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Blaster entered Perceptor’s lab slightly cautiously, hoping the strange grind of gears coming from inside wasn’t one of the fragile experiments the scientist was prone to starting. He was intending to apologize for what he’d said earlier, but wasn’t sure how exactly that would go. The scientist had disappeared as soon as Kup had allowed it, seeming much less excited over the war hero’s adulation than many would have been. It was wrong. The rebuilding. The attitude. Everything. Blaster wasn’t sure if the blow to the chest had somehow managed to melt Perceptor’s processors or what, but something was definitely unsettling about the quiet Wrecker. So half to apologize and half to figure out what the frag was going on, Blaster had sought out the scientist.
“Perceptor...” he began, cutting off with a snap as his processors tried to grasp what was going on.
Perceptor had one arm strapped to the table, the grinding gears coming from said arm, which was smoking slightly. Perceptor himself had a laser scalpel in his other hand, the metal plating near his shoulder pulled back as he craned at an awkward angle, micrometers from cutting into himself. Blaster didn’t stop to think, lunging forward to grasp the hand before the scalpel made contact.
“What the slag are you doing?” Blaster winced. So much for an apology. Perceptor stared at him, mouth set in a grim line that it took Blaster a moment to realize was pain and not anger. Probably from the fact that his arm was smoking. Blaster stepped back, but took the scalpel with him.
“My processors aren’t able to comprehend the upgrades. I’m resetting the pathways,” Perceptor finally answered tersely. His bound arm lurched with the words, fingers twitching like mad creatures, obviously out of his control.
Blaster lay the scalpel down on the table, out of Perceptor’s reach. The scientist looked at it, then at Blaster. “I am aware that your opinion of me is moderately low, but the facilities are dependent on me having that scalpel.”
“You’re cutting pieces out of yourself with a scalpel. Alone.”
Perceptor was silent for a second, a moment filled with a terrible grinding sound from his arm, unlike anything Blaster had heard on or off the battlefield. “As I said, it will prevent my arm from exploding and possibly damaging large parts of this room.”
Blaster stared. “You’re serious.”
“I am,” Perceptor said, and jerked his head towards the scalpel. “I am also not sure how much longer my sensors are going to be able to keep up with the overload.”
Blaster picked up the blade hesitantly. “C-can I help?”
“You want to help me ruin myself?” Perceptor said, so flat that Blaster didn’t know quite how to respond. Instead he nodded. Perceptor didn’t seem surprised by whatever there was to be surprised by. Instead, he simply began directing Blaster’s movements, giving him instructions to fetch, carry, and cut things. Only the latter Blaster had issues with, so eventually Perceptor just had him getting things while he sliced bits out of himself, re-soldering wires with a hand that seemed like it was shaking too hard to do so.
It took about 20 minutes, and when it was over Blaster hesitated for a moment, going over options in his head until he knew what he had to say.
“Listen, Perceptor,” he said after a moment. “It doesn’t matter what you do to yourself.”
Perceptor looked at him dubiously, his remaining optic searching Blaster’s face. Probably the other one was too, on a microscopic level or something. Dubious was understandable, though, given that Blaster himself wasn’t even sure he believed what he was about to say. But he was going to try to walk this walk. He needed to, for a friend. “It doesn’t matter what you do to yourself, because in your head and at your spark, you’ll always be you.”
Perceptor opened his mouth, ready to speak. Blaster decided to just forge ahead while he could, because his own words on the planet had definitely implied otherwise. “You’ll always be Perceptor, and you’ll always be an Autobot. A good one.”
That he definitely believed. Regardless of why the Wrecker before him had slashed himself to pieces, he was an Autobot, and he’d done what he’d done for the cause. Gently, hoping it wouldn’t cause harm to the other bot, Blaster reached out and laid his hand on Perceptor’s still-glitching arm. “I can’t say I’m ok with this. Mostly because you didn’t ask anyone for help with procedures that could have gone wrong.”
Perceptor stiffened, gaze shifting towards the floor, but didn’t move away. Blaster paused for a moment longer. “I’m disturbed, yes. But I’m not going to shun you for doing something you so obviously believe it. I’m certainly not going to stop being your friend.”
Perceptor didn’t answer for a long time, long enough that it was starting to get uncomfortable, in Blaster’s opinion. Silence was the exact opposite of what he did, after all. But he forced himself to wait, still holding onto Perceptor and feeling every grind and crunch as the scientist’s body reset its perimeters. The moments ticked by while they waited. Finally Perceptor moved his arm, bending in carefully, fingers moving in careful succession as he clenched them into a fist and then released it experimentally. And only when he’d finished that experiment did he speak.
