Chapter Text
The stale smell of degraded mech fluid and rancid energon filled the air of the confined space Perceptor found himself in. One dim light in the center of the high ceiling exposed the marred and stained condition of the walls around him. The room was so small he lacked enough space to stretch out on the floor to recharge. He sat propped up against one of the dirty walls, with nothing more than his thoughts to occupy his mind. Drifting in and out of a light recharge, he was never fully rested and never fully awake.
They had lost the war. They had lost their only true hope, their Prime. There was nothing left. Some Autobots managed to flee the planet, but Perceptor had foolishly stayed. Fought until the bitter end, despite being a scientist not a warrior. He had been rounded up and sent to Swindle’s compound. Locked in this dark, dank room, waiting… for what? He had no idea.
He stared at his dented and dingy plating. It had been several orns since he’d been locked away. Some of his battle wounds had crudely healed over. Lack of proper fueling and medical care made his auto-repaired wounds look jagged and discolored. He fingered a thick scar on his turquoise thigh. A place he’d been shot to keep him from escaping once the Decepticon forces breeched the battle line after Optimus had been killed.
His spark ached with heavy weight of loss. Optimus was dead. The matrix in Megatron's possession. Many captured and locked away like himself, many more dead. Perceptor had given up crying within the first orn of his confinement. It only strained his systems further. Instead, he'd replay old memory files, seeking some form of escapism.
An unexpected, loud creak of metal made him jump. He glanced at the wall with the door, watching it crack open. The metal hinges groaned as they were forced to move. On the other side, Swindle stood with one of his minions.
“On your feet!” Swindle yelled at Perceptor.
Too weakened to stand, he simply stared back at him. A part of him hoped his defiance might earn him a shot to the head and an end to his misery. He’d already tried to starve his systems into shutdown, but learned that led to being knocked unconscious and having his fuel tank filled for him.
The mech at Swindle’s side entered the cell, hauling Perceptor’s battered frame up to stand and holding his arm so he wouldn’t collapse.
Swindle looked him over, his gaze moving from helm to pede and back up. “He’ll do. Get him cleaned up.”
“On it,” the minion replied.
With that, Swindle disappeared.
Perceptor was pulled out of the cell and staggered into the brightly lit hallway. He squinted his optics to limit the sudden flood of light inundating his visual cortex. He could make out shapes of more mechs several meters away, but he wasn’t sure who they were.
The minion tugged at him, forcing him to move. Every joint in his body protested, grinding and creaking. All that time spent stuck in a seated position in the cell had made him extremely stiff.
“Come on!” The minion jerked Perceptor forward. He was unable to maintain his balance and tumbled, landing hard on his knees. His arm remained in the minion’s grip, twisted at an odd angle. It hurt, but Perceptor simply didn’t care.
“Get up!” the minion roared.
“Looks like he’s been in the cell too long. Drug him, and let’s get these guys cleaned up,” a disembodied voice said.
Drug? Perceptor turned his head to watch the minion pull a medical injector from his subspace pocket. Leaning forward, he forced the end into one of the energon lines along his neck. Almost instantly, a heated feeling went rushing through Perceptor’s lines. It tickled and burned at the same time. After only a moment, reality took on a much less severe quality. It blurred and softened. His sense of pain was completely blotted out. The minion hauled him back to his feet again, and this time he felt his limbs move smoothly. It confused him how he was suddenly able to walk, but as the drug coursed through his system his vague worries floated away.
The world seemed almost liquid around him. He walked along behind the other mech in a daze. Reaching an open doorway, Perceptor was shoved into a glass walled space. He stared down at his reflection in the shiny metallic floor. It was like he was looking at someone else. He felt badly for the dingy, beat up-looking mech staring back at him.
“Stay still!” the minion ordered.
Perceptor lifted his gaze up, watching the mech apparently in charge of him walk over with a hose in one hand and bottle of solvent in the other. The solvent was squirted all over his frame, and then a harsh spray of liquid water pelted him, washing away the solvent and grime. The water felt cool against his warmed plating. Once he was washed off, the minion quickly patted him down with a drying cloth.
Frowning, the minion looked Perceptor over. “You’re a mess. I don’t know how Swindle expects to get much of anything for you.”
