A story not often told
Chapter 8: Blast from a forgotten past
Perceptor stood in between Ratchet and Wheeljack. He was slightly nervous. He'd never finished a project like this. He'd never been talking in front of a crowd either. He felt so scared and nervous. He was cursing out his emotions quietly. His emotions had pulled so much from him. He shook his head. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand.
"Perceptor, you okay?" asked Ratchet quietly. "You look terrible."
"You wouldn't believe me if I said I was sick," whispered Perceptor.
"No, I wouldn't. You've waited a long time for this, Ceptor. You'll be fine," nodded Ratchet.
"Crowds aren't my favorite thing in the world," gulped Perceptor.
"I can see that," chuckled Ratchet.
"We're here for ya," Wheeljack added.
Perceptor looked out at the crowd. Some many faces, which means so many people, thought Perceptor. He moved his optics over the crowd. Suddenly his gaze on the crowd stopped on a sole person. His mouth hung open slowly. He didn't know who he was but a haunting feeling sunk into him. His spark ached with old memories and familiar loss.
An older bot stood in the back of the crowd. A dark mask was placed over his face. His color scheme was black and purple. His optics were purple. It was haunting. He never saw the face before, but it haunted him none the less. The bot moved out from the back and toward the back stage. Perceptor, not knowing he was doing such, stumbled backward. Ratchet caught him.
"Perceptor are you okay!?" gasped Ratchet.
"F-f-fine," stuttered Perceptor.
"Dude you look even worse," mumbled Wheeljack.
"Just…I guess a ghost. It's nothing worth worrying about," huffed Perceptor, standing up straight.
'I tried to warn you, child. You didn't heed it, I am ashamed. I thought the death of your teacher would distract you long enough…'
"Huh…?" whispered Perceptor.
'What a fool you are. Even with your high IQ, you're slow to learning.'
"What's…I'm going to get some air. I promise to be back before the speech," nodded Perceptor, marching off.
"Perceptor! Come back!" ordered Ratchet but it was no use.
Perceptor moved away from the stage. He was getting a little stressed, that was all. He shook his head and leaned against the wall. He was just stressing that's all. He looked up. He swore he saw someone in the hall. That similar dark figure. He slipped from his part on the wall. He fell on his back. He panted heavily.
"No…Think logical Perceptor," ordered Perceptor to himself.
"Logical isn't always the best thinking," hissed a voice.
"Who's there?" gasped Perceptor.
"Only little old me. You wouldn't know me though. The last time I saw you, you were a sparkling…" the voice echoed.
"Get out of my head!" ordered Perceptor, running down another hall.
"Are you scared? You should be!" the voice bellowed.
Perceptor fell. He hit his side on a bookshelf that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perceptor looked up, sitting up, slowly. The shadows were creeping in, he felt it. His spark ached. There was no turning back. Something-or somebody-was haunting him. he closed his optics tight and screamed. He soon heard the echo of footsteps.
"Now…now…That's cheating," cursed the voice.
"Leave…leave me alone!" sobbed Perceptor.
"Don't cry, sweetie."
"Ms…Ms. Redmoon?" Perceptor whispered. The world was going to round him, fuzzing in and out.
"Ceptor…" the echoing of his friends' voices.
"Ms. Redmoon…" whispered Perceptor, falling back to the ground again. This time he had fainted.