Chapter Text
"–is a justified precaution considering the potential amount of foreign viruses propagated by organic races on planets we conduct missions in. By the manner in which our crewmates have been all but smearing their plates around the entryways, our ship is simply dripping with particulates." Magnus tapped his report, gun-barrel fingers drumming daintily against his datapad. "It would only be proper policy, Rodimus. A triple fumigation after every takeoff. No exceptions."
"Uh-huh." Rodimus sat in his chair in front of his desk, and his feet sat on top of his desk. He twirled his laser-knife in a doodling rhythm completely out of sync with Ultra Magnus's tapping. "And is that all?"
"No, it is not, and I thank you for asking. My next request is to expropriate usage of the crew's quote-Rodimus-Reward-Day-un-quote to convert it into a tactical event."
"The scheduled off day? What would you use it for?"
"Well, since personal and public hygiene is so vital to the thriving of this establishment, perhaps we could make a…holiday of it. Gather the crew in one central location to wash down and mutually celebrate the joys of eradicating disease, and while they have cleared the halls, I can use the moment to personally sterilize each and every one of their habsuites."
Rodimus nodded. "Ultra Magnus, has anyone ever told you how beautiful your eyes look?"
Ultra Magnus's vocal pistons clanked shut. Very slowly, he screwed his optics closed. After one deep pause and one deeper exhale, Magnus shifted his bulk forward until he was properly looming over Rodimus, all height and width and overlarge frown.
"Rodimus," Magnus said. "By the love of Primus and the resignation form I am teetering close to submitting, please tell me you were listening."
"Well, sure. I was reading you. Drift taught me how. See, on the surface most bots' optics look the same color all the time, but there are actually trace shifts of hues inside the tint. If you can spot the differences, you can tell how they're really feeling." Rodimus spun the laser knife in a circle in front of Ultra Magnus's face. "See! You've got a little yellow in there. Tells me you're on edge for some reason."
"My propositions, Rodimus. Approved or denied?"
"Consider them considered. Though I would really want a third opinion here." In one motion, Rodimus swiveled his feet off the desk and stood up. "How about Drift? Yeah, let's get him! Have you seen him around, by the way? Haven't said hi to him since takeoff."
"Personally, I would advise consulting a licensed expert on pathogens, such as the likes of our Chief Medical–" but Rodimus had already slid out the doors before the end of Magnus's dependent clause.
"Okay, I'll ask Drift about it! Bye!"
"Rodimus!"
Rodimus ran down the hall, expertly dodging the booming echoes of Ultra Magnus shouting his designation. After a few turns, he exited the command quarters and reached the rest of the ship proper. Beautiful. Mission complete. Evaded, even.
He slowed to a walk. It was cheerful and quiet. Some crew milled about, one or two lazily wheeling down the hall in their alt-modes. Familiar names pinged across Rodimus's HUD. He greeted each one of them, dispersing a fist-bump here and there.
Where was Drift, anyways? Rodimus hadn't gotten a chance to see him ever since their last touchdown on Nebulus. It had been a slog of a mission, physically more than figuratively–the entire crust of the planet was teeming with fraying organic vines and wet animals that were in the midst of decimating a local gearhead species. The Lost Light had rocketed over as soon as they heard the distress signal, but by the time they arrived the whole thing had already devolved from "armed interspecies battle" into "the local food chain in action." Ugh, the suckers on those things. Somedays Rodimus was extra-blessed to have flamethrowers for arms. (Perhaps Magnus's suggestion to fumigate was in good taste, then. Hm. Oh well.)
"Driiift." Rodimus reached a familiar hall. He thumped on his friend's habsuite door. The door did not respond. Annoyed, Rodimus knocked again to roughly the same response. Rodimus groaned, then thumbed in his captain's override code into the access panel. The doors slid open, and Rodimus strolled into a habsuite to find the soft sparkle of spectral crystals on the wall and absolutely no one to greet him.
Rodimus sighed. Just a long, sullen silence. He peered at the quiet crystals and started dialing into their shared comm-link.
> To: Drift
> Buddy! Where are you?
