A couple OCs in this chapter to set the tone and scene. Returning to your regularly scheduled characters afterward.

By the time the transport drew near to the outskirts of its destination, to the swirling storms and vast emptiness marking the Sea of Rust, Perceptor had become all too aware of what it felt to be a piece of cargo. The jostling of the aircraft and the loud, clamoring complaints from the rest of the hastily assembled team did nothing to lessen the feeling of irritability building in his circuits. If the storms didn't kill them, he caught himself thinking, as a heavily armored elbow knocked him right in the side of his face, he would take one of their abominable weapons and do the job himself.

He was wedged up atop a supply crate, his feet folded primly beneath him, so as to better allow for what he considered to be a series of obnoxious and overeager wrestling matches to breaking out across the space of the transport floor. Far too much shoving and jostling. Why waste the energy now, when they would all have a difficult enough time once they reached their destination?

Or, rather, the "drop zone", as the leader of the little unit had repeatedly informed him.

He could see the soldier now, peering over their pilot's shoulder with his visor drawn into a perpetual scowl. While, admittedly, it was entirely likely Perceptor was a bit at fault for getting on his bad side – he likely shouldn't have mentioned the designation "Sidearm" sounded more like a flawed suggestion by an intoxicated creator than a proper soldier's name – he could not find it in himself to tolerate the 'bot. For one thing, Sidearm seemed to allow his squad entirely too much freedom. They referred to him by name, not rank. They were far too familiar with him. And not a one of them seemed to have been listening to their briefing.

It did nothing to soften the image Perceptor had of this squad, all armor and guns, no processing power. Just like most of those serving in the armed forces. They would rather fight than think, clearly.

After the briefing, a short, recorded speech from Zeta Prime that told him absolutely nothing useful about their mission, he'd been shoved to one side, though the group's medic, an equally bulky, pale-colored 'bot going by the unfortunate moniker of "Backboard", did take a moment to haul the scientist up onto the crates with an apologetic word or two. They left him alone for the most part, which was perfectly fine, and afforded him the time to work.

To think.

While the briefing had been entirely unhelpful, as far as he was concerned, it had confirmed a number of important things. He shifted, optics growing dim as he called up his own personal recording of the Prime's words.

"As you know, one of our satellites recently malfunctioned. Following catastrophic systems failure, it crashed to the planet's surface, where it was then located by a salvage team hired for that purpose..."

A smirk flickered over the scientist's face. He knew it. One hand flicked up, speeding the recording along to the next relevant point. No sense in listening to some soldiers' foolish questions.

"However, once they reached the site... they were confronted with something unexpected. While being damaged as one would expect from a fall through the atmosphere... the satellite was completely destroyed. There were signs it had been fired on, and torn apart."

Here, Perceptor frowned. Fired upon? Torn apart...? A crash couldn't have done that. Not unless Cybertron's surface had spontaneously developed weapon systems. Doubtful, to say the least – absurd, to be more precise. Additionally, no one was supposed to be out here. It was, technically, uninhabitable. Rust storms were far too dangerous to Cybertronian systems for any of them to survive out here for very long. The civilizations which had once thrived in this area, grown great and powerful, were now long-since dead. Nothing remained but the rust-blasted corpses of temples and statues. There was no fuel, no shelter, nothing to allow a living being the ability to survive and flourish. But, unless the impossible had, in fact, occurred, something was. And it seemed to dislike the intrusion of the satellite.

His hand flicked again.

"Your task is simple. Go to the site, and see what you can discover regarding the satellite's destruction, as the salvage team was unable to report anything more than their original observations before going offline..."

Here, Perceptor paused the feed. He hadn't caught that bit the first time. Though he and Jetfire had been right about the salvage team's "decontamination" being a fabrication, the real reason behind it made something in him twist. He'd honestly hoped they were detained for questioning.

