Work Text:
Mid-Quintession Invasion
Maccadam’s Oil House — Cybertron
“Hey, Perceptor.” A deadpanned voice called out from behind the counter. The Quintessons had invaded, leaving no one but their motley crew of five stranded in an abandoned oil house. A titan, actually, now that they had been made aware of their temporary residence’s identity.
Everything had come crashing down on the lot of them once Hot Rod and Perceptor began rousing them, each time they returned to the base of the spire with renewed hope for recovering more comrades. And evidently, it worked to a certain extent; the latest addition of Whirl and Dead End had nearly doubled their numbers due to the severity of their manpower crisis. But the extra company did nothing for their hopeless position. It was the five of them against an army of thousands.
It would take an idiot to look at their odds and bet against the Quitessons. And so, here those idiots sat. Lounging around Maccadam’s, sipping the last of the engex left in the barrels. Their last supper of sorts before their final hurrah.
Perceptor was very much content keeping to himself, going over the details of every plan they had made with a fine-tooth comb to keep fatalities to a minimum, which was a job that rested solely on his shoulders due to their colourful cast's severe dearth of intellect. But the serenity of tuning out the chaotic backdrop of incoherent mumbling from the rest of the crew was interrupted by a fresh mug of energon being shoved directly against his datapad. From his sonar, however, the sloshing liquid reflected no differently than the engex their party members were busy getting themselves wasted on.
“I would like to abstain.” He replied pointedly, gently pushing the glass back with his palm and shook his head to make his refusal clear to the mechanism before him. The heavy stench of engex caused him to physically recoil as his faceplate reacted in turn, crinkling between his now missing optics. He made sure to give his new company a disapproving frown at the unpleasant scent while he was at it, just to make his displeasure known.
“I know. You mentioned it before.” Dead End responded in full clarity. His words were perfectly enunciated without a hint of struggle as if the engex he had been consuming had barely phased him. His lucidity was nothing short of a miracle considering the thick musk clouding Perceptor’s olfactory sensors, a practised skill, if you would. He raised the glass closer to the microscope, once again offering up the grip of the mug for the taking. “It’s energon, not engex.”
“You remembered…?” Perceptor thought out loud before clamping down on his voice module. It was some insignificant banter he had brought up to break the ice amongst his teammates as they traversed through the titan. So insignificant, in fact, that Perceptor himself had nearly forgotten his own mention of it. Yet, it was entirely unsurprising that Dead End remembered. From the way Clobber and Lockdown had been bumbling around, it was easy to dismiss the Decepticon foot soldiers as fodder, equal parts unskilled and dimwitted. But Dead End. Dead End was different.
As listless as he may be, Dead End was clever. Not in the usual intellectual fields, but rather in his aptitude for common sense. He had survived this long for a reason. It didn’t escape Perceptor’s notice, the way his rear audial fins would perk up at any Autobot discussion. His hostility towards them and unwillingness to intermingle were more than just common Decepticon etiquette, but rather a very warranted act of caution.
It was great to have another level-headed individual on board, just not when said bit would always be ready to shift his loaded gun over to your head if the tides changed. They had a truce, not an alliance.
He was an enigma that Perceptor had trouble cracking, like a puzzle waiting to be solved. He was every bit as hostile as your typical Decepticon, yet even Perceptor understood the compassion that lay beneath to surface of his listless exterior.
Dead End was a kind soul, though not following the same convention as many of the Autobot comrades he had encountered. He never claimed to act for the greater good, nor did he have lofty ideals. But he was down-to-earth, level-headed, and still contained that same tender spark that had him watching out for the rest of them throughout their journey, despite being ‘the enemy’. Deep down, Dead End cared.
“Never mind that, I was under the impression that you were not going to show up tonight. Has your opinion of our plan been revised?” He reached out hesitantly to feel his way over to the handle of the mug, accepting it with a polite tilt of his helm.
“Mhm, you could say it was something like that.” He hummed along positive tone, letting out a dry chuckle as he settled down in the booth seat across from the microscope. “Don’t get me wrong, the plan is still as flimsy as wet cardboard, but I’ve been thinking about how this would end for us, and let’s just say I’d rather be buried with some energon pumping through my lines than some rusty tin cans.”