--
a-ck-t-
ck-a–
–
"Hm?"
tack-tack-tack
Not from the comm link. A faint rhythm. Rodimus panned around the room. "...Hello?" he asked.
–ack-t-tack-tack
Distantly, Rodimus felt a field. He could just sense the frayed edges of it, brushing against his sensors in static filaments.
tack-tack–
Rodimus traced the sound, a hairline fracture in the silence. He exited Drift's room and rounded the corner to the hallway on the back side of the room. The field grew stronger. There was a door at the end of the hallway, partially slid open. Beyond was dark.
Tack-tack-tack
It was a tingy, clattering noise. The thin sound of something tapping erratically along the edge of a surface. It reminded Rodimus of the baubles and clips on his desk right before a quantum jump–the pings of tinny metal vibrating against the desk amidst the rumble of engines and Magnus's booming voice announcing takeoff. But at this moment, there was no roar of engines, no heat or alarm or announcements. Just the quiet sound of rattling metal.
"Hello?" Rodimus asked. "Hey! Your captain speaking. Any Drift, reporting for duty?"
The shining halls of the ship gave way to shaded grays and dull orange. Inside laid crates and darkness. Some storage room, probably. The light from the hallway cut a long shadow from Rodimus into the room, his own red paint blaring against dark paint and worn pipes.
ck-tack-tack-tack-t
Rodimus pressed his fingers into a fist, rapidly heating it. His hand sizzled, glowing molten-bright against the shadows. "O-kay, not Drift then! Well, I just wanted to say hi! Why don't you come out and say hi back, before I give you a neighborly fireball on the shoulder?"
The captain toed deeper into the dark. A second sound joined the first, slightly fainter. It was a repeating whir of vents, faster than the first sound, pitched staticky-sharp as if someone was only inhaling, over and over again.
Hm. Not good.
"Last chance." Rodimus kicked aside a crate. "I'm generous like that. Hey, I'd even be willing to forgive you, even if it turns out that you're just a loose pipe that scared the biolights out of me and made me look really stupid–"
A sharp gasp. Rodimus swivelled around, aiming at the thread of noise, the automatic targeting on his HUD framing a barely-there form in the darkness.
The thing was hunched in the shadows, all sharp edges and white metal points. Red marks punched through like daggers. Most of its face was in shadow, but as it turned its helm to the light, Rodimus could just make out the features of–
Drift curled against the corner, frame shaking. His engines and spoiler folded against the back of the room awkwardly, scrape marks left on metal walls. He looked up, and Rodimus realized that the noise he heard from the hallway was from Drift's teeth chattering.
He called out to Drift. Nothing.
Rodimus ran forward, closing the distance. Anger? Fear? Panic or what? Come on, let me read you. He tipped Drift's head by his chin, straining to see in the darkness, looked into the round glass of his eyes and saw–right through them, right into the cavities of Drift's optic sockets, whorls of retinal sensors and needling branches of the nerve. Drift's optics were completely transparent. There was not a point of color in them at all.
One by one, the trembling fingers on Drift's right hand curled against the handle of the sword at his side, locking into place.
–
Brainstorm clicked his wings.
“All I’m saying is that it’s the next greatest thing since the concept of anti-spacecraft systems. Or big rocks as big airborne rocks. This kinda stuff is what they used to start wars off of, prolong them even. Now, the means of conducting invasions, defending sieges, and generally converting large items into small tidbits just got more equal across the playing field, dare I say exponentially easier across the board, which is to say, it’s a pretty cool gun, huh?”
"Gun?" Perceptor leaned closer. "Perhaps a more fitting term is 'missile launcher.' Though, by what I observe of the barrel dimensions alone, 'cannon' is not out of the question."