Suddenly the soldier's presence made a lot of sense. Sick, horrible sense. The salvage team had been unprepared for a fight – they had gear for the rust storms, not war. Just as Perceptor himself did. Had he gone alone, as he had originally been hoping to do... He shook his head. Perhaps it would be best to keep that little gem of information to himself, if or when Jetfire inevitably asked.

"I am charging you with utmost secrecy," the recording went on. "I have decided that, in light of the political and social unrest Cybertron is currently faced with, such a potential discovery would only incite a panic. And the situation is, at the moment, far too delicate for such a matter to come forth. In the event the turmoil dies down, and stability returns, this mission will become public record for all of Cybertron to view and learn from. You have my word."

He couldn't stifle the quiet sound of disbelief. Of course Cybertron would hear of things – from Perceptor himself, if no one else. Zeta Prime could sweep this under the escape hatch all he liked, but Perceptor could no more keep knowledge from others than he could fly. Orders and repercussions be scrapped.

"What was that?"

The voice caught him off-guard, and his shoulders hitched up in a little jump of surprise. Perceptor shifted, peering over the edge of the supply crate, craning his neck in order to see better. The medic was looking up at him, expression curious, a little amused. "You okay up there?" he asked, and his tone was as cordial as anything. "Talking to yourself?"

Perceptor waved a hand, vague embarrassment causing lighted panels of his frame to flicker. "An eccentricity of mine," he said. "Surely, that's allowed."

Backboard – honestly, what sort of name was that? – held up his hands in mute apology. "Long as you're not losing screws, you can talk to whatever you want to," he said. His optics were bright, even after the scientist muttered a few choice things to himself, words which only caused a slight shake of his head. "Sidearm sent me to get you down. Says the drop zone's almost right under us."

"Charming. And I assume we're to literally drop into said zone?"

Another smile. "That is sort of where the name comes from," the medic said. He held those long-fingered hands up, waiting. "They've got something for you to put on, when it's your turn. It'll keep your parts from rattling off your frame."

Still scowling, Perceptor accepted one of the offered hands, but chose to levy himself down from the crate instead. He wasn't an invalid, for Primus' sake. "I'm certain I'll manage without some cobbled-together piece of nonsense," he said, as his feet struck the transport's floor. "I'm not nearly as fragile as the lot of you appear to believe."

Maybe he shouldn't have been brushing dust off his armor as he said that, because Backboard just shook his head, grinning to himself. "All right, suit yourself," he said. "C'mon. Probably better not to keep the captain waiting."

Perceptor paused long enough to reach up and collect his materials before trotting after the medic, following easily in his wake as he made his way to the back of the transport. Easier to dodge elbows if he stayed following someone more easily seen.

At the rear of the transport, arms folded and waiting, was Sidearm. He stood in front of the exit doors, his battered blue armor gleaming despite its wear and tear. His head flicked back and forth by the barest of degrees, watching his medic approach, Perceptor in tow. It may have been his imagination, but the scientist could have sworn the soldier's visor dimmed a few shades in displeasure. Nevertheless, Backboard raised a hand in cheerful salute, stepping to one side in order to allow Perceptor to stand beside him. "Found him, Cap," he said. "Right where I left him."

Sidearm only grunted. "Let's get going, then. Reports are coming in – there's a bigger storm brewing up, out of season too. Sooner we get down there, let Brainiac here do his work, the sooner we can roll out again."

Perceptor bristled, and clamped his jaw shut to bite down the retort. Not that he had time, as Sidearm seemed intent on continuing to mutter to himself.

"That is, if we can pull him off the ruins at all..." The half-murmured statement earned a few snickers from the other soldiers. Sidearm glanced at Backboard, his expression unamused. "You know how his kind get," he said. "Show them something shiny and they've gotta know how bright it is. Or whatever. See if you can keep his head out of the clouds."

The medic shifted, and spread his hands. "Come on, Cap, don't be that way. He didn't start a fire or anything."

That made Perceptor blink, and he glanced at Backboard, who only shrugged. "You didn't," he said, simply. "Someone had a bad experience with a chemical technician and their … uh. Video collection."

