"You're going where?"

From the other side of the table, yellow optics flicked up, briefly, before their owner bent again to his instruments, fingers flicking lightly on the dial of the scope he peered into. "The Sea of Rust," he said again, a faint note of disapproval in his tone. As if he were annoyed, in some way, by the question. "You really must pay more attention, Jetfire. I realize you've much to plan in the way of your own endeavors, but if you desire my attention, I'd prefer to keep yours as well."

Jetfire leaned his hands on the worktable, eying the other scientist levelly. "You know I heard you, Perceptor," he said, with as much patience as he could muster. "I wanted clarification."

"Ah."

The words seemed to be enough. Miraculously, Perceptor pushed his scope away, absently touching a panel on its side. The device shivered, and folded down on itself, compressing into a box no larger than the scientist's palm. He regarded it for a moment, before resting both elbows on the table, propping his chin up on folded hands.

He looked, oddly enough, like some sort of high lord or commander surveying his domain from a dias. Maybe, in a way, it was true. They were currently closed off in Perceptor's private laboratory, a small, tidy space located in one of Iacon's vast research centers. He rarely ever left it, which made his private message to Jetfire all the more bizarre.

Behind him, monitors beeped quietly in the silence, lights flashing off and on as lines of text scrolled. His command console sat idle before them, waiting and ready for data entry, once he'd finished his observations. There was a container of energon perched on the console, slow curls of what looked like steam rising from the contents. The wall to his left was made up entirely of what appeared to be nothing but datapads, placed neatly on shelves and labeled in exacting detail. The right wall held cupboards, folded equipment. Some of the cupboards were clear, allowing one to see the dull colors of the compounds housed within. These too, were labeled and ordered. Larger pieces of work sat clustered around the door, something resembling a sort of public access terminal, its monitor blank and cracked, a few scale models of vehicles, and a worn, comfortable-looking seat, more datapads stacked neatly on one of its arms. Bright lamps hung overhead, though only the one situated over the table was currently in use, washing the area in brilliant, clear white.

It was a location Jetfire knew nearly as well as his own labs, right down to that shabby chair in the corner. Then again, he'd spent enough evenings here, wrapped up in debate, drinks, and, occasionally, the tangled limbs of a fellow scientist.

But Perceptor payed it all no mind, instead opting to watch his visitor. For a moment, Jetfire felt the faint twinge of remorse – likely, he should have informed the other 'bot he was on his way over, instead of simply stalking in the doorway as he had mere minutes ago. In his defense, he felt, the notice had been so utterly out of character, he couldn't help but suspect the worst.

I've been assigned an expedition, it had said. Shipping off to the Sea of Rust for some archeology foolishness. I trust you'll want to hear the details, so I've staved off departure until the morning.

And that was all. No name, no sentiment, no nothing. That, at least, had been part and parcel with the more aloof scientist's personality. As was Perceptor's reaction when he entered – Perceptor hadn't even bothered looking up from his work to deliver a thinly veiled rebuke about announcing one's self via the comm system. It had put him at ease somewhat. Temporarily.

He folded his arms, watching his smaller colleague, and waiting. He was a patient one, by nature, but even then there were times Perceptor could stretch the limits of that patience.

Like now.

"You're well aware of the ruins located within the heart of the Sea," Perceptor said. His tone might have been light, nonchalant, but his optics remained serious. They stayed steady, regarding Jetfire's face. "It shouldn't be difficult to follow the train of logic. I'm the only member of this sector not currently engaged in a mandated project."

"The Council handed this to you?" Jetfire asked, momentarily taken aback.

He hadn't heard anything of the Council taking an interest in the science sectors, lately. They'd all been buzzing with rumors of unrest, and how to quell it. Interesting issues, but not something he had time to follow, what with his work on the research station progressing. It was set up to orbit Cybertron's atmosphere, allowing for isolation, unimpeded study. He, like Perceptor, left the secure confines of his station infrequently – often enough to maintain contact with a few friends, but little else. Things were simply too busy.

"When was this?"

Perceptor shook his head slightly. He straightened, turning, and collected his drink from the console behind him. While his back was still half-facing Jetfire, he answered, "This wasn't their doing, no. This was a personal request from Zeta Prime."

Jetfire just stared.

There were very few reasons why a Prime would request something like this. None of them were particularly good. That Zeta felt the need to personally order one of the, admittedly, brilliant, minds in Cybertron out on an incredibly risky mission narrowed even those few things down to one or two.