Much of anything? The words rattled around in his mind, as he tried to make sense of the comment.
“Let’s get that thing off your shoulder,” the minon said as he picked up a sharp curved tool from a table near the glassy room’s entrance.
Remove what? Thanks to that drug he’d been given, Perceptor couldn’t think clearly enough to make any real sense of what was happening. A feeling of fear tried to surface, but it felt distant and unreal.
The minon walked over, clamped his hand over Perceptor’s microscope shoulder mount, and then used the sharp curved tool to wrench on it. Perceptor may have been drugged enough to not feel general pain or even be able to think clearly, but it wasn’t enough to blot out the pain of having an essential part of his body removed. The tool severed the connection mounts for his microscope and then twisted it free of Perceptor’s frame. Pain seared through his whole body at the sudden loss and he cried out, jerking away and dropping to the floor in a limp pile. His entire frame shivered uncontrollably as his systems were sent into disarray. Moaning and writhing on the wet floor, Perceptor wished for death to finally come take him away. Primus, please have mercy on me... he thought. Kill me now...
“What the frag is wrong with you?” the minion asked.
Perceptor curled in on himself, his body convulsing as his systems started to go into shock.
“You idiot! That wasn’t a weapon! We’re only supposed to remove things that could be used as weapons!” shouted a voice.
“It looked like one! How was I supposed to know?”
Unknown hands touched Perceptor, and he offlined his optics, not wanting to see anything more. Not wanting to live another moment.
“You’re a moron! If this mech dies cause of you, Swindle’s going to put you on the auction block!”
Perceptor felt a syringe press to his neck and the world went black.
…
Perceptor onlined with a start, sharply gasping as he lit his optics. Laid out on a berth, the pain and shock from the amputation were gone, replaced by a dull aching sensation. His gaze was immediately drawn to what looked like a medic standing over him. Glancing to the side, he saw Swindle and the minion that had removed his microscope, staring at him.
“So, you didn’t kill him,” Swindle said.
“Sorry, boss. I didn’t know it wasn’t a weapon,” the minon said.
“I shut down the main relay. He’ll be fine,” the medic said as he wiped his stained hands on a cloth. “I also re-lubed his joints. They were degraded from non-use.”
“I pulled three from storage for this evening’s auction, you think this one can still go out?” Swindle asked.
The medic nodded.
Swindle gave the minion a sharp look. “Next time you damage my merchandise, you will be put up on the block. Got it?”
He minion fervently nodded.
“Hurry up and finish the detailing, then bring him to the staging area,” Swindle ordered.
Once again, Perceptor was hauled to his feet by the minion. He staggered along as he was walked out of the medical area and down a series of hallways. The world felt hazy and out of focus, but not surreal like it had before. He rolled his shoulder, expecting to feel the weight of his microscope. Instead, he felt a dull ache. He'd probably never be able to transform again. Sadness ached deep within his spark at his bodily loss.
They arrived at a small, long room. The seating and tables reminded him of the golden age detail parlors where mechs would go to have their plating shined and painted with shapes or small mods added to their frames.
He was pushed into one of the seats, and the minion prepared items on a table. He pulled out two types of shining wax and several cloths. He then squeezed some of the liquid wax into a cloth and began to work it over Perceptor’s frame, shining his battered plating.
Slowly, his thoughts began to weave back together as the cocktail of drugs in his systems began to breakdown further. He was being cleaned despite all the dents and scaring over his frame. Swindle referred to him as merchandise and threatened to auction this mech now tending to him. As his disjointed thoughts began to organize themselves, he finally realized: he was about to be sold like some sparkless drone.
He dimmed his optics as a sense of total despair took over. To be a prisoner of war was one thing, but to be a commodity was a whole other. To become some Decepticon’s pet was indeed a fate far worse than death. He might have cried if he’d any shred of hope left in him. Instead, he went numb.
He watched in a detached, distant manner as the minion continued to wax him. His red colored plating was brought to a shine. The minion took special care around his hips and interface array cover, coating the black plating with a thick glossy layer of wax. His touching was completely business-like as he worked.
“You are so plain looking. I have no idea who’ll want you,” the minon said, frowning as he began waxing Perceptor’s leg plating. “And there’s already another red one going out with you.” The minion sat back on his heels, then motioned for Perceptor to stand. “Get up. I gotta do your backside.”