"Ah. I see."

"Are you done?"

Sidearm's voice was low and rough, worn by long years of commands barked out over chaos and cacophony. It made every word sound like a threat. His stance did nothing to change the assumption, arms folded, feet planted, expression pinched and narrow, as if he'd had his head run through a vice. As his name implied, he wore his weapons in holsters at each hip, rather than keeping them stored in the transformation slots in each arm. Perceptor presumed he had more hidden away somewhere, but the guns he could see gleamed with upkeep and care, unlike the rest of the soldier's body. Not someone to be trifled with on the field of combat.

However, Perceptor was not fond of combat, nor was he designed for it.

"Hardly," he said, his head canting to one side. Now that he was actually being addressed, rather than spoken about, he saw no reason to keep his words to himself. "We've not even begun the mission. It's rather difficult to finish something you haven't started, I believe. Though, perhaps, things are backwards in the military."

Out of the corner of his optic, he saw Backboard slowly shutter his optics, the smile replaced with a grimace.

"Stow it," Sidearm barked. "We have a job to do. I don't have time to babysit you and take your scrap."

"On the contrary. I've no need to be looked after, which thus frees all of your attention to 'taking my scrap' as you so eloquently put it."

"Listen to me, civilian –"

"Perceptor." The scientist drew himself up. He even took a step forward, into the space left by the other soldiers drifting in. He stood a few inches from the soldier captain, chin tilted up, shoulders set back. "My designation is Perceptor. As yours is Sidearm, and his.." He gestured back to where the medic had his face buried in the palm of one elegant hand. "His, regrettably, is Backboard." His attention turned back to the soldier. "Now that we're all acquainted, I suggest we get this wretched show on the road before the weather decides it's had enough of our shenanigans and knocks this transport from the sky."

He sniffed. "Unless, of course, you would prefer I examine something shiny and delay us a few precious hours as the storm moves in. I would be happy to do that, as well."

Sidearm visibly bristled. Plating shifted, the lights along the seams of his armor brightening with anger. "I make the calls here," he said. "No one else. You understand me?"

"I apologize. I was unaware you had made a proper meteorological survey of the area, and planned accordingly. I happily cede to your superior knowledge, soldier."

A hand came to rest on Perceptor's shoulder, fingers tightening subtly. "Stand down," Backboard said, very quietly, his presence looming just at the scientist's side. "Now's really not the time." A beat. "Either of you."

Silence fell.

Sidearm was the first to shake his head, and start to turn away. Once his back faced them, Perceptor allowed himself to step away, drawing even with the medic again. This clearly wasn't over. However, Backboard was right. There was far too much to take care of now.

"We'll discuss your insubordination later," he grunted. One thick hand pounded into the side of the transport, a control panel flaring to life beneath it. "On my signal, you jump. Not before, not after. I want you in teams of three. Scanners online before you hit the ground."

He paused, and looked between the faces of his squad. "No one gets caught down there unaware. Am I understood?"

No one got the chance to answer.

Something slammed into the transport, the force of it sending every 'bot aboard spinning to the side.

Great tears appeared in the hull, crackling over with what looked like green electricity. Voices rose in pained protest from the front of the transport, only to fall into abrupt, choking silence. Soldiers bounced off the interior walls, piled onto one another. Someone shouted. Red lights came on, warning sirens ringing out in a frantic shriek. Backboard seized one of Perceptor's shoulders, yanking him in close and bracing against the sudden pitch and roll of the transport. The medic's back struck hard against a set of crates, echoing with a hollow crack of impact. Perceptor found himself clinging on to him, despite himself, stunned by the suddenness of it all.

They were supposed to have been prepared.