The device in question sat in the middle of the lab. Well, Brainstorm called it a lab. The tall circular chamber they were in was technically an adjunct room to Perceptor's laboratory proper: part storage room, part testing grounds, and full-time containment pen for Brainstorm's experiments during the time that Perceptor had the dubious honor of supervising Brainstorm after his trial. Eventually, Brainstorm took to stuffing most of his work here even after the suspicion surrounding him tapered off. He set up industrial-grade shelves for the space, and these days more guns littered the shelves and floor than within his own workshop. It was more spacious, really. And if Perceptor whinged on about his experiments being too noisy and 'involving more shrapnel than remotely justifiable', well, it was his lab partner's fault for staying right next door and continuing to hang around and poke his scope into Brainstorm's research. Not that Brainstorm minded. Mind you.
But back to the device. It was a freshly assembled gun (his baby, his masterpiece). The gun had been hefted into the center of the lab, leaving Brainstorm and Perceptor both circling around it. It was a sparkling mass of wires, heavy metal, and reinforced plating. The stock bore a grid of buttons and switches so detailed that it might as well have been a keyboard.
The entire gun was mounted onto another large plated stand with several wires running from the magazine into an array of various fuel tanks. Both the array and gun were mounted on top of a third display platform reaching up to their knees and wide enough that in some places, the bots had to press against the shelves and shuffle around the platform. Everything–gun, tanks, and platforms–was painted a dazzling gold.
"Well? Well?" Brainstorm hovered around Perceptor, who hovered around the gun.
Perceptor thumbed his chin plate. "Six disparate fuel tanks feeding a reinforced catalytic chamber leading into power lines which traverse along the firearm's anterior body directly into the magazine area, which, perhaps misleadingly, is formatted as if to contain physical bullets…" He angled his head. "Brainstorm, I fail to believe that you have dedicated the past five cycles locked inside this facility to design various combustion engines from first principles and build a gun-shaped container for them. You cannot expect me to engage with, and, as you have heavily remarked, appreciate this invention without providing design specifications." He tutted. “And the paint color is incongruous.”
"I’ll choose to believe that last sentence was just a half-masked way of telling me your aesthetics protocols haven’t been updated since the uprising. Well, you’re forgiven. Specs!" Brainstorm swiped a data slug from his desk and flung it at Perceptor. Placidly, Perceptor lifted his arm and caught it as if he had lifted it from the desk himself. He frowned at Brainstorm's disrespect for handling documentation and wordlessly plugged the data slug into his hand.
Data flickered across Perceptor's eyes. His optics whirred as they focused into themselves. "So it is indeed a gun," he mused.
"Oh, it's so much more. Did you see the chamber? No, you didn't. You'll love the converter. I love the converter. Hang on, I've even got a presentation in there. I worked hard on this, you know." Brainstorm riffled around his desk, ignoring the clank of his wing knocking against something. He wormed through several layers of spare parts to extract a black wire running into the desk itself. Without turning his helm, Perceptor extended his hand, which Brainstorm placed the other end of the wire into. With a flick of Perceptor’s wrist, the cord clicked easily into the glossy blue sleeve of his forearm on the same axis where the data slug was plugged in. Perceptor reset his optics and the entire lights of the lab flickered in tandem. At once, a bright gold square of light blared onto the screen. Large text appeared:
BRAINSTORM'S BEAUTY
THE SPECIALLY TAILORED OMNI-REACTIVE MAGISTERIAL (S.T.O.R.M) GUN
GUN TO SURPASS ALL MECHS, OPTIMUS INCLUSIVE
NEWEST INVENTION & FUTURE JOY AND TREASURE OF THE CHIEF SCIENTIFIC OFFICER, 1ST OFFICERS, CAPTAIN, EVERY CYBERTRONIAN (PATENT PENDING)
Dismally, Brainstorm's processor calculated the speed and angle at which Perceptor's optics skipped over these titles and flitted to the much smaller text below:
Required functional summary as requested by U.M.F.D.A.E.o.t.T.A: Fully functional model of a chargeable, semi-portable, variable fuel firearm compatible with 98.7% of known universe's fuel types. Variable fuel model converts fuel into both power system and ammunition; ammunition intensity and size is configurable. System enablled by use of automatically transforming nanites employing Catalytic Actuating Technology (C.A.T.) (separate patent pending).
