Until the Dream Ends
Chapter 3
Drip...
He knew the whole of the cell perfectly by now.
There was an energon spill up the right wall which had dried onto the deep purple metal. A groove in the floor near the back where someone had scrabbled for an escape route – just as he himself had done countless times around the circumference of the small room now. Someone had died in the corner; there was the unmistakable denting of death throes and the tinny, metallic smell of decay...
Drip...
After waking from his troubled stasis, feeling no better than he did when he descended into it, Perceptor had immediately tried to distract himself from the aches in his scarred frame and damaged psyche by investigating his prison for any sign of a route to flee. A weakness in the walls, a fault in the bars, anything at all – but there was nothing. He had lost count of the number of times he had searched and searched again, but each time there had been nothing to find. Even if there had been, the flight into the sea would surely have killed him; the salt water in his open wounds would have corroded his most delicate internal components and led to a slow, agonising termination.
He was well and truly trapped. He knew the whole of the cell perfectly by now.
Drip...
To the left was a scrape of white paint on the wall, about as far up as his knee. He didn't know who it had belonged to. He didn't want to consider it, either. A fist-sized dent just a little higher than his head spoke of volumes of despair and torment, as he was feeling now. Perhaps if he had a self-destructive personality, or even the strength to lift his arm an throw a punch, he would add his contribution to the cold prison.
Instead there was only the constant reminder of his open wounds. They were festering, the energon mixing with the oil and lubricating chemicals that leaked steadily out, crusting over the once-polished plating, trapping inside his body the dirt picked up from writhing in agony on the floor. The most comfortable position he had found was to prop himself against the wall on his shoulder; though there were lacerations there too, the injuries caused by the whip on his back and chest were far more serious, and excruciating to put any pressure on.
Drip... drip...
Where was that even coming from? That dull splashing, was it from him, or was it some other source of moisture falling? It was only quiet, but it was the only thing to listen to, apart from the dull crackling of static from the bars, and that small relief had already become inaudible to his receptors. Just that ungodly dripping left. Echoing about the small room.
Drip...
It was going to drive him slowly insane.
Amazingly enough, his central processor had managed to anaesthetise his systems to a dull throbbing while he was stationary, even with the increased input from his nervous receptors. Yet every movement jarred his joints and disturbed the cuts, sending biting lances throughout his limbs, so, after desperately trying to distract himself from reality by endlessly searching the cell, he had given up because of the stress movement put his body through. Leaving him nothing to do but think, exactly what he had been trying to stop himself from doing.
Perceptor would not ever describe himself as brave, and, while silently pleased at any compliment he received, he modestly thought that those who believed he was brave were wrong. For him, the decisive evidence of his cowardice was that he had failed to take the quick option of death when he had had the chance. Now he was reduced to a nervous wreck upon the floor, flinching whenever a shadow passed over the lights or footsteps sounded from the corridor.
Drip...
Why was no one coming? Surely the Autobots had had enough time to organise a rescue party? They must be organising a rescue party... right? They wouldn't leave one of their own to rot here... no, they wouldn't. In fact, in fact, they were probably working their way through the Decepticon base right now! Perceptor found himself throwing a hopeful glance at the entrance to the prison, as though his comrades would suddenly appear...
... They weren't coming, were they? It didn't take that long to organise a rescue party, not when there were lives at stake. Perceptor knew that Prime had managed it much quicker in the past for other captured warriors. Ha. They weren't coming at all, no, they probably had... probably had other things to concentrate on, yes, that's it, more important things to worry about. Well, the scientist resolved to himself, if they would not come for him, then he would at least die well. He would make them proud of him. He would make them proud that he was an Autobot.
But... but if they... the Decepticons, if they started to beat him again -
Drip...
The only blessing in this hell was that Starscream had not come into the prison since the interrogation.
The scientist did not know whether or not he could stomach seeing the seeker again, let alone so soon. Even thinking about him brought back memories that he wanted to forget; the bond that now existed between them was a taboo, a mockery. It was permanent, the eternal promise between lovers, and it had been used so callously – Perceptor was tied to Starscream inescapably, and for what? Even the sight of the air commander's wingmates, Thundercracker and Skywarp, who had both taken a turn of guard duty, unsettled the scientist; they were of such similar build to Starscream that it was hard to look at them and not see him sneering back.
