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Gunfire whistles past Brainstorms plating, scorching it with its proximity. His paint bubbles, tiny pinpricks of pain alighting like stars along the galaxy of his frame. Or, something like that. To be honest he’s not entirely focused on the pain right now. He can feel it–of course he can feel it–but it's like the sensation is underwater, muted and blurred in a way that makes him dismiss it immediately. Instead he is focused on the terrain, on not stumbling over himself and not tripping on the torn apart flooring. His HUD is flooded with horrible read-outs and comm denials as his pings to the emergency line are bounced back again and again, struggling to find the setting for an automatic ping timer. Just a few breems ago he was focused on the performance of his latest invention, what he proudly calls The Scrambler, but that was quickly shoved aside for a frame crashing into his side.
He had cursed and complained until that frame grabbed onto him and pulled.
Brainstorm is not afraid to admit that he regrets the complaining. He imagines he would have a lot more complaints if the detonator that had been flying at his helm actually managed to hit him. And any other complaints he harbored were killed swiftly on his glossa as he saw the frame go down, a large hole blown into their midsection.
So now Brainstorm curses and yelps and comes dangerously close to screaming as he all but drags Perceptor through the halls of the alien ship. Perceptor stumbles into him, doing far more falling than walking, only held upright by Brainstorms arm around his waist and his own arm around Brainstorms shoulder. His other servo holds a blaster he haphazardly shoots in the general direction of any possible assailant, too busy fleeing to properly aim. If he had the processor power for it Brainstorm might feel guilty for how he drags Perceptor like a rag doll at times, lifting him over debris and knocking his dangling pedes into corners. But all his thinking is being put into move, turn, don’t get shot don’t get shot for the love of Primus I can not get shot. Because Perceptor had not so much as crashed into his side but pushed him, because Brainstorm was too busy logging the amount of time it took between a direct hit and when the target would be considered down to notice that his helm was going to be blown off his shoulders.
Brainstorm is thankful for Perceptor's naturally smaller size class but fragging damns the mech for the overhaul he put his frame through. Diamond reinforced glass weighs a ton, not even mentioning the heavy duty steel his armor has. Brainstorm of course is more than physically adept and does not struggle, but if he has to engage his engine and fire his thruster on some particularly hard maneuvers, no one would know but him.
Perceptor especially wouldn’t know. He guides them with grunts and wheezes, each glyph torn out of his vocalizer seeming to take a piece of his spark with it. He tells Brainstorm where to turn, when to duck and when to stop moving entirely. Brainstorm listens to him more than he has ever listened to anyone in his functioning, but then again Perceptor tends to have that effect on him. Especially when it becomes increasingly apparent which one of them has been on the front lines of an active battle more than their own berth.
Because despite everything, Perceptor is calm. Brainstorms venting is ragged and hurried where Perceptors come in aggressive but measures huffs, whole frame jerking with the effort of his heaving. Brainstorm attempts to match the rhythm, but is immediately distracted by a support beam collapsing under the heat of a fire, falling towards them in a blaze. Brainstorm quickly throws himself to the side, yanking Perceptor with him.
When they hit the ground something snaps. Brainstorm can feel it more than he can hear it, the aftershocks of it rattling through his frame where it's pressed up against Perceptor's. He can hardly hear anything above the din of battle, aliens screaming and Cybertronion weapons firing, explosions and blasts leaving his audials ringing. Yet somehow he can hear Perceptors' muffled yell before it tapers off into agonized whining, and a selfish part of Brainstorm wishes that he hadn’t. They had hit the floor hard on their sides, Brainstorms crushed secondary ailerons sending spikes of pain throughout his whole arm. But none of that matters as the fire grows closer to their pedes and Perceptor begins to twist in his hold, pained sounds emerging from his every move.
Brainstorm scrambles to stand upright, pulling Perceptor to his chassis to properly carry him. Perceptor has fallen silent and Brainstorm can hear his own sparkbeat terrifyingly close, louder than the quiet that is Perceptor.
He lugs Perceptor up, nearly drops him, totally gracefully catches him rather than tossing him in his effort to not do exactly that, dropping his blaster in the commotion. He considers grabbing it, bending in an attempt to reach it before the ground shakes and Brainstorm nearly topples over, aftershocks from a blastwave upsetting his gyros even further. He has to adjust his pedes to stabilize himself, wrapping both his arms firmly around Perceptor’s midsection and the back of his thighs.
Once he starts moving, he can’t stop.
He runs, dodging what he can and trying to make sure Perceptor is jostled as little as possible yet failing grandly. He can feel the smooth expanse of Perceptor's stage pressed into his chassis and something warm leaking against him, smeared from Perceptors plating to his own. It raises alarms that he doesn't understand, unsure how exactly Perceptor is hurt or how to stop it. It’s only a small comfort that Perceptor is not entirely limp in his hold. Though he doesn’t speak, Perceptor paws weakly at Brainstorms shoulders, trying to find a grip and failing either because of all the movement or his own weakness. He has Perceptor upwards at an angle across his frame to keep his legs out the way of Brainstorm's own, but he still manages to knock into them, especially when Perceptor tries to shift.
Brainstorm yells at him, telling him to stay still, have you dropped your processor? But still Perceptor moves, despite Brainstorms scolding, pressing himself closer and trying to untuck his helm from the crook of Brainstorm's neck. But Brainstorm keeps shoving it back down, especially as more gunfire comes towards them, curling himself around Perceptor and hissing as the acidic fluid from the alien guns splatters across his frame.
So close Brainstorm can hear Perceptors aggressive venting like his own, overheated air blown against the soft wiring of his neck in timed cycles. It makes Brainstorms plating prickle, helm swimming each time Perceptor grunts against his audial. He tries to adjust his grip when he feels Perceptor slip dangerously from his hold after a rough jump and even rougher landing, wrapping his arms further around Perceptor. But his servo sinks into something sticky and wet, far softer than the plating is supposed to be, and Perceptor’s dentae clench around a scream.
Brainstorm can hear the hinges in Perceptors jaw creak, his servos tightening around Brainstorms shoulders. His spark, oddly enough, feels like it wants to tear itself apart. Guilt claws at him harder than the acid slowly burning through the layers of metal on his leg, whispering apologies over and over like fervent prayer. He moves his servo to a different spot, feeling what must be energon coat it and make it difficult to find a firm grip.