Silence fell, as he turned that over in his head. Perceptor leaned back against his table, idly drinking, his optics bright while he watched the gears turn. Literally and figuratively, as Jetfire's wings were prone to the same twitching and flicking as any other flight frame.

"Someone found something," he said, finally.

Yellow optics brightened to a shade closer to gold. "He was loathe to elaborate on the matter, but, yes, I believe that's a fair assumption to make." The curve of Perceptor's glass wasn't nearly enough to hide the smirk on his face. "Unfortunately, I think he rather underestimated who it was he was asking to assist him, as while I'm not given to speculation... I'm incredibly good at inference."

Jetfire had to resist the urge to inform his colleague the two were very nearly the same thing. Instead, he shifted his weight, nodding. "And what is it you've inferred?"

"Not much, sadly."

Perceptor turned once more, this time stepping up to his console. Keys tapped, and the bank of monitors abruptly came to life, their screens glowing a bright, translucent blue. A few more keystrokes brought up maps of the Sea in question, various areas highlighted in bold green. It seemed he'd been harder at work, following the notice, than Jetfire had originally suspected.

"If it's as incredibly important as Zeta would seem to believe, one can assume we won't be landing in any of the areas previously explored," Perceptor was saying. The highlighted areas went dark one by one, leaving vast reaches of the swirling Sea still visible in their usual pale orange and tan clouds.

"He didn't give you coordinates?"

"No. We were to be briefed en-route."

"He sounds hurried."

"Quite. Which leads me to believe, whatever this is, it isn't something the Council is aware of. Or many others, for that matter. However..." Perceptor stressed the last syllable, pulling up a magnified image of a massive rust storm, swirling over what appeared to be a rocky outcropping. "Recently, a communications satellite suffered a technical malfunction, and dropped from orbit. Records of its trajectory place it here. In this mountain range."

He looked back at Jetfire. "As I understand it, the salvage team returned only a few days ago, and were immediately sequestered for... decontamination."

Something in the word sounded off. Jetfire cocked his head. "That was the official statement, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Indeed. But unless one of them suffered a catastrophic systems failure or was completely infected by rust particles, they should have returned to active duty by now."

"And they haven't. Have they?"

"Not according to the log-out details of their company terminals, they haven't."

Jetfire made a noise delicately close to a snort. "I can't imagine they offered their records to you voluntarily, your shining personality aside."

"Of course not," Perceptor retorted, sounding entirely too smug for his own good. "But, then again, if they didn't want someone accessing their data remotely, they should have far better security in place. Honestly, I could have found their financial information in my recharge. What on Cybertron programmed those firewalls-"

"Perceptor," Jetfire said, a little sternly. "Salvage team. Not firewalls."

One hand waved at the air. "Yes, yes, don't rush me." Keys clicked. "I don't need to walk you through this next bit, do I? Because I really do need to get back to work."

"No, I see where you're going."

The salvage team must have seen something unusual. That much was clear, to be sure. The rest, though, he wasn't so sure about the rest. Whatever it was, it was enough to try and keep them quiet, enough to launch what seemed to be a clandestine expedition out to find this thing. He shook his head, tapping one finger to his chin. "I don't see why, however."

Jetfire was prepared for a rambling explanation, and one of Perceptor's snappish comments on lack of comprehension. He received neither one.

Instead, Perceptor sighed heavily, his broad shoulders heaving, rolling backward as he stared up at the monitors. His hands went to rest on either side of his command console, fingers curling over the metal.

"Neither do I," he said, and his voice was very quiet.

Jetfire slowly paced around the table, coming to stand beside him, within reach, but didn't move to touch him. It was, actually, a bit unnerving to hear the lack of confidence in that voice, however brief it was. He had always known Perceptor to be, if nothing else, utterly certain of everything he either typed or said. It was just the other scientist's way – he had to know. The need for knowledge, for certainty, drove him on as steadily as hunger drove others. That much, Jetfire understood. He shared it. Everyone in the science sector did. But it just seemed stronger in some than in others. In a way, it was a sort of hunger, wasn't it? It made for brilliant scientists, but easily got in the way of lesser, more mundane pursuits. Secrecy, purposefully withheld information, tended to rattle 'bots like Perceptor, for no more reason than that.

Or drove him absolutely mad, in cases like this one.

