"Perceptor, do you know why I called you here?"
The nerdy, glasses-wearing autobot stared up at the taller authority figure.
"It's the recent fire, I'd presume."
His voice was monotonous, and it took the taller one a few seconds to notice that it was a question. Perceptor maintained a cold, emotionless gaze as he stared blankly with heartless eyes.
"Yes, the fire." came the reply. Sarcasm? No, just a little patronising.
"I have come to understand that, even though I may have caused the aforementioned fire, it was not of significant volume and mass, so it was not an importance or danger to research."
"Yes, but it happened under your command!"
"Nobody was killed."
"Three pesticons and a handful of minicons, not to mention the wounded-"
"Nobody was killed." Perceptor said again, more definite than the last time.
"You're a cold, cold robot, Perceptor."
"Deleting my useless emotions only lets way for more knowledge, sir. Feelings are no longer of any use to me." Perceptor said with the same plain voice, steely and similar to that of a computer. "If I should become swayed by my previous emotions, my work standards would drop dramatically, by an approximate statistic of-"
"Stop right there."
Silence fell, only then accompanied by a sigh of regret from the tall figure. Perceptor's eyes had no glimmer in them, no shimmer of gladness, just a plain colour behind his glasses with no emotion or feeling in them. It made him... sad.
"I'm sorry, Perceptor."
Perceptor cocked one eyebrow, to show the figure that what he said needed explaining, but was soon struck down by a shock of electricity that knocked him off his feet, sending him flying. Summerslash pulled his hood down, showing his smug smile and golden yellow sheen. Blunderbolt and Thunderdolt emerged from the darkness, both showing their dull sunny coats, like two demons to the devil as Summerslash grinned evilly, holding out a hand to Perceptor, his palm still coursing with charges of electricity.
"You." Perceptor said, his voice an octave lower and slightly crackly.
"Us!" Summerslash shouted in a singsong voice you could only expect from someone who was very proud of themselves, and he was, the two henchmen flourishing musically behind him.
"I should... have known..."
His voice was separated by sets of buzzes, static and crackles. Summerslash held his charged finger to Perceptor's forehead like the barrel of a gun. Smiling a broad, yellow smile, he fixed his animal yellow visors on the broken and beaten autobot.
"Yes, you should have."
The funny thing about Summerslash is that he strictly has no team. If he has a bone to pick with a decepticon, he'll be an autobot, because they can do that stuff. If he feels like a spot of world domination, he'll be a decepticon, because they're bigger and more menacing. If he wants to be sneaky and take out two teams with one stone, he'll be a rather large pesticon, the small, undercover group with the spiky symbol, full of household equipment and a tractor, the one team that fights the bots and the cons but the bots and cons won't fight back because most of them are under three feet tall. With the flick of a switch, Summerslash could pull any disguise.
Thunderdolt and Blunderbolt weren't so professional. They hung around Summerslash like a small terrier to a bulldog and only fought when they knew that Summerslash could take the enemy down himself, for fear of being hurt. At first, when Summerslash employed the two imbeciles, he thought that it was a typo, trying to say Thunderbolt on both. But then, of course, Blunderbolt pointed out that it's hard to type Blunder instead of Thunder, and what was the likelihood of two robots both being called Thunderbolt?
He got a very hard smack around the head for this.
Perceptor didn't know where he was. Nor what just happened. He vaguely remembered a broad, fanged yellow smile and animal eyes, and the rushing of wind, and suddenly being overcome with... emotions. Happiness, sadness, anger, fear, everything came flooding back to him in one miraculous hurricane. Maybe miraculous wasn't the word. It pushed against his head, pushing him further to the brink of insanity. But slowly, surely, there was something awakening deep inside him. Something very, very...
Weird.
"What do you mean he's not dead?" Summerslash howled. He raged and roared and stomped and romped and leaped about and pushed things all over the desk and threw his work on the floor. He slammed his fist on the table and stamped his feet and headbutted the wall. While throwing this temper tantrum, his two faithful sidekicks were cowering bravely in the broom closet, courageously protecting the vacuum cleaner.
Still Summer squealed and screamed and kicked and flailed and threw things about the room with as much rage as a very hungry gorilla who had been trapped in a small box with a small yapping chihuahua for a few week then prodded with a cattle rod repeatedly and thrown into a room full of bored six year olds.
Raging and rampaging, he threw his filing cabinet through a window and threw his yellow body on the berth in the corner. For a few minutes he just lay there, wailing into his pillow, that was the size of a large tiger and the wetness of a large fish. Then he started tearing fluff out of the mattress, and it went all over the place, all over the floor and the walls and over his desk.
Pulling himself out of the pillow with a wet squelch, he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief the size of a sofa and stormed over to the window. Propping his chin in his yellow hands, he gazed out of the window at the dark space sky with his sad golden eyes.
"Blunder? Dolt?" he whimpered. The two smaller, less impressive robots sneaked over to their master, heads low.
"Yes, sir?" they both said simultaneously, chiming in meekly.
"Am... am I a good master?"
They seemed shocked for a second, before putting their hands on their weeping master's shoulder.