Perceptors venting has changed from huffs to open-intaked pants, static hissing out his vocalizer on every exvent. And even though Brainstorm is thinking of all the ways Perceptor could be dying and his arms are shaking and the spot on his leg is beginning to burn into his underwiring, he continues.
Fires burn around them as the organic interior of the alien ship begins to catch under the Cybertronion weapons. It makes it unbearably hot, his mask beginning to feel more like a servo cutting off his vents.
He runs and dodges until he crashes into an open room, nearly tripping over a vine on the floor. The room is large, the ceilings high and covered in mysterious foliage. Brainstorm cuts through it, trampling the various plants in his way until he comes across an overturned tree. The battle here seems to have slowed, or at least moved further away from where Brainstorm looks around.
The tree is huge, torn up from what has to have been a powerful explosive, blown onto its side, wide enough to hide one jet and microscope. Brainstorm dives for it, crouching through the leaves and branches at the top until he finds a clear area of the trunk. Perceptors grip on him has begun loosening and Brainstorms processor screams at him, common sense leaning towards that being a very, very bad sign. He leans forwards to try and place Perceptor against the tree only to yelp and throw himself over Perceptor again, tossing his leg over Perceptors hips and making sure his back was towards the explosion that had gone off dangerously close, the tree rattling with the aftershocks.
Once the tree stops moving and the sounds of aliens dying seems far enough away, Perceptor makes a decidedly unhappy noise beneath him, pushing at anywhere he can reach. Brainstorm eases back, giving Perceptor the room to shakily push himself back until his backstrut is against the tree trunk. He then sags against it, panting hard from the effort. Brainstorm shifts to sit on his pedes besides him, leaning over Perceptor with an arm on either side of him.
And, okay, he knew it was bad–obviously–but Perceptor looks like slag. Like actual slag, like someone had dropped him from an airlock onto the surface of a planet and then decided to pummel him around some more just for fun. Of course his stubborn glass stage remains unharmed, shining proudly in the warm light of the fires, but the supports keeping it connected to his chassis are bent and cracked. His paint is scratched and melted off on nearly every part of his frame, exposed wires sparking and bleeding from between gaps of armor. There are more dents littered across him than Brainstorm can count, little pockmarks from Primus knows what and larger impact craters. Brainstorm can only be so grateful that his scope has remained untouched, but there are multiple wounds, the most obvious being the gaping hole in the side of his abdomen, as though a chunk of his frame had been chewed out.
It's bleeding profusely, internals that are supposed to stay internal on display in the open of the dim room like they were always meant to be there. But they weren’t, and Perceptors support struts shouldn’t be visible and that coolant line is torn to slag and holy primus is that the edge of his spark chamber–
“Brainstorm.”
His attention snaps back up to where Perceptor is looking at him, optics bright and unfocused, monocle lens glitching and teetering into darkness. His faceplate is pinched in pain and exhaustion, intake open to allow uneven and shallow vents to escape. Perceptor does look like slag, but Brainstorm has always thought that Perceptor was a hot piece of metal, and as Perceptor's eyebrows furrow together, that statement does not change.
Somehow Perceptor is still handsome even as something sparks in his shoulder joint, still managing to draw Brainstorms attention until there is nothing else, just them behind a tree with Perceptor's optics on him despite everything. Perceptor says his designation again, more static than anything, and Brainstorm leans in; focuses his audials until there is no shouts or gunfire, just this.
To reiterate: Perceptor plus attention equals zero.
Perceptor's optics cycle until he seems to give up, optics becoming fuzzy once again. He moves his servo, reaching for the abdominal wound but shaking too bad to move more than a few inches before Brainstorm grabs it.
“What are you doing?” He hisses, tucking Perceptor's arm back against his side. But Perceptor just raises it again, fighting against Brainstorm with what little strength he has. “Why are you–no–Primus, Perce–”
Brainstorm watches in fascinated horror as Perceptor swats his servo away only to dig his own into the wound. Something squelches and Brainstorm feels sick, servos raised uselessly. Perceptor inches his servo into his own internals, flinching when the pain becomes overwhelming and venting hard. The flames and dim light around them highlights Perceptor lovingly, though the shadows make the wound seem much more gnarly than it probably is, affecting Brainstorm to an extent that he hasn't been in a long time. Perceptor keeps digging, curling his digits further into himself in a way that can only cause more damage, the soft protoform of his inner mesh tearing under the harsh ministrations.
For all his pride, Brainstorm is well aware of the exact moment he is out of his depth. That moment was about 10 breems ago, and Brainstorm has to remind himself as he watches Perceptor groan and grunt that the insane mech before him has much more experience in this than he does, but he's beginning to question just how hard Perceptor had hit his helm. His servos twitch, wanting to tear Perceptor's servo away because it looks like that hurts. Perceptor keeps twitching and making small noises that makes Brainstorm anxious, the sniper's nose scrunching and relaxing in time with him bearing his teeth.
After 17 kliks, Brainstorm can't take it.
He shakily places his servo on Perceptor's arm, showing a wonderful example of his endless self restraint because he would love to just yank the mech's arm, shake him around a bit and yell about how insane this is, but somehow he remains gentle. Perceptor pauses, optics cracking open to look at Brainstorm imploringly, like Brainstorm was the one doing weird slag that looked painful and gross and nasty and just why?
Brainstorm tightens his grip, waiting for Perceptor to focus onto him properly before speaking as firmly as he can manage (which isn't nearly as firm as he was aiming for). “Perce, stop and tell me what the frag you're doing.”
For all of Brainstorms infinite well of knowledge, Cybertronion anatomy is admittedly low on his ranking of most known subjects, and he's not entirely too sure how high it is on Perceptor the Mathematician’s list.
Perceptor seems to think hard on something, optics somehow going even more unfocused until they dim and Perceptor sighs, or at least tries to sigh. It sounds more like a wheeze, one that Brainstorm does not think is supposed to sound like it does. Slowly, he starts to pull his servo out his frame, energon soaking it up to his third knuckle.
“I–I need you to…” and he stops, hissing through his dentae as his servo comes free. Brainstorm is still holding his arm, trying to get his processor to focus on what Perceptor needs but Primus is there anything he can do at this point? What could he possibly do right now, here?
Perceptor grits his dentae, a familiar and determined look suddenly overtaking his faceplate. Brainstorm freezes.
“Brainstorm. I need–I need you to find my primary fuel line…” He gestures towards the wound, but Brainstorm hardly notices. “It's too damaged. I need you to close it.”
