Muteballad was sitting cross-legged, balanced on the glass-thin railing on the twentieth floor balcony of the Concitavimus Musical Arts Gallery in Betacron. He was leaning forward at a sharp angle, optics off, trembling with exertion, and mumbling fanatically to himself.

His right foot twisted down underneath his crossed legs so that it tapped the glass lightly, but it was enough to vibrate the microseismograph he had attached to the side of the glass. It was also enough to cause the glass he was precariously sitting on to tremble. But his one-man audience wasn't too concerned. After all, Terrorsoar had never seen anyone do anything like what Muteballad was doing before. He was too distracted by Muteballad himself to see how he was sitting.

Terrorsoar could hear the instrument in Muteballad's lap, a synthesizer, humming harshly. But with his CPU connected to the synthesizer by an infrared beam through his optics, Muteballad couldn't. All he could hear was the music he was playing, and he saw the music he had created but hadn't played yet.

Muteballad's right hand skipped across the synthesizers' twelve-note keyboard and entered segment after segment of music, occasionally clicking one of the buttons above the keyboard to go up or down an octave or to delete and rerecord a segment. His left hand maneuvered the other controls nearly as rapidly, altering the pitch and volume for each segment of music as he entered it, scrolling blindly down a touch pad and selecting different instruments for each segment, and continuously going down to the green button at the bottom of the control pad to save each segment to the song as it was finished.

Terrorsoar thought he saw something out of the corner of his optics and turned to look at the glass door leading onto the balcony. Nothing. He looked away nervously, knowing he wasn't supposed to be here. He had asked- begged, actually- Armature to let him come to the performance that the owner of Concitavimus, Discharge, was putting on so his creation, Muteballad, could play. Terrorsoar had never been exposed to audile arts before, since Armature didn't care for them, and was curious. He had convinced his creator to let him come by saying he merely wished to understand different art styles.

But there was another motive behind Terrorsoar's actions. He wanted to meet Muteballad, someone who seemed to him to be a kindred spirit: a fully sentient art display, a fellow sufferer. That was why Terrorsoar had risked slipping away from Armature to find him.

Terrorsoar gave a startled jump as Muteballad lurched forward over the synthesizer and his mutterings increased in intensity. Muteballad's right hand seemed to be stumbling over the keyboard now, rather than skipping over it. He started deleting and rerecording segments more often than he saved them. His mutterings were interspersed with snatches of melody as he instinctively hummed to himself, struggling to find the corresponding notes.

Terrorsoar's head snapped up as someone growled near the door. He backed into the corner created by the balcony rail and wall to stay out of the newcomer's line of sight, but it wasn't Armature after all. The newcomer was bulky, colored like smoldering coals, and had some sort tank alt-mode. Terrorsoar recognized him vaguely as the owner of the Concitavimus, but didn't know anything else about him.

Not noticing Terrorsoar, Discharge continued to scowl at Muteballad, arms crossed. Yet again, Muteballad had messed up. Discharge was relying on him to be able to perform this song tonight for an audience of musicians he had invited. Hopefully, Muteballad's skill would convince them to sell some of their synthesized songs to put in Discharge's gallery. But he couldn't very well do that if Muteballad couldn't play the song!

Muteballad's trembling extended to his voice. His foot, still keeping time with the mi-graph, fell off beat. Discharge swore inaudibly and waited, knowing Muteballad would have to give up soon.

Keeping on beat was vital. The microseismograph, or mi-graph, that relayed information to the synthesizer picked up the strongest vibration spikes around and the synthesizer used these to map out each musical segment. Then, using the keyboard, the musician played the parts for each segment and the synthesizer inserted them in the proper slot. The actual sound took a long time to create, but the slots they would fill were mapped out dozens of measures ahead. A slowing down or speeding up in the beat led the synthesizer to believe the tempo of the song had increased or decreased, and it altered the inserted segments accordingly when it reached that point. Falling off beat ruined the rhythm for the rest of the song.

Sure enough, Muteballad's optics lit up again and broke his infrared connection with the synthesizer. He sighed deeply, sounding like air whistling through a brass pipe, unaware of Discharge standing silently behind him. Terrorsoar tensed, waiting for the scolding Muteballad was sure to receive. He understood Discharge's tensed posture. He'd seen Armature use it when Terrorsoar tried too hard to have a real conversation with a patron.

"Can't you do anything right?" Discharge snapped, standing rigid. Muteballad's head jerked up with a gasp, causing him to lose balance and crash onto the balcony floor with a variety of clanks and pained whimpers. Terrorsoar winced. Muteballad's right leg was hooked awkwardly over the balcony rail and one of his long, thin wings appeared to be bent. But he didn't seem to be too bothered by this.

Of course, Terrorsoar reminded himself, Muteballad must have been an audile. He wouldn't feel the pain as sharply.

Muteballad looked at his master upside-down, sprawled out with his synthesizer lying several feet away "I can play just fine," he protested, trying to stand. His leg unhooked itself suddenly and he fell back on his skidplate. Something fragile in his back cracked. "Ow ..."

Terrorsoar frowned. Muteballad had a musical voice. Quite literally. It wasn't a particularly pretty voice, at least as far as Terrorsoar could tell, but every word he said came out sounding like musical tones. It was like a voice fed through a synthesizer and coming out the other end as an instrument. Perhaps it was pleasant to audiles, but Terrorsoar suspected that if he ever had a long conversation with Muteballad it would eventually begin to grate on his nerves.

"You're supposed to be able to play 'Iacon March' in less that four breems!" Discharge yelled. "And yet you're still unable to even make it to the ending!"

"I can make it to the ending. I didn't feel like it," Muteballad said, rebelliously locking his large, violet optics with Discharge's smaller ones. "I'll be able to play it."

"You'd better." Discharge reached down, grabbed Muteballad's left wrist, and hauled him to his feet. He squeaked with surprise.

"You remember what I promised to do if you make me look bad in front of anyone else," Discharge growled, tightening his grip on Muteballad's arm.

"Promises, promises," Muteballad muttered. He'd apparently dulled his tactile sensors. Terrorsoar could think of no other way he could bear that grip.

Discharge twisted Muteballad's arm, this time eliciting a wince from both Muteballad and Terrorsoar. His brilliant vermillion hand almost glowed like fire against Muteballad's dull, green and gold arm. "If you mess this up, I'll forcibly program the next song you need to know directly into your CPU!"

Muteballad's optics widened. That was a threat that got his attention. Terrorsoar involuntarily let out a soft, surprised noise.