Why were they keeping him now? They were done with him, surely? They had what they wanted. Or perhaps they were going to forget about him here? He was... fine with that. Having them forget about him was certainly preferable to having them pay attention to him, at least...
Drip... drrrrip...
Footsteps sounded in the corridor again, and Perceptor flinched automatically; he invariably did, a nervous reaction spawned from his most recent experiences. No matter how many times he told himself that he should not let his fear show, that he should be Autobot enough to deal with this, that he should try and act like Ironhide or Brawn or any of the other stronger warriors would no doubt act in his situation, his body disobeyed him. He told himself he should not be this afraid. The footsteps usually passed by anyway.
Not this time, apparently. They became steadily louder, and, with them, Perceptor's limbs tensed. He hoped, so fervently hoped that it was just a changeover of the guard.
No such luck. The imprisoned Autobot hid his face as the footsteps drew nearer still, finally stopping just on the other side of the bars. When he at last managed to gather enough of his courage to look up at the figure whose shadow was casting strange lights through the dancing energy beams of his cage, he saw Megatron lounging lazily next to the control panel, watching him with that same smug amusement on his face that he had had when ordering Starscream to carry out the unthinkable, unholy bond that now joined him with his prisoner.
...drip...
"You're looking in bad shape, Perceptor." The Decepticon commander-in-chief commented airily, and, in an act of defiance that belied his beliefs about his own cowardice, Perceptor bared his teeth in a snarl. At that, Megatron's playful expression darkened and he flicked off the switch that controlled the concentrated beams of the cell, advancing towards his helpless captive with a deadly intent showing in his ruby optics. Perceptor tried to draw back in fear, but the wall stopped his retreat and his limbs screamed complaint at the movement.
"I want the co-ordinates to this power plant." Megatron stated, his voice cold, hard and unforgiving as one black hand grasped his captive by the throat, lifting him from the ground. In his grip, Perceptor struggled and coughed, the rough treatment grazing the already ruptured vein sorely and scraping on his voice modifier circuitry.
"St-stop, I'll t-tell you..." He croaked, a whimper torn from his vocaliser as Megatron unceremoniously dropped him. The tyrant rubbed his hands together while Perceptor was gasping out the co-ordinates hurriedly, as though wiping away non-existent germs from picking up the filthy Autobot.
"There now, was that really so hard?" The silver warlord questioned, his voice once again mockingly jovial as Perceptor turned his optics to the floor. Considering his victim for but a moment longer, Megatron turned his head to the side and called out for his lieutenant. "Starscream!"
"What!?" Came the waspish response as Starscream, the very mech that Perceptor did not want to see, came striding in to the prison, datapad in hand and in high ill-temper. He did not even deign to look at the pathetic wreck of the robot at his feet. "Can't you see I'm busy? Get someone else to play with your Autobot doll!"
"I have grown bored with him." Megatron responded, surveying Starscream with his emotionless, bottomless, fathomless red optics. "I have all I need. I want you to organise a strike force, Starscream, but do not move out yet. I will broadcast the co-ordinates of our destination when the time is right. First, though," his attention turned back to Perceptor, "we need to dispose of our friend here."
"Can't I just kill him?" The seeker growled irritably as he stowed the datapad neatly in a compartment in his torso gimbal, finally looking down at Perceptor and bringing up his twin laser cannons.
"No." Megatron pushed the barrel of the gun nearest him aside, causing Starscream to scowl at him in a mixture of hatred and disbelief, the seeker pulling his arm away from the touch hurriedly. "I want him to get back to the Autobots, or at least to put out a distress signal."
"What?" Starscream snapped, considering Perceptor for but a moment more before turning his rebellious stare onto his leader. "Are you going soft!?"
"Don't be stupid." The tyrant responded, in that hateful tone he seemed to reserve just for speaking to Starscream. "Do not question me, Starscream. Take him and dump him somewhere. Be gentle, I don't want him dying on the way. Then return here and organise your squadron, I want them ready to make a hit-and-run attack if necessary."