Soldiers were pulling their weapons free. Over the din came Sidearm's voice, barking orders at them as they staggered to their feet, hauling others up with them. Once more, the leader slammed his hand down onto the control panel, this time opening up the rear doors, and motioning his team forward into empty air. Smoke was flooding into the passenger chamber. He glanced forward, seeing the faint flicker of lurid red light from the front of the transport, accompanied by the choking scent of burned wiring. Below, the whirling clouds of the Sea of Rust seemed to be rushing upward to meet them, the winds flowing in to buffet the surviving occupants. Small motes of rust flew in with it, clinging to transport and soldier alike. Some of them swatted at them, trying in vain to keep them out of open wounds and leaking fuel lines.

Something must have struck the cockpit, Perceptor thought, dazedly. The transport was falling out of the sky. Already, rocky outcroppings could be seen, rising upward through the storms. His fingers dug into pale armor, seemingly of its own volition. He hadn't expected to be afraid of heights... What a terrible time to make such a discovery, his processor added, sourly.

"Hold on," Backboard hissed, his voice abruptly against the side of Perceptor's head. "Let them get one team on the ground, and we'll go. I've got you."

He nodded, stiffly, unable to make much of a protest in response to that.

Sidearm shouted, and his team sprinted for the opening. Without so much as a hesitation, they leaped into empty air, visible for only a moment before the clouds and storms swallowed them up.

And green light exploded out from below.

There came the soft sound of voices crying out, high-pitched and distant. There was nothing more. No acknowledgment over the radios. No words or even the hiss of static from jammed com-lines. Only silence. All optics flicked to Sidearm, who, to his credit, looked as if someone had physically struck him in the fuel tank.

Another arc of green light shot up, barely missing the floundering transport. Sidearm jerked, and then motioned to Backboard. The medic hauled himself and Perceptor forward, staring down at the churning clouds. "Get down there!" Sidearm barked. "If there's anything left to save..."

"I will!" There was no more mirth in Blackboard's face, or voice. He sounded just as determined as the soldier in front of him.

"Take him with you. We need him alive."

"I've got him."

Backboard started for the edge, but, before he got more than a step, Sidearm reached to a holster, and removed one of his pistols. He pressed it into Perceptor's hands. When Perceptor sputtered, and tried to hand it back, one heavy hand closed around his, and he looked up to meet Sidearm's stare, still too stunned to speak.

"Take it. I don't care if you can't use it, throw it if you have to," the soldier snapped. "You were assigned to me for a reason, civilian. We need you. You're no good to anyone dead."

He didn't get the chance to retort. He was dragged up to the edge. Backboard only let go of him once they stood poised there, watching for just the right moment to leap, the medic at his back again.

Perceptor stared down at the weapon in his hands. They shook, ever so slightly. The sight of it made him want to empty his tanks. This was what the soldiers were here for. They were the ones meant to handle these things, the ones who were supposed to take on the task of fighting and killing, if necessary. Not him. Not the one who utterly detested violence in all its forms.

So much for that.

Hands settled on his shoulders once more. "I'll take it when we get down there," Backboard said. "Don't worry. Do your job, and we'll do ours."

He nodded, a little numbly.

"Ready?"

Another nod. Still, he couldn't look away from the heavy weight of the blaster.

"Three, two..."

Perceptor looked up, readying himself for the leap. And saw, to his sudden horror, a beam of green light leave the clouds, arcing up with slow, terrible grace. It lanced up and forward, toward the back of the transport.

Toward him. He tried to shout, to look back and warn the medic at his back. But everything seemed to slow. He would never make it in time to say one word, let alone a whole warning.

And then something knocked him forward.

He fell. His body spun, twisted, gravity yanking him down into the heart of the storm like a stone. The swirling wind flipped him helm over tailpipe and back again. It gave him a clear, perfect view of the transport as he fell – smoke pouring from the gaping hole in the cockpit, the struggling engines, and the medic perched in the rear doorway.

A perfect view of it all as that lazy beam of light struck it square on, and the transport erupted into a ball of metal and fire. He must have cried out, because he could have sworn he heard someone scream.

It was almost a mercy when he struck the ground, the impact jarring him offline into darkness and silence.