The quiet of the Lost Light’s auxiliary medical bay was broken only by the steady, rhythmic hum of the diagnostic monitors and the occasional hiss of pressurized air.

With Ratchet currently occupied in primary bay duty, Perceptor had been called in to handle a routine medical intake—a task he accepted with his usual clinical efficiency. On the berth before him lay Brainstorm, rendered unconscious after a field incident, his frame battered and leaking minor traces of energon through bruised plating.

Taking a step closer, Perceptor prepared to run a full diagnostic sweep to ensure no internal structural damage went unnoticed. As he leaned over Brainstorm's chest-plate to clear his vocal vents and check his facial wiring, Perceptor's fingers reached out and unclasped the side latches of Brainstorm's signature mouthplate.

The metal mask lifted away with a soft, metallic click.

Perceptor froze.

Etched permanently into the metal of Brainstorm's lower face—concealed for millions of years beneath that carefully worn mask—was the sharp, purple mark of the Decepticon insignia.

Perceptor's mind ran a million calculations per second, a sudden storm of suspicion and cognitive disconnect clashing against four million years of shared history. He instinctively raised his hand toward his shoulder, his fingers hovering a fraction of an inch from activating his comms link to report an immediate security breach to Rodimus and Ultra Magnus.

Just as his finger was about to make contact, a low groan rasped from the repair berth.

Brainstorm’s optical sensors flickered to life, recalibrating slowly through dim blue light. The very first thing Brainstorm saw through his blurred vision was Perceptor standing directly over him—holding his stripped mouthplate in one hand, his visor fixed on Brainstorm in absolute shock, hand hovering over his comms.