“That’s quite the vote of confidence. Though a little more optimism wouldn’t hurt.”
Their banter was kept friendly, a likely side effect of Dead End’s inebriation, though not visible to the naked optic. It was the first time Perceptor had seen him so open, willing to converse despite the insurmountable rift their factional allegiances had opened up.
“Well, clearly there’s enough of that to go around already.” He rolled his optics, gesturing over to the table where Clobber and Hot Rod had begun sparring. Their drunken laughter drifted over from their corner, far too carefree for one to think they were in a life-or-death situation.
“I see. I believe I understand where you are coming from.” Perceptor agreed, taking another swig of his energon before setting aside his data pad entirely. “But that mindset won’t get us anywhere. How about focusing on the positive prospects?”
“Such as?” Came a challenging reply. It was clearly meant to come off as confrontational, yet it held a hint of fatigue to it. A layer of exhaustion that Perceptor could understand after spending countless cycles on the run.
“What do you plan on doing? Surely you must have plans for after we put an end to the loop.” He inquired. The others had been more than willing to share. Hot Rod’s deluded grandeur of uniting the planet, Whirl’s plan to obtain opposable thumbs, and even Clobber had decided to settle down amongst the Autobots once everything calmed down. All of them had plans for the future.
It was their ambitions that drove them, the hope of a better tomorrow. And if he could just get Dead End to see that, then there was a real shot at collaboration here. After all, two heads would be better than one, and seeing the way their crew was constructed, the extreme pessimist was the only other logical choice.
Contrary to his expectations, however, Dead End immediately deflated at the question. He sank back down onto the plush cushion of the seat sluggishly as he took another large mouthful of his beverage before tracing the wave of liquid in his glass with his optics as he swirled the remnants of it around the base.
“After the war, huh? That’s not a fun thought. I’ll probably be scrapped, maybe even deactivated before that if I’m lucky. There really isn’t any winning, is there?” His faux jovial tone began to waver, revealing the usual sarcastic remark for what it was: the thinly veiled truth.
Dead End’s fatalistic mentality was already common knowledge amongst their lot, but it was more than just a quirk they had to work with. Every member of their group had dealt with their existential dread in some way, and it was just that Dead End’s manifested in a more troublesome way than most.
“You’re lying. You do not actually hold those beliefs.” The microscope fired back matter-of-factly. The strength of his conviction was startling, considering the gravity of the subject matter. Of course, such a resolute statement drew the ire of his increasingly volatile companion.
“Oh yeah? And pray tell, how did you figure that one out? I’m working with the Autobot’s which is already treason. And even if, by some miracle, they forget about that, Motormaster is gone! Scrapped!” He took a pause, less for dramatic effect, and more for him to catch his breath as his uncharacteristic outburst left him winded. “Maybe your Autobots don’t care, but without Menasor, there isn’t a reason to keep us around any longer.”
At some point during his rant, he had found himself on his pedes, leaning against the table with the palm of his servos as he got caught up in the heat of the moment. Perceptor only waited for him to compose himself, remaining seated in complete silence as Dead End collected his bearings and slowly lowered himself back onto the bench before adopting his usual listless expression.
“Alright, I’ll bite. That felt pretty good. Thanks for listening, I guess.” He admitted. “Primus, I hated that guy. Even from the afterspark he finds a way to make our lives more difficult.”
“Like I said, you may have your reasons, but if you really thought all of this was pointless, you wouldn’t be here, now would you?” Perceptor gave another positive hum. This time, with an ever-so-slight trace of a smile.
“Now, we should get moving soon. We will be needing all the rest we can get before day breaks. I trust you will be coming with us?” He confirmed, acknowledging the lethargic nod from the red combiner part. “Perfect. Oh, and Dead End?”
His helm whipped up at the mention of his name, bleary optics squinting to make out the microscope's figure under the harsh lighting at the angle he had been looking up at.
“Even after this is all settled, you will always have a place amongst us.”