Discharge whirled at the intruder's sound. His optics, Terrorsoar saw, were indigo, but they seemed black against his orange face. Terrorsoar couldn't move, staring into Discharge's optics, waiting for the larger tank to approach him.

Armature had told Terrorsoar that he couldn't tell anyone that the living statues were sparked, because slavery was illegal on Cybertron and the police were especially alert for it in Betacron, where it was common for artists to enslave their creations. Artists, in return, had become more paranoid and went to extreme measure to make sure no one found out their secrets. If Terrorsoar got away, he could tell someone that Muteballad wasn't working for Discharge willingly. But, of course, in Betacron most little crimes were simply ignored by the police in favor of pursuing worse criminals. Critics and bad patrons disappeared in art galleries all the time. Artists could go to extreme measures to protect their secrets, and Discharge was probably no exception.

The door to the balcony slid quietly open. "Terrorsoar! What are doing out here?"

"Master!" For once, Terrorsoar was glad to see Armature. He flew to the artist's side and huddled behind him in pretend fear. "I'm sorry I wandered away! But I got stuck out on the balcony and it was so high up, and I couldn't find my way back in ..." Terrorsoar faked a shudder. In truth, he hadn't been afraid of heights since his eleventh year after creation, two years earlier. But he hadn't told Armature that yet, and it was useful for Armature to believe Terrorsoar was still under his thumb. And technically, Terrorsoar was. But only because he had nowhere else to go.

Armature gave Terrorsoar an exasperated look and muttered, "We will discuss this later, steel rose," then turned to address Discharge. He had to make sure he didn't think Terrorsoar was sentient. That could be disastrous for Armature.

Terrorsoar realized that both Armature and Discharge were afraid of the same thing. Neither would turn the other in to the authorities even if they knew each other's secret, for fear of their own secrets being exposed. Out of Armature's line of sight, Terrorsoar chuckled quietly at the thought.

A moment too late, he noticed Muteballad watching him. But Muteballad only smiled in return.

"I apologize for the inconvenience," Armature said smoothly, stepping up to Discharge. "I hope you were not bothered by my statue? His programming is a bit of an experiment, I admit. There are a few ... annoyances I've yet to work out."

Discharge stared at Terrorsoar disbelievingly. "A statue?"

"A 'living' statue, yes. I doubt one with your taste in art would have come to my gallery before, but I assure you that Terrorsoar runs on mere programming," Armature said, implying that even Discharge should have heard of living statues somewhere.

Discharge hadn't, but he knew that there was only one sculptor coming to his musician's performance. "You're Armature? How good of you to come!" he said with a false, exaggerated smile. He wasn't pleased that a tactile artist had asked to come, but publicity was publicity. "I was ... surprised when I heard you wished to attend. But of course I was honored. And you even brought one of your ... statues." He shot an uneasy look at Terrorsoar. "You say he's insentient?"

"That is correct," Armature said with a slight nod, giving Terrorsoar a questioning look. Terrorsoar had told Armature that Discharge had sent a message inviting him to the performance. Terrorsoar himself had actually been the one to send a message to Discharge hinting that Armature might want an invitation, which was of course not true. It was one of the sneakiest things Terrorsoar had done in his brief, sheltered life. He was quite proud of it.

Terrorsoar returned Armature's look with a carefully blank one, as if he hadn't a clue what Discharge was talking about. Armature accepted it and turned back to Discharge.

Discharge had obviously relaxed, now that he believed Terrorsoar wasn't sentient. That meant no witnesses. His false smile smoothed into a more relieved one, though it was still obviously fake. Terrorsoar scowled at Discharge. He shouldn't be able to get away with what he was doing to Muteballad! Armature was bad enough, but Terrorsoar couldn't do anything about that yet. Maybe Terrorsoar would turn Discharge in. Just as soon as he got up the nerve to run away from Armature for good.

"I must admit, my lack of knowledge in the audile arts is rather embarrassing," Armature said, quite unembarrassed. "So, you will have to excuse me if I am unable to properly critique your musician's performance."

"Well, I'll have to fix that, then!" Discharge said, like any good host would, sounding overly enthusiastic. Any opportunity to show off was an opportunity not to be missed. "Would you like a tour of my gallery, perhaps?"

"I suppose there is nothing else planned before the performance begins?" Armature asked. He didn't attempt to sound as excited as Discharge.

"No, not really," Discharge said. "Unless you'd like to wait outside the auditorium with the other guests?"

Armature's lips tightened. He disliked socializing with other artists, and he didn't care about music in the least. But he also disliked listening to other artists brag. It was a no-win situation, Terrorsoar saw with smug satisfaction. "Very well," Armature sighed.

"Excellent!" Discharge said, smiling broadly. He activated the sliding glass door and gestured through it. "After you."

Armature walked through without a glance at his host, and Discharge left the doorway to walk alongside him. Each trusted that their creations would loyally follow. Reluctantly, Terrorsoar and Muteballad trailed behind.

Discharge, as most artists are prone to do, began bragging about his gallery as soon as he reached Armature's side. Muteballad turned to Terrorsoar and said quietly, so Discharge and Armature couldn't hear, "Well, I have no idea what exactly it is you do, and despite the fact that you're most likely much better at whatever it is you do than I am at what I do, I humbly invite you to gawk at my collection of other people's work!"

Terrorsoar stared at Muteballad, feeling let down and more than a little confused. He had thought Muteballad was more like him, not like a typical artist. It took him a moment to notice that Muteballad was watching him expectantly, waiting for a response. Muteballad was being sarcastic, mocking Discharge. Terrorsoar was used to tactile communication, where comments were accompanied with hand and facial gestures that betrayed the true meaning. But now that Terrorsoar knew what to look for, he could tell that Muteballad had altered his voice to imitate his master's false, chipper enthusiasm. Terrorsoar was impressed. Despite the odd background noise in his voice, Muteballad has mimicked Discharge very well.

After a quick check to make sure Armature wasn't paying attention – he wasn't – Terrorsoar said, "Being the genius I am, I could easily find out what it is you do, how well you do it, why you do it, your materials supplier, your best friend, your creator, and your materials supplier's best friend's creator. But because I am such a genius, I prefer to block out the rest of the world and stew in my own brilliance. I will accompany you, but ignore every word you say." Terrorsoar couldn't imitate Armature's voice at all, but could perfectly copy his bored, slightly annoyed expression and dismissive shrug.

Muteballad quickly closed his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. "That was pretty good," he whispered around his giggles.