Perceptor's scope tilted up from his shoulder to face the screen. His scope zoomed in with atomic precision, honing into a typo in the middle of the screen. Brainstorm pushed Perceptor's scope away from the slide. Perceptor swatted Brainstorm's hand off his scope. Ignoring Brainstorm's grumbling, he turned back to the screen, mentally leafing through the data slug. A second screen flickered on below the first, projecting several more descriptions alongside a 3-D model of the gun. The microscope leaned in. Predictably, he started inspecting the theoretical diagram of the gun with far more precision and attention than, you know, the actual gun sitting in the room.
"Well?" Brainstorm said for the seventeenth time today. His pede tapped impatiently.
Perceptor craned into the screen. "It can't be," he said softly. "A converter compatible with multiple input fuels types? It's been discussed in our drafts, but to think that you would follow through with a genuine attempt to fabricate it…" His attention rested on the stand of the gun, where the diagram outlined the converters and wiring hidden underneath the casing.
Brainstorm preened. "Yup! Any fuel source. Plutonium, crude energon, hell, the thing could run on gasoline if you want. The most versatile, fault-resistant weapon a base would want in their arsenal made by yours truly. Don't hold your applause.”
"Intriguing. The range of applications promised by this converter extends beyond just the firearm, and I believe it will be a lucrative investment. I must discuss the schematics with you further." Perceptor paused. "However, there is one immediate item that eludes my understanding. Brainstorm?"
"What, Percy?"
"Why build this device?
"Hrm?"
"Why now?"
"Uh, because it's a cool converter, attached to a cooler gun? And because I'm the best and made the upper firepower on it comparable to a cannon, while also maintaining the weight cap so you can still assemble it in remote outposts with minimal resources, ergo I am the most brilliant mechanical on this side of the timeline? What?...You don't want a gun?"
Perceptor sighed, still looking at the slides. "At the risk of sounding obtuse, Brainstorm, building weapons is expected of you. You have repeatedly emphasized, and demonstrated, that procuring novel armaments was your main objective since stepping foot onboard this ship. As your lab partner, I have reviewed numerous such designs. But, upon observing how you have scheduled a meeting with me, manually obstructed my optics until we entered this chamber, and prepared some presentation slides–however imprecise–"
"Hey!"
"–I would deduce that there remains some special characteristic about this gun that I was meant to observe, but did not. This characteristic is not the converter's variable fuel model, which you had highlighted previously. Why did you invest so much particular care into this firearm? We're not expecting an armed conflict anytime soon."
Brainstorm's exhausts stuttered. “Come again?”
"I feel as if you are attempting to convey something else with this extravagant design. Whatever the motivation is, I would ask that you state it explicitly."
Brainstorm raised an optic arch, feigning indifference. He rested by his side against the wall, wing clipping over several pistols against it. "Dunno what you're talking about, Percy. Does something seem different about it to you?"
Perceptor eyed the gun once more, noting the bells and whistles on it, the shiny gold paint. He took one hard look at Brainstorm and his faceplate, which was painted the exact same shade of gold.
"Well…"
Opposite to their place in the lab, Perceptor's rifle hung from a hook mounted against the wall. Its silhouette bore a suspicious similarity to the current golden gun on display, despite the fact that the new gun was three times larger. Almost as if the shape of the new gun was based on the design of his rifle.
So listen–Brainstorm was a smart bot, and he knew it. Not just in the cool guns department, though that was the highlight currently on display. Brainstorm was a superior, highly developed mech with motor and cognitive functions that conveniently exceeded everyone else he encountered, and that meant he was well-endowed in the emotional/personality department too. Or at least he was sure he was. Because as it turns out, having a continuous internal monologue turned on at high volume at all hours the processor was online made a mech very honest with oneself (and no one else).
For instance, he knew he liked Perceptor. The notion was buried deep inside his processor, nestled under several hefty layers of "Brainstorm's research assistant" jokes (?), but this was definitely true. He had very good reasons to like Perceptor too, beyond just his sharp glowing optics and elegantly reinforced plating. It was the confidence. Perceptor was a scientist to his sparking core, and he carried himself like it. Everything out of his mouth was stated coldly and cleanly like a proven fact because it usually was, with citations available. The mech compensated for precisely nothing in his life because he simply never needed to. Untouchable. Perfect. Even the way he idly stood inspecting Brainstorm's invention now, scrutinizing the schematics, there was an air of complete and utter security in…everything.