Perceptor complied, shakily standing and turning around. The minion worked over the backs of his legs first, then he stood up and shoved Perceptor. “Grab the arm rests and lean forward.”
Leaning forward, Perceptor did as directed. The minon’s hands then roamed over his aft slowly. It was not the business like manner the minion had used when attending his front. A shiver ran through Perceptor at the unwanted, suggestive touches.
“You aren’t too bad from behind. Nice aft and long legs. The turquoise coloring on your thighs makes you stand out. You’re helm is boring, though. Autobots are so utilitarian,” The minion said with a snort. He then pulled Perceptor by his arm. “Stand back up.”
Perceptor offlined his optics, standing still as the minion finished waxing him. His days as a scientist were long over now. He was about to be sold off and by the sounds of it be forced into becoming someone's pleasure mech. His only chance to escape this horrible fate will be to offline himself first chance he got.
“And the final touch... Turn around.”
As Perceptor turned, the minion reached up and snapped a collar in place around his neck. It had a ring on the front, which the minion attached a lead to. “All right, let’s get you to the staging room.” The minion tugged on Perceptor with the lead, pulling him to follow. Just when he was sure things couldn’t get worse…
They walked through more corridors, eventually arriving at to a large door. The minion waved his palm over the entry pad, and it opened, revealing a large brightly lit room. He readjusted his optics as they proceeded inside. Swindle was already there along with two more minions and two of Perceptor’s Autobot comrades: Ironhide and Jazz.
Perceptor couldn’t help staring at his two comrades.
Ironhide’s plating had been shined, too. His old war scars merged with new ones and cross-crossed his entire frame. He wavered on his feet, and his minion leaned into him in order to keep him propped up. He must have been under the influence of some very potent drugs. His gaze was distant and unfixed.
Jazz stood perfectly still. His body also bore scars and his visor was cracked along one side. He seemed in fair condition, all things considered, though.
The minon in charge of Perceptor announced their arrival. “I’ve got the last one.”
Swindle turned and smiled. “He looks great! You saved your aft this time.” Swindle then clapped his hands together. “All right! Let’s make some credits. Show off the best qualities of your merchandise up there. Remember that--”
Suddenly, Jazz moved.
In a fluid motion, he spun around high kicking Swindle in the side, sending him flying. Jazz then moved with precise control, grabbing the minon that was in charge of him by the neck, and positioning him as a shield.
Perceptor tensed. Should he try and help? Should he fight, too? He glanced at Ironhide. The large red warrior had a glazed over expression on his face, seemingly unconcerned for Jazz or anything that was happening around him.
“He’s not properly drugged!” Swindle shouted.
“I hope ya die an acid pit, you fragger!” Jazz shouted. The mech in his grip struggled, but couldn’t free himself.
Swindle got to his feet. “Oh, please. Where are you going to go? My compound is totally secure. There is no escape. No one to save you.”
Perceptor balled his hands into fists, he may not be a warrior but with the drugs in his systems wearing off, he felt his free will returning to him. He grabbed the lead and jerked it free of his minon’s hold, and then lunged forward, taking a swing at Swindle. He was a clumsy fighter to begin with and still feeling woozy from earlier didn't help his aim any, either. He missed his target and stumbled.
“Do I have to do everything around here?” Swindle grabbed Perceptor by one of the severed shoulder mounts and twisted. Perceptor cried out, dropping to his knees, his whole frame shaking from the pain. “Some of the relays still work, it seems. Good thing. You! Drug your merchandise!” Swindle said, pointing.
“I’m sorry,” Perceptor said in a weak and pained voice. It was directed at Jazz, but he was sorry for so much more than being impotent to help his comrade. He was sorry he was alive. He was sorry he was weak. That’s when he felt his lead jerk him upright. A syringe of more drugs sunk into his neck’s fuel line. Instantly, the world became hazy again.
“And you!” Swindle moved toward Jazz and his captive. “That’s quite enough. I knew you were going to be trouble, which is why I have them install inhibitors in all the collars.” He pulled a small controller from subspace, and pressed a button. Jazz jerked back, letting go of the mech in his grip and digging his fingers into the collar while making gaging sounds. “You! Get your sorry aft up and drug him.”