"I've had practice," Terrorsoar said. "What else am I supposed to do when Armature's looking the other way? Just stand there?"

Muteballad clamped a hand over his mouth to smother another burst of laughter. He glanced forward to see if they'd been caught yet, trembling with suppressed glee.

Terrorsoar gave him a quizzical look, almost tempted to laugh as well. He hadn't thought he was that funny. "I guess you're pretty easily amused?"

Muteballad nodded vigorously. "I don't get to have any fun here," he mumbled from under his hand. Terrorsoar nodded slightly in acknowledgement. He knew what living under someone else's command was like.

Once Muteballad had sobered up and put his hand down, he said, "I don't think they'd notice if we left. Can I give you a better tour?" He looked at Terrorsoar eagerly. Terrorsoar could tell that he wanted to give a tour for a very different reason than Discharge had. Perhaps this would finally be an opportunity for them to talk to each other about ... Terrorsoar didn't know what. Maybe what they had in common, the fact that they were both property.

Terrorsoar glanced at his master. True, Armature wasn't paying any attention to Discharge and his arrogant speeches, but he wasn't paying attention to Terrorsoar either. He'd get in trouble later for wandering off twice in the same day, no doubt, and Armature would threaten to lock him in the gallery, sever his motor cables, smelt him to make a more obedient statue, and probably a few dozen other things. But by now, Terrorsoar was certain that Armature would do none of these things. He hadn't yet, and Terrorsoar had done worse in the past few years than wander off a couple of times.

"All right, let's go," he said.

"Okay!" Muteballad said brightly. "You follow me. I'll lead."

The Concitavimus Musical Arts Gallery looked like a black cylinder with colored squares scattered around to serve as windows and a few random balconies. Standard, except that part of the middle of the tower missing. The building was literally carved out, so that from the side a semicircle began to cut through Concitavimus about twenty stories up, carved halfway through the building's width, and continued up another ten stories. Thin grey pillars ran from the ceiling to the floor, somehow keeping the top half of the cylinder from collapsing on its lower half. This was where the guests arrived, and the auditorium where Muteballad would perform later on was behind a wall in the half of the carved-out section that wasn't exposed to the rest of the city.

Compared to the lofty entrance, the halls of the main gallery closed in on Terrorsoar, aggravating his claustrophobia. Dozens of halls seemed to fit on a single story, like a maze. A light strip ran along the ceiling of every narrow hallway, but it didn't make much of an impression on the black walls and floor. Imbedded in the walls at even intervals were small, glowing squares like the windows outside, usually all one color per hall, but occasionally a few had different colors. Terrorsoar couldn't tell what these squares were for but he could feel the throbbing energy fields emanating off of each one, pushing against his own.

"Come this way!" Muteballad said, turning down a hallway with blue squares. "We're almost near the good part."

The good part? Terrorsoar wasn't even sure what the purpose of this gallery was. How does one put audile arts on display? He had expected, perhaps, a bunch of rooms with a different song playing in each through speakers. He didn't know what to make of this place.

Muteballad turned down another hallway, one with white squares and a few pale yellow ones, and stopped. "This is where Discharge keeps the best ones," he said proudly.

"The best what?" Terrorsoar finally asked peevishly. "All I see is a bunch of squares. Where's the audile stuff?"

"In the squares," Muteballad said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. "Look." He put his right hand on the nearest square. Terrorsoar could feel the energy coming off of it shift a little. "You try."

Terrorsoar looked at the square suspiciously, then tentatively put one hand on it. He jerked it back in surprise. It had felt a little bit like a touch-sculpture, but rather than staying in his fingertips it had traveled up his arm and through his body, pulsing and vibrating. After a moment, Terrorsoar put his hand back on. Whatever the square was doing, it felt good.

"Do you hear it?" Muteballad asked with a grin.

Terrorsoar looked at him blankly. "Hear?" But as soon as he spoke he realized that, if he focused, he could faintly hear a sound. The square had been designed to vibrate a sound wave down the arm of whoever touched it and up to the audile sensors, but because he was a tactile Terrorsoar had been affected differently. "I do now. I feel it more than I hear it."

It was Muteballad's turn to look blank. "Feel?" He paused. "Oh. I never noticed that before." He took his hand off the square. "These were Discharge's invention. They're actually cubes that go back into the wall, with a synthesized song programmed in to each one. Discharge can't play, so he pays other musicians to program songs for him. Most of these cubes have ambient music, so they can repeat endlessly. The ones with different colors," Muteballad pointed at a few of the pale yellow squares, "have definite beginnings and endings, so they aren't on all the time. They only start when someone touches them."

Muteballad gestured for Terrorsoar to come and stand in front of one of the yellow squares. "The songs that actually start and end are the better ones," he said, and then added with a bit more pride, "I played this one. Discharge didn't like it, but I programmed it into a cube and put it in the gallery without him noticing. It's been here half a year and he doesn't know yet." He looked at Terrorsoar, waiting for him to touch the cube.

Terrorsoar did. For a moment he didn't feel anything. Then the sound waves started, at first barely affecting him and then strengthening. He could barely hear the actual music, but it certainly felt good.

"Do you like it?" Muteballad asked, putting his left hand on the cube. Terrorsoar nodded, not wanting to speak and mess up the vibrations. Muteballad smiled broadly, pleased with the minor praise he had received.

A particularly strong sound wave passed over them. Muteballad pulled back his hand with a sharp gasp. Terrorsoar looked at him. "Are you okay?"

"My wrist ..." Muteballad rubbed his left wrist with his other hand, wincing slightly. Terrorsoar remembered earlier when Discharge had grabbed it and hauled Muteballad to his feet. "Something in it is injured."

"Discharge is pretty violent, isn't he?" Terrorsoar said.

"No, this just happens a lot," Muteballad sighed. "When Discharge built me, he wanted me to look fragile and naive. He thought that my audience would feel sorry when they saw me, a lightweight, fragile flier with translucent wings hanging down to my knees and big innocent optics. And then they'd be shocked when I sat down and played so well. Instead, I look like a normal Cybertronian. I just break more easily."

"Can I see?" Terrorsoar asked, holding out a hand. Muteballad nodded and let Terrorsoar hold his wrist.

Terrorsoar was surprised at how light it was. And he could tell from the texture of the metal that he was made out of cheap, thin materials. Muteballad was more fragile than most of Armature's statues, which were built to be barely able to move. He was designed like a warrior, but now Terrorsoar could see that the design only touched Muteballad's exterior. He was now clearly not built for hard work. The way his fingers tapered to points would help him manipulate his synthesizer more easily, and the shape of his legs and torso were aesthetic rather than practical. "Discharge made you like this?"