Now Brainstorm, Brainstorm was also a perfect bot. He had the time machines and the hunky rugged frame to prove it. And normally he had no problem making other mechs aware of this, but for some reason, things went a little strange every time he worked in the lab with Perceptor. He was a line or two more rambly. The workspace suddenly cramped his clunky poking wings, and his wide jet servos overwarmed often, nervous and twitchy. While Perceptor obviously did not regard him any less for these ticks, Brainstorm was dawning to the realization that if this continued, the range of things with which Perceptor could use to praise Brainstorm for could potentially diminish. Unacceptable, Brainstorm thought one night, duly ignoring his stale engex drink and Chromedome’s drunken yammering. It's like the universe gave me a handicap preventing Perceptor from seeing how fully awesome I am. Well, that shouldn't stop me from showing him, right? That's it. I need to woo him! And Brainstorm would do it in the best way he knew how, by doing what he did best: building a very large gun.
This entire train of thought sounded better in his head, and notably, it had never left the place.
"I see!" Perceptor clicked his fingers in eureka. Brainstorm yelped.
"It's the nanites, isn't it? I recognize them–the base structure of their joints is identical to the pseudo-mechanical cultures I was cultivating as a side project. You appear to have adapted the cultures for the implementation of the variable fuel model; It seems you identified this project would have relevance to my tests and highlighted it in a presentation to demonstrate the practical implications." Perceptor nodded to Brainstorm. His EM field radiated attentive and appreciative. "I hadn't known you kept up to date with my personal work. How thoughtful."
"Wow, Percy. You got it." Score! Somehow, Brainstorm's first shot at a date with Perceptor had sailed cleanly over Perceptor's head, but luckily his lab partner's ancillary barometric sensors proved exceptional today and detected the atmospheric nudges in the wind as the bullet whizzed past. Brainstorm patted Perceptor's backplate, then mentally patted his own for his thorough, detailed, and completely reasonable attention to Perceptor's interests.
"However–" and here Perceptor loaded his own round–"as you have admitted you were up to date on my studies…you must have also been aware that my assays on those nanites are presently unfinished.”
Brainstorm's left wing twitched. A pistol clattered against the floor. "And?"
"Depending on the results of my analysis, you may have to run an independent assay on your own nanites again." Frown. "Assuming, of course, you have completed a round of initial tests on this firearm to begin with."
"Tests?"
"Yes. Have you tested all components of this gun?"
Brainstorm beeped in protest. "Percy, it's a perfect gun! I know it works!"
Perceptor's EM field flipped from attentive-appreciative to not-that in approximately half a nanosecond. "Yes, and how do you know? What are the failure conditions? Are each of the control array functions unit tested? Have you demonstrated the extent of its firepower?"
"Because after I iterate the prototypes, I'll build the final thing perfectly on the first try always, none because it will never fail, it doesn't need to be, and to avoid resorting to a trifling numeric to represent the range and fullness of this absolute warhead, I believe the next best descriptor is pronounced 'bonkers.'"
The EM field read like mounting-suspicion. "Do elucidate me, then, as to why you have refrained from testing it even once."
"Well, uh, it's too dangerous?" The fuel drained from Perceptor's face. "I mean effective! Too effective. But we can try it out, right here. Don't you have a spare target in this place? The walls are bulletproof anyways. We'll just raise the lab barriers and give it a lil' fire."
"While it is true," Perceptor gritted, "that I installed a barricaded lockdown mechanism in this lab in anticipation of mishaps like this, and that these mechanisms have prevented your distal plating from being forcefully ejected from your frame in numerous prior instances, the primary target is to avoid having to trigger those security systems in the first place."
