Chapter Text
Perceptor had been first in line when Optimus made a very dramatic speech to the Council calling for representatives to reach out to the Decepticons. Well, second, considering that Optimus himself had volunteered to be the first. Most of the Council had shuffled their feet and prevaricated—letting Megatron go back to the Decepticons to create more problems for the Quintessons trying to run them over was one thing. Actively allying with the Decepticons themselves, all of Autobot society, was another thing entirely. Even the Council members who were self-interested enough to recognize how necessary Decepticon support was—or how much profit there would be from reintegrating them—were themselves somewhat leery of personally walking onto a Decepticon ship.
No one questioned his own decision to go. Everyone knew Perceptor didn’t feel fear. They just all tried to stop him.
Various Councilors pointed out he was too valuable to the Autobot cause, citing current and past projects. Perceptor explained that this was why they had an entire Ministry of Science full of reasonably capable mechs who could continue working in his absence. They didn’t like this.
Others pointed out that he was too valuable as an acting Councilor, and if negotiations dragged on too long, much less encountered disaster along the way, he would be absent from his duties. Perceptor cited the regulations that allowed him to appoint a proxy, and went on to point out that the reason the Autobots had a Council as opposed to the Decepticon’s Autocracy was to deliberately make it easy to replace absent mechs. All being cogs in the great Autobot machine, and all. They liked this even less.
“Furthermore, if the situation has deteriorated far enough that the Decepticons will kill me simply for attending the talks, our collective odds of surviving either the Quintesson invasion or subsequent Decepticon retaliation are less than four percent. It would be most efficient to find out now whether they are truly interested in this alliance.”
They liked this least of all, judging by how they all sat there in silence. Optimus Prime looked around at them all, before folding his arms in a decidedly…decided manner.
“Well. you heard him.”
And so Perceptor was on the first Autobot ship to travel peacefully to Decepticon Headquarters in five million stellar cycles. As planned.
Despite Perceptor’s well-reasoned arguments, the other Autobot Councilors refused to leave Cybertron. Perceptor had appointed Wheeljack as the Ministry of Science’s representative to the Council in his absence, since the other scientist was distinctly uninterested by the prospect of Decepticon negotiations. That meant that among the Autobot delegation, Perceptor was most familiar with the Jettwins—under strict instructions not to speak to any Decepticons without supervision—and Brawn, who had argued his way into coming.
“You realize that causing fights with the Decepticons will endanger the negotiations,” Perceptor had pointed out, while they were waiting for the shuttle to pass through the spacebridge. “You will have to be extremely well-behaved.” Something Perceptor knew well Brawn had enough trouble with on Cybertron, to the point of being repeatedly written up for disruptive emotional behavior. The Enforcers kept making Perceptor sign off on Brawn’s record in order to continue keeping him employed at the Ministry of Science. They didn’t seem to mind that it wasted both their time and Perceptor’s while having very little long-term effect on Brawn’s conduct—something Perceptor had compiled the statistics to give his own presentation on the last time the Enforcers made him sit through a review. They had failed to draw the appropriate conclusions and suggested that instead Perceptor stop signing off so Brawn could be detained for correction of his programming. Perceptor had refused.
“Somebody’s got to watch your back,” Brawn grumbled, manually aligning his digit sockets. “Primus knows you can’t hold your own in anything closer than a hundred astroyards.”
“Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary.” Perceptor examined the starfield as they approached the spacebridge, calculating the shifts in visible light since the last time he had been up here, five hundred and seven stellar cycles ago. “I have planned ahead in the event of casual violence.”
“Does that mean I can plan ahead for casual violence?” Brawn was grinning. Perceptor chose not to indulge him.
“I have no doubt you will rise to the occasion, prepared or not.” A crash drew Perceptor’s attention to the Jettwins’ most recent attempts to perfect their space-restricted flight transformations. The simulator hadn’t really been able to replicate the feeling of crashing into walls. He recalled that being an important part of a young flyer’s learning experience, but there hadn’t been room for it at the Ministry. “Your time may be better spent protecting them,” Perceptor pointed out. Brawn was not the most diplomatic of mechs, but the Jettwins would hardly have made any important plans he could disrupt.
“I’ll consider it,” Brawn said, and spent the rest of the trip making repeated requests for Perceptor to provide him with weapons.
Negotiations started promptly after docking on the Nemesis, or at least, the standard opening Decepticon posturing did. Perceptor tuned most of it out once he saw that Optimus seemed to be able to handle posturing right back, focusing instead on reviewing a datapad of Council demands to see if any of them were worth actually putting forward. Many of them were not.
”Perceptor!” Brawn yelled, from somewhere off to the side. He had been more than happy to get in on the posturing, judging from the crashes Perceptor had been tuning out. This sounded like something Perceptor should pay attention to, though.
