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Title: Unforeseen Affliction	By : Chaosdreamer Category: Transformers > G1 > Slash - M/M Views: 1353 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Transformers and all recognizable characters are owned by Hasbro. I am making no profit writing these stories.

Chapter List
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Title: Unforeseen Affliction (3/?)

Author: dreamerchaos

Fandom: G1.

Rating: Mature. Slash hints.

Pairing: Shockwave/Perceptor.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are owned by Hasbro.

Summary: This fic deals with a significant deal of psychological extremes: obsession, paranoia, rage, and wrath; mainly Shockwave’s out of norm behavior resolving around one of his earliest creations, and the loss of his creation. Some readers may be a little bit uncomfortable with Shockwave’s behavior, mainly his mounting obsession and, shall we say, developing insanity…

Perceptor onlined two orns after the second procedure. Shakily sitting up, he finds that his bonds were released, allowing him to move freely while the microscope awkwardly touches his face and chassis, noting the absence of the Autobot brand, the heightened sensors on his fingertips discovering no grooves or damage remaining around his new optical panels.

Glancing up from his lap, he catches a glimmer of his reflected twin across from his seat upon the medical berth.

Staring at the stranger looking back, his visage gracing the gleaming mirror reflection of the medical bay’s wall.

Trembling, his fingers circle the unfamiliar ginger glass, glowing like ominous, eerie moons upon the darker sky of his stunned dark face.

Perceptor jolts when a stout maintenance drone beeps for his attention, standing with rigid poise beside the tall berth. The metal creature’s stubbly arms managing to precariously balance a wide tray, a single cube of energon resting on its center.

The drone beeps again, nudging the microscope with the offered tray, seemingly inquiring if the mech requires refueling.

Perceptor can not stomach the thought, his fuel tank churning and twisting tight in warning with a threat to purge his systems if he dares to sup, his rattled neural sensors too spiked to handle any fluid sustenance.

“No.” Perceptor carefully brushes the tray away, earning a rebuking hoot from the offended maintenance drone, “I don’t want anything from you.”

Hunched over, sitting upon the opposite side of the berth facing away from the discouraged drone and curling his arms around himself, Perceptor focuses upon the floor. Analyzing the smooth scratches of the metal tiles and the few persistent stains of oil that refuse to be removed, no matter how frequently the drones insist upon sanitizing the room.

A sharp trill and the thick edge of the metal tray appears, this time to bump against his elbow.

“I said no!” Perceptor snaps, his hand instinctively flashing to the side to push the persistent drone away. Accidently knocking the drone too hard, upsetting its grip.

The drone squeals in alarm, the tray wind milling between its flailing arms, the energon cube flung forward, the sturdy tray smashing with a sound of a pealed gong into the nearest monitoring screen terminal and sloshing the glowing lavender fluid across the floor and the precisely arranged equipment settled around Perceptor’s berth.

The maintenance drone whoops in distress, arms flapping wildly as its motorized wheels send its body spinning in tight circles, slipping upon the spilt energon, its cries inciting several recharging maintenance drones to come online as well. The smaller metal beings rushing to adjourn with the distressed drone, nozzles flashing on one’s forearms as it quickly settles into washing away the spilled energon, while the other drone reveals a long nozzle with a quiet vacuum, the suction removing most of the excess fluid as the final drone steadily wipes a clean white rag upon the floor to prevent the spill from staining the tile.

Perceptor jumps off the berth, immediately making his way towards the closed door, “I don’t wish to stay here…” The microscope regrets the scene that he has caused, but he is too weary to apologize or address his actions.

The door hushes open when he approaches.

Sadly, not in response to any proximity sensors alerted by Perceptor’s approach.

Blocking the doorway, Shockwave’s single optic scans the improvements upon his creation’s frame. Stretching a hand forward, not acknowledging the mech’s slight flinch when he runs his thumb underneath the new, gleaming optical glass. “Much Better.” Shockwave approves.