Jazz's minion scrambled to his feet and pulled a syringe from subspace, plunging into Jazz’s neck above the collar.
Perceptor watched helplessly, his processor swimming in a thick fog. The lead connected to his collar was pulled hard, forcing him to stand.
“All right. No more interruptions. You idiots need to make sure to keep your merchandise drugged, like this guy here,” Swindle said patting Ironhide’s chest. “Okay. Let’s go make some credits!”
They were led out into a darkened room. Along one side was a small well-lit stage. Perceptor staggered along behind the minion handling him to the stage platform. Three circles marked where they should stand. He stared down at his feet and the circular shape, feeling dizzy from the drugs. Still, he was a little grateful that at least his shoulder had stopped painfully throbbing.
“Tonight, I have three Autobots up for auction!” Swindle said.
Glancing up, Perceptor groggily realized there was a crowd of Decepticons in front of the stage platform, their red and yellow sets of optics shining in the darkened space.
“All payments must be made the moment the bidding ends. If your credits are no good, then we will re-auction. Raise your numbered marker to make a bid. The only bids I’ll take will be with markers. No hands, no nods, and no shouting allowed! If you want to place a verbal bid along with your raised marker, you may do so! We clear on the ground rules?” Swindle asked the crowd.
A murmured agreeable set of sounds was his response.
“Then let’s get started!” Swindle turned to face Jazz. “Here we have a medium sized mech. Mixed Praxian and Iacon traits. He’s very feisty, so be sure you are up to the challenge of having such a mech in your home. He will require breaking!” Perceptor glanced at Jazz. His visor was barely lit and he stood with his head bowed. “Let’s start the bidding at 300 credits! Who will get us started at 300?”
A marker flashed in the darkened room.
“We have 300 from the mech in red. Do I see 400? …400 anyone?” Swindle said.
Another flash of a marker.
“400! 400 to our illustrious head of communications, Soundwave! Do I see 500? I see 500 in the back there! 500 to the mech in black! Do I hear 600?”
“1,000,” Soundwave droned as he raised his marker.
A hush rippled over the crowd. Even Swindle looked surprised for a moment. Then he smirked. “1,000 to our illustrious communications officer! Anyone wish to challenge with 1,100?”
Silence.
“1,000, going once! … Twice… Sold to Soundwave!” Swindle hopped off the platform, walking down to meet Soundwave in the crowd to take his credits. After a long moment, Swindle lifted up his datapad. “Credits are processed. Please claim your purchase from the stage!”
Soundwave got to his feet and walked up, taking Jazz’s lead from the minon and pulling him off the platform.
“All right, let’s keep things rolling! Next up another medium sized mech.” Swindle hopped back onto the stage platform, standing next to Perceptor. “He maybe somewhat plain in design, but he's very... uh... utilitarian! His alt mode is not a vehicle. This means he’ll be easy keep in line.”
Perceptor watched Swindle in a detached haze. Shouldn’t he care he was about to be sold to a Decepticon? Whether it was the drugs or his general frayed mind, he frowned as he realized he couldn't bring himself care about anything right now.
“So let’s start the biding at 300 as well. Do I see 300?” Swindle asked the crowd. “300 to my fellow Combaticon up front here! Do I see 400? 400 anyone? Ah, 400 to the mech I can’t quite make out in back there.”
The mech in front twisted in his seat, trying to see who’d bid against him. He then looked back at Swindle, lifting his marker. “500!”
“Oooo! Okay, 500 my fellow Combaticon, Onslaught! Do I see 600? … 600 to the mech in back!” Swindle looked thrilled.
The Combaticon in front stood up. “Who’s bidding against me?”
“No shouting, that’s the rules, Onslaught! Do you wish to place a higher bid?” Swindle asked.
Onslaught lifted his marker. “1,000.”
“2,000,” the mech in back responded.
“Whoa! Okay! 2,000 to the mysterious mech in the back. Why not come forward so I can get a good look at you?” Swindle asked with a huge grin.
The mech in back made his way forward.
“Deadlock,” Onslaught said with a deep frown. “Thought you didn’t want one. Why are you bidding against me?”
“Changed my mind,” Deadlock replied as he walked up to stand beside Onslaught.