"We do hit-and-run skirmishes now? What happened to brute force?" Sneered the officer tauntingly, but his laughter was cut short and his smirk died on his face when the dark end of Megatron's fusion cannon was thrust almost into his mouth.
"Are you questioning me!?" The warlord demanded of his rebellious lieutenant, who hurriedly shook his head, bravado suddenly gone.
"O-of course not, mighty one." He wheedled, taking a step backwards away from the barrel of the dreadful weapon. "I-I was just... I was simply pointing out that it is not usually your style to take speed over power."
"For once, Starscream, your approach to fighting may be useful to me." Was stated simply, Megatron regarding his cowardly officer with contempt before lowering his cannon. "Now, you have your orders and I expect them to be carried out to the word, or there will be repercussions."
"Yes, mighty Megatron..." The air commander nodded as Megatron stalked out of the prison. For a moment, he was visibly battling with himself, one of his null ray cannons even rising up to point at his hated leader's unprotected back, but then rationality and self-preservation seemed to win out over belligerent ambition for once and he turned back to regard the broken microscope-transformer on the floor. With a grimace, he let his eyes wash over Perceptor's form, and the Autobot tensed up under the scrutiny, unable to meet Starscream's optics. The sight of his bondmate filled the scientist with new waves of shame; he didn't want to look at the monster, didn't want to consider him at all, didn't even want him to exist. Perhaps then he would be able to convince himself that this had all been a bad dream...
"Transform, Autobot." Came the curt order. Seeing the expression of anger on the seeker's face, Perceptor complied as well as he could, not wanting to do anything to provoke the officer's cruel wrath.
It was a symphony of agonies. His limbs complained violently at the movement, his torso screamed at the jostling, his systems burned from lack of energy and the shifting of mass that was an integral part of his transformation into his microscope form took its toll on him, leaving him in his alternate mode but utterly drained, barely able even to think straight.
Wordlessly, Starscream gathered up the microscope and strode towards the docking tower of the underwater starship, glaring anybody who passed him into submission. His ire was great; Megatron was taking him for granted again, and now he had to deliver this Autobot scum back to its own kind.
Depositing Perceptor's small form in his cockpit carefully, if only to preserve the delicate flight equipment within rather than out of any concern for his dying foe, Starscream transformed to his jet mode as the docking tower rose above sea level, firing energy into his afterburners and shooting into the sky in a flurry of flame and heat-distorted air. He tore through the atmosphere, nearing his maximum speed; he wanted the Autobot out of his sight as soon as was possible. The very sight of the red microscope-transformer sickened him to the core.
In a matter of minutes, Starscream was flying at a more sedate speed in American airspace. He slowed even more over a large spread of desert; there was nothing but red sand and towering mesas for as far as his sensors could detect. Coming in close to the ground, he opened the hatch at the bottom of the cockpit, and Perceptor's tiny alternate form fell out without resistance, bouncing in the sand. It would be to the seeker's advantage if the injured enemy perished right there; one less Autobot to deal with was a boon, and getting rid of Perceptor had moved right up on the seeker's priority list recently. If it weren't for the strict orders he had received, Starscream would probably have shot Perceptor through the spark right there, but once again his fear of Megatron's retribution kept him obedient for now, and he flew off without a backwards glance, glad to be rid of his unwanted bondmate and having no qualms about leaving the Autobot to fend for himself.
Perceptor allowed himself a breem or so to recover from the sharp landing impact, which had jarred his battered form uncomfortably and forced him out of his alt-mode (his emergency energy reserves had been far too depleted to keep him transformed, what with the amount of his mass that needed to be displaced for him to maintain the smaller microscope-mode), before he re-activated his communication output and set a steady signal on distress frequency. He could not keep the signal up for long; he was dangerously low on energon and after the inactivity it had been kept in during his imprisonment, his communicator was unable to transmit anything but a weak signal... but it didn't matter to him whether the Autobots came for him now or not. At least he could say he tried. At least if he died, he would die free now, surrounded by the beauty of Earth's nature.