"He's a bad engineer," Muteballad lamented. He stood still as Terrorsoar felt the shape of his wrist, trying to figure out what had happened to it. Terrorsoar traced the dents Discharge's fingers had made, and then felt his own wrist to try to see what Discharge must have crushed.

"You're a tactile, aren't you?" Muteballad said suddenly. "Can you fix my wrist?"

Terrorsoar looked up. "What?"

"Armature built you, so you've probably seen him build other things. You know a lot about anatomy, right?"

"I know some," Terrorsoar said uncertainly.

"Good!" Muteballad took back his wrist long enough to open a panel on the side. He held his wrist back out to Terrorsoar, showing him the inner workings. "Can you fix this?"

Terrorsoar looked at Muteballad's wrist hesitantly. "I've never tried to repair anything before," he said. "I don't think I can help much."

"Try?" Muteballad asked. "Please?"

Terrorsoar took another look. Now, he thought he could see what was wrong. A piston appeared to have been knocked crooked. That would make moving his wrist more difficult. "Try moving your hand a little," he said. Muteballad obediently bent his hand back and forth. The piston was acting funny, scraping a little when it should have been moving smoothly.

"I think I see what's wrong," Terrorsoar said. "Should I try to ...?"

Muteballad nodded. "If you can reach in."

Terrorsoar carefully reached in and started moving wires and cables aside to reach the piston. He was surprised that he had actually agreed to do this. He was no medic, and in truth didn't know much about anatomy at all. But Muteballad needed the help and had asked Terrorsoar.

That was the main reason he was doing this. Terrorsoar had never been useful to anyone before. He had always been a toy, on display for others to look at and admire. He may have been the only intelligence being Armature had ever created, but his function was still that of a statue. For the first time someone wanted him to do something useful. How could he say no?

Terrorsoar carefully pushed at the bent section of the piston, trying to straighten it out. It was fragile too; what if he broke it? He readjusted his grip and kept pushing, even more gently. What if he wasn't putting enough pressure on it now?...

Something popped. Terrorsoar gasped, then realized that it had been the piston straightening out. "I think I fixed it," he said quickly, before Muteballad could ask about the gasp. He pulled his hand out quickly, but bumped a group of wires. Had he broken any? Were any crossed?

Muteballad closed the panel on his wrist and started flexing his hand before Terrorsoar could check. "It's good!" he said, smiling. "And just in time for the performance, in ..." Muteballad checked his internal chronometer and jumped. "Half a breem! We need to go!" He grabbed Terrorsoar's forearm and tugged, already hovering and heading down the hallway. Terrorsoar quickly hovered as well and let himself be led.

"If we're late, Discharge is going to give me a very violent piece of his mind," Muteballad muttered. "And I am really sick of getting slagged."

Terrorsoar had a feeling Muteballad said that quite often.

Armature sighed with relief when Discharge opened a door and revealed that they had come up to the stairs and back to the open-air lobby outside the auditorium. That had probably ranked among the top ten most boring little tours a gallery owner had ever taken him on, though most were so close together it was hard to pick only ten. He hadn't listened to more than one out of every five of Discharge's comments. Though it amused him when he realized that Discharge hadn't actually created anything in Concitavimus, but bought music from other musicians. He was a patron in his own gallery.

"Well, here we are! And just in time for Muteballad to perform ..." Discharge turned around. "Muteballad?"

Armature also turned, realizing Terrorsoar was missing as well. He only frowned slightly on the outside, but inside was berating himself for letting Terrorsoar slip out of his sight again. He had already gotten away once today!

"Yes, master?" Muteballad said, hovering from around a corner quickly, Terrorsoar following. "I'm here."

"We fell a little bit behind," Terrorsoar said with a sheepish smile.

"A little behind?" Armature narrowed his optics slightly. "Terrorsoar, we were never down the hallway you came from."

"Um – yes – I mean ..." Terrorsoar stuttered. "We ... took a wrong turn, too."

"Oh, really?" Armature said. He grasped Terrorsoar's arm to keep him from slipping away again. He would let Terrorsoar get away with this, but only because he didn't want to tell Terrorsoar they were leaving in front of their host. That could be embarrassing, and besides Discharge might start wondering why Armature would punish a statue he claimed was insentient. "Come. The performance you wanted to see so badly is about to start."

Terrorsoar automatically tried to jerk his arm back. After Muteballad's light hand on it, guiding him only, Armature's hand felt heavy and controlling. Like a handcuff.

Armature gave him a sharp look. "You do still want to see this, steel rose?"

"Yes, master," Terrorsoar said softly. He stopped struggling and let Armature pull him into the auditorium.

"You know this song, right?" Discharge asked for the umpteenth time, checking once again to make sure the radio signals between the synthesizer and auditorium speakers were working properly.

"Yes, I do," Muteballad said. "I know what I'm doing. I'll play it well."

"You had better," Discharge said threateningly. "Whether or not any of these musicians are willing to contribute to my gallery depends on whether or not you can impress them. You're certainly capable of playing 'Iacon March.' I designed you specifically for the purpose of working a synthesizer. But you didn't practice nearly long enough."

"I only stopped practicing long enough to learn one song!" Muteballad protested. "And it was a twentieth-century Earth rock song! They only have five or six parts."

"I did some research on that 'song' of yours. It's actually a medley of nine songs, over five breems long together," Discharge said. He picked up a stool, looked around quickly for somewhere to put it, and then shoved it into Muteballad's arms. "If you succeed, we could get some of the best musicians in Betacron to give Concitavimus favorable reviews. And that means more people willing to sell their songs to me." He hurried around, messing with the wires and connections between all the equipment. Finally satisfied, he darted through a door and onto the auditorium stage to introduce Muteballad.

"But do I get anything out of this show? No. I just play my piece and then get ignored, but Discharge gets all the praise and admiration," Muteballad muttered ruefully. Discharge didn't even know how to turn on a synthesizer, much less play one.

As he heard the audience applaud politely, Muteballad heaved another pipelike sigh and picked up his synthesizer. That was his cue to go on.

"Here's our musician himself, Muteballad!" Discharge announced as Muteballad came up beside him and set his stool on the stage. "He'll be playing a traditional song from the Great War, 'Iacon March' ..."