There were many words bubbling up in his voice module, a dozen different snarky remarks he could have made in response to the shamelessly Autobot-like comment, but for once he found himself at a loss for words. The genuine sense of fondness in Perceptor’s voice had him conflicted.
“Hahhh, after this is settled, huh? I guess we’re gonna have to see that plan through if we wanna get there first.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh, groaning at the thought of their coming confrontation. “Here’s to the end of the world.”
The two of them sat in wordless agreement. A peaceful serenity void of the other three trouble makers, like the calm before the storm. They leave at dawn. But for tonight, they were allowed to party like it was their last. For all they knew, it probably was. So they let their glasses clink together, celebrating their final moment.
“Cheers!”
—-
Post-Quintession Invasion
Decepticon Outpost — Cybertron
“Have I made your mission clear, soldier?” The static voice of Dead End’s new officer in command boomed.
After everything had settled, even Megatron had been eliminated during the final battle. His status remained unchanged: in critical condition with barely any hope of recovery. The fact that their glorious and illustrious Lord Megatron had disappeared sparked a new power vacuum within their ranks, but was swiftly settled in light of the absence of both Starscream and Shockwave.
A single declaration of authority was all it took for the unruliest of the Decepticon armada to fall in line before their ex-field commander. Naturally, Dead End found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. After all the work he did for Megatron, breaking his back to secure his position as the last in line for the scrap heap, Soundwave's coming to power was the worst possible outcome due to the measures he had taken to deter him from uncovering Megatron’s scheme.
He had already braced himself when receiving the summons to Soundwave’s makeshift office. It was pointless running, Soundwave would hear of it faster than he could feasibly charter a shuttle off-world. He hears everything. Maybe it was karma, but for the first time in his functioning, he was beginning to miss Astrotrain. Instead of the flogging he had come to expect, however, he received a new directive.
“As crystal, sir. Just give me the signal.” He assuredly had never considered that Soundwave would be willing to forgive him, let alone provide him a second chance to prove himself useful to the cause.
“Good.” Came a curt response. “Do not fail me.”
His objective was simple: he was to cross over the border for ‘cultural exchange’ and to ‘solidify the truce between the two factions’. But Dead End wasn’t naive enough to believe Soundwave, of all mechanisms, would be satisfied with half a planet, no. It had to be a cover.
One look at his posting, and he couldn’t help but cringe internally at how incredibly obvious of a job it was. He was being sent to a research institute as an assistant despite his complete lack of professional experience, knowledge, or even interest. Call it reconnaissance or espionage, Dead End had a job to do, and he had his helm on the line.
—-
The first thing he took notice of was the familiar sight of the black and red microscope by the entrance doorway. He pulled into the driveway with caution, transforming back into his root mode and digging the heel of his pedes into the ground to kill the momentum.
“Perceptor?” There was an uncharacteristic rising inflexion of his tone as a split second of confusion consumed his expression.
The microscope in question simply smiled at the sight of Dead End’s brightly coloured hood and stepped forward to receive his guest. “Ah, Dead End. Just on time. I appreciate the punctuality.”
He extended a servo out to take one of Dead End’s servos into his own, and gently tugged them in the direction of the entrance. “Come on then, we’ve not a moment to lose.”
The way Dead End navigated himself through the day was astounding, considering the fact that he had never seen the Autobot research facility before, much less worked with their culture. He picked up fairly quickly, using his minimal experience from the time he assisted Astrotrain from their dingy hideout in the desert as a guide to how to go about his newest occupation.
From the outside, the Autobots were pleasantly surprised by their intern. Despite the highly stigmatised opposition crest proudly adorning his chest plate, the unease faded quickly once he was put to work. Dead End was nothing short of an ideal colleague to many of them, he was quick on his feet, efficient in most of the tasks he was assigned to, and overall an agreeable mech who took orders well and wasn’t put off by the more haughty of the bunch.
Needless to say, the plan had gone off without a hitch, so much so that he almost felt bad for the naivety of the Autobots who had come to trust him so readily. Even as he secretly recorded portions of their documents, they all seemed none the wiser, as if the idea of Dead End being a plant hadn’t even crossed their minds.