O
At the nuclear power plant was one of two groups that Optimus Prime had organised his army into. The defence group split again, so that while one shift was on duty, the other could recharge. That way, there was never a time when the power plant was without Autobots guarding it. Most of those who accompanied him to the probable battlefield were his best warriors. Few had been spared to guard the Ark, among them Wheeljack and the Dinobots, as Prowl calculated that Megatron would be likely to strike the energy facility in force and would quickly overwhelm a small defence party. Red Alert had been left at the Ark to provide an early warning of an attack, and Inferno had stayed with him because the two were nigh inseparable. With them had stayed most of the Autobots whose areas of expertise did not lie in combat, such as Beachcomber and Seaspray.
Hoist and Grapple had accompanied the defence group at first, as their expertise was needed to build a bunker. This structure now acted as a temporary base, with portable recharge berths for tiring warriors and medical facilities for tending to any battlefield wounded. With the Decepticon intelligence unknown, Prowl had been unable to accurately predict when their strike might be, so Prime had prepared to stay at the power plant for a while. Wheeljack had joined the two of them later to add one of his inventions to the bunker; a device specially tailored to project a large shield, almost like a forcefield though not tailored to withstand persistent attacks, to cover the circumference of the power plant; it would befuddle the sensors of anyone who did not know the exact co-ordinates of the plant, making it seem as though there was nothing but desert there. Amazingly enough for a 'Wheeljack invention', it had worked first try.
As soon as the bunker was completed, the two builders and the engineer had been allowed back to the Ark, though Prime had asked Grapple to stay on alert in case there were any repairs needed for bomb damage. There was certainly a bitter retort from the architect about all his masterpieces being blown sky-high by Decepticons after that conversation. Indeed, the orange Autobot had left the temporary site muttering darkly to his partner Hoist about wanting to someday build something that would last.
Ratchet had come with the warriors to the power plant; with his team of scientists depleted by one after the loss of Perceptor, and Wheeljack remaining in the Ark, Prime had asked his chief medical officer to supply battleground relief to the injured, and Ratchet had agreed immediately. With him were Ironhide and Jazz, who had made a full recovery since his injury on the highway. Prowl had been brought along because Prime needed him, and their forces were brought to respectable numbers by several brave warriors, among them the Lamborghini brothers Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, Prowl's fellow Datsun-transformer Bluestreak and the Minibots Brawn, Cliffjumper, Windcharger and Bumblebee.
"Prime!" The medic called, hurrying over to his leader, who was in conference with Prowl regarding the best course of action should the Decepticons bring Devastator in their attack force.
"What is it, Ratchet?" Optimus spoke levelly, interrupted from the conversation with his strategist and looking up calmly.
"We're picking up a signal on the SOS frequency." The white Transformer gave his report, a slight gasp in his voice. "It's from Perceptor."
"What? He's still alive?" Prowl's head snapped up in surprise; for all his analysis of Decepticon tactics, he had not anticipated them ever releasing their captive apart from as spare parts.
"How far from here?" Prime asked sternly, emphasising the urgency of the situation but keeping his tone calm.
"Not far, not far, about five or six Earth miles at most. The interference from the cloaking shield is messing it up a bit so I can't be exact, I'll know as soon as I'm out of the vicinity." The medic shook his head. "We keep losing it, though, it doesn't sound like he's in good shape."
"It'll be a trap." The Autobots' second-in-command noted gloomily, staring out into the distance. "Either the Decepticons will be waiting in force for us to go to him or they're planning on attacking here as soon as we leave."
"We can't leave him, Prowl." Prime pointed out to the Datsun-transformer gently before turning back to his medic. "Ratchet, take Jazz and Brawn, go to where this signal is coming from and bring Perceptor back. Be extremely careful. As Prowl pointed out, there's a high probability you're walking into a trap."
"Right." Ratchet paused as he turned to find the two warriors assigned to accompany him. "We could probably use some back-up. What about Mirage? Is he around?"
"No, I let him stay with Red in the Ark." The Autobot leader answered. "You know what he's like about fighting. Take Sideswipe, he'll be good if you need a speedy decoy."