"Traditional Autobot song from the Great War," Muteballad muttered. He thought details like that were important. After all, just because there was peace now didn't mean there hadn't been faction divisions in the past.

Discharge shot Muteballad a furious look but continued speaking, his false smile still firmly in place. "So I hope you all enjoy the performance. Thank you." The audience clapped again as Discharge walked down a small set of stairs on the side of the stage to his seat in the front row and left Muteballad to begin.

Muteballad glanced out once over the audience, then ignored them. He got on his stool, bent over to drop the mi-graph on the ground, sat on his left foot, and balanced his synthesizer on his leg. It always annoyed Discharge that Muteballad didn't try to impress while he was preparing to play, by placing things with a bit more of a flourish or positioning his synthesizer on something a little more graceful than his folded leg. Muteballad didn't care what anyone thought of his preparations. Besides, he liked annoying Discharge.

Terrorsoar leaned forward slightly from his seat, noticing every time Muteballad flexed his left hand unusually or fumbled a little with his fingers. He knew that he must have done something to mess up. There was no way that someone who knew as little about anatomy as he did could try to repair such delicate circuitry and not mess up badly.

Muteballad turned on his synthesizer, locked his vision onto the infrared sensor, and turned off his optics. The synthesizer's programs surged through the invisible connection and into Muteballad's mind, turning the musician into an extension of the instrument. His sense of touch dimmed to the point that he could only faintly feel the synthesizer under his fingertips. His hearing was enhanced and refined to the point that he could hear the creak of every slight movement his audience made. His sight was completely replaced by the input from the synthesizer. He was completely oblivious to the audience listening to him impassively, Discharge watching him carefully, and Terrorsoar hoping with shaking, clenched hands that his amateur repair job had been adequate.

All Muteballad sensed was silence. Within the workings of a synthesizer, sound was not only heard, but also felt and seen. Now, he heard/saw/felt synth-silence, an empty stretch of time within a synthesizer, waiting to be filled with sound. Muteballad started tapping his numb foot against the stage floor, and the silence began to ripple as it divided into roughly four-second segments with each tap, giving the synth-silence rhythm.

Terrorsoar, not knowing that on a synthesizer a rhythm had to be put in place before the music could start, wondered if something had gone wrong. He glanced at Armature, hoping his master couldn't see his apprehension. Armature was dully watching Muteballad's movements, but didn't seem to be waiting for any music. It hadn't been his idea to come, and he didn't care about the music anyway.

Terrorsoar glanced at the rest of the audience to see if they were bothered by how long Muteballad was taking. They were sitting patiently, so Terrorsoar reluctantly leaned back to wait for the music.

Blindly and senselessly working the touch-pad with his left hand, Muteballad scrolled through a list of instruments. The synthesizer told him which instrument was currently selected. He found one of the proper pitch and style, clicked a button to begin recording with his left hand, and began playing on the twelve-note keyboard with his right hand.

He entered the part this instrument would play for the first four-second segment, playing much more quickly than four seconds. The program would automatically stretch the part out to fill the proper time space. His right hand skipped up only momentarily to click a button and save the part, and his left hand began scrolling to find the next instrument. In the divided synth-silence, Muteballad heard/saw/felt the first segment fill with a jagged line symbolizing the crests and troughs of a sound wave. He started recording the next part.

Muteballad played the notes for twelve instruments, then snapped his left hand down, using motor memory to find the large green button at the bottom of the control pad. All twelve sets of notes were layered over each other, stretched to fit four seconds, and inserted in the first segment of synth-silence to create the first four seconds of music, synth-sound within the synthesizer itself. The first segment immediately started playing out of the auditorium speakers while Muteballad started recording the second segment. He wouldn't have to worry about it ending before he could finish the second segment, since the first segment had taken him a little less than three seconds to make, and now he wouldn't have to search for the instruments again. The synthesizer rotated through the list he had made for the first segment as he recorded the next part.

Muteballad could hear the music, offbeat from the rhythm he was still creating with the mi-graph and clashing with the synth-sound he was playing inside the synthesizer. He heard and heard/saw/felt three rhythms and two tunes simultaneously, sorted them all out from each other with the help of the synthesizer, and played on without confusing a single beat or note. Learning how to play a synthesizer was often the easy part; it was learning how to understand it that most musicians failed at. Muteballad had been created with the programming that allowed him to do both.

Surrounded by music, uninterrupted by lights and vibrations, Muteballad let himself be taken over by the synthesizer and was happily surrounded by the music.

Finally, Terrorsoar heard the song he had watched Muteballad silently practicing on the balcony. He didn't know enough about audile arts to say anything about the quality of the song, but he could tell that it was being played by someone who knew what they were doing. And someone who loved doing it. Muteballad was leaning over the synthesizer, pounding at the keys and controls of the synthesizer, muttering and swaying to himself the way Terrorsoar had seen him earlier.

Muteballad's face tightened with concentration and occasionally flashing with delight. Terrorsoar felt a twinge of jealously. All Terrorsoar had was eternity with Armature. Muteballad was as trapped as Terrorsoar was, but at least he had a synthesizer.

Muteballad momentarily lifted himself out of the music to look at/listen to/feel the synth-sound he had recorded to make sure there were no errors he had missed. He pulled out of his trance in shock. About halfway through the song, in a segment that had been recorded but not played yet, was a mass of noise. Using the touch pad, he scrolled back to it to figure out what had gone wrong. He noticed that he overshot his target a few times with the touch pad before he managed to select the correct segment and listen to/look at/feel it in his head.

Somehow, several segments had been piled on top of one another. From that point on, many of the other segments had been layered over each other. He'd have to redo all of them. That wasn't a problem, since he could record segments faster than the synthesizer would play them, but he wasn't sure what had caused them to be layered over each other to begin with. It could happen again.

Muteballad corrected the segment, tapped the green button with his numb hand, and started recording the next segment again. But it didn't start on the next segment. It added the next part to the segment Muteballad had just finished. The synthesizer hadn't acknowledged it when Muteballad had pushed the button to save the segment and start on the next.

Muteballad rapidly scanned the synthesizer for any bugs in the program. None he could find. There was no reason the synthesizer wasn't working. Which probably meant there was a problem with the button itself, and Muteballad would have to physically examine it to see what was wrong. Maybe it was sticking ...

Terrorsoar saw Muteballad's optics flash on. The music stopped, Muteballad let out a shrill cry, and in the next moment he was crouched on the floor with his seat turned over and his synthesizer fallen beside him. He was grasping his left wrist tightly, wincing. Terrorsoar instantly stood up, but a perplexed glance from Armature was all it took for him to sit again.