“Well, we have Deadlock’s 2,000 bid still standing. Does anyone wish to put in 2,100?” Swindle asked.
Onslaught and Deadlock exchanged angry looks.
“2,000 going once… going twice…” Swindle paused, his gaze shifting to Onslaught. The large mech shook his head and dropped to sit in his seat. “Sold! 2,000 credits to Deadlock.” Swindle hopped off the platform, and took the winner’s credit. “All set. Take your item from the stage.”
Deadlock stepped forward, and Perceptor’s lead was handed off. Perceptor stepped down, tripping and almost falling off the short step. Deadlock grabbed him by his arm, to keep him steady.
“Next up! We have a large sized mech…” Swindle’s voice grew distant as the mech that now owned Perceptor walked him out of the auctioning room.
They entered a lobby area, and Deadlock turned to look at Perceptor. His red optics raked over his battered but waxed frame. His gaze paused at Perceptor’s shoulder, but he said nothing about the severed mounts.
"Sir! Sir! I almost forgot to give you the care pack," the minion that had been Perceptor’s handler shouted as he ran up.
Deadlock narrowed his optics. "Care pack? What the frag is that?"
"Additives for his energon," the minion said, handing off a small clear container of vials. “First set is free. If you like the results, Swindle has them available at very affordable prices and delivery is free.”
Deadlock grunted as he took the container.
"Thanks, and tell your friends about Swindle's auctions!"
Deadlock leered at mech, then turned and pulled Perceptor by the lead. “Let’s go.”
…
Their walk to Deadlock’s home from the compound took Perceptor through the various parts of the rebuilt city. He took it all in with the optics of an outsider. Poorer areas with unsavory mechs gave way to tall opulent-looking buildings and a very busy merchant district. At the edge of that area sat a building that was very plain by comparison, but also large. It turned out to be the apartment complex Deadlock lived in.
They took the lift up, and when it stopped Deadlock stepped out, loosely holding Perceptor's lead. For a brief moment, Perceptor considered pulling free. But that thought died in a haze of numbness and the realization that he had absolutely nowhere to go. So he obediently followed in his new master down the corridor. At the last doorway, Deadlock waved his hand over the lock, opening the door, and they both went inside.
Perceptor glanced around the smallish apartment, noting a kitchenette area with an energon dispenser and a few different bottles of high grade lined up next to it. The living area had two reclining chairs; one much nicer than the other and a small coffee table covered in dirtied energon glasses. The chairs faced a huge vid screen mounted to the wall. His gaze then wandered to a window that ran from ceiling to floor, giving a fairly nice view of the Cybertron and the merchant area a few floors below.
Deadlock reached for Perceptor and unsnapped the lead from his collar. Perceptor's wandering gaze focused on the mech now standing in front of him. Deadlock’s ruby red optics studied his face for a long, uncomfortable moment.
"Hm. Drugged." Deadlock pulled the clear container with vials from his subspace pocket. He smirked as he held it up and examined it. "Additives my aft. Just more drugs." He shifted his gaze to Perceptor. "This stuff will mess you up bad."
Perceptor remained mute, his gaze moving between his new master and the container.
"My guess is you're already messed up bad." Deadlock set the container down on the nearby table and then tossed the lead next to it. "You need to recharge and let that slag work itself out of your systems. Follow me."
Perceptor did as he was directed, trailing Deadlock down the small hallway to the berthroom. It was a small room that looked even smaller with the large sized berth sitting in it.
"I only have the one berth, so we're goin' to have to share." Deadlock then pointed to an open doorway opposite of the berth. "Washrack's in there." Deadlock then motioned to the berth. "Get some rest. You look like slag."
Still dazed by drugs and everything that had just happened, Perceptor simply found it easier to obey than question and crawled onto the berth, half expecting to be fondled or violated.
Deadlock stared at him for a long moment, his frown deepening. "I’ll be in the other room,” he said, before walking away and leaving Perceptor alone.