Exsanguination shoots itself to the top of Brainstorms Ways Perceptor Will Die List. Just those words alone seemed to drain the rest of the energy from Perceptor, the mech huffing and sinking further into the trunk. Then his processor blanks.
“I–you want me to do what?”
Great, yeah, nice one Brainstorm, totally caught the ball on your dying partner's possibly last request. If sparks could, his would have fallen out of his aft by now.
Perceptor huffs, looking fond which is not right, right now is not the time to look sweetly (because Perceptor can be sweet) at Brainstorms antics because that was a genuine Primus damned question and it is so hot so he scrambles to unlatch his mask, venting heavily through his intake, throat burning. His airways feel constricted, his chassis heavy like his spark is now stone, audials ringing and vision narrowing on that too-big wound, how it bleeds and shifts in time with Perceptors now stuttering vents, how beautiful the red of the paint that's left on Perceptor is and how he may never see it in a sun again, just in the light of fire and–
And Perceptor grabs his servo, firm against all odds. Brainstorm stills, his servo limp against Perceptor's arm, giving him control. Perceptor–he looks at him and it bleeds into a grimace but it's still that look, the one that says Perceptor knows, even if Brainstorm doesn't. Slowly, he guides Brainstorm's servo to the mess of his internals, pressing it firmly against him. Brainstorm tries focusing on the feeling, on the sensation of something wet and warm against his digits, something that should be disgusting but is somehow comforting–feeling the real and visceral proof that Perceptor is still functioning. His spark is still in his frame, not extinguishing just–struggling. And Perceptor needs Brainstorm to help.
Brainstorm vents out a stuttering sigh, closing his optics for just a klik to appreciate the darkness before opening them, looking to where Perceptors servo moves from Brainstorms servo to his wrist. He squeezes it once in an attempt to comfort but it's so weak it just makes Brainstorms spark lurch dangerously. But that's nothing compared to the feeling of Perceptor pushing his servo further, the first sensation of his digit-tips sinking into a warm and pulsating heat, not of his own will. It sends tremors through his frame, plating flaring in fear and anticipation, dumping excess heat.
Perceptor hisses at the intrusion, pedes scraping against the floor as Brainstorm sinks further, optics half lidded as he watches where they connect. There's a resistance but Brainstorm is careful, like he is putting together the most delicate components of his most prized invention, controlling his vents and feeling every hinge in his wrist. Perceptor is panting again, small huffs out of his intake, overheated from both the atmospheric heat and his frame's effort to still stay online. Brainstorm thinks on the little medical knowledge he holds, trying to remember the signs of shock. But Perceptor is different from the average Cybertronion; he doesn't have an engine or the coolant system that accompanies it. So he is hot, both against and around Brainstorm.
All to say that Brainstorm worries over this, because he's not sure how far Perceptor can go or how deep he can push until he breaks him. It's then that he realizes he is pushing. Perceptors' servo is no longer aiding him in his glide, but rather squeezing his wrist tightly, his other servo folding itself into a fist against the floor. Around them a battle still wages, but Brainstorm can hear Perceptor in frightening clarity.
Perceptor lets out a yelp that dissolves into a moan, knee jerking up when Brainstorms digits break through something, a part of Perceptor's internals giving beneath the steady pressure. Brainstorm keens, stopping in his descent to search Perceptors faceplate, fear freezing his lines.
Perceptor sucks in air through his clenched dentae, optics squeezed shut, before nodding. Brainstorm still doesn't move, terrified–possibly for the first time of his functioning–out of his processor. Clearly he had hurt Perceptor, but how severe was the damage? He can still feel Perceptor around him, warm and soft but now softer, no longer squeezing his digits but letting them rest passively.
If Brainstorm were a braver mech he would actually look, to squint in the low light and try to decipher the gore to see where exactly his servo is, but he's too much of a coward. He doesn't want to see the damage done by his servo, instead looking at Perceptor for guidance. Perceptor was the one to put him here, after all. It was his blind faith in Perceptor that allowed him to go past the tank-churning idea of doing exactly what he is now doing, and he needs Perceptor to guide him again.
And Perceptor, the miracle that he is, like witnessing a star collapsing silently, a failed supernova–he opens his optics and looks at Brainstorm with the benevolence and determination that could only be found in mechs that have been here before, that have done far worse than this for far longer. Perceptor is a lot stronger than anyone gives him credit for, and he has survived much worse. This Brainstorm knows. Yet Perceptor is still kind and brilliant and compassionate, a perfect balance of logos and ethos in the face of all he has endured.
So it's only logical that he will endure this, too, but Brainstorm was never very good at accepting logic.
Perceptor grunts, pushing himself up to lean ever so slightly forward to get a better view of his own midsection, vents ghosting Brainstorms cheek.
“Stop…stop, you have to pull it out–the fuel line.” Perceptor pants, “And you have to shut it. It's–it's simple, I can show you.”
Brainstorm does not think it will be easy. He nods anyway. “Right-o. Mhm. Yeah, okay, whatever you want, Percy. Anything.”
Perceptor tries to say something else but fails when Brainstorm sucks in a vent, keeping his optics on Perceptors as he pushes forwards again. The mesh here is easier to push through, more malleable under his prodding digits. He slides through easily, likely because when he glances down, he realizes that he's in the mesh that had been well and properly torn apart. The outer mesh–the stuff that is bleeding with the armor pulling back, that stuff is only torn. It's the inner mesh and protoform, the landing destination of any explosion that had been shredded by the force. Brainstorms digit-tips bump and slide past large and slippery objects amidst the softness, most likely Perceptors organ components, which–ew, eugh, gag, holy slag that is nasty–
Don't think, don't think, don't think, don't think.
Brainstorm pauses again, staring hard at where his servo disappears. He feels as though his whole servo is engulfed but in reality he's only sunken in until his third knuckle. The part of his processor that is aware of how horrific this is screams somewhere in the distance, but the larger part of it, the one that wants to know the most effective and entertaining ways to shoot other Cybertronions and make sure they're never coming back takes on a morbid fascination. It is safe to say that he has never experienced this before–the sensation is strange and completely foreign, but not entirely unwelcome. It's warm, and not so wet once you settle into it. It's as though he were pressing into a sponge, and how interesting is that, comparing the internal workings of a Cybertronion to a sponge. What is even more impressive is Perceptor's ability to take it all. Besides the brief pause in which something had broken or snapped–likely the lining for Perceptor's abdominal cavity–Perceptor has had minimal reactions. There is the twitching and grunting, the scrape of his pedes and the tightening of his servo on Brainstorms wrist, but none of the agonized screaming expected. Perceptor holds strong, optics unfocused as he leans his helm back, panting past pretty lips shining with spit.