"Yes. You are a very good master."
"Do you think I'll kill Perceptor next time?"
"For sure you will, sir. He's good as dead, we swear it."
There was a long pause.
"I hate you two. I really do."
Perceptor awoke in a strange and rather empty room. Empty, at least, until a small shape walked in and looked at him.
"Excuse me." he said. "Who are you, where is this and why do I sound like Paddington Bear?"
The shape ran up and sat on Perceptor's chest. "I'm me, this is here, and I don't know."
Not very helpful, he thought, as he sat up, throwing the shape off and surveying the area. It was a small room with white tiles and very little in it. Two tables, one of which he was lying on, and another across the room. Just one window, showing the wonderful sight of a large brick wall. Sighing, Perceptor could feel... sadness. It wasn't very enjoyable.
Sadness. What a strange feeling. It made his spark feel heavy and it made him feel sluggish. Like a weight tied to his ankles, pulling him into a deep and dreary water where his eyes met a hollow shell of- now he was getting all poetic. Did sadness do this to everyone?
Then he remembered the shape. Looking around, he tried to see it, but his vision was blurry and his mind was whirling with all the new things he had forgotten and was now trying to perceive.
"Excuse me?" he said, still trying to get used to his new 'Paddington Bear' accent. "Should you be needing to inquire about myself?"
With a creak and a clank, a large steel door swung open with a godawful crash and revealed the rather, ahem, stocky, autobot medic, Ratchet.
"Ah, I see you're awake, Perceptor," he said, nodding. "Who were you talking to?"
Perceptor carried on looking around, confused. "Did you see a small creature enter and, or, leave this room?"
Ratchet let out a frustrated grunt. "No."
For a moment, Perceptor's optics trailed off to the window. No, couldn't be, that's a brick wall, and we're how many storeys up? About three. Maybe only two. They weren't on the first floor or basement floor, he could hear chattering coming from the floor below, and there were more floors above, he was sure of that. Nobody that small could survive a drop from here, and the creature was pretty small, and sounded quite weak... scared, maybe? Now he thought of it...
"Hey, wake up." Ratchet said, grunting. "Penny for your thoughts?"
Shaking his head, Perceptor walked past Ratchet. "Nothing, nothing. Just a tad frazzled, that's all, my good fellow."
Growling, Ratchet stepped out of the way to allow Perceptor to walk, silent and lonely into a complex series of seemingly endless tunnels. As he walked, he faintly heard small footsteps trailing behind him, like a small dog hopelessly pottering after him...
"Oi, slow down, mate, I've only got small legs," said a small voice.
Standing there was a small organic, a human female. Nothing special. Brown hair, not chestnut, just brown, that was not rippling or shining, just average brown hair, and dark eyes, not sparkling amber or hazel, just big, interested eyes. She stared up at Perceptor with endless interest, tugging the leg of her jeans out of her socks and brushing her fringe out of her eyes.
"Who are you?"
"None o' yer business." she said in an accent that would sound like come from Britain, but was nothing like Perceptor's sweet Paddington Bear accent, more like a rather angry British person who did not personally want to be sharing a corridor a this poncy twit.
"Well, I'm Perceptor." he said, very politely, and she shrugged.
"Lily Williams." she replied, the name rolling off her tongue like syrup before she held out a tiny hand and offered it to Perceptor. "Glad ta meetcha."
Perceptor gently shook her hand with his index finger and carried on walking down the corridor. Chasing after him, she made an angry face.
"Hey, hey, mate, slow down, I'm talkin' ta you!" she exclaimed. "Give us a lift?"
"Look, I'd love to, but I've got a lot of things to think over and perceive."
Ratchet leaned out of the doorway, making Perceptor notice that he hadn't gotten very far as he talked to Lily Williams. "Who're you talking to?"
"Oh, there-"
He stopped. Lily Williams was gone. Again.
"Nobody."
"Oh."
He began walking away again, but Ratchet reached out and called for him again suddenly, as if he'd forgotten something. "Perceptor?"
"Yes?"
"Optimus wanted to see you. Seemed a little surprised when you came crashing down on Bumblebee's head out of nowhere. Anyway, he's in the room marked 437272."
"Was Bumblebee hurt?" Perceptor found himself blurting out, not quite sure what he was saying. A new emotion he'd forgotten; worry. Why worry for Bumblebee? Well, in his nerdy head, a little 'worry' creature was a bit confused who he was meant to worry for, having been locked up for so long. Like a small dog who was confused what to eat any more and was just eating everything.
"Not too much," Ratchet shrugged. "He just fell over and started screaming 'ambush, ambush!'. It cracked the little organic up."
Perceptor thought for a moment before saying; "What did the organic look like?"
"Short, reddish hair, dark skin." Ratchet growled before walking away, back into the white room. That didn't sound like Lily at all. This organic was short, Lily was also short, but lily was pale with brown hair.
Shaking his head, he smiled to himself. Don't rush yourself, you're going to get confused anyway. Besides, you better tell Optimus that there might be a stray organic prowling about the base. Things are going to go just fine for you, Perceptor, Summerslash or not.