Perceptor sat on the berth feeling confused and both physically and emotionally drained. Maybe this was all just a drug-induced dream? Or maybe he was offline and having some sort of nightmarish processor feedback? He sighed air from his intakes and lay down, curling up on his side in the large berth. It was then he noticed the berth was up against another ceiling to floor window, and he scooted over to the windowpane. Reaching out, he touched the cool surface and he stared up into the black sky above dotted in stars. He wished there was a way to leave his body and join those distant stars. A way to leave this painful world behind. He pulled his arm back to his chest. Soon, his body lost all tension as exhaustion seeped into every crevice of his frame. His thoughts, disjointed and fractured faded away as he finally slipped offline.
…
Perceptor lit his optics. He expected to be in a small, dark cell. Instead, he was on a berth, facing a window that looked out over Cybtertron. He winced as he rolled from his side to his back. His shoulder ached and burned where his microscope mount had been.
He glanced over and to his surprise, saw his new master lying on his front, recharging beside him. Oh that’s right, there’s only the one berth, he thought. He gazed at Deadlock for a long moment. Offlined, the warrior’s face was slack and almost serene looking. The two little white finials jutting upward at an angle were quite unusual, striking even. Perceptor’s gaze traveled down Deadlock’s frame. He appeared to have had a lot of modifications done. Extra layers of plating, and what looked like hooks for mounting weaponry covered his body.
The ache in Perceptor’s shoulder drew his attention and he reached up touching one of the severed connection mounts. It zinged with pain and he let out a small yelp. He immediately covered his mouth with a hand and glanced back over at Deadlock.
Two red optics were staring back at him.
“So they did cut something off you.” Deadlock’s voice was low. “Savages.” His new master rolled over and pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the berth. “Come on. I’m taking you to see my buddy.”
Perceptor sat up, and unlike the day before his mind felt clearer. The drugs seemed to be mostly processed out of his systems, but he still felt off in a way he couldn’t pinpoint.
“Let’s go.” Deadlock sounded impatient.
Perceptor nodded, and then scooted off the berth and stood up. At least he wasn’t dizzy anymore. Though, the pain in his shoulder from moving his arm made him grimace. Deadlock headed toward the door and Perceptor followed him, trying to ignore the pain.
Picking up the lead, Deadlock frowned as he glanced at Perceptor. “Sorry.” He then reached over and hooked it to the collar. “I won’t pull on it as long as you keep step with me, understand?”
Perceptor nodded, again.
Deadlock then canted his head. “I forgot to ask you last night. What’s your name?”
As juvenile as it was, Perceptor didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want to speak. His voice was the one last thing he could exert any control over now. The one thing he could keep for himself. Deadlock would have to earn his trust if he ever wanted to hear it. He dropped his gaze to the floor, his joints tightening as he waited for a violent reaction to his defiance.
With a thick sigh of air expelling from Deadlock’s vents, he turned and opened the door.
Perceptor glanced up from under the rim of his helm, surprised. No reprimand?
Deadlock stepped into the hallway, loosely holding the end of the lead. He stopped and looked back at Perceptor, seemingly annoyed. “I really don’t want to have to yank you around on this fraggin’ thing. Come on."
Hesitantly, Perceptor stepped out into the hall.
…
Deadlock walked with purpose through the desolated area he’d brought Perceptor to, easily rounding the obstacles and debris littering the streets. Perceptor did his best to keep up and avoid tripping on anything. He also wondered who Deadlock’s ‘buddy’ was. Would be forced to into doing something like interface with a stranger? He quickly killed the line of thought. Even if that were his fate, thinking about it would do nothing but upset him. Becoming a piece of property coupled with the pain in his shoulder was upsetting enough for the moment.
Eventually, Deadlock led him to a building that looked completely dilapidated. They walked right up to the door and Deadlock loudly knocked.
A small rectangular opening in the middle of the door slid back, revealing a set of gold optics. “Oh! Hello, Deadlock.” The opening closed, and then the door itself hissed open.
They both entered. The inside of the building reminded Perceptor of Wheeljack’s old lab. It was messy with shelves that lined the walls covered scrap metal, parts, and various devices.
“So, this is him, huh?" The mech with the golden optics grinned, as he looked Perceptor up and down.
“Yep,” Deadlock replied.
"Well, then. Let’s get him properly checked out, shall we?" The golden optic’ed mech escorted them through a maze of more rooms, each filled with various scrapped items and parts. “Here we are,” he said as they ducked through a doorway.