Brainstorms fans are working to cool his overheated frame.
Brainstorm pushes forwards again, watching Perceptor closely, pausing at the slightest sign of extreme discomfort. After one more push Brainstorms digits press hard into something solid and Perceptor hisses. Brainstorm freezes again, waiting for Perceptor to guide him. There is still that fear, horrifying and dangerous in his processor, but he finds it more manageable if he focuses on the tangible things. His servo against a mass, the grip against his wrist that is far more comforting than it has any right to be.
Perceptor sighs, muffling a groan before his vocalizer clicks, resetting. “Okay, Brainstorm. You're against my abdominal nexus. Just–mmph–just, find my main line. Its–its thick, and…”
He trails off, faceplate twisting and his pedes planting themselves into the floor firmly. Brainstorms vents have stalled, leaning even more of his weight on his other servo on the floor, trying to get closer.
“...i–it might have a pulse. Once you…find it, just pull it out and pinch off the–ah–end. I–I think it was severed.” Perceptor finishes, gasping between glyphs.
His faceplate stays twisted, especially when Brainstorm begins to move again. Perceptor instructs him where to go, just like before. He tells him to move up or left or to pull out by millimeters. It nearly reminds Brainstorm of the lab, taking instructions from Perceptor as he helps him with one of his projects, being told which components went with what and how many titrations were needed; letting servos encompass his own, trapped against the counter and happy for it. Except now Perceptor seems to have a loose grasp of reality, hanging on to consciousness by his grip on Brainstorms wrist and the digits inside him.
After what feels like an eternity, Brainstorm finally finds it. In reality it couldn't have been more than 30 kliks–there was only so much searching one could do in a frame. Perceptor's abdominal nexus, like any other, is where all his lines such as fuel and coolant and residue meet. They are connected before branching off into smaller tubules and continuing down the frame. All Brainstorm had to do was feel for the largest in the clump of tubes, and as Perceptor had said, it had a pulse. If Brainstorm were in a better mood he might have made a noise of celebration, perhaps a small woohoo! at being able to locate something he was deeply unfamiliar with in record time, but as it is, it hardly feels appropriate.
Instead he pinches the line between two of his digit-tips, watching his servo carefully as he gives a gentle–very gentle tug. He's both surprised and nervous at how easy it gives, sliding with his movements as though it wasn't supposed to be firmly tethered to the nexus to prevent movement.
At the feeling, Perceptor chuckles, digits curling against his stage. And that is definitely not appropriate, either, and neither is Brainstorm's smile but he feels insane, and when he feels insane there's nothing else to do really but smile.
Despite what some would say, Brainstorm is not out of his mind. In fact, he is so in his mind that there is no choice for him but to express every thought, to make every idea into reality lest he be consumed by them. So he does often feel insane, completely and utterly out of control of his own frame and processor, but never so much as this. Smiling with his most dear one, holding his very life course in his servos and feeling warm all over, venting harder than he has in cycles and feeling the pulse of Perceptor's spark reverberate through his digits to his own.
He wants to match its slow pace, to lay down next to Perceptor and close his optics, but that would be so terribly selfish, even for him. So instead he listens to Perceptor's feverish instructions to pull it out slowly. The glide is smooth, wet with energon and fluids because that really was a busted coolant line. Even though Brainstorm is slow and as careful as he can manage, Perceptor still clearly feels it. He grunts, groans and moans low in pain, frame twitching like he wants to get up and leave but he knows he can’t. His plating ripples, gaps created between armor that Brainstorm can see into, tracking sparks and the way pistons move when Perceptors plating pulls apart. Perceptor even moves his servo off of Brainstorm, bringing it up to join his other in scratching at his glass stage. What was once a nervous tic is now desperate, grey thighs trembling beneath Brainstorm.
They’re both venting heavily, Brainstorms mask having been tossed to the side to allow for air to circulate through his intake as well, fans on their highest setting trying to expel the excess of heat building in his frame and rumbling engine. There are warnings on his HUD that go steadily ignored, his full focus on his servo and the way Perceptor moves, his sounds and how he feels around him. The thigh closest to Brainstorm's free servo twitches just before the main line comes free, and on instinct Brainstorm pins it down, squeezing against the warm metal in his palm.
When the line finally comes free, Perceptor screams.
Brainstorm jumps, vocalizer clicking in panic as Perceptor thrashes. The scream is cut off quickly enough by the snap of Perceptors jaw shutting, muffled and teetering off into a loud groan. But his frame still reacts, back strut arching away from the tree and servos clawing deep rivets into the ground. Beneath Brainstorms palm Perceptors thigh jerks, fighting against the weight of his frame. Brainstorm leans into it, shifting Perceptor legs wide so that he can sit on his other, trying to keep Perceptors hips and middle as still as possible to not cause further damage.
He holds the line tight as he can, feeling it squish between his digits and whispering sorry, sorry, sorry, over and over as though Perceptor could hear him, making sure no more energon is leaking from the severed end of the line. His voice is too breathy, lost in the sounds of death around them and Perceptors groaning, punched out little noises making Brainstorms spark rocket.
Perceptor gains control of himself remarkably fast. Brainstorm has both the privilege and fright of watching Perceptor wrestle both his processor and frame, seeing the moment he forces his backstrut to slam against the trunk again, ducking his helm and gritting his dentae tight. After a few kliks the jerking stops completely, servos unfisting and legs falling still. But tremors still wrack throughout Perceptors frame, shaking as plating tries to resettle. Brainstorm watches, fans heaving and servos flexing from where he holds him, feeling Perceptor's thigh shake between his own legs.
“You know,” He huffs, watching Perceptor watch him, feeling his blue optics bore into his own and shivering as they travel down his frame. “when I said I wanted to get under your plating, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind.”
Perceptor cycles his optics, sighs, and thunks his helm back against the tree with an exhausted ugh.
