— ‘ Dead land’s collided. You pour your life down the rifle’s spiral and show us you’ve earned it. Cleric’s fog will recede right before your eyes. So long to this wretched form. Long before you were born you were always to be a dagger floating straight to their heart. ’
…
headcanon based “perceptor” from transformers cyberverse
penned by raphael.
indie. sel. priv.
😶 + [WHAT WOULD YOU REQUIRE TO ACCEPT YOUR RIGHTFUL POSITION AS MY SECOND-IN-COMMAND?]
prompt.
"You are fooling yourself if you believe I would betray our peace for a power grab, Soundwave. What would I require? I would require you to not do anything of this sort in the first place."
The harsh red of the Quintesson’s ship glints off of his scope.
“Hot Rod. Did you get anyone?”
“I couldn't pull anyone out,” frustration lines the other’s voice over coms.
“How many are giving chase?”
“How did you—” KRAKOOM!!
“You are quite noisy.”
Three scans through his scope, their heat signatures are different from a Cybertronian’s. Approaching fast.
“Nevermind. Stay your course. Do not make any turns.”
45.
He pulls the rifle from his back and holds it steady in both hands. Practiced. Ready.
“Perceptor, [42] if you're about [36] to do something [27] you better [15] do it. [6] They're hot [5] on my [4] tail.”
3.
2.
Perceptor fires his shot. The blast pierces through one of them, puncturing the eye socket of the one flanking it. The third one screeches, its course changing from chasing Hot Rod to—
“Oh dear.”
He places his rifle upon his back and begins to run. While sniping from a rooftop normally has its advantages, Preceptor will always be at a disadvantage. He can only rely so much on instinct and scope alone.
“By Primus, Perc, I didn't know you had it in you!”
“You can compliment me later. It appears the remaining one I did not kill has been made aware of my presence. Do you mind giving me a lift?”
“It’ll be tight.”
“I am depending on it.”
...
“Perceptor what the frag was that out there.” Hot Rod gestures wildly. Or, he assumes he does. His joints are awfully loud.
Perceptor sets his rifle down. It’s off balance, a result of disuse, he’s certain. He hasn't touched it since he left the Wreckers. Enough time for his rifle to lose its specific tuning. He can make some upgrades to it while at it… Fit his needs. Perhaps even hook it up to his—
“Perceptor.”
“Have you not fought alongside snipers before?”
“That's not what I mean and you know it.”
Perceptor sighs, resting his hands on the bench. He does not look in Hot Rod’s direction. “A lot happened on Cybertron while you were gone.”
“So tell me.”
“We were losing, Hot Rod. Our numbers were spread thin and with most of our senior leaders gone with Optimus we didn't know what to do. So we formed the Wreckers.”
“Yeah, I heard about them. Disbanded by the time Windblade came to find us.”
Perceptor nods. “A suicide squad, essentially… I joined them on a mission serving as a science officer. The mission fell apart…” Perceptor touches his chest absently. He's completely healed now, but he will never forget.
“I almost died.”
“So you became a sniper and joined them.”
“I refused to die without a fight.”
Hot Rod is silent for a moment. He sighs and places a hand on Perceptor’s shoulder. “I appreciate what you’ve done for us, for me, Perceptor, but I need you here.”
“I don’t need—”
“I know. I need you here because I need someone monitoring what the Quintessons are even doing with these simulations. Their motive. If anyone can figure it out it’s you. I need a scientist, not a soldier.”
Perceptor does not respond. That’s what Windblade and Chromia said to him when they approached him about the space bridge. Perhaps it would do to leave that all in the past.
Where it belongs.
“Fine. But that means I will not be able to cover for you while you go under.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll manage.”
He steps away from the workbench, leaving his rifle behind. “I found a secure bunker we can use as a safer base of operations. I scanned it while waiting for you.”
He wrenches himself free immediately, snapping his head to the side with an audible CRACK of his struts realigning. Reaching back, he runs the tips of his claws over the faint indent the stabilizer wheel has left across his spinal cord. Another modification is required to shield that troublesome little weak point, clearly.
“You surprised me. Well done.” Perhaps he might have seen it coming, if he had a soldier’s training; but direct conflict has always been the forte of the other Lysk. He looks at the drool smeared across Perceptor’s face. “Was it. Worth it?”
He leaves the microscope partially submerged in the Virosa as he resets his jaws. The pharyngeal rostrum snakes back down his throat and into its housing as he neatly folds his mandibular joints into their usual configuration. Within seconds, it’s as if his monstrous maw never existed. He’s just another mechanism with a flat, featureless faceplate.
“So. Your curiosity led you here.” He pulls a shipping crate over with one data-cable and seats himself. May as well get comfortable while he still has the ex-Wrecker restrained. “You seem fascinated. By my lateraceps. Why? Is it familiar to you?”