"Mirage would have been better..." Was the inaudible reply that Ratchet grumbled to himself. With an irritated twitch of his head, he hurried away to rally his rescue party, making a mental note to reconfigure Mirage's personality data – or at least have a serious talk with him about the responsibilities of a soldier.
O
Consciousness was fleeting, and probably not important. Colours were mingling, and equally unnecessary. The wind that blew sand against his chassis was almost pleasant and soothing. Putting out a radio frequency had become too tiresome now; he was content to lie against the hot dirt and lose himself in the sensations of freedom. Freedom to do what he wanted, to go where he pleased, even if he was not technically able to...
Voices came from above him, swirling together and barely understandable, but there were... three people speaking. It was hard, but if he concentrated, he could just about work out the words that were being said.
"Dear Primus..."
"What the slag did they do to him!?"
A hand closed around his arm, gentle but firm, and a thrill of panic rushed through him. Were they coming back to take his free will away again? Was he going to be belittled and shamed by them again? Not in this lifetime, never again. He fought against whoever-it-was, scratching and biting out at the hands that were suddenly flashing in front of his optics, his vision clearing only to focus on them.
"Ratchet, he's panickin'!"
"Get away from me!" Screeching in a raspy voice he did not recognise, he felt his fingers claw against pliable metal – had he just caught someone in the face?
"Hey, woah Perceptor, woah, calm down - it's me!"
"Hold him still now, hold him still..."
Someone was pressing down on his chest, and the scientist lashed out again. He recognised the voices but his logic centres, steadily being deprived of energy, were shorting; he could not for the life of him associate them with anyone he knew. Cool metal ran along his overheating helmet and there was a dull tingling and the faint, irritating buzzing of a surgical laser.
The world suddenly became a lot clearer.
"J-Jazz?" The name tumbled from Perceptor's mouth as a haze of paranoia lifted from his sight and he realised just who he had been clawing. The sub-commander fell back in relief from holding Perceptor's chest down, rubbing his cheek. Behind him was Ratchet, a laser scalpel in one hand and a worried look plastered on his face, and there was another two shapes further back – one red and black and white and the other a yellow-brown – but it was too blurry to make out who they were.
"S'good to have you back, Perceptor." The visored robot smiled briefly before calling to someone Perceptor could not see. "Ratchet, that's sorted it. Transform back. Brawn, help me get Perceptor into Ratchet." His kindly voice washed over the injured scientist in waves of warmth, promising safety. "Don't worry Perceptor, it's over, you're safe now."
"Your face..." Perceptor murmured faintly to Jazz, looking at the scrape on the sub-commander's pale cheek as Brawn lifted his shoulders effortlessly from the desert floor. An inexorable wave of drunken dizziness was overtaking him. "I'm sorry..."
"Aw, don't worry about it." The sub-commander interrupted lightly, helping the smaller warrior load their exhausted comrade into the back of Ratchet's ambulance mode. "Y'weren't thinkin' right."
"There's a couple of small batteries there somewhere, Brawn." Ratchet's gravelly voice called out. "Link Perceptor up to them so he can recharge some on the way."
"There, done." The yellow warrior plugged the wires into Perceptor's limp body, and immediately the scientist felt the benefit; his limbs, which had been burning from lack of energy, suddenly fell thankfully numb except for tingling not unlike paraesthesia in humans.
"Don't worry, Perceptor." Sideswipe's concerned expression appeared in front of Perceptor's optics and he rearranged his own mouth into a smile in gratitude at the kind words that followed, even if they were slightly egotistical. "I'm here to protect you. No Decepticons are gonna get by me, no way!"
"Oh yeah, like that'll make him feel any better." He could almost hear Ratchet rolling his eyes as the medic retorted cynically, starting his engine. "Come on, the quicker I get him back to Prime, the quicker I can repair him and we can all stop worrying."
It was good to be back among friends. Their amiable bickering was reassuring and instilled a feeling of calm, as welcome as if he were back in the familiarity of home. The ambulance doors closed and Perceptor let his systems shut down into stasis in the knowledge that he was at last safe again.