Brainstorm giggles maniacally, settling himself more comfortably on Perceptor's thigh. The mech still flexes at random intervals, letting out ah's and hah's that Brainstorm tells himself are weak giggles. He dislodges his servo from Perceptors plating, wincing at the dents he left. He tries to rub soothing circles over it but it feels so silly to fuss over something like light dent marks when there's a real and pulsing fuel line held tightly in his grip. But still he attempts to massage, hoping to relieve some discomfort, even if it's irrelevant.
Perceptor sighs again and Brainstorm looks up, watching as Perceptor's shoulders begin to shake with something other than pain. Perceptor laughs. Or, at least, the closest he can get to one. It's ragged and breathy and hardly intelligible from his stuttering gasps, but Brainstorm knows when Perceptor laughs and this is it, it has to be.
And he looks so, so beautiful.
Perceptors' optics are squinted as he brings his servos up to his flushed faceplate, biting one of his knuckles to cover his intake. He's grinning behind that servo, lopsided because of the dent on one of his cheeks but still so charming; so sharp Brainstorm feels it cuts his spark. And he looks at Brainstorm like they're in berth, like Brainstorm had made one of his nervous jokes that forces them to pause, for Perceptor to roll his optics like he wasn’t singing his praises mere kliks ago. When they’re tangled together, Brainstorm’s processor melting out of his helm while Perceptor still looks so composed, so in control that Brainstorm fights for any semblance of weakness, taking every gasp and shudder like the newest data in from a culture, hoarding it all for his selfish spark.
And that's how Brainstorm knows they are well and truly fragged. Because Perceptor is so much better than him–yes! Surprise, surprise, Brainstorm can actually admit it in his own helm! That his handsome, intelligent, near-perfect partner is far more adept than he is in any aspect, especially in crisis situations. Now, Brainstorm does have a good helm on his shoulders when it comes to near-death conundrums, but as stated before, there’s always that point. When Brainstorm feels like he’s waded into too-deep water, his thrusters backfiring and wings utterly useless in his flailing. He can feel the water flood his systems meant for air, dragging down the spaces meant to make him lighter and making his focus hazy. But Perceptor, oh Perceptor–he never seems to drown. And it is illogical to call someone perfect, but Perceptor is the closest there will ever be, Brainstorm is sure of it. Because even with his flaws and annoying tics and irritating personal standards it all accumulates to something wonderful, something that manages to outshine even Brainstorms own selfishness.
So for Perceptor to be laughing–torn open and bleeding, gunfire echoing distantly and emergency pings still going unreceived, means that even the calmest of them has reached his point, no matter how distant into the horizon it may have seemed. Perceptor laughs and Brainstorm watches, at least until something explodes much too close, both ducking their helms to shield themselves from the wave of heat.
Brainstorm peeks over the trunk, leaning over Perceptor to see and block him from possible assailants. The green quadrupedal aliens are back, their black eyes remaining unblinking as they scan the room. Brainstorm winces, gingerly coming back down to check his comm lines again.
> Be there soon.
Velocity, Medic
Fragging finally.
He grins, squeezing Perceptor's thigh, some stupid one-liner on his glossa, something about how he knew they were going to be fine the whole time with his superb intellect and reasonable deduction skills, but it’s no use because–because, well–
“Perce? Percy? Perceptor?”
Perceptor is still.
His frame is relaxed, servos on his chestplate and biolights dim–if Brainstorm wanted to, he could pretend he’s in recharge. But Perceptors optics are only half-shuttered and off, and he never recharges on his back because of his scope–his scope which is drooping, like the hinge keeping it upright has lost its strength. Which of course it had, because Perceptor is far paler than he was a breem ago, the flush on his faceplate disappearing along with his smile. His intake is still open but not in any way that looks purposeful, barely-there vents stuttering past his limp jaw, shallow and useless.
Brainstorm starts shaking him. Hard. “Hey–Perceptor! Perceptor you piece of slag, hello? Wake up, wake up!”
He suddenly doesn’t care about causing damage anymore, still holding Perceptors line as he throws himself off of Perceptor to smack his forehelm, watching it loll with the impact and trying not to purge. He then starts to pinch, growing desperate and harsh in his movements, jarring Perceptor's frame with a myriad of slapping, shaking, and pinching at random intervals. His movements start to become more aggressive as each klik ticks by and Perceptor remains completely limp, not even reacting besides a hitch in his vents when Brainstorm accidentally tugs on his fuel line in all his movement.
And, okay, maybe this isn’t helping—what was it that Ratchet had said? Check for consciousness for no more or less than ten kliks? And it has to have been longer than ten kliks by now–Brainstorms vocalizer has turned hoarse and staticky from his yelling, half-coherent pleas and questions tumbling out with no real purpose. Perceptor obviously can’t hear any of it.
Primus, can Perceptor hear anything? The only fact staving off a full-fledged Brainstorm freak-out is that Perceptor is still functioning, he has to be. Even though he’s pale he isn’t colorless, and his venting protocols are still active, if glitching. And when checked the fuel line was still pinched tight, not a drop of energon escaping past Brainstorms digits. If Brainstorm leans in far enough he can see the faintest glimmer of light in Perceptor's optic, though the one behind his monocle is obscured by the glass. Yet the longer he stares into Perceptors optics, the more he has to fight the urge to purge. He presses against Perceptor, so close their nasal ridges nearly touch, if only to feel his stuttering vents and absorb what little heat is emanating from Perceptor's frame.
At the very least, it’s better than when Perceptor had been a sparkeater. Brainstorm can actually touch him, hold him and run his servo over his glass chassis before remembering the stage is too thick to feel the pulse of a fuel pump through and moving that servo up to Perceptors neck cabling, pressing his digits into the complex wiring and cables just under his jaw. Perceptor had looked awful then, unnaturally sharp and dark, frame arguably in worse disrepair than it is even now. And while it wasn’t exactly fun–in fact it was pretty fragging awful–it was leagues worse than whatever is happening with Perceptor now.
Brainstorm pushes his digits harder against Perceptors neck, something not aligning in his processor past the growing desperation and anxiety, pushing him to press even harder, wrapping his whole servo around the poor microscope's neck. It’s instinctual, and not from his MTO spark but from learned habit; Perceptor wrapping his servos around Brainstorms neck in the privacy of their lab, pulling Brainstorm down to knock their helms together; laying across Brainstorms chassis, resting his servos on the delicate tubing of his throat; after a while, you start to reciprocate.