Perceptor looked around the room they’d been led to. It had a berth in the middle, and a large computer system next to it. The shelves in this particular room were covered in different modification items, instead of the random scrap and devices he’d seen in the other rooms.
Their host motioned to the berth “Have a seat. I’m going to take a look at your shoulder.”
Deadlock reached up and undid the lead. His red optics focusing on Perceptor as their gazes met. “He was talking to you. Sit.”
Perceptor glanced over at the mech with gold optics who then warmly smiled. “I won’t hurt ya. I’m going to fix you up,” he said, patting the berth.
They were being nice to him? No. Perceptor couldn’t believe that. He looked back at Deadlock. How could this brutal looking mech not intend him any harm? That seemed ludicrous.
Deadlock frowned at Perceptor. “Just sit your aft down already.”
“Don’t mind him,” the golden optic’ed mech said. He walked over and took Perceptor’s arm, gently pulling him toward the berth. “By the way, my name is Tremorwave. I’m a trained medic. I hated working in the facilities in the city, so I’ve been running my little business here. Deadlock’s been coming to me for ages to get different mods done, though. He comm’ed me last night, saying that he suspected something might be wrong with your shoulder.”
More than just something wrong, there was an important part of his body missing. Reluctantly, Perceptor sat down. He then noticed that Deadlock seemed to have lost interest in him, busily eyeing some of the mods on the shelves.
“So let me take a look at it, all right?” Treamorwave said. He leaned in close, examining the severed mounts. “What were these mounts holding before?”
Perceptor held fast to his silence and remained mute.
“He won’t talk,” Deadlock said after a moment.
Tremorwave’s gaze softened as he gazed into Perceptor’s face. “Been through a lot, haven’t you? I promise I want to help, not harm.” He then glanced at Deadlock. “Do you know his name?”
“Nope,” Deadlock replied as he pulled a gauntlet off one of the shelves, examining it.
“Hm.” Tremorwave sadly smiled at Perceptor. “At the very least, I need to know your name so I can pull up your information and see what that shoulder mount once was. I have so much junk here I might actually have a part to replace it with.”
Perceptor frowned. No part here could replace what was removed. He would need a new part fabricated to his particular specs. By the looks of things, that was far beyond what this mech’s facilities offered.
Tremorwave started riffling around his desk and pulled a small rectangular item with a cord running off it free of the mess. He plugged into his computer, and then took Perceptor’s hand, pressing it over the rectangular pad. It read Perceptor’s energy signal, which identified him. “There we go. Let’s see now…” He sat down at the computer console and pressed a few buttons to pull up his file. “Your name is Perceptor.”
Deadlock’s digging through the shelves stopped and he wandered closer, reading over Tremorwave’s shoulder. “A scientist?” He shifted his gaze to Peceptor, looking both surprised and intrigued.
“They removed his microscope mount. That’s a major piece of his anatomy.” Tremorwave also looked over at Perceptor. “I don’t have anything that can replace something like that,” he said sadly. “And by it’s removal, he won’t be able to transform any longer.”
“That’s fragged up,” Deadlock said. “Why would Swindle mutilate him like that?
“Swindle is the lowest of the low. Nothing he does surprises me. At the very least, I can reroute the relays so he won’t be in pain.” Tremorwave got back up and gently pushed on Perceptor’s good shoulder. “Lay back.”
Perceptor stared into Tremorwave’s golden optics. He had no reason to trust this mech, but he also had no other options. He couldn’t reroute his own wiring and the pain was definitely uncomfortable. With a soft sigh, he complied, lying back. After all, he had nothing more to lose at his point.
Deadlock’s optics dimmed as gazed at Perceptor and he sadly frowned, acting as if he actually cared. Perceptor reminded himself these were Decepticons. They didn’t care about anything other than revenge and greed. He purposely looked away.
Tremorwave wandered around the room, gathering some tools and putting them on a small rolling table. He rolled it over to the berth and pulled up a stool to sit. He opened a side panel on the berth and Perceptor suddenly realized this was actually a medical grade berth. That meant there were controls that could force him offline.
“When you online, you’ll feel much better! I promise,” Tremorwave said with a huge smile.
Perceptor tensed, but it was only for a moment. Tremorwave pressed a control and an electrical pulse interrupted Perceptor’s systems, forcing him offline.