"Then just trust the product! Jeez Percy, would it kill you to have a little faith in my sheer erudition and–" Perceptor aimed his shoulder scope and pointedly zoomed in on the gun "–quit that–" Brainstorm reached over to Perceptor's arm and dialed back his coarse adjuster, manually defocusing his scope"–because I'm telling you, this thing is one of the best shots I've built recently, and I'm giving you the honor of having first blast!" Brainstorm triumphantly finished before Perceptor cringed and wrenched Brainstorm away from him.
Brainstorm harumphed and threw up his arms, retreating back to his desk. He was too busy envisioning Perceptor cozying up to his great golden gun and pressing up against the barrel to notice that Perceptor was, in reality, standing much closer to the white rifle on the wall that he regularly used, with an expression indicating that he was becoming more and more inclined to pick up this rifle and 'run a test' on Brainstorm.
Perceptor seemed to decide on something and sighed, a short gust huffing from his vents. "I shall put in a request to schedule the shooting range. We can test it there."
"Okay, but I'm telling you! It's ready to fire. We can just use this gun whenever the ship runs into something evil in the next ten kliks. I can't wait."
"Yes? And by what unfortunate miracle would it take for such an opportunity to assuage your impatience and instantly arise?"
Both sets of lab doors slammed shut. The alarms whooped once, signalling an announcement as the ship's speakers crackled to life.
"Hello, everyone!" Rodimus shouted, bright vocalizers overpowering the stolid tinniness of the speakers. "Your most handsome captain speaking. Don't tell Megatron. I have a special announcement.
"It appears a mysterious virus from Nebula has gotten loose onto the ship. We are working to identify the source, cause, and potential remedies. Meaning that in the meantime…" the tinny speaker paused dramatically. "That's right! You get another Rodimus Reward day! Except, instead of roaming the ship, you are required to stay in your current room until further notice. We've sealed the doors for now, and if you’re in the halls, Ultra Magnus and friends are coming by to escort you to a room. If you have a ventilator filter handy, maybe put that on! Happy camping! Till all are one! Bye!"
Primus smiled down upon Brainstorm. Brainstorm smiled down upon Perceptor. Perceptor's trigger finger twitched.
Both their audio comms blared.
"Now is not ideal," said Perceptor, picking up. Still jacked into the lab, his audio rang out through the speakers around the chambered space. "We are urgently preparing a test."
"Hi Ship's Genius, hi Brainstorm," chirped Rodimus. "When you're still using the word 'preparing', it's really not that urgent."
Rodimus prevented both of the scientists from shooting their comms by barreling on. "So you remember that virus I mentioned, right? We were actually able to get a sample before it escaped. Chromedome's driving it over to you. I want a full analysis on it, find out the mode of infection, all that good stuff please. In the meantime, we'll be finding where the rest of the sample went."
"The statement is concerning," said Perceptor.
"Is it shootable?" Brainstorm asked.
"Brainstorm was asking this with the intention of seeking any meaningful descriptors of the virus with which we could use to inform our analysis."
"Huh? I don't know. It was kind of moving, like, really fast. We didn't get visual better than a dark blur. Plus we were distracted by Dri–the infected bot it had got to. Okay now I really have to go. Figure it out! Over and out!"
The comm cut off with a crisp snap. For a moment, there was only the ambient sound of the laboratory chamber, soft beeps of various equipment, and the faint whir of air from the heating vents. The quiet was cut by the snap of several microscope slides emerging from Perceptor's subspace compartment, followed by a flurry of movement as both scientists ran to separate positions in the lab. The argument about Brainstorm's gun was left on the floor to make room for several wiry tools, diagnostic scanners, and datapads which now filled both mechs' arms.
"Where's my laser scalpels, Perce–I know you didn't throw them out after you yanked them from under my chin yesterday–"
"I was returning them from your prodigiously disarrayed workspace to their original designated position, and they're to your left. Do refrain from selecting a dissection implement until I retrieve diagnostic information from someone more competent than Rodimu–and here's a report from Rachet." A double ping from both their comm links cropped up, along with a small data packet. Perceptor slid it onto the lab screen.