Perceptor hides his face by ducking his trembling helm, but can not escape the probing fingers that map his cheek and mandible, possessively cataloguing the most miniscule of repairs, even to the trivial scratches or patches of dull paint. Shockwave a fanatic about detail, having spent most of the previous orn buffing the uneven paint, or sanding down the barest of scuffs after the successful replacement of the optical glass, and once done the Guardian commences in completely repainting and smoothing the section where Perceptor’s Autobot emblem had lain.

“You Have Not Refueled.” Shockwave notes, disapproval evident in his tone. Cupping Perceptor’s chin and nudging his face upward so that he can no longer shun the Guardian’s gaze.

“I don’t require anything.” Perceptor’s voice is hollow, but the true meaning behind his words rings clear between them. ‘I don’t require anything from you.’

Shockwave is not satisfied with his creation’s response, but decides to allow Perceptor a measure of respite. Removing his hand, he instead slides it around, curling his arm around the microscope’s shoulders, pulling the reluctant mech outside the medical bay. “I Will Insist That You Rest Then, And Do Not Strain Yourself So Soon After The Procedure.”

“Wh-Where are we going?” Perceptor asks, glancing unsettled as they continue to walk up higher, taking the stairs to reach the private living quarters.

“Since You Are Still Unused To My Presence, I Will Provide Makeshift Quarters Until You Are Properly Settled.” Shockwave supplies, guiding down the last corridor to the chamber directly across from his own quarters, “This Will Be Your Room For The While.”

Awkwardly moving under the Guardian’s guiding hand ¯ feeling like an intruder stepping into a stranger’s apartment unit ¯ and taking small, shy steps forward, Perceptor is coaxed into entering the room as the door slides open. The microscope slowly turning his head from side to side, digesting the details of the room.

Considering that he had anticipated remaining in a tiny, cold prison cell, this was a major improvement to his worst fears. A clean, sturdy recharge berth is set into the wall across from the doorway, a discrete portal leading to a small wash racks in the back of the room. Lining all of the remaining wall space, deep shelves reach from ceiling to floor, filled to the brim with slim, gleaming data pads. A small but incredibly dense library for the occupant’s every whim and perusal.

“You Were Always Fascinated With Reading.” Shockwave’s voice is soft as the large Guardian is lost in his reminiscing, his own optic roving over the familiar data pads and shelves, the countless computer files carefully stored inside the room, locked up tight not too long after Perceptor’s disappearance, “I Could Not Acquire The Motivation To Discard Them, No Matter How Many Times You Reread These Files.”

“…I can’t remember having ever laid my optics on so many.” Perceptor can’t help but say in awe inspired wonder, “I wonder if the great Praxon Library looked anything like this…” He marvels.

“More Data Files Than You Could Ever Accomplish Reading Within Thousands Of Vorns.” Shockwave’s processor recalls the mentioned Library, one of the rare few monuments of Cybertron’s Golden Age that the Guardian had steadfastedly insisted remain undamaged during the raiding campaign so many years ago, “Constantly Updated By Its Main Computer, Not Even I Could Possibly Finish All Of The Library’s Contents.”

“I wish I could see it.” Perceptor sighs with regret.

“When Lord Megatron Resides Over Cybertron,” The Guardian intones, “And Cybertron Enters A New Age Under Our Glorious Master, You Shall Look Upon It With Your Own Optics.”

Perceptor bites his bottom lip, stifling his betraying expression or the sound of pain in response to the notion of the Autobots falling before the warlord.

“I Will Leave You To Rest.” Shockwave steps back, the door slamming shut with a low clang.

As soon as he is left alone, Perceptor carefully lowers his drained, still recovering frame to sit upon the edge of the recharge berth. Swallowing dryly, glancing about the large space and the towers of shelves.

What an amazing gilded cage Shockwave has so graciously provided him.

“It’s an attractive prison cell.” He whispers aloud to himself, burying his face into his hands, “But…behind its pretty shell, its skeleton is still a prison.”

Shockwave is disturbed by how Perceptor refuses to refuel, no matter how insistent the maintenance drones, or his creator, push for the microscope to take sustenance.