"Is there something wrong, steel rose?" Armature murmured.

"N-no, of course not," Terrorsoar lied. "Muteballad just looks like he's in pain."

Armature shrugged uncaringly. "Discharge's creation is not our concern. He will handle it himself. Unless you have another reason to be concerned?"

"No, master, of course not." Terrorsoar turned his head to frown without Armature seeing. His disregard for others was typical. Terrorsoar was quite familiar with it. But somehow it was more annoying, now that Terrorsoar was at least partially friends with one of the people his master so easily disdained ...

Terrorsoar realized with a jolt that Muteballad was his first, and so far only, friend. Armature was certainly not a friend by any definition, and the only other people who even spoke to Terrorsoar were patrons of Armature's that thought he was an interactive statue.

With a more painful jolt, Terrorsoar realized that his botched repair had probably just caused him to lose his new friend.

Muteballad held his wrist tightly, trying to figure out what had snapped. It was probably one of his motor relays, since it was difficult for him to move his hand. That was why he hadn't been able to push the button to end a segment or scroll on the touch-pad correctly. It must have broken while he was playing, which was why he hadn't felt it. He tried to remember what he was supposed to do about it now, but the sharp pain was confusing him.

He dimmed his tactile sensors, and only when the pain eased did he realized how quiet the room was. He glanced up, violet optics even wider than usual. Every being in the audience was staring silently at him.

Muteballad moaned quietly, and winced when he realized how loud it sounded in the silent performance hall. He ducked his head, staring down at his injured wrist. He would have to say something. Everyone was staring at him as if he were still playing. The silence, where there had been visible, touchable sound a moment ago, rang painfully in his audile sensors.

"I'm injured," he said awkwardly. "Something in my wrist broke. I can't finish playing." Muteballad heard someone stand up loudly, feet slamming onto the ground and heavy hands pushing down on armrests. That was Discharge. No one else could put so much anger into something as simple as standing up. Muteballad looked back up at the audience, optics locking onto Discharge in the front row. "That's usually what happens," he said stiffly, "when someone crushes your arm."

There was no way he could get away with a light punishment now. He had insulted Discharge, and in front of no less than twenty musicians. They probably didn't even know what he was talking about. But it was very satisfying. Perhaps he'd do it again sometime.

But before Muteballad could say any more, Discharge rushed on the stage and was beside the musician in five steps. "I'm terribly sorry that this had to have happened," he said with a pathetically apologetic smile, his hand crushing Muteballad's shoulder. "I'm afraid that we won't be able to finish this performance. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must tend to Muteballad. Thank you." With that, he jerked Muteballad up by his right arm and hauled him backstage.

"I suppose we have no reason to remain, then," Armature said, gratefully standing up. "Terrorsoar, come."

"No! I have to make sure Muteballad's all right," Terrorsoar said before he could think better of it. He quickly smoothed the agitation out of his voice. "Please, Master? Just a few moments more."

"Concern? This is not like you, steel rose." Armature studied Terrorsoar carefully. "What were you and the musician up to when you slipped away?"

"Nothing," Terrorsoar muttered. "We just took a wrong turn."

"Terrorsoar, do not lie to me. You know I can tell when you do," Armature said with a sigh. "We are leaving, whether or not you like it."

Terrorsoar's shoulders drooped. He wasn't going to change Armature's mind about this. "Yes, master." Armature nodded in approval, and they headed towards the exit.

A noise from the back of the auditorium drew their attention. Apparently, two of the guests had gotten in a fight. The leaving audience paused briefly to watch.

While Armature was distracted, Terrorsoar made his most daring escape to date. He simply turned the other way and fled.

"What were you thinking?" Discharge roared. "How dare you say that! And in front of all those guests!"

Muteballad didn't look up. He was still cradling his injured wrist in his other hand. "That's what happens when you damage someone. They get back at you."

"But you're not just someone," Discharge said. "You work for me. Remember that!"

"That wasn't my choice," Muteballad said fiercely, raising his head. "Something out there decided I should have the bad luck of being stuck with you. If not, I wouldn't be here and I'd never set a foot in the place!"

Discharge grabbed Muteballad's throat. "Don't you start on a little pity party. Oh, poor Muteballad, the universe hates him! Why is everyone out to get poor little Muteballad?"

Muteballad made a pained sound from under Discharge's hand. His master shook him violently once. "Somehow, I need to teach you to listen to me," he hissed. "You remember what I said I would do to you? My promise still stands."

"Fine. I won't have to practice for my next performance," Muteballad shot. Discharge growled and hauled him by his throat to a stairway. Muteballad yelped and grabbed on to Discharge's arm with both hands, trying to hold himself up so that Discharge didn't crush his throat.

As soon as they started up the stairs Terrorsoar slipped though the door to backstage and started hovering up the stairs after them. He was at least partially responsible for whatever happened to Muteballad. He couldn't let him go alone.

Stumbling up the stairs half-backwards, Muteballad tried to keep his balance. His vocalizer, specially modified to sound like a synthesizer, was being crushed under Discharge's hand. That wasn't good. He wasn't sure how he would fix it if it was damaged. He had modified it very carefully, several years ago, and didn't remember how he had done it or how to fix it.

Discharge pushed open the door to the top floor, where he and Muteballad had their private quarters. The halls and rooms were utilitarian, wide and unpainted, with naked lights on the ceiling. Discharge let go of Muteballad and shoved him forward. "Workroom. Now."

Muteballad meekly obeyed, walking quickly ahead of Discharge to a room on the left side of the hall. He pushed the door open manually, and Discharge slammed it shut behind them.

Terrorsoar quietly opened the door a crack and peeked inside. Stacked in several places were colored cubes like the ones in the main gallery, but these were dull and inactive. On the back of each were narrow metal-lined tubes leading to the center of the cube. One of the walls was hidden by a large machine with a needlelike appendage on the end, and on an adjacent wall were a large computer and a couple of synthesizers plugged into it. This, Terrorsoar figured, was where Discharge got musicians to program their songs. The needle could fit into the back of a cube. He realized with a chill that Discharge was going to use this equipment to program a song into Muteballad. Was the machine with the needle supposed to program the CPU of a sentient being?

"Sit," Discharge said, pointing at a small bench under the needle. Muteballad sat nervously on the edge of the bench. Discharge chuckled. "You may want to get comfortable. I'm going to be keeping you here a while."