“Thank you.” There was static in the words, and for a moment Blaster wondered if Perceptor had damaged his vocal components, or if it was just Perceptor’s quiet nature giving him difficulties. He wasn’t a scientist, he couldn’t be sure, but Perceptor’s stance gave away some of it. And with with sudden, terrible clarity that felt similar to being shot in the chest, Blaster realized Perceptor had honestly thought they - that HE - were going to reject him, which was more horrifying than anything the scientist could possibly have done to himself. Nearly dying twice was bound to have an effect, but how had none of them noticed just how badly it had impacted Perceptor’s self-worth? Blaster thought about kicking himself right then and there, the words he felt guilty about already becoming so much more heavy. Frag. Instead, he smiled, tightening his grasp for a moment before letting go and stepping back.
“That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Perceptor replied, equally quiet.
“Think you can come out of hiding now? You’ve got a bunch of other friends out there who want to oogle at all your upgrades.” Blaster winced as he said the last word, glad that Perceptor was still looking at the floor. He believed everything else, but he still wasn’t sure he considered what Perceptor had done to himself to be upgrades. Just changes.
Perceptor looked up again, a ghost of a smile on his face. “I can, yeah. Looks like my arm is back to normal.”
Blaster looked at it, relieved to see that it had finally stopped sparking, and when Perceptor moved his hand to put the scalpel he was still holding back, it responded the way a proper hand should. It was going to be alright.
Perceptor was going to be alright. He’d make sure of it. He’d...he stopped as Perceptor tried to stand, only for his legs to collapse under him, the crash of tools and limbs loud in the silence.
“Perceptor!”
The scientist raised a hand. “It’s alright. I j--ust deen --to recha--rge. The spasms overtax--ed m-my circuits and th-they’re able--un to func-----tion pro---per---ly-ly,” he said, a look of confusion and then resignation crossing his features as he realized the errors in his speech.
Blaster paused for a moment, before reaching out a hand. “I’ll help you get to a recharge slab.”
Perceptor looked grateful as Blaster hauled him up, and even more grateful when Blaster caught him when his legs gave out a second time. The communications officer slid one of the taller Autobot’s arms over his shoulders. “Lean on me. I can take it.”
“T-th--th-ee part-y,” Perceptor shuddered out a protest, concentrating carefully on each of the two words just to get them out.
“You are not going to a celebration like this,” Blaster said in shock, wondering what it meant that Perceptor even thought he should. “They can fragging hold it tomorrow if they’re so set on it.”
“I not---do want t--o f-orm-in about my si--tu--tion,” Perceptor said, even the only semi-functional vocalizations conveying a sort of desperation.
Blaster shook his head and shifted his stance, taking more of the taller Autobot’s weight as Perceptor suddenly sagged again. Getting halfway across the room to the recharge slab in Perceptor’s lab/Wrecker medical bay was proving harder than it ever should be. “Not a problem. I’ll come up with something.”
Perceptor didn’t fight at all after that, just accepted the help and folded over onto the recharge slab, offlinging almost instantly. Blaster was about to leave when the communications system pinged him.
“Did you find Perceptor yet?” Kup’s voice crackled over Blaster’s frequency, excited and sounding like he’d already had a bit too much high grade. Blaster paused.
“I didn’t. He’s not in his lab,” Blaster lied easily in the end.
“Idiot is missing his own party,” Kup replied derisively, and cut off the link. Blaster cocked his head, surprised there wasn’t more, but decided to leave it be. If it was going to be that easy he’d be happy to let it go. Blaster leaned against the wall, watching the offline scientist. Observing him. Thinking over what he’d done and said and hating himself a little more. Shock and despair were no reason to say something like that to a friend. Anything short of Perceptor building himself a new suit of armor several meters taller and painted purple and grey would be acceptable at this point. Peacetime was the time to make these sort of judgements, if even then. They all did was needed to be done, down to completely forgetting about their pasts or killing despite pacifist beliefs.
No, Blaster decided. He didn’t like what Pecerptor had done to himself. Even worse, though, was that he didn’t like that Perceptor had had to DO it to himself.That wasn’t where he had placed the blame though, and it had ended with Perceptor doing even more to himself. With a sigh, Blaster pushed himself up off the wall. This was stupid. He, of all people, should understand that words have meaning. Have power. And he’d abused that power.
He wouldn’t do it again.