The data packet was a brief diagnostic run of Drift, the poor bastard. The packet opened to footage saved directly from Ratchet's optical cache as he stood over Drift on a habsuite berth. Ratchet's pointy patient was bound by the limbs and rattling around on his berth, vibrating like some kind of drilling frame. Accompanying the recording was a terse medical summary. The medical readouts were…normal. No obvious signs beyond high stress levels; the fuel tank readout was low but safe. There was only slight stress to the transformation cog circuitry. Huh. By the way Drift was flopping around in the footage, Brainstorm would've guessed all his fuel lines had been injected with poison. Flying needle virus? Ooh. Idea for later.
Perceptor reset his vocals, interrupting Brainstorm's rapidly derailing train of thought. "There. On his right lateral torso."
There was a shadow on the red line of one of Drift's side vents. On closer look, it was less a shadow than a dark spot blending into Drift's paint. The thing was a deep wet pink, rising to a small bump against Drift's curved plating. Its body glinted slightly against Ratchet's eyelights staring down on it. Past the blur of Drift's shaking frame, Brainstorm could catch a few lighter veins cording around the bulging thing. It contracted at a slow and even tempo in disjoint contrast with the panicked, rapid inhales its unwilling host had succumbed to. On the edge of the berth right underneath, black bile dripped down.
"Yeah, Hot Rod doesn't know what he's talking about. That's kinda big for a virus." Brainstorm twitched a wing towards the screen. "Looks like a proper organism, not just some genetic packet. And even if it is a virus, it's got to be like, a deoxyribonucleic base of gene expression or something, not a software installer. The thing's way too mushy to be a mechanical."
"Would you posit that it explains the discrepancy in the diagnostics, then?"
"Yup. The medical scans don't show evidence of mechanical interference, but this video of our friendly Drift-cepticon obviously does. Ratchet's equipment probably didn't even pick it up. Novel nonmechanical strains tend to fall off the radar like that; that's why covert dirty bombs are always organic."
Ratchet raised a scalpel to the thing. Drift shouted. Ratchet's camera swerved. Instantaneously, there was a black blip to the side of the screen. Brainstorm's optics barely had time to even register it. Brainstorm scrubbed through his own processor footage of Ratchet's video to confirm it wasn't an optic reset.
"And there's it escaping." Perceptor frowned as the footage moved past the berth. Ratchet had turned to give chase, the camera cutting off with a final grunt when a frantic First Aid bumped into him from the wayside. "Brainstorm, do you recall the quality of Ratchet's optic cache? Specifically, the framerate."
"How come you assume that just because I worked at the New Institute, I would collect data on everyone's processor and nervous input models–actually, what a nice compliment. Heh. Well, Ratchet's optic storage is crusty. His cache is barely 40 frames per click."
"Then whatever flew from Drift's abdominal junction was evidently faster, seeing that its moving visage was only captured with merely one frame. This is alarming evidence. We have an entity that travels faster than the 87th percentile of our crews' reaction times, the 98th percentile of their peak movement speeds in root mode, and is, as you have surmised, only tangentially detectable by medical diagnostics." Perceptor scoped into the frozen black blur on the screen, lens so close that Brainstorm could only assume he was tracing each edge of the pixels. "At it's core, it's a speed issue. I am frankly more concerned about containment strategies than finding a cure at this moment in time."
"Hm. Yeah, I was thinking about making a vaccine gun and shooting everyone with it, but they'll all probably be infected by the actual thing at this rate. Assuming it multiplies quickly." Brainstorm hemmed some more. "Okay, this is dumb. Change of plans, let's? How about I let your pretty little processor do some strategizing once Chromedome comes in with the sample, while yours truly gears up for some direct action."
"The latter referring to?"
"The gun I'm about to build to specifically target and kill this thing."
To his credit, Perceptor was genuinely contemplative. "An implementation with that capability would need the precision of a missile targeting system with the speed of a laser bullet. Proving the theoretics alone would exceed our timeframe."
Brainstorm's face went click-click-click as his grin jammed right against his mask. "Oh, Percy, darling. You sweet little spark."
Perceptor blinked, field fully intrigued, and for the beat it lasted, Brainstorm got to appreciate the light fluttering sensation rising in his core.