He turned on the computer. Muteballad shifted uncomfortably as the equipment around him started to hum. He wasn't in here very often while Discharge worked, but when he was he was always bothered by the discordant noise the machines made. They hadn't been designed to be hooked up to each other. Muteballad didn't know what Discharge had done to get them to stay together, but he suspected that more luck than anything else kept the machines working properly. "What song are you going to program?"

"All of them," Discharge said. "Every song in my gallery is stored in this computer. You're going to learn them all."

Muteballad's optics widened. "That's over five thousand!" he said, stunned.

"And the ones I've recorded but haven't put in cubes. Over forty thousand all together," Discharge said calmly. "If that doesn't teach you not make a fool of me in public, I doubt anything will."

Muteballad stared at Discharge, beginning to feel panic. Discharge must have been insane to think all that could be programmed directly into Muteballad's CPU. He glanced to the door, wondering if he could get out, and saw Terrorsoar looking back at him with equal fear.

Terrorsoar shot a look at Discharge. He was still absorbed with the computer, setting up the programming operation. He looked back at Muteballad and hissed, "Hurry! This way!"

"I don't think so, Terrorsoar." Armature grabbed Terrorsoar's shoulder.

Terrorsoar jumped. "I was just trying to –"

"No. This is not any of our business," Armature said sharply. "We are leaving now. Do not slip away from me again."

"But I can't let Discharge hurt Muteballad!"

Armature reached past Terrorsoar and closed the door to the workroom, cutting off his view of Muteballad. The last thing Terrorsoar saw was the resigned dread in his large violet optics.

"In Betacron, creators do what they wish with their creations. You know this by now," Armature chided. "You cannot and should not try to save them all. I have not been teaching you all I should if I failed to tell you this."

"But I don't want to save them all!" Terrorsoar said, grabbing the handle of the door. "I just want to help Muteballad."

"I have already asked you once, steel rose. What do you find so special about Muteballad?"

Muteballad had asked Terrorsoar for help. He had needed him. Muteballad hadn't seen Terrorsoar as a statue, only good as a trinket to be admired. He had seen Terrorsoar as someone useful. He had wanted his help. And in return, Terrorsoar wanted to help him.

"Nothing," Terrorsoar said dully, letting of the door handle.

"Then you should not get involved," Armature said. "Come along. We have no reason to remain here, and I doubt Discharge would appreciate finding us here so long after the performance."

Terrorsoar could still feel Armature's hand on his shoulder, weighing him down. Terrorsoar remembered that Armature always built his statues to be durable as well as aesthetically pleasing, so Terrorsoar was strong. Armature wasn't. Terrorsoar could easily push Armature's weak hand off his shoulder, knock him down, maybe even kill him. And then he wouldn't have to obey his rules. He wouldn't have to be a statue anymore ...

"Yes ... Armature," Terrorsoar said, and let Armature lead him down the stairs. He did not say master.

Muteballad fought back a whimper as Discharge plugged the programming needle into his exposed CPU, the dermaplating from the back of his head removed to allow access. He felt vulnerable.

"This shouldn't be too painful," Discharge said cheerily. Well, Muteballad thought, of course he was cheerful. He was about to teach Muteballad the best lesson in obedience the musician had ever had. "After all, the cubes have never complained."

"The cubes can't talk," Muteballad muttered. Some of the background tones in his voice dissolved into static due to the damage to his vocalizer. "And I'm not a cube."

"You're programmed like a synthesizer. That's good enough." Discharge gave Muteballad a sharp look. "And you're still talking back to me. What will it take for you to learn?"

"You're about to fry my CPU. Respect is low on my list of priorities," Muteballad shot.

Discharge growled softly. "You know, I could make this even more unpleasant for you," he tensely, walking towards his creation. His face was twisted with anger.

"How?" Muteballad yelled. "Wait, don't tell me, because it doesn't matter anyway! I'm about to have my entire mind destroyed. I don't care what you do to me."

"Oh, don't you?" Discharge roared, grabbing Muteballad's throat and crushing it. Muteballad opened his mouth to cry out but only a faint, broken static noise made it out of his vocalizer. "I could go out and find some more data to shove into your CPU! Or I could disable your stasis lock, take you apart, insert some obedience codes into you with my own two hands and let you feel every bit of it! If you value your own life at all, Muteballad, you had better learn some respect."

Muteballad stared evenly at Discharge. Through his broken vocalizer, he forced a few buzzing words mixed with static. "Wzzzz-with – zzzz – out me ... zzzzyou wouldn't have ... a muzzzzzzician." Muteballad closed his mouth, throat screaming with pain from broken shards of vocalizer, and simply stared at Discharge.

Discharge scowled at Muteballad. "Maybe. But very soon, at least I'll have one that won't even know how to be disobedient."

Muteballad heard the machines around him powering up to start the programming. Discharge let go of him and stepped back to man the computer. With the needle in his CPU, Muteballad couldn't get away without damaging his own programming. He was trapped to suffer through whatever came next.

Muteballad gasped as a rush of data hit him in the back of the head. His optics lit up until they were almost white, and he let out a pained, buzzing screech before he sank into stasis lock.

Discharge watched with satisfaction as the computer ran through the operation, occasionally flashing notices to tell him what percentage of the data had been uploaded. Once it flashed up with a query, saying that the CPU it was uploading onto was out of memory, and would it be all right to overwrite older files? Discharge immediately clicked yes. When Muteballad next woke up, his old self would have been completely destroyed, and he would have no space within his own mind to save new data. He would be a perfectly obedient drone for Discharge.

The gallery owner sat down in front of the computer with a self-satisfied chuckle to wait for the reprogramming to finish.

"That is the last time you are going to slip away from me, Terrorsoar!" Armature said angrily.

Terrorsoar sat down on the stand of an abstract sculpture, a gift from another artist to Armature. "I'm sorry, master," he lied. "But I was afraid for the musician's safety. I wanted to try to help him."

"I do not care why you disobeyed me. But you will not be able to do it again." Armature glared down at Terrorsoar with his hands on his hips. He looked like a petulant youth, Terrorsoar thought without amusement. "I have allowed you to be insolent to me for far too long. I should not have put up with it as long as I did, but I plan on making up for my mistakes."

Terrorsoar heard the lock to the main gallery entrance click closed. He couldn't hear them, but he could guess that every other lock in the building had closed as well.

"Henceforth, you will not be allowed to leave this gallery. With or without my permission," Armature said. "I will not take you along to any future events I go to. When I am gone, you will stay here."