Yet, there was still a sense of unrest lingering under his plating. Like an itch he was unable to scratch. His process would wander over to the thought every other klick, the memory of the microscope latched onto his processor. Something about the odd coincidence of meeting Perceptor of all mechanisms in the middle of his survival-dependent espionage mission felt uncomfortable. It was too coincidental.
Perceptor had been more than accommodating, taking time out of his hectic schedule to give him an impromptu tour of the facility and teaching him the ropes. A faint sense of nausea washed over him as he ruminated on what would happen at the end of his objective. The look of devastation he could vividly imagine tainting Perceptor’s face as he turned his back on them once again. Somehow, that possibility of having to betray his expectations felt so much worse.
Surely Dead End couldn’t have suddenly grown a conscience? Dead End doesn’t care what happens to Autobot researchers. In fact, he doesn’t care what happens to his own faction, let alone his enemies. To him, everything felt so incredibly pointless, the conflict, the divide. None of it mattered as long as he had a roof over his head and a secure supply of energon. For Primus’ sake, he held Whirl at gunpoint without so much as an afterthought. But there was still a lingering feeling of warmth on the surface of his servo from when he had been invited in, a comforting feeling he wasn’t quite able to put his finger on. It was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and incessant.
“So, how are you adjusting?” Perceptor had managed to corner him during his second shift in the Pharmaceutical department before he even began to make headway, uncovering their secrets. The microscope had finally come by to collect him, it seemed, undoubtedly because he was the only mechanism in the building that Dead End was sure held a semblance of common sense. Perhaps he was wisening up to the potential threat Dead End served to their security.
“Fine. What’s it to you?” He spat back, almost hostile at the sudden intrusion. It was a defensive instinct of sorts, a reflex action at the thought of being discovered. He wasn’t the best conversationalist, so it was to be expected that he wasn’t lacking that social touch required of a spy. Nevertheless, Perceptor barely flinched at the antagonistic reception.
“Just worried. You didn’t show up at the pantry, so I brought you your cube.” He replied easily, raising a sizeable cube of energon towards the Decepticon.
“My… cube?” He questioned back, unsure of what Perceptor was getting at. “You brought me a ration?”
It wasn’t as if Dead End was daft enough not to be able to comprehend the ration before him, but it was the logic behind it that didn’t seem to track. The Decepticon foot soldiers especially went for weeks on end without supplies, even after peace had been restored under Megatron’s split reign of the planet, so the sight of the larger-than-average ration cube filled to the brim set off his internal alarms. He didn’t think Perceptor had it in him. Perceptor, handing him a bribe.
“Of course. We’re halfway through the work cycle, in case you haven’t noticed. You should take better care of your health.” He reached out to Dead End’s own servos, gently nudging the digits apart to place the glass firmly into his grasp. Was Perceptor serious? He spoke with concern, the likes of which Dead End had the displeasure of witnessing before during their final stand against the Quintessons.
‘Oh no, this isn’t a bribe. He’s dead serious.’
The two of them stood in an uncomfortable standoff, both finding themselves unable to speak for very different. While sheer confusion dominated Dead End’s processor as he tried to comprehend the sincerity he had been shown, Perceptor simply found himself unable to proceed with the depth of his social inadequacies. “Ahem, your next shift is also in the Laboratory with me later, so come find me once you’ve finished refuelling.”
It was an abrupt way to cut off their already awkward conversation, but Dead End couldn’t ask for a more succinct and straightforward conclusion. With what brief respite he had been granted, he chose to take the moment to collect himself while devouring the cube at record speed. So maybe this wasn’t a ploy to get Dead End to defect, but there had to be something more to it, something he wasn’t seeing. And he needed to find it quickly if he wanted to keep his helm attached to his frame by the first check-in with Soundwave.
—-
“You’re… Early.” The surprise in the microscope’s voice was evident when paired with the obvious sound of his scope readjusting to focus on Dead End’s form multiple times, scope darting between the mechanism in question and the empty cube in his servo.
Five klicks. That was the standard timeframe Motormaster used to apply to them when refuelling. Anything more, and it would warrant ‘corrective measures’. He’d experienced it enough times himself for it to be ingrained into him, just another muscle memory he had been unable to shake off despite their newfound peace.