Of everything to happen he hadn’t expected the techno-organic to simply... leave him in and sit. That normally is not how it goes. Normally these sorts of ordeals in either explosions or death. He can’t say he’s displeased, though. This is a much more preferable outcome than his expectations set.
He hears the strange mechanical clicking he heard earlier when he found his head suddenly in the maw of the other. He must be resetting himself. He says nothing about it, though. Seeing as it’s not something he particularly wants to experience again.
At least, being on the receiving end.
Perceptor hesitates for a moment before responding.
“No, I am not familiar, which is why they fascinate me. The ship. It was a frigate class ship, yes? I have never seen something like it fully subsumed by organic matter. Not in this way. But it shows me that all I know currently is not limited.”
He speaks very animatedly, if he wasn’t currently restrained he’d be gesturing. “And lateraceps? Is that what you call them? Are they engineered or were they harvested from another world? Ah— I suppose another question I have is what do I call you?”
“Why would I. Allow you. To assume a more advantageous position? That is. Ridiculous.”
Nonetheless, he understands that they can’t remain locked in this stalemate forever. The seconds tick by as he considers his opponent’s offer. The longer he keeps his jaws clasped around Perceptor’s head, the more he drools on him.
If he allows the Virosa to absorb him, or if he crushes his head in his jaws, Perceptor will snap his spinal cord. Any other injury he would survive, but his spinal cord is and has always been a glaring flaw in his design. The lateraceps does not extend to his brain module—and if his control over the network is severed, the Virosa will no longer be able to differentiate between them. It will devour them both.
Another thirty seconds pass before he reaches a dissatisfactory conclusion.
Without waiting for the countdown, he unlatches his jaws and releases his grip. His upper jaw bumps against Perceptor’s awkwardly as he tries to angle his head away. He can’t otherwise move from his current position due to the chokehold his opponent has him in.
“Now. Release me. And I will step away.”
Perceptor considers this situation. There are many possibilities that follow when he releases him. Either he can keep his leverage, perhaps even end this here but he doubts that would be wise if his preliminary scan of the bot has told him anything. Or he can release him and trust he can leave intact. Neither options are very appealing.
(Also the... drool on his face is very gross. He thinks some of it got in his mouth. Appalling.)
“What insurance will I have that your ship will release me? If I let you go and you step away your ship will still have the capability of swallowing me. I have no intentions of leaving Maccadam’s in Hot Rod’s hands.”
Priorities. Always does his mind wander to worrying about what others will do with his stuff. Worse yet, he would loathe if Dead End ransacked his bar. How did he ever end up in this situation? He seems to have terrible odds of avoiding conflict.
Is he in the wrong...? Now that he thinks about it he can’t say he would react too differently if someone else touched his things. He waits for a moment longer, then decides to relent. “...You only acted logically. Were I in your situation I would lash out as well.”
He loosens his hold, letting go of the bot, and awaits his own doom.
The impact is as jarring as it is unexpected; momentarily blinded, he jerks his head back with a hiss, only to become trapped as Perceptor hooks his arm between his neck and his collar plating.
He tugs and thrashes his head side-to-side, but that inconvenient stabilizer is wedged where he can’t reach it with his own two hands. He can’t dislodge it through brute force, either. The hard edge of it is digging into his already frail spinal cord.
So be it.
He unhinges his primary jaws, flattening Perceptor between his own frame and the Virosa as he locks them around his head and digs his teeth in. His throat cabling ripples and bulges outwards as his pharyngeal jaws slither out of their housing, the rostrum snapping shut just short of clipping the other’s nasal ridge clean off.
“Try it. We will return to the Allspark. Together.”
A thin bead of drool drips onto his captive’s cheek as he flexes his jaws warningly. Well, then. This is uncomfortable.
It seems neither of them are winning in this situation. He’s careful to keep his expression level, lest he cause himself any more damage. Perceptor holds tight as he calculates his odds. They aren’t too promising.
“Stalemate.” he mutters. He supposes this will require a modicum of trust if they both want to get out of this alive. “Fine. We both let go at the same time on the count of 3. Deal? Afterwards we can fight all we want, but I hold no desire to kill you.”
Truth be told he had no intentions of coming here to look for a fight. He’s had plenty of that in his life. Perhaps his scientific mind has caused him more trouble than it’s worth.
He does not move until he’s had his answer.
Shockwave goes very still, optic cycling to a mere pinprick. His good hand clutches at the barrel of his cannon arm.
“I assure you– I am thoroughly disinclined to cause trouble, knowingly or not.” the yellow warframe murmurs. “There was an… incident. Tell me, please– does your faction rule here?”
It sounds like wherever he’s from the war persists. How unfortunate. Though he will admit his relief when Shockwave sounds... genuine with his statement. This Shockwave is nothing like the one he knew. (Knew is perhaps too strong of a word. Fought might be more appropriate.)
“There are no factions here, not anymore. The war has ended and we’ve signed a peace accord not too long ago following the Quintesson invasion and a multiversal invasion. You might understand why I am wary of your appearance.”
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