"What?" Terrorsoar screeched, standing up. "But you can't! I need to go outside! You don't understand ..."

"I understand very well, my steel rose. I programmed you to be claustrophobic. But you will get used to it. I cannot risk letting you loose again."

Terrorsoar stared at his master. He didn't know that Terrorsoar wasn't claustrophobic. He just wanted to make sure his only friend would be fine. Sure, He was still afraid of being trapped, but he could get past his fear. He was not as afraid of crowds, and he wasn't scared of the open sky of Betacron. Armature was trying to protect him, albeit for self-serving purposes, from things Terrorsoar no longer needed protection from. He didn't need Armature anymore. He had gone beyond his fear.

Terrorsoar looked down. "I understand, Armature. I'm sorry," he said.

Armature laughed shortly. "That, I doubt." Terrorsoar only apologized when he wanted something. But this time he didn't want Armature to give him anything. He would get it himself.

Armature waited a moment, but when Terrorsoar didn't repeat his apologies he turned to leave. "I will be working on a sculpture," he said. "Do what you wish."

As soon as Armature was out of hearing distance, Terrorsoar grabbed the handle of the entrance and tried to pull or push it open. It was still firmly locked. He tried to squeeze his fingers into the cracks of the door and pry it open. It didn't budge. The thought passed his mind that he may have been able to break it open, but he had been conditioned to avoid damage to himself. He wouldn't even try to physically damage it.

The only way the door could be opened would be by Armature. Terrorsoar felt the old, familiar fear of being trapped growing in him. True, this was the same gallery he had lived in his entire life. But now that he wanted to get out, and couldn't ...

Terrorsoar shook the fear. Armature controlled the locks on the door. The only way to unlock them would be to get Armature to do it ... or to get rid of Armature. He had thought about it often enough. He would be able to fly, leave Betacron, and be a real person. He didn't know if he was ready to live without everything being handed to him, but if things worked out he would at least have Muteballad with him. An ally, someone to watch his back and for him to help. A fellow slave set free.

Terrorsoar headed towards Armature's workroom.

Several hours after he slipped into stasis lock, Muteballad turned on his optics and was greeted with the dim, blurry view of a room he thought he remembered. The machines at least were vaguely familiar. He sat numbly as someone pulled something out of the back of his head and clicked something closed. "I shut down the programs Discharge was loading before they could replace all your memories," a voice said. "Don't worry, he won't bother you anymore. Erm, but you might not want to look on the other side of the computer. It's a little messy."

Muteballad wondered what this new voice was babbling about. The voice sounded slightly familiar, but not quite. "Terror ..." Muteballad couldn't remember the rest of his name. "... bot?" He vaguely noticed that his internal repairs must have put his vocalizer back together, since it didn't hurt anymore and he could speak more easily. He thought that his voice must have sounded different before it had been damaged, but trying to remember what had been different made his head hurt. He gave up.

A dark red blur moved in front of Muteballad and crouched down. "Primus, your voice is even more annoying now. It sounds like a chainsaw." Muteballad could faintly feel a hand on his throat. He flinched, but when it didn't harm him he let it stay. "Discharge completely ruined your vocalizer, I bet," the voice, Terror-someone, muttered. "I might be able to fix your throat, but I don't think I can do anything else." He paused. "I might not even be able to do that. I'm not a medic. Um, and sorry about your wrist."

"Wrist?" Muteballad noticed a sharp pain in his left hand. "My wrist izz damaged." He paused at the odd buzzing in his voice, and then giggled. "My voice izz weird!" This declaration only inspired another round of laughter.

The Terror-someone chuckled, but sadly. "I see you're still easily amused. Getting reprogrammed didn't change that."

"Reprogrammed?" Muteballad buzzed angrily. "He ... err ... Master-bot! He tried to reprogram me! I tried to play for him because he ownz me, but when I mezzed up he reprogrammed me! Terror-bot saw him, right?"

"Terrorsoar," he corrected gently.

"Yes! Terror-bot saw! Master-bot can't play at all, but he doezn't get in trouble." Muteballad paused. "Earlier, Master-bot said, 'Poor little ...' erm ... me, 'the univerze is out to get him. Why doezz everyone hate poor little ...' me?" Muteballad made an angry razzing sound. "I thought he was joking. But here I am, and he'z fine!"

"He's dead," Terrorsoar said quietly.

"Oh." With his damaged mind, Muteballad tried to understand what the consequences of this would be. What should he do if master died? Well, what did Muteballad's master always do that Muteballad couldn't? There were a few things he had always been curious about ... "Let'zz go get overenergized."

Terrorsoar gave Muteballad a startled look. "Go what?"

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "But let'zz get out of here."

Terrorsoar paused, then grinned. "I like that idea."

Muteballad's vision had cleared up enough that he could see who was talking to him. He stood unsteadily, and then with better balance headed towards the door. He tried to remember where the exit was, but instead ran into file after file of music. Muteballad absent-mindedly started humming as he headed out into the hallway.

"That's buzzing's going to be even more annoying than your last voice," Terrorsoar mumbled as he caught up with Muteballad.

"Zzorry," Muteballad replied, not knowing what was so annoying, and continued humming absently. He paused uncertainly in the hallway, and Terrorsoar stepped in front to lead the way outside. Muteballad gratefully followed.

A thought struck him. "What's my name?"

"It's Muteballad," Terrorsoar replied with a quick glance back.

"Muteballad," he repeated, but he didn't have anywhere to put it besides his short-term memory. He figured he'd better keep using it. "So, where izz Terror-bot taking Muteballad?"

"Away from Betacron. The police will be looking for us once they find out about Armature and Discharge," he said. "I've heard that there are a few pockets of revolutionaries in other cities that the police can't find. If we found any of them, we should be safe."

Muteballad nodded. "Will there be any zynthezizerzz?"

It took Terrorsoar a moment to translate the mess of buzzing, but once he did he shook his head. "I don't think so. Sorry."

"Good," Muteballad muttered. He went through the door onto the auditorium stage, and from there he knew his out of Concitavimus. "Muteballad doezn't want to have to play any more music! Come on!" He jumped off the stage and bounded outside in three steps, cackling happily. "FREE!"

Terrorsoar paused a moment, then grinned and followed suit. "You're not leaving without me!"

"Hmph. Let'zz see if Terror-bot can keep up!"

Terrorsoar chased Muteballad to the edge of the building and then followed him up into the air, finally flying in the open skies of Betacron.