He let a vaguely self-satisfied smirk creep onto his faceplate as he watched Perceptor double-check his time-keeping module, ignoring the growing concern on the microscope's face as he followed it up with a triple-take. Perceptor appeared to be much less enthusiastic about his new record of 3 klicks than he was, evidently. Truly, a tough crowd he had going.
The microscope approached with caution, taking a step closer to Dead End, which was reciprocated by a similar, defensive step backwards to maintain a healthy distance between the two. He believed his distrustful reactions were far from unexpected by his Autobot companion, since the two sides were still experiencing a period of high tensions right now.
Luckily, Perceptor, true to his namesake, picked up on his discomfort quickly, pulling back before antagonising Dead End any further. “I see… do as you wish, but please don’t feel pressured to shirk your allocated lunchtime. And if there is somebody who is pressuring you, then don’t hesitate to inform me. Such actions would be highly unconstitutional.”
He left the option open, not bothering to confirm if Dead End had necessarily required the assistance upon hearing the mech in question scoff at the notion. The phrasing did amuse him, though; the mental image of Perceptor shielding him from the other, more Decepticon repulsed coworkers was enticing, especially considering the fact that he could envision it as a very real possibility. Charming, to think that Perceptor believed Dead End would ever have the need to go to him for help.
Perceptor quickly moved on, choosing not to linger on those awkward moments in favour of continuing on with his shift. He swiftly turned over to his personal desk to pull out a new stack of documents to hand to Dead End. As the Decepticon continued to flippantly browse the documents, his optics locked onto an unexpected discovery. The first few were the typical boring non-disclosure terms, laboratory safety manuals, et cetera. But the next few contained sheets upon sheets of half-filled templates.
“Perceptor, you’re kidding, right?” He stated, voice remaining as monotone and uninterested as ever despite his bewilderment. He flipped through the stack once more just to confirm his suspicions. The documents in question were blank lab reports. Templates for research projects that were kept confidential from regular employees, let alone an interning ‘Con. This was the kind of information that would surely interest Soundwave.
Normally, Dead End wouldn’t bother vocalising his concern. He was put into a majorly advantageous situation, with how Perceptor had just handed him his ticket to freedom so casually. But something about the earnest way Perceptor seemed to trust him with this information made that uncomfortable feeling in his chassis grow, sinking its tendrils deeper into his spark.
“Of course not. Though my visual impairment is less visible, it has only been restored on a surface level, so I will be requesting your assistance in filling out the report for documentation.” Perceptor replied with a reassuring smile.
It weighed down upon Dead End, an unbearable amount of guilt and shame lingered in his chest as he cast his eyes to the paperwork. It felt so wrong, taking advantage of Perceptor after everything they had endured together. And for better or for worse, Perceptor picked up on his distress. His affiliation had brought many to question his motives in their government-associated research facility, a plethora of which had undoubtedly reached his audials.
“Don’t worry, Dead End. Decepticon or not, I trust you.” It was the last straw that broke the camel’s back. A tender smile and a sparkwarmingly sincere declaration of faith was all it took for Dead End’s walls to come crumbling down. That dull ache in his spark turned to a sharp, stabbing pain that skewered him right through. He couldn’t do this. At least not to Perceptor.
“…If you say so.”
Dead End was in trouble. Massive trouble. He should have been taking pictures, nabbing important documents, maybe even a bit of sabotage to be safe. Diligently taking notes on behalf of the microscope and helping him set labels for all the samples he had was not part of any of his plans, and yet here he was.
While Perceptor was effectively blind, his sonar radar and scanner attached to his scope allowed for a limited amount of visibility. Hence, his familiarity with his own lab allowed him to function normally within a certain range, albeit significantly hindered. He couldn’t tell colours apart, for one, and took longer than most to read labels using the scanner. It was a most inconvenient situation to be in, yet Perceptor insisted on his ability to work.
Unsurprisingly, Dead End ended up being a more than adequate assistant. He already knew about Perceptor’s impeded vision and had more than enough prior experience working around his unfortunate injuries, so when he was called upon for the job, they worked seamlessly.
