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shadow_vector2011-05-21 10:18 am
In Deep
IDW
Perceptor, Springer, Kup
Spoilers for Kup's rescue, AHM 15, a bit of WAY TOO MUCH symbolism.
for
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tf_rare_pairing Kup/Perceptor - There are things you don't understand
Perceptor cradled the box in his lap as the drop shuttle began vibrating, from the highest levels of atmosphere. A small cargo case of input rods clung to his lower chassis, and the ‘destroy after reading’ flimsy for Springer lay pressed under his chest plate. But they were just secondary to the real reason for this trip. And he knew the other Wreckers held a dull envy against him for these ‘jaunts’, even though none of them would ever willingly head to Command Hub or Kimia. They’d test Kimia’s latest developments, but they had no desire to set foot into the source of some of their most lethal weapons—and fatal failures.
The battered shuttle shook, a metallic heavy rattle, as it tore through the troposphere. Old, Perceptor thought. Like so much of their equipment, old, past its prime, strung together with wire and tape and glue and necessity, forced to hold together, to work long past its obsolescence date.
It was, he thought, a synecdoche of the Autobots in general: every one of them strung together with hope and desperation and fringe science. Certainly him. And certainly, he thought, looking down at the box on his thighs, Kup.
The drives whined, pushing against the plummet-pull of gravity, fighting the force that was trying to slam them into the planet’s crust. Another symbol, Perceptor thought, hands clutching around the box. The systems they were fighting so hard to own, to defend…wanted to tear them down.
The ship came to a sudden jolting stop, metal grinding and jarring, pitching Perceptor forward, hard enough that the safety harness he wore bit into his chassis. “Last stop,” the shuttle pilot said, glancing over his shoulder. “Everyone off before we fall apart.”
It might have been an attempt at humor. Perceptor hadn’t ever really been good at discerning humor, and what little he’d had, he’d lost, bled out on the deck of Turmoil’s ship. He simply nodded, one hand hitting the quick release, the other still clutching the box, the thumb grazing the tampograph of the Autobot insignia, and beneath that, the round, crisp logo of Kimia.
Kimia. To think that had ever felt like home. To think he’d fooled himself into thinking that any science, any development, was good. Science for its own sake, free from morality, or above morality. Not—as it was—amoral. Strange how Kup had shown him that, all unknowing, forcing him to ask himself uncomfortable questions.
Everyone else had seemed so sure: Ironfist, his curiosity still somehow innocent, despite the creative malevolence of his inventions. Jetfire, quiet and steady, his assurance unshakable. They never doubted, they never asked themselves: what are we giving up for this?
Which was why they deserved to be scientists, and Perceptor was…what he was.
The ramp door pssshed open, exchanging pressure and atmosphere with the planet, a spill of bright light, almost blindingly white to Perceptor’s reticle optic, until he cycled his optical processing filters. A sharp green shape, and behind that, blue, that resolved into Springer and Topspin. Perceptor nodded, striding down the ramp. He popped the cargo-case’s magnets off his chassis, handing it to Topspin, cradling the Kimia box in his left hand. He tapped his chestplate. “Secure communication.” A sad thing that Autobot intelligence was so compromised that they still had to resort to couriers, but…it was a function he could perform, his honesty impeccable.
“I’ll look at it inside,” Springer said, turning on his heel to lead the way into the small, badly refurbished command hut. Fresh, naked steel plates were bolted over old holes, one snapped support beam was bolted to a corner brace.
Another symbol: the whole war propped up on repairing damage. At one point, this little building had been neat, tidy. There were signs of terrascaping, and brackets for pictures. Someone had tried to make this place pretty, once. And what was left was strict utilitarianism: No personality, no beauty.
The shadow of the threshold chilled Perceptor as it swallowed him. As if he were walking into a mirror.
Springer popped on his decrypt protocol, reaching a hand toward Perceptor. Perceptor laid his box carefully on the corner of the battered console, reaching into his chestplate for the coded flimsy. Springer grunted, slotting the flimsy into his command slot on his forearm. A new mission, probably. Springer’s expressions were always simple enough to read—dissatisfaction. Just…aimed everywhere.
Springer’s optics moved to the box. Another grunt. “You should visit Kup. He’s dying to see you.”
Perceptor faltered. Had he really heard the edge in Springer’s voice? The barb in that comment? They knew, they both knew, Kup was dying, if not dead. The Kup that persisted was fed careful ignorance of his own history, the whole event of his rescue, his addiction, forcibly suppressed. And the crystal tablets for his cy-gars were a tangible symbol of that—feeding Kup a sweet, poisonous lie.
And suddenly, Perceptor was sick of it. “Yes,” he said, stiffly, barely trusting his legs to carry him, as he carefully picked up his box and left.
[***]
“Perceptor!” Kup sat up on his berth, flashing his grizzled smile. “Heard ya made it back.”
“Just a courier trip,” Perceptor shrugged. It wasn’t a lie…entirely. But it tasted like one.
“Hey, sometimes courier runs can be the most dangerous. Especially if they know you’ve got important intel. Why, one time…,” the head tilted, the mouth curling into that sly smile Kup always got before launching into a story. And then…it went blank, the face falling slack, jaw open as if gap-mouthed in the face of some horror.
“One time,” Kup repeated, but his voice was scratchy and thin, his optics hooded.
Perceptor swallowed a curse, long acquaintance with this, with Prowl’s directive, telling him that the worst he could do now would be to call Kup’s name. Waste of time that should be spent doing what he did: snapping open one of the cy-gar cases, inserting a crystal tab, and holding it out. Kup had enough awareness to take it, trembling hands finding some reassuring recognition in the shape, at least, and they, together, led it to his mouth.
Kup’s frame softened, the light brightening back in his optics. There was an awkward pause, Perceptor stepping away, wiping his hand, as if contaminated, along one thigh. “Anyway, it’s good to see ya,” Kup said, “Always is.”
“Thanks,” Perceptor murmured, wishing he could accept the words as Kup meant them, wishing he didn't know better. And a motion in the doorway caught his optics: Springer, optics cold and sharp. Perceptor felt his optics shutter, trying in his own way to shut out reality, wishing, for a mad, dark moment that he had Kup’s solace of addiction, of a false reality, shored up to make him functional. Because truth was the most brutal weapon of all.
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Anyway, I really liked what you did with this prompt! Your Perceptor is amazing here. The angst and doubt that color his world are overlays for his own self-examinations.
This was a lovely read for this morning. Thanks for it.
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Perceptor thinks too damn much.
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I don't think, canonwise, though, Kup gets any better. Especially after Infiltration. o-O Whyfore you do that IDW?
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