippling over it in stutters. Its voice was garbled, but Blaster picked out certain syllables:
> "...report... report... report..."
Blaster froze. This one didn’t loop. It reacted. The head twitched, turning slightly toward him. The signal warped with a piercing shriek before vanishing in a burst of static that sent a cold pulse through his chestplate.
He stood there in the dim glow of the screens, vents running faster than he’d admit.
[Audio File 8 – Closing Transmission]
"Right. Okay. Guess that’s my cue to wrap this one up. Whoever’s tuned in—you’re hearing me, right? Tell me you’re hearing me. I don’t like the idea that I’m just talking to static. Anyway, Blaster out... and moving on."
He clicked the recorder closed. The silence was worse than the static. As he took a step forward, the whisper returned—soft, broken, too close to his audio receptors.
> "...Blaster... report... report..."
The words didn’t come from a monitor. They came from behind him.
He turned, but there was nothing there. Just the endless rows, humming like a song with no end.