More than once, Shockwave must drag Perceptor into the medical bay and perform a transfusion, hooking the limp body to the energon system and pumping the vital fluid into him.

The very first time Perceptor collapsed due to exhaustion, his energy levels running nearly dry, the Guardian panics, hastily tearing loose an energon cable from underneath the plating of his inner forearm, pinching the ragged end while tracing the revealed beads of energon in between Perceptor’s slack lips, whispering and coaxing the mech to drink just a little in order to hold him over until the Decepticon can drag Perceptor down to the medical bay.

After nearly three joors of this behavior, the Guardian can no longer remain compliant to Perceptor’s starvation.

He has had enough.

But what to do? Transfusions only appease for so long. Forced refueling could cause even more damage. The refusal to partake in energon was a troubling sign, Perceptor exhibiting classis symptoms of depression and shock. Already from the lack of energon ¯ and self-induced confinement within his rooms, no matter how frequently Shockwave attempts to entice him out to try and show Perceptor the rest of the tower to see if there was hope to jog his memory files ¯ the microscope’s optics were a pale pumpkin glow, facial plating tinged gray from the lack of energon pooling underneath the smooth dermal layers.

Shockwave growls in consternation. He would need to find alternate means to convince Perceptor to properly refuel.

He just needed to find the right motivation. Stir the microscope’s interest in anything, which may lead to additionally addressing the mech’s resistance to refuel if he is reminded of the value of existence, to begin enjoying the little things once more and then realizing the great importance of the big picture¯

¯To remember that he is home once again, and this time Shockwave will not make the same mistake twice of losing his cherished to those Autobot wretches.

There is an entire list of things that need to be addressed. Most immediate, the refueling situation. After that, researching what may have been done to damage or alter Perceptor’s memory files.

But first things first. He just needed to determine what will properly convince Perceptor to willingly refuel.

Shockwave stumbles across what may be his answer while viewing more data streaming from Earth.

He knows that he will eventually have to answer to Lord Megatron’s outraged demands about his behavior on Earth, but for now the warlord is willingly to ignore his misconduct. Ordering Soundwave to continue streaming information to Cybertron for the Guardian to review.

During one of his many analyses, Shockwave is suddenly struck with the realization.

“Of Course.” He whispers, optic lens narrowing in intense focus as Laserbeak’s view scans across the fleeing workers running out of the electrical plant that the Decepticons are raiding.

How could he be so blind? For all of his irritation with the entire situation of his creation ensconced among the Autobots ¯ regardless no matter how hard he wishes to deny it ¯ his Perceptor has become acquainted with the smaller organics, especially familiar with the little male that followed the yellow Minibot.

Perhaps a memento of the planet Earth he had adored exploring and studying would motivate Perceptor’s interests…

He must be careful, and so precise, in timing the Space Bridge and his surveillance drone, the Guardian not wishing to challenge the Bridge’s schedule for energon shipments or any other of Lord Megatron’s uses.

Shockwave outlays the intended target to the silent drone, the tall, supine being’s intent ruby optic focused on the three-dimensional image of several examples of the bipedal organics that the Guardian shows it.

“Any Organic Will Suffice.” Shockwave commands, warning the drone to follow his direction, “However, Keep Your Presence To A Minimum. The Fewer Witnesses, The Better.”

The surveillance drone’s long fingers curl in reaction, the sleek creation tilting its head, pondering the image, the shiny black brow over its optic arched in question.

“Exterminate Any Other Witnesses As You See Fit,” Shockwave cares little, as long as the drone achieves its main objective, “As Long As You Retrieve One, Then The Discretion Is Up To You.”

The drone clicks its redundant vocoder in understanding. Bowing its helm to its master, it gracefully approaches the active Space Bridge. Stepping into the terminal, solemnly standing silent and tall, its gleaming black back and shoulders awash with alabaster white light as the transport beam flashes, sending the drone to its destination.

Now all Shockwave can do is wait.

The first specimen’s deliver does not go overly well. The middle aged male tumbling out of the Space Bridge terminal, the successfully drone stepping out from the terminal behind the human, looming over him as the small organic squeals in terror.