Ah. One of the triple changers was posturing directly at him with a shoulder blaster. It was powering up, but not with the rapidity that would indicate a serious attempt to fire. His EM field indicated pride and challenge, but no true anger. Perceptor took a step to the side, positioning himself in front of one of the access hatches for the volatile engines to decrease the chances that the Decepticon would actually fire, and waited.
“Blitzwing, stand down!” Megatron snapped. “You will not blow up our engines because someone called your little bluff.”
The triple changer deactivated his cannon with a curse, and declared, “You’ve got guts, puny Autobot. You get to keep them. For now." Perceptor acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head.
“Are we done waving weapons around now?” Bumblebee demanded, waving his own stingers around emphatically.
“Yes, are we?” Optimus Prime’s tone was so reminiscent of Ultra Magnus that Perceptor actually lowered his datapad to look over at where the Prime, despite not coming up past Megatron’s chest, was unflinchingly staring down the leader of the Decepticons. The Magnus Hammer was still in his hands.
“I believe we are,” Megatron replied, and the negotiations proceeded from there with a minimum of shed energon.
“On the immediate front, there is a pressing matter we wish to draw to the attention of your Autobot Science Corps,” Megatron said several cycles into the meeting. Perceptor looked up from the datapad where he was sketching out potential efficiency improvements for engine combustion, now that the Decepticons would be able to share certain mineral stocks. “The Quintessions are making use of a type of quantum technology that we were not previously aware had combat applicability.”
“So you didn’t bother to learn anything about it?” Sentinel Prime sneered, like he hadn’t ignored every non-combat briefing the Ministry of Science had tried to get him to sign off on since being made Prime. Wheeljack had just started submitting all his requests for experimental materials by describing the ways he would make them blow up. Perceptor had made him write up those lists for years, but usually it was just so he knew what kind of lab safety regulations to implement.
“We had other priorities,” Shockwave hissed, narrowing his eye at Sentinel. Perceptor immediately began tweaking an old calculation he had devised for the purpose of determining whether physical violence would erupt between Longarm Prime and Sentinel Prime, significantly raising Longarm’s willingness to engage.
”Regardless.” Megatron cut them off. “One of our conditions is that you turn your Ministry’s attention to it.” He looked directly at Perceptor.
“You can’t just demand the attention of Autobot scientists like—“
“Agreed.” Perceptor spoke over Sentinel’s protests. “The assistance of one of your Decepticon scientists would expedite communication in this alliance.”
Megatron considered this. “Blackarachnia?”
“I will not work with Autobots,” the techno-organic growled from her position at the far end of the table. “Especially not with the Ministry of Science.”
Her refusal was logical. Many of Perceptor’s fellow scientists would be more likely to see her as an experimental subject than a fellow colleague. It was also convenient to his plans.
Megatron’s optics narrowed, but he did not rebuke her. “I will not force any Decepticon to work with your organization,” he informed Perceptor. “Especially…” His gaze slid to the Jettwins, hanging back by the wall. “…considering your track record.”
“May I make inquiries?”
“Do you have a particular mech in mind?”
“Brainstorm of Kimia.”
Several of the Decepticons around the table winced. Blackarachnia broke into full-on spluttering. “Brainstorm? That arrogant, reckless, obnoxious, overblown, over flown , ego-driven aft?”
“I am familiar with his work,” Perceptor said, simply. The data that Brainstorm was alive and well enough to maintain his reputation was useful.
“Perceptor,” Optimus Prime said, leaning over the table towards him. “Are you sure about this?”
“Given the papers he has published and other accumulated evidence, I calculate a seventy-two point three percent increase in the Ministry’s success at both reversing engineering the technology in question and distributing the information to your troops.”
“As I said, I will not compel any Decepticon to cooperate with your Ministry,” Megatron said. “But your request will be passed along.”
“The odds of his acceptance are better if I make the request myself,” Perceptor stipulated.
“As long as it doesn’t disrupt the negotiations, I can’t see why that would be a problem,” Optimus said, firmly. Perceptor opened a new social behavior algorithm to make a note of the way Megatron focused in on the assumed challenge to his authority and then let it pass.
“Very well. Regarding the distribution of troops…"
Brainstorm was easier to find than Perceptor’s calculations—built over more than two million stellar cycles of unsuccessful contact—would have predicted. He was not aboard the Nemesis itself, but instead located on one of the Decepticons’ colony space stations. As part of the treaty, one of the nearest space bridges was being refurbished, so Perceptor was able to ride along on a repair shuttle within ten megacycles of obtaining Megatron’s permission.
Brawn had decided not to come along on this trip. He was too busy getting on smashingly with the warbuilds. Often literally. The rest of the Autobot delegation had other concerns.
This meant that Perceptor walked into Brainstorm’s lab—a riot of quantum scribblings on clear panels, half-assembled weapons on lab benches, scattered briefcases, strange arrangements of straps that he was fairly sure were meant to facilitate dangling from the ceiling,empty energon cubes, and datapads—alone. He immediately began to catalogue the shape of the mess, mapping it against his recollections of the last lab he'd shared with Brainstorm.