Perceptor had explained why, some lunarcycle before recharging–something charming about feeling someone's life force and knowing that they are well and truly alive, the comfort and surety that comes from that. Then the conversation had derailed to myths on Cybertronion anatomy, on how sparkbeats and the pulse from a fuel pump can be easily mistaken or how Brainstorm really shouldn’t try to fly in zero gravity–
Brainstorm jolts. Then stills.
He pauses in his vents, staying as motionless as he can, putting all his focus to the sensation readings in his servos.
Besides the obvious physical weight of pinching and holding something, there’s nothing. No pulse, no rush of energon, nothing.
He scrambles back, peeling himself from Perceptor to feel along the line still in his grip, pressing at different points until it disappears back into Perceptors mesh. The result is much the same.
A hypothesis begins to form, and as usual, Brainstorm uses unconventional–and slightly frowned upon–ways in proving it.
He starts to touch Perceptor anywhere he can reach, feeling him up in a way that would no doubt have Perceptor yelling and possibly hitting Brainstorm on the helm had he been conscious. But as time has it he’s not, so Brainstorms servo is free to wander. He presses lightly across all of Perceptors plating, not bothering in worrying how it might hurt, pressing hard into where he knows to be major pulse points. The joint in between his upper and lower arm, where his neck meets the back of his helm, even the gap where Perceptor's thigh meets his pelvis, squeezing his fingers between the plating to press against the large joint, feeling along the sensitive wires until he gets to the thick fuel line just for it go flat beneath his pressure.
Brainstorm may not know much right now, but he does know that's bad. It means that the lower half of Perceptors frame is not receiving any energon, and without a proper medical scanner he has no way of knowing just how far that deprivation goes. He could always just peel Perceptors plating to reach the lines that lay more internally, or just dislodge it enough that he can–no, no time.
While he feels around he tries to pull up the memory logs of some of Ratchet's boring yes somehow mandatory health education seminars, at least those that aren't already deleted or just him leaning in to whisper with Chromedome or Anode or whoever happened to be seated next to him. He scans through the despairingly small amount on his HUD until his processor catches on First Aid’s Introduction to First Aid slideshow, the one where Magnus had to shush the many giggles that arose across the room. Brainstorm flies through it, not bothering to listen to half of what little ol’ Aid says, just paying attention to the fuzzy diagrams and glyphs detailing them until–that! That, right there!
He pauses, attention flickering from the transparent view of a Cybertronions internals in his memory log and Perceptors frame, trying to make them align somehow.
There are obvious differences. For starters Perceptors waist is far trimmer than whatever convoy First Aid has dissected on the slideshow, his angles sharper and outline smoother–
Oh. You know, now that he’s really looking, that’s just Springer. A cut open and labeled Springer, but that's his helm and chassis, right down to his shoulder kibble. Huh.
But the important part is that besides the engine and some transformations a microscope doesn’t require, the base internals are the same. Same gyroscopes, same lines, same electric circuit though routed to different areas on the frame–same fuel pump.
First Aid's voice goes on about emergency resuscitation and hotlining, then something about jump-starting before Brainstorm pushes past it to get to the juicy stuff. Blah, blah, blah, in case of pump failure you must provide compressions against the abdomen to induce pseudo-contractions…
Right. Right.
Brainstorm looks at what he has to work with. A fuel line torn out, a failed fuel pump, a beating spark because without it dear Perce would be grey, and not to mention the giant fragging hole full of internals and gore where Brainstorm is supposedly gonna perform compressions. So, not a great start.
If Brainstorms spark fell out his aft, then Perceptor just went ahead and smashed it with his pedes. His big, hurt, infuriatingly brave pedes.
Brainstorm stares, dismissing the memory log to take Perceptor in in his entirety. He could spend cycles like this, just staring. Probably has, if he's been entirely honest with himself. Watching Perceptor's back flex as he worked or his digits tucked neatly in front of a trigger; his scope twitching, his pede tapping before he catches it and stops, even how his glossa moves when he tries one of Swerve's new experimental mixtures. He remembers staring so hard he forgot where he was, zoning in on a stray drop of energon on Perceptor’s cheek, tipping his partner's helm so that he could lick it off. Perceptor had thought nothing of it–Nautica and Chromedome still won't stop bringing it up.
He wonders how long they'll bring up Perceptor's death. How he died right in front of Brainstorm, how he was too idiotic to do anything but watch. He wouldn't be able to stand it. He won't stand it.
That same kind of animalistic desperation, the one that gives way to all of his most genius idea's, the one that makes up the very core of him finally takes its place at the forefront of his processor. He was created desperate–he very well can operate with it. His processor races, ideas flitting through as fast as he can dismiss them, holding Perceptors side that isn't torn apart, muttering madly to himself.
If he were in his lab, he could fashion a gun that sent enough shock through the frame to jumpstart a fuel pump, because the core of it is an electrical issue, not spark. But there's not enough time–Cybertronions are a naturally resistant species, but even Perceptor couldn't last that long without circulation. He thinks about taking his own wires out somehow getting an energy transfer going, but that is dangerous for the both of them. Brainstorm isn't sure how to control electrical output, or even what wires are safe to tear out. And he can't go offline, because with Perceptor out that means it's Brainstorm that Lotty is using to find them.
And he can't just wait for her. She said soon, but what's considered soon has already passed, which could mean any number of things. She could have been pulled into another emergency or in active conflict with their aggressors, to which there's no telling when her or any other medic would actually reach them. Compressions come up again, but he would cause far more damage than good if he tried to push down on the wound with the force required–he glances at his servo, Perceptors various fluids still staining it, settling into his seams and joints. He pauses.
Compressions…
Before he can back out, he takes that servo and pushes it back into Perceptor.
It's easier the second time around. The mesh molds wetly around Brainstorms servo, pushing in a little faster than what's probably safe, electing all kinds of wet noises that Brainstorm ignores. He pants, pushing his servo further, watching it become covered in energon and whatever else is leaking from Perceptor's frame. It drips from his servo to his forearm, smelling old and fresh at the same time, flooding Brainstorms olfactory sensors and confusing his processor, the urge to flee overridden by his need to go deeper. His own fuel pump pounds in his audials, spark rushing as Brainstorm pushes further than he previously had, snapping that delicate lining again.
He's in a different spot than before, aiming as close as he could for where Perceptors fuel pump was supposedly located. He groans as he makes contact with something, buried up to his wrist in destroyed mesh. He tries to wrap his servo around it the best he can, a little surprised by how solid and warm it feels in his hold.