The harsh transport from Earth and Cybertron has unsettled the human’s fragile internal systems. The man gagging, purging his fuel systems, the noxious waste spilling across the floor.

Shockwave is abhorrently disgusted by the mess. Utterly revolted. Reacting before he can consider the consequence, he kicks out to knock the pathetic meat bag away, his large pede smashing into the feeble rib cage, sending the organic tumbling topsy turvy.

The drone hisses at the on pour of red fluids that gush from the small meat sack, daintily stepping aside to avoid the wash of blood.

The Guardian flinches in shameful guilt at the piercing wail that punches against his back strut, the mournful sound making his shoulders curve in consternation.

He isn’t reacting to the weak mewls from the twisted human, but from Perceptor, the microscope having ventured out his room for a rare walk through the tower. Daring to enter the large communication center, stepping inside as Shockwave curses the noxious waste seeping across his floor, watching in wide-optic horror as the Guardian kicks the small human away.

Perceptor throws himself over the broken human, sobbing for Shockwave to “Stop!”. Helplessly holding his hands just above the injured organic, moaning in low agony as he catalogues the twisted, dislocated limbs, the spanning bruises and gashes, and the crushed rib cage.

The Guardian dismayed by the sight of his creation mourning the human, Perceptor desperately whispering to the organic, clear lubricants trickling from his optics as he vainly tries to staunch the bleeding by pressing just the tips of his fingers to the massive wounds.

Shockwave is perversely thankful when the atmosphere rattles one final time within the human’s collapsed lungs before the organic deactivates due to his injuries.

Shockwave regrets having to sedate Perceptor in order to pull the wailing microscope away from the cooling carcass. Perceptor’s optics locked on his red, gore soaked hands, his creation burying his face into the Guardian’s chassis when Shockwave pulls him in, wrapping his larger frame around his aggrieved creation while Perceptor’s sobs fill the room.

The second specimen survives her arrival on Cybertron. Shockwave not too surprised when Perceptor snatches her up, tucking the confused, terrified organic femme against his microscope tray, shielding the shivering creature from the curious gazes of the other drone units.

However, Shockwave has failed to consider what humans need to ingest in order to remain in good function, lest they wither away and deactivate.

He can only use the Space Bridge at certain intervals outside the energon shipments, the Guardian ordering the surveillance drone to gather sustenance for the organic femme.

The drone proves less than successful; having no knowledge of what humans require, the slender drone returns to Cybertron during the next few excursions with an array of small rocks, dirt, mangled flora, a few curled deceased snakes, and one lone cactus. The tall drone not understanding why the microscope keeps insisting that these items will not refuel the emancipated femme, while the lack of sustenance is leaving obvious signs of starvation, fat reserves completely devoured by her own body’s desperate fueling attempts, her ribs pushing taut against the pale pink skin of her shirt, the femme’s hair lank with grease and dirt from being unwashed for so long.

Shockwave’s drones attempt to bathe the starving femme, but after their attempts nearly drown the specimen, the Guardian sighs with frustration at the utter lack of competence amongst his servants and his failure to research the humans before this little plan of his went into action, the taller mech shoving the soaked, coughing organic into Perceptor’s arms before retreating to his private labs, nursing a migraine.

The organic femme lasts nearly a joor before Shockwave must once again pull Perceptor away from thin, wasted human remains, sending the maintenance drones to toss the body into the furnace.

And so, yet again, Shockwave must schedule another transfusion for Perceptor, his plan having failed so far to motivate the microscope to willing drink the many energon cubes that are presented.

In a rare show of temper since Perceptor first returned to the tower after so many vorns gone, Shockwave corners the microscope inside his quarters.

“I Will Not Tolerate This Any Further,” He lifts his closed fist, menacingly shaking the smaller, shrieking organic ¯ a much younger one compared to its predecessors within the tower ¯ waving the crying little boy in front of Perceptor’s face, “For Every Solar Cycle That You Insist Upon Starving Yourself, I Will Instruct My Drone To Gather As Many Humans, And Bring Them To Cybertron Where I Will Terminate These…Insects…In Front Of Your Very Optics.”