“I’m not done yet!” a particularly contorted arrangement of straps declared. A familiar shape unfolded, upside-down arms gesticulating wildly. There was a briefcase cuffed to one wrist. “Even my genius needs time to work! I told you, when I know, you’ll—“ The sentence cut off. “Great. Hallucinations now appear at thirty cycles without recharge. Good to know.”
“Hello, Brainstorm,” Perceptor said, filing away the comment on ‘thirty cycles without recharge’ for later review. “I am not a hallucination.”
“Perceptor?” Brainstorm leaned up to scrabble at the arrangement of straps around his waist, flipping to the floor with a thump. He approached without trampling any of the debris on the floor, despite not looking down once, eyes fixed on Perceptor’s face. His field indicated nothing visible to Perceptor’s EM reader.
Perceptor tipped his head back to return the gaze of the much larger approaching flightframe, otherwise holding still as Brainstorm reached out and poked him gently but firmly in the head. Despite the Brainstorm’s elbow naturally resting level with Perceptor’s forehead while both of them were standing, Brainstorm was curled forward. His frame hunched over Perceptor’s in a way that blocked out the rest of the lab. It was just the two of them forming and sharing a bubble of enclosed space.
“Are you satisfied that I exist?” Perceptor asked, when it had been several astroseconds and Brainstorm had yet to draw his hand away.
Brainstorm abruptly pulled back, wheeling away in a blur of explosive motion to settle down at a lab bench strewn with datapads, hunching over and burying his faceplate in them. “Yep. Completely satisfied. You sure are here, huh?”
“I am.” Perceptor picked his way across the lab floor to stand in front of Brainstorm’s lab bench. He was not confident enough to keep from watching his step, but as soon as he stopped, he resumed his study of Brainstorm’s face. His faceplate had changed. His field kept flaring with brief flashes of emotion, too brief for the reader to analyze.
”Why are you here?” Brainstorm said. “And what happened to your voice? Wait, let me guess. You’ve joined up with the Decepticons. You’re a prisoner of war and I’m supposed to supervise you. You realized there’s a problem you can’t possibly solve without me and you’ve come to beg for my forgiveness.”
“You are half correct,” Perceptor said. “I have been tasked with a larger problem as part of the treaty that I believe you would be able to assist me with. I have a secondary problem that past data indicates would intrigue you enough to lend your expertise.”
Brainstorm peered up from the datapad, ailerons twitching in what his EM field indicated was suspicion. “What’s the larger problem?”
Perceptor unsubspaced the datapad he had loaded with a copy of the briefing on the Quintesson’s weaponized quantum pockets and passed it to Brainstorm, who plugged in and started processing immediately. That didn’t stop him from continuing to squint at Perceptor. “Alright, seriously, what happened to your voice?”
“I performed an experimental brain surgery to wipe and overwrite my emotional subprocessing routines.”
“What?” Brainstorm’s wings canted up and he set the datapad on the table. “When’d you do that? Why’d you do that?”
“Two million three thousand stellar cycles ago.” The date was in the forefront of his processor. “I missed you. The quality of my work declined. I could not take action on the laws banishing flightframes, but adjusting my own processor was within my capabilities."
Brainstorm had gone completely still. “And now you’re not happy with it?”
“The procedure was successful, so no, I am not. I am also not dissatisfied, upset, or experiencing regret. But the modifications have served their purpose, and I no longer require them.”
Brainstorm leaned forward, carelessly dangling the datapad from his fingers. “So why are you here?”
“You are the expert on quantum mechanics and your assistance with the Quintesson’s—“
“No, no, I get that, I’m a genius,” Brainstorm said, circling his free hand. “It’s why I’m already working on the problem, they brought it to me last week. What made you come here?"
“A request for your assistance. I do not know how to reverse the modifications myself and I would trust no one more than you."
Brainstorm was silent, field indicating nothing. Perceptor calculated whether it would be more logical or illogical to wait, and concluded the latter. Brainstorm made rapid decisions, and had not formerly needed encouragement to voice them, but that had been millions of stellar cycles ago. “I would appreciate promptness in your rejection.”
“Who said anything about rejecting?” Brainstorm tipped his head to the side. “I’m just trying to make sure I’ve got this straight in my processor. You performed ethically dubious, untested, methodologically uncertain engineering on yourself. Because you missed me.”
“That is accurate.” So he was as quick as ever.
“And now,” there was a distinct tone of glee creeping into his voice and field. “You need my help to fix it.”
“The original conditions no longer apply, and all other options available to me seem insufficient. Yes.”
“Oh, happy days are here again.” Brainstorm swept all his datapads into the briefcase cuffed to his wrist. “I’m in. Where do we start?”