They stayed like that, watching storm clouds swirl around the monitors, for some time, before Perceptor called up a few more images. These weren't of the storms, the Sea, or anything seemingly related to the expedition. They were of angry faces, of Cybertronians with their optics blazing, voices raised in protest. Of the unrest in the lower, darker parts of the planet.

"This is all I can think of," Perceptor said, in that same quiet, uneasy tone. "It's been getting worse, lately. I haven't seen anything for myself, but others are quite fearful." He glanced at Jetfire. "Zeta Prime among them, if his transcripts from Council meetings are as accurate as they've been in the past."

"And you believe him to be sending you out to the Sea because he's afraid?"

"More than that."

The screens shut down, falling idle again as Perceptor leaned forward on his hands, staring at the blank monitors. Jetfire waited, watching him. "There is a great deal left unexplored, an even greater deal lost to us, out there," he said. "Our history, ancient legacy... the list goes on. It stands to reason our ancestors had access to technology and techniques we do not. To endure so long... they must have known something we have lost. Be it cultural, scientific, or otherwise."

Jetfire nodded. It stood to reason. But, then again, they both knew that very well. The study of the ancient ruins on the fringes of the Sea were basic history for all of those in the building, regardless of their area of specialization. "And, if I may guess, you believe you're being assigned this mission due to the 'otherwise'." When he wasn't corrected, he added, a bit hesitantly: "What sort of 'otherwise' are you expecting, Perceptor?"

Dexterous fingers tightened, squeezing the console frame hard enough to make metal creak. "I can't imagine Zeta using ancient art techniques to quell the uneasy masses," he said. "What I can imagine... is something I have utterly no desire to be part of."

… quell the uneasy masses...

It suddenly made sense. As if the answer had smacked Jetfire across the face. The unease, the uncharacteristic message. The odd lack of anything resembling excitement. He gaped a little, and passed a hand in front of his face. "Weaponry," he said, finally, and his voice warred between shock and disapproval. "That's what you think. Isn't it?"

Perceptor merely nodded. "I can't refuse the assignment," he said. "It's a direct order." He shook his head, expression suddenly disgusted. "I'm to be part of a weapons recovery operation. My expertise, used for this." Again, metal creaked, warping, beneath his grip. "I detest violence. And now..."

He trailed off, as one of the jet's hands settled on his, gently prying it off the console before it did any lasting damage. Either to the fingers or the equipment. Jetfire said nothing – he simply held that hand, waiting, keeping it from digging in again. At length, Perceptor's shoulders sagged. Air cycled through his vents, raggedly.

"You don't know for sure," Jetfire said, evenly. "Neither of us do. It could be something unrelated. You said yourself, you're just making inferences based on your data. You won't know until you're out there."

"And if my inferences are correct?"

Jetfire's other hand lifted, and rested along the side of Perceptor's face. Yellow optics blinked, clearly surprised at the rare show of intimacy. Neither one of them were particularly given to sudden displays of affection, even between each other. Their... evenings... were typically nothing more than purely physical things – never meant to forge any deep bonds or anything so involved as a "relationship". Regardless, he felt himself relax, into the touch, more able to focus on the words and logic, rather than the details and concerns flitting through his processor.

"Then you'll know what to do," Jetfire said. "Most brilliant processor on Cybertron, aren't you?"

The last was asked with a touch of humor. A bit of good-natured teasing. Perceptor scoffed, and Jetfire's hands retreated, the jet stepping away once more. For a moment, they stayed where they were, regarding the blank monitors in silence.

"I've packing to do," Perceptor said, finally. His words broke the heavy, if not companionable, stillness. He didn't look at Jetfire. "Much, actually."

"Alone?"

"Preferably." And then, in a much more humble, grateful tone, he added: "You've already assisted me considerably. I won't keep you from your work."

Jetfire reached out again, this time resting a hand on Perceptor's shoulder. He let it linger there. "I suppose we'll speak again when you return," he said. There was no rebuke in his voice. No disapproval. After all, he understood the reasons behind the dismissal. "Don't be long. There are a few theorems I've been meaning to have you look over."

It was as close to a cautionary statement as either of them were comfortable with. Come back, was written between the lines as clear as the myriad of lights dotting both their frames.

"Of course," was all Perceptor said in answer, to both spoken and unspoken words.

Even so, Jetfire lingered in the doorway for a moment, looking back to where the laboratory's lord stood, hunched once more over his console as flickers of maps danced between news reports and photos of unruly mobs.

You'll know what to do.

The door closed.