He would act as a mouthpiece, noting any visible change he observed in the experimental procedure and reading out the footnotes left by the previous researchers with similar findings. Sometimes, he would even take it upon himself to help Perceptor label his setups to reduce confusion for when he regained his vision.
And his efforts were reciprocated in turn. According to the Autobot high command, Dead End was to be returned to their barracks by the end of the day. They called it ‘accommodation’, but he saw it for what it truly was: a detention centre. Of course, the Autobots didn’t trust him at their core. At least their high command didn’t. But Perceptor thought of it differently.
“Would you like to stay with me, then?” He asked as they began closing up the laboratory. It took Dead End a while to realise that he was inquiring in response to Dead End’s typical sardonic comments regarding his new living situation. It was terrifying how casual he had gotten with the microscope, the comments slipped out of his processor so naturally that he barely even noticed he had vocalised the complaint.
One way or another, he found himself being dragged towards the old oil house. A familiar, dingy little bar that once belonged to part of a titan. It was their old hangout as well, a nostalgic place that held not-so-fond memories of their rebellion against the Quintessons. As Dead End would find out, Perceptor had become the inheritor of the bar, taking over Maccadam's position.
The place was still as run-down as he remembered. There were bits of debris swept to the sides to form a path down the aisle, and the tankers hadn’t been repaired yet. The damage had been so severe that it was a wonder that the place had even remained standing.
“Excuse the mess, we’ve been making headway with the restoration, but only the back has been renovated for now.” Perceptor politely guided him to the back, showing him to the living quarters that the large, hidden body of the titan had previously occupied. It was a quaint, comfortable space, complete with a recharging slab and some minimal furniture.
Though Perceptor was sheepishly introducing him to the unremarkable living quarters, his companion was already astounded by the luxuries he had been awarded. He didn’t have to share a bunk. He had the whole room to himself, and there were no surveillance devices to be found. It felt like a breath of fresh air from the Decepticon barracks.
“You’re… sure I can have this to myself?” He was a bolthead for sure. No sane ‘Con would ever second-guess their host, no matter how unbelievably naive they were. It was textbook Decepticon territory to exploit whoever was naive enough to lend them an inch. He should have just stayed silent. But Perceptor was ever so patient with his companion.
“Yes, I wouldn’t have offered it up otherwise.” He proudly asserted. “Which reminds me, I managed to get the application past administration, but they haven’t been able to set up an account for you yet.”
He then proceeded to retreat into one of the side rooms and returned with a sachet, which he placed squarely in Dead End’s servos. A sachet full of Shanix. Perceptor couldn’t have been this naive. Even the dullest of bots would know that this kind of compensation was far above the minimum wage.
“Perceptor, this- I- I already got my cube this afternoon…” He stuttered out, trying to find the right words to convey his confusion. It had to be a trick, to see if he was greedy enough to take the bait. Or so he thought, but Perceptor was adamant.
“Cube? You mean your lunch?” He questioned quizzically. “I do not see the connection. This is your paycheck, or ‘allowance’ if you will. It usually comes in by the megacycle, but you haven’t been registered with the banks yet, so it will take a while before I can get it automated for you.”
A well-paying job, provision of fuel, and regular working hours. If Dead End didn’t know any better, he would have assumed the Autobots were trying to seduce him over to their side. “‘Before I can get it automated’? It sounds an awful lot like you’re the one who brought me in instead of high command.”
Whatever reaction Dead End was expecting, the abashed expression his companion donned was not one of them.
“Yes, well… That would be correct.” Perceptor knew where he stood on this matter. They already tried it once with Hot Rod, attempting to win him over during the Quintesson invasion, and again after it by mailing him some Autobot propaganda in the form of a game cartridge. As listless and unmotivated as he may have been, disloyalty was not one of the traits he held. He already made it clear to them once when Hot Rod tried to recruit him, and he wasn’t about to let that change anytime soon.
“I-”
“I know,” Perceptor replied readily. “I am not expecting you to do anything you do not want to. You may resign and any time. But the war is over, there is no need for conflict. And most importantly, like I told you: no matter what, there will always be a place for you with us.”