“N…No!” Perceptor gasps, covering his mouth in horror. Beseechingly reaching out to the sobbing child, but Shockwave cruelly pulls his hand out of reach.

“Comply, Perceptor, And I Will Do No Harm To This One.” Shockwave adds, ignoring the stirring of annoyance when he notes that the organic has released a warm flood of liquid waste as a result of his terror, the marigold fluid running down the boy’s tense lower limbs, “I Will Order Him Returned To Earth During The Next Available Time Window. He Should Last An Orn Or Two Before Being Returned In Reasonable Health.”

When Perceptor stares in stunned silence, taking a moment too long to absorb the choice that the Guardian offers, Shockwave warningly tightens his hand, drawing another shriek from the organic.

“All right!!” Perceptor throws himself onto his knees, bowing and supplicating for the Guardian’s mercy as his hands claw at the thick plating of the mech’s hips, hanging onto Shockwave as he pleads, “Enough!…I promise…I promise…please let him go..please..”

“We Are Agreed, Then.” Shockwave deposits the shivering human into the capable hands of the maintenance drone standing at his back, at his right hand — the drone spraying sanitizer and expertly drying the Guardian’s hand, removing the hints of waste from his palm and fingers — while indicating for the other drone to his left to approach Perceptor. The maintenance drone balancing an energon cube upon a gleaming tray, “Drink, Perceptor,” Shockwave’s tone offers no argument.

Perceptor lowers his hands from his fierce grip upon his creator, focusing on reaching for the energon cube, shakily curling his fingers around the glowing cube as he struggles to not accidently tip the cube loose due to his weak grip. Tilting his chin back, he slowly drinks the lavender fuel, his internal systems responding immediately, a hum of energy pulsing through them, levels spiking, diagnostics running at a hot pace after lying dormant for so long to conserve the remaining dregs of his strength.

When he is finished and holds out the empty cube to the waiting drone, Perceptor then blinks in surprise when another full cube is held before him, Shockwave pulling the newest addition from subspace, kept in storage while the Guardian persistently offered the cube many times before but was refused.

“Drink.”

This second time his hands shake far less. Perceptor’s fuel tank feels engorged by the time he is done, a moue of discomfort present as his malnourished form is overwhelmed with so much energon after so long without.

“You Will Recharge For No Less Than Ten Breems.” Shockwave ordains, taking the second empty cube, guiding the replete form to lay back upon the berth, “Your Repair Systems Will Need The Time To Run System Diagnostics. After You Have Rested, I Will Run My Own Scans To Make Sure That Your Fitness Is Improving.”

“Yes, Shockwave…” Perceptor bows in compliance to his creator’s catalog of commands.

Shockwave’s golden optic surveys his submissive creation. Scanning for any hint of masked defiance, appeased to find none. Offering a small apology of, “I Do This Only Because I Care About Your Well-Being.”

“I wish there were other ways for you to show this.”

The Guardian sighs, “In Time, You Will Not Need To Suffer Such Punishment. As Long As You Behave Accordingly.”

“I don’t think I truly know how I can ever appease you and your requirements.” Perceptor admits his lack of confidence, “I’m not the mech that you claim me to be.”

“Oh, But You Are.” Shockwave brushes his hand over Perceptor’s helm, and the microscope whimpers, before rolling over and buries his face into his curled arms, coiling into a loose fetal position with his back turned to his creator, “Soon, You Will Remember Everything. Everything That I Meant To You. And What You Meant To Me.”

When Shockwave and his drones have left, Perceptor whispers hoarsely, “That’s what I was afraid that you would say,” Before shuddering, embracing himself as some semblance of comfort, edgily hovering on the periphery of recharge until his exhausted systems finish the cycle for him, and soon he need not worry or shiver in trepidation as he finally rests.

To Be Continued
- 2
- 3
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Title: Unforeseen Affliction