He's venting far harder than he thought, fans whirling and unintelligible glyphs sliding past his glossa. His vision is a little blurry, focusing the best he can on Perceptor's lax face as he gives his first squeeze.
Naturally, Cybertronion fuel pumps can differ, but they all follow the same schematics. There are multiple chambers within the cylinder that make up the whole of the pump, each with their own function, but the overall component that allows it to actually pump is a large and modified piston. Situated right beneath the primary fuel tank, the pump pulls energon from the lines connected to the tank through a valve, and the piston helps in both the suction and expelling of the energon through the lines leading to different parts of the frame. The piston is located near the top of the cylinder, connected by wires to some other component Brainstorm doesn't know the name of. But with it being positioned as it is accompanied with Perceptors smaller size Brainstorm can wrap his whole servo around the cylinder and place his thumb on top of the piston, pushing it down in time with squeezing the cylinder.
After the first push, the piston pops back up through what Brainstorm guesses is hydraulics, filling the chambers with energon. When he pushes down again, he can feel the energon rush through the cylinder before being pushed through the various lines connected to the chambers.
He wants to laugh, but what comes out is an odd sort of warbling, somewhere between a keen and a sob. He keeps pushing, watching the external mesh flex at his movements, his servo moving just beyond where Brainstorm can see. In his other servo he starts to feel a pressure where he's holding the line shut, the tubing beginning to fill with energon again.
Brainstorm falls into a rhythm, pushing the piston down in what he hopes is a natural pace, letting his other servo rest against Perceptor with the fuel line. He belatedly realizes that its coolant is blurring his optics, his audials filled with nothing but his own harsh venting. He groans as he leans down, settling himself besides Perceptor along the trunk, curving his frame to keep his servos where they are.
“Come–come on, Perce.” He leans closer, pressing his faceplate to Perceptor's neck, half his chassis against Perceptor's own, “Just wait. Lotty will be here soon, just wait.”
He whimpers, suddenly feeling very, very cold. “Please. Please, please, please, we're doing so good, yeah? You're incredible, please.”
His wings clatter, something yells, and he can't tell if it's Cybertronion or whatever else is here, continuing to whisper against Perceptor, apologies and come on's and whatever else his pathetic processor can conjure. Perceptor remains silent, vents still stuttering uselessly past his intake, far too shallow.
At some point Brainstorm had closed his optics. He keeps thinking about late nights spent in the lab, sneaking into the berth when Perceptor was already in recharge. Trying to be quiet, but Perceptor always woke up, shifting to press closer to Brainstorm, absorbing the heat and drifting off without a glyph. Sometimes he'd press a kiss to his helm, sometimes he wouldn't. It didn't matter much. But he'd always wrap his arms around Perceptor, pulling him closer still, trying to mold around him as much as possible. He thinks about it now, how content he'd be to do the same, to drift off with Perceptor next to him, as close as he could possibly get.
“Brainstorm!”
He jolts, lifting his helm to watch Velocity run at him, swatting branches and brush out of her way. She kneels beside him and grabs him by the shoulders, pulling him away from Perceptor. Brainstorm sits up, so quick he doesn’t have time to go through with the thrashing his frame desperately wants to do, helm spinning as Velocity grabs his faceplate, chassis, arms, anything. She's patting him down like he's carrying something illegal, which for once he isn't, swiping her servos through the mess of energon painting his frame in her search. Brainstorm feels confused and delirious and terrified. Velocity is asking him questions, opening his med ports manually to get a scan on him, but Brainstorm can’t hear anything. His optics keep flickering from Velocity to Perceptor, his vocalizer clicking uselessly as he tries to think of what to say.
He opens his intake, then closes it. He opens his intake again to try and say one thing or another about Velocity finally deciding to show up, and shouldn’t she be checking on, oh, I don’t know, the mech he currently has his servo buried in? And not in the fun way? But when he tries to speak the only thing that leaves his intake is a sob.
And it’s just one, but it's so raw and mangled and ugly that it shocks him back into silence, staring at Velocity’s wide optics because he can’t believe it either. It isn’t like he’s even crying that hard, what little streaks of coolant staining his faceplate from squeezing his optics too tight–at least he thinks.
He can hardly even remember the last time he had made that sound, but when Velocity moves to take the fuel line out of his grip, he makes it again. Brainstorm lets her take it easily, digits aching when they’re finally free to relax. His other is still pushing on the piston and he turns to place his now free servo on Perceptor, only to jolt as he realizes that Ratchet is with them too, servos flitting everywhere over Perceptor, tools out and doing things Brainstorm can’t even begin to comprehend. But Ratchet sees Brainstorm moving and locks in on him, even as a soldering iron comes to life and he starts to burn the part of the line that Brainstorm had previously been holding to properly seal it.
::Brainstorm?::
“Huh–whuh–yeah?” There's a comm line established in his HUD, and he recognizes Ratchet's medic ID card more than he does the actual mech, watching how he moves over Perceptors frame, spraying the abdominal wound with a liquid that is cold on Brainstorms plating.
::I need you to keep your servo exactly where it is and keep pumping, okay?:: Ratchet isn’t looking at him, instead pulling out a large aluminum tarp from some sort of bag behind him, spreading it out with the help of Velocity. ::It’s imperative that you don’t stop until we’re back in the shuttle and I can remove it properly.::
Brainstorm nods like he had been planning on doing anything else. Ratchet glances at him once before going back to the tarp, wrapping Perceptor's abdominal wound in the foil and using some adhesive to keep it attached to the frame. The aluminum is wrapped around Brainstorms arm as well, surprisingly soft against him. At some point Velocity had attached an LP cuff to his arm, and it squeezed fitfully. Actually, there are multiple little gadgets spread all around and on them, attached to his forehelm and Perceptors chassis, all giving readouts on scanners and datapads that he can’t be bothered to decipher.
Not when they’re moving Perceptor, lifting his limp form to place him on a stretcher, Velocity’s servos on Brainstorms shoulders to guide him through it, making sure he’s never too far. She asks questions that he responds to automatically, hardly hearing her as he watches Perceptors every move, what’s done to him and how. He watches his face, his arms, his pedes–all tucked onto the stretcher, swaying with the steady movement.