It was stupid. These were his enemies. He didn’t have to time to be frolicking around with them and playing nice. But each time he found himself unable to act upon his calling, the sight of Perceptor’s diligent efforts and appreciative gestures made his spark melt every time they spoke. Perceptor remembered all of it, his drunken spewing of his insecurities and troubles. He just couldn’t bring himself to betray him like this.
—-
“Dead End, report.” The static voice demanded once more.
“Nothing of note to report, sir.” He had spent a great amount of time pondering over his potential answers after making up his mind, yet the pressure of having to lie to his superior officer never got any easier to bear.
Soundwave rose to his peds at the non-committal reply and took an intimidating step forward. He loomed over Dead End, as if assessing his body language. Nothing that Dead End himself hadn’t experienced before. He kept his composure well, keeping his intakes even and spark pulse slow. This wasn’t his first rodeo. The line of terrible bosses he had worked for had no bearing on the mech before him.
“Nothing?” Soundwave echoed, as if goading a follow-up response out of him.
“At least nothing that would warrant your attention… sir.” He appended on quickly. There were a few ways this could go, but knowing Soundwave as well as he did, it was either a demotion in the best-case scenario or deactivation in the worst case. But if he played his cards right, he would be able to prolong his judgment due his infiltration status.
“Perfect. You have proven your worth to the Decepticon cause.”
Those were one of the last few words he heard before being unceremoniously booted out of headquarters. A million questions ran through his head, but all stemmed from the same bout of confusion. ‘What?’
“With this, we have enough substance to convince the Autobots of our intentions. If all goes well, the wall can finally be brought down. I trust you will continue to follow through with your role, soldier?”
Soundwave couldn't possibly have been serious. Dead End held on to one firm belief that powered him through his gruelling attempt at espionage. The Autobots and Decepticons would never live in harmony. It was an impossible thought that they could live together without the need for bloodshed. It sounded too good to be true. But Soundwave was serious.
“Yes, sir.”
He took a slow drive back towards Maccadam’s, all the while trying to sort through the chaotic thoughts running through his processor at a mile a minute. Throughout his days as a Decepticon, there was one universal constant that Megatron had spelt out for them. That a reconciliation would be nothing more than the coward's way out. It felt almost traitorous in a way to envision a future where they could coexist. A future where he would be allowed to call Maccadam’s his home.
His defeatist mentality was soon interrupted by the screeching sound of rubber against the asphalt as a familiar red and orange racing model approached him.
“Dead End! Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyou!” He squealed excitedly. He reached out to envelop the Decepticon in a crushing hug, which was sidestepped with practised ease.
“Let’s not do that.” Dead End denied while pushing back against Hot Rod’s faceplate smushed up against his servo in an attempt to embrace him.
“Alright, alright. Be that way, we all know you’re a real softie in there anyway.” Hot Rod began to annoyingly prod at him with his elbow, giving him a suggestive rise and fall of his optic ridge. “Thanks for that, though. Soundwave is a mech of few words, but even I could tell he was excited! Tell you what, I’ll treat ya to some engex next time once the bar Maccadam’s is fixed up. What’d ya say?”
“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down, Hot Rod. What are you saying?” He was starting to get agitated at the speedster's hyperactive and clear lack of manners.
“Hmm? You haven’t heard?” Hot Rod asked, giving him a puzzled look. “The exchange programme! Optimus and Soundwave finally agreed to it after arguing over it for hours. Thank Primus, you volunteered, it would’ve ended in a second Great War if they sent Skybite like planned. ‘An artist like him would be optimal for a cultural exchange, ’ my tailpipe! He’s just trying to stir the pot!”
Despite his distaste for the speedsters' annoyingly cheery expressions, their conversation had given him an inkling of an idea. “You talked to Soundwave about it?”
“Oh ho, yeah, he was over the moon, y’know? — Don’t tell him I told you that. This is the biggest step towards peace we’ve had in aeons! I knew he had it in him to end the war. We’ll probably be sending some Autobots over to their side of the wall to follow up on it, but if all goes well, we can start taking the wall down. Ooh, I just know Optimus is gonna be so happy when he hears about this. Alright, no time to lose. Catch ya later!”