O
"How is he?" The familiar voice was distorted, as though he was hearing it through honey. His reflexes were sluggish, but, overall, Perceptor felt better than he had done for days.
"He's much better. He's not in any immediate danger, all his physical wounds have healed very well for the amount of time they were left to accumulate impurities and there's no sign of any circuit corrosion. As for his emotional state... well, I'm hoping that he'll pull through it."
"Is there a high chance he won't?"
"From the state he was in, I can only say that he underwent pretty severe torture. Memories that vivid don't fade overnight, and you know my feelings about memory suppression. He'll recover, but it'll probably take some time before he's the Perceptor we knew before."
"At least he is still with us. I thought for sure that he would be killed."
"What about you? Did anything happen while we were getting him back?"
"Yes. Prowl was right – the Decepticons launched a hit-and-run attack almost immediately after you were out of recall range. I don't think it was ever meant to be a full raid – it was probably a ploy to gauge our resources here so that they can prepare for a proper attack."
"I was going to say, hit-and-run doesn't really sound like Megatron's style. Maybe he's listening to that squeaky sub-commander of his at last."
"I hope he is not. Starscream may be arrogant and narcissistic, but he is intelligent and a gifted tactician. We would struggle a lot more in this war if Megatron listened the advice of his lieutenants more frequently."
Perceptor switched on his optics, the orange metal of the medical bay so bright under the focussed examination lights that it dazzled him for a moment before he saw the two figures who were having their quiet conversation by the side of the medical table he was on. It was Ratchet, of course, and next to him was the great leader himself – Optimus Prime.
"Prime..." Perceptor spoke, his voice strong and recognisable as his again at last.
"Perceptor!" The heroic leader and his medic turned their attention to their scientist comrade as he levered himself shakily into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the table. "How are you feeling?"
"As... well as can be expected, thank you." He nodded, looking down at his arms and torso. There was not a sign of the vicious gashes that had been there previously. Ratchet was a medical genius indeed.
Refreshed, and with a nagging feeling that he should be making himself useful, Perceptor made to rise from the table but he was stopped by his leader's hand falling upon his shoulder.
"Don't worry, just rest for now." Prime spoke pressingly, his tone making clear that he would not hear of Perceptor doing anything other than relaxing. "You've been through a lot."
Gratefully, Perceptor lay back on the table, staring at the orange ceiling. Some part of his over-inquisitive brain wondered why the Decepticon structures always seemed to be in metal of purple, while Autobot buildings were almost invariably of orange, when an unwelcome thought came crashing into his conscious.
"Optimus!" He gushed, sitting bolt upright again with such force that poor Ratchet stumbled backwards in alarm. Never one to show outward surprise, Optimus settled for staring at his scientist's sudden outburst. "The Decepticons! They got the information, I, I'm sorry, I held out as long as I could, I -"
"Calm down, Perceptor." The truck-transformer tilted his head to the side as he reassured his recovering friend. "We've already organised a defence. You held out as long as you could – that's more than I could ask of any Autobot. I'm very proud of your bravery. There's no need to worry yourself any further over this matter."
Mollified, Perceptor allowed Ratchet to check over his systems again. That he didn't have to go into detail about what exactly had caused him to give their enemies the knowledge they had wanted was a great easement on his spark; he didn't know whether he would be able to bear telling anyone. Not yet. He would have to come to terms with it himself first.
"There you are." Ratchet spoke with satisfaction, closing the panel on Perceptor's thigh after checking the neural circuits there. "Good as new, and I overrode the firewall that was keeping your nervous receptors on two hundred percent input."
"Thanks Ratchet, and thank you Optimus." Perceptor flexed his limbs experimentally, nodding to himself when he was able to move them freely without lances of agony pulsing through his systems. He rose from the table to stand on his own two feet, despite Prime's earlier protestations. "Sorry to disobey you, Optimus, but I want to get back to my research and put all of this behind me as quickly as possible. Please excuse me..."
As he wandered off towards what looked like it would probably be a computer, Ratchet commented to Prime in a low voice:
"There goes an Autobot who is braver than he'll ever believe."