The battle must be over, given how easily they are able to walk through the ship. There's alien bodies scattered every other turn, but there aren't any Cybertronion frames that he can see. They walk at a brisk pace, heading towards where Brainstorm knows is the shuttle they landed in. He asks questions, trying to gauge the situation, voice removed from his processor as his optics stay glued to Perceptor. Ratchet is tugging the stretcher at the front while Velocity guides it from the back, Brainstorm caught somewhere in the middle and trying not to bump into it as much as he has been.
Perceptor is still clearly offline. He stays that way the whole trip back, loaded into the shuttle and swarmed quicker than Brainstorm could blink. Mechs surround them, most he knows, Rewind placing a servo on his leg in comfort as Drift tries to hold off most of the uninjured mechs in what is apparently the makeshift medibay of the shuttle. There is yelling and orders and comm chatter and enough notifications in his HUD to cause a crash, yet his processor has never been so dead-set on ignoring it all. Actually, that is a lie. It's the same kind of spark-aching focus that comes from being terrified, whether he's performing his most daring experiment yet or facing death for the umpteenth time in his creation. He thinks he would get used to it by now, but the sensation overwhelms him entirely.
The process of removing Brainstorms servo is a debacle all on its own. Aboard the Lost Light Perceptor is rushed to the medibay, attached to whatever machine is supposed to keep his sputtering spark spinning as well as others. Brainstorm listens as he's guided out of Perceptor, servo still and cold when it comes free.
Immediately, he misses the sensation. He's tugged away from the berth by–oh, when did Nautica get here? It's hard to think about anything besides his cold servo, the sudden absence of heat that he came to associate with functioning, the ache in his joints and his inability to move them, watching his digits twitch as the energon dries. But Nautica grabs his servo–nasty and uncomfortable; takes it in her own and squeezes. It's only then that he realizes that he's forgotten to vent, probably hasn't since Velocity showed up. So he takes a gulp of air, vents fanning open and air circulating through his frame in large quantities, rushing through him in relief.
Nautica keeps pulling until Brainstorm can no longer see Perceptor, and the rush of solace and anxiety that overtakes him could probably entertain a psychologist for cycles. There's guilt there, too, but he doesn’t have the capacity to think about that for too long. He can’t really think about anything for too long, thoughts running through his helm like they're escaping a fire, responses on his glossa to questions that he wasn’t even asked. Brainstorm focuses on Nautica's servo in his, their greys blurring together into a ball of nerves.
He had been told by now–more times than he honestly asked–that Perceptor will be okay. There might be some physical therapy and a lengthy recovery for his more delicate and now decimated internals, but overall, he’ll fully recover. But he can’t even remember who has told him what, which medic has been sending him updates or even why. Does he look that desperate? Probably, if his frame is really trembling like he feels it is, but–there's Blaster and Ratchet and pit, even Drift, who look far more affected than Brainstorm, even though he was the reason this fragging mess even started.
But somehow, Nautica looks–well, maybe not fine but certainly not panicking or losing her mind like he feels he is. They come to a stop in some corner, well and truly out the way of the medics and crew members bustling around. Nautica’s optics are bright, focused on him with a fierce intensity when he urges his gaze away from their servos.
“Brainstorm, are you o–”
“Will Perceptor be okay?”
Nautica, surprisingly, doesn’t look miffed at his interruption. Not that he would really care, anyways. He just needs an answer, one not born of some odd pity that others have come to associate with his frazzled state or the forced gentleness of a medic who values his feelings–like if he’s told one bad thing he’ll snap and kill everyone. It’s too close to the delicacy those in the labs would treat him with–a military-grade jet in a lab, one who can’t be ticked off lest he slaughter every delicate frame type in his immediate space. As though he hasn’t been here the whole time, with only one reasonable and quite frankly genius “outburst”, thank you very much. But not Nautica, because Nautica has always been far too honest than what he deserves.
So when Nautica cracks a smile, servos leaving his to sit squarely on her hips, his spark settles the smallest amount.
“Our Perceptor? He'll be fine, Brainstorm.” Nautica looks incredulous, yet Brainstorm does. “We both know he's more of a tank than a microscope these cycles, anyways. It'll take a lot more than whatever the frag this is to knock him down, yeah?”
“It's pump failure.”
Nautica frowns and quirks an eyebrow. “What?”
Brainstorm smiles, glancing back at the medberth that Perceptor is laid out across, catching glimpses of his red plating from between machines and the backs of medics. “That's what's going on. He's in pump failure.”
He can feel Nautica watching him, brief ponderings on what she may be thinking at the front of his processor until it's overshadowed by a long tone ringing out, First Aid shouting something that makes all the medics back away from Perceptor's berth quickly. His partner's frame jerks sharply once, limp and pale, but the long tone is quickly replaced by a steady beeping. No one shouts in joy or breaks down into tears, but Velocity looks significantly more relaxed than a few kliks ago, and Brainstorm takes that as a win. He silently celebrates enough for everyone in the room, anyways.
“See? He's already doing good! Even with pump failure.” Nautica turns to dig something out of her subspace, and Brainstorm doesn't have the energy to explain that he thinks the pump failure problem was just solved.
To his surprise, Nautica pulls out his blast mask. It's dusty but undamaged, just as he had designed it to be. She tries to brush it off then quickly gives up when the marks just smear around, offering it to Brainstorm with a proud smile.
“They found Percy's rifle, too, so hopefully he isn't too cranky when he comes up,” She says as Brainstorm takes the mask, gratefulness pooling in his spark. “You both did good, you know? We're all really glad that you were there, no telling what would've happened if you weren't.”
Brainstorm chuckles, and it sounds wrong even to his own audials. “Nothing new.”
His optics sting, grime and whatever else leaving a thin layer on his faceplate. Nautica's words float around in his helm, a direct juxtaposition to the fact that had it now been for him, Perceptor wouldn’t have been there in the first place. Nautica is looking at him oddly, something on the edge of her glossa that she can’t seem to swallow, searching his faceplate like she’s looking for a reason. And maybe, later, Brainstorm will give her one. But for now Brainstorm shrugs his shoulders, sparing Nautica one last grin, trying to put all of his gratefulness into it but feeling as though he has forgotten how to. He walks towards Lotty before she even says his name, letting her grab his arm and guide him to a berth.
While she wraps and fills whatever damage he had sustained, Brainstorm keeps his optics on his servos. They’re still disgusting and aching and there might be a smell if he leaves them like this any longer, but Nautica’s words still echo through his helm, carried along by the steady beeping of Perceptor's monitor.
Good. He did good. Primus, he can not wait to rub it in Perceptor's face.