As quickly as he arrived, he left with a trail of dust in his path at a whirlwind pace, leaving Dead End to stew in his own misery. But it left him with newfound hope. It almost slipped his mind due to the intensity of their situation back when they were staging their rebellion against the Quintessons, but the more he though about the casual way in which Hot Rod refered to their interactions, the more he had come to realise that his in-command had most definitely been fraternising with the enemy. And if so, who was to blame Dead End if he started getting ideas of his own?
“Dead End? You look particularly miserable today. Is something the matter?” Perceptor so helpfully inquired upon seeing Dead End’s defeated expression through his scope.
“Not much, just finding out that I’ve picked up on the wrong memo for the past megacycle, and that I’ve been stressing over nothing.” He lamented. It was more of a cathartic rant; it wasn’t supposed to make sense to Perceptor, nor did he expect a coherent response. He just needed to get it off his chest.
“Ah, I was wondering when you’d bring it up.” He chuckled softly. A seemingly innocuous way of delivering a devastating revelation.
The simple statement made Dead End freeze up. He briefly tensed, before slumping over the table he was seated at. “You knew, huh? For how long?”
“Not long, but you’re not exactly discreet. My audials work very well, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed.” He wiggled around his scope just to make a point. Right, he forgot about that. Maccadam never did have soundproof walls, and there were only two of them in the hideout. A dead giveaway.
“Well, I guess you’d be happy to hear that espionage is off the table now. Ahh damn, I knew earlier I would’ve maximised the company benefits.” He lamented. It was for show, a way of coping with the mounting stress of the confrontation. In truth, he didn't want to go. He had come to appreciate what he had here. It was cruel, being shown what a peaceful life could be like, only for it to be pulled out from under him was far worse than if he had never gotten a chance to experience it.
“Hmm, I see. Well, I am not going to fire you if that’s what you’re thinking. But it is nice to know you chose to side with us in the end.” Perceptor opened his servo to reveal a busted-up data slug he had been concealing. It was his, all of the data that he had stolen over the course of his stay. He was so sure that he wiped it clean before disposing of it discreetly and thoroughly, but once again, it seemed that he had underestimated Perceptor.
“Yeah, yeah. You don’t have to rub it in.” He huffed. “But thank you. For believing in me.”
The last part was almost silent, volume dropping to a whisper as his embarrassment took hold of him due to the nature of the cheesy line that was coming out of his own mouth. It should have been humiliating, angering, even, to have such an open confrontation. But to Dead End, it felt relieving. The knowledge that Perceptor was already aware of and yet still believed in him changed everything. There were no more secrets, no more forced animosity between factions. It was cathartic in ways a simple rant could never have accomplished.
Perceptor acknowledged his confession with a simple nod, tossing out the data slug for good. It was a simple way of burying the hatchet. Simple, yet effective in sending a clear message.
“Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I hope you don’t plan on packing up any time soon. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to find such a capable assistant on such short notice.” Perceptor joked sarcastically. It was devoid of his usual sardonic tone, yet still as monotone as ever. Regardless, it was a smooth transition away from their tense atmosphere. “Might I propose an Incentive to keep you around?”
“Something better than a living wage and accommodation? Sorry to say, but the precedent set is kind of hard to beat.” Dead End challenged back in an equally sarcastic tone.
But Dead End should have known how well Perceptor knew him by this point. It was almost scary how much time the microscope dedicated to observing his behaviours since their initial meeting. Perceptor was a scientist after all, and what kind of scientist would he be to leave his questions unanswered? Any enigmatic part of him had been long since laid bare to Perceptor’s thoroughness.
The signposting should have been obvious since their last attempt at recruiting him. The suspiciously detailed game cartridge catered to fit his tastes to a tee, was the most obvious clue that Dead End remained naively unaware of. And so Dead End continued to dance right in the palm of his hand in blissful ignorance.
“We have free universal healthcare coverage.”
“Deal.”
Hook, line, sinker.