"Right. Then the priority is containment." Perceptor motioned for his datapad, which Brainstorm picked up and proffered to him past the golden platform on the floor. "I will communicate this to central command immediately. Additionally, I will advise Rodimus to order a shutdown of the ventilation and heating shafts, as would be an ideal precaution. I can close our own laboratory shafts, but for the rest of the ship, it would require him or a mechanics officer to provide the override to th
–
–
Perceptor stilled. Brainstorm erratically froze too, more in response to Perceptor than anything else. Perceptor stepped back, once, twice. Confused, Brainstorm drew forward.
"Uh, Percy? Ping a mechanics officer?"
Perceptor's EM field snapped away from Brainstorm and into his frame. A fast, dizzying, vertigo that cratered inward. Like some star imploding. Brainstorm was steps in front of him, arm outstretched with a datapad just inches away, but he had lost any indication that there was a sentient, feeling thing in front of him. The face facing his own was dead flat.
"...Perce?"
Smoothly, silently, Perceptor reached for his white rifle on the wall.
His optic angled past Brainstorm, up, up, at a point in the lab beyond him.
He aimed.
It was very quiet. A prickling feeling threaded from from the soles of Brainstorm’s pedes into struts and joints and biolights, ending at the tips of his wings. Was it even worth it to try running? He couldn't even turn to see. Fear had bundled up all around him, starkly impressive in its ability to destroy motion.
Brainstorm thought of Drift jittering on the medbay slab, his jaw wide with an unnamed and writhing pain.
"Oh, I get it. It's here, huh? Great. Great great great great–"
Internally, his comm line updated:
> From: Perceptor
> Target last seen: [-3.9380, 7.8495, 1.3240] – ventilation shaft entry
"I need more than that, Percy!" Brainstorm scrabbled backwards, processor whizzing to come up with anything at all, trying to ignore the uncanny plainness of Perceptor's text, his unflinching blue against the rifle's scope, the fact that he was probably ignoring Brainstorm to focus all n petabytes of his processing power into making possibly the fastest, worst shot a sniper would have to take using a long-range rifle without cover in an enclosed space filled with combustibles and crannies all against a giant, golden, view-obstructing obstacle in the center of the room.
> From: Perceptor
> Target last seen: [-3.9380, 7.8749, 10.3240] – shelf 4A
> Target last seen: [-1.0023, 7.7569, 9.4450] – southwest electrical wire
> Target last seen: [5.6732, 6.9998, 8.3582] – doorway
> Target last seen: [5.6732, 6.9998, 8.3582] – doorway
> Target last seen: [5.6732, 6.9998, 8.3582] – doorway
Something struck Perceptor.
He jolted once, then staggered back. The impact had hit him dead center. He lifted a hand and cradled his chestplate, rifle swinging wildly in the other hand. His vents heaved, optics flaring white with heat. Perceptor lowered his hand, trembling. His chestplate was clean, shiny and undamaged. He raised his hand to his eye. The eyepiece flickered once.
Brainstorm yelled and reached for Perceptor. He reached out against his better sense, against the static noise of fear tangled in his system, against the word contamination.
Perceptor raised his rifle and fired at Brainstorm.
Brainstorm stopped.
> Activating emergency lab protocol, credentials: [B-2359]
> External application log:
> Emergency lab protocol for Facility 520-A [CSO Primary Lab] has been activated
> Emergency protocol for Facility 520-B [CSO Adj. Lab] has been activated
> Lab shutdown active
> Shafts manually closed with pre-provisioned CSO override credentials [P-6677]
> Lab wall reinforcements active
> Alarms active
> Automatic door close active
Perceptor fired.
> Automatic door lock activated
> Door close deactivated, credentials: [B-2359]
> Automatic close active
> Door lock activated, credentials: [B-2359]
The doors slammed shut behind Brainstorm. Brainstorm's frame heaved, dripping pink onto the floor. One shot had torn off the tip of his left wing, aileron dangling uselessly by a pink wire. The other punched a perfect hole straight through the wing at exactly one and a half cubelets to the right of his processor.
"Ah, slag," he said. He turned and ran.
HOUR 00:00