Chapter Text
Knock Out heaves a sigh of annoyance as he stalks off of the main bridge of the Nemesis. Starscream’s leadership was a dark mark on the Decepticon’s history books, and one that Knock Out wasn’t sure he could survive living through any longer. The seeker blamed all failures on those under him; the vehicons, Breakdown, Soundwave, and the CMO himself.
Turning a bend in the hall, the red mech’s processor couldn’t help but compare the two recent leaders of the Decepticon faction. Under Megatron's rule, everyone knew their place and tasks were simple. Challenging in difficulty and magnitude, without a doubt, but the tasks themselves were straightforward. While the former gladiator scrutinized the results, he did not do it with the same fevered suspicion and panic Starscream wore like a second armor.
(Knock Out supposed that the seeker’s ever present paranoia was a reflection of his own deceitful habits. He had to duck his head slightly as he passed Soundwave in the hall; both a show of mute respect, and an attempt to shadow his smirk.)
To Starscream, everything was a game. To complete a task too perfectly was to threaten his power and leadership. To leave a task uncompleted was to fail the Decepticon cause, simply to spite the seeker. (Which was true, more times than not.) Failure to complete a task also meant a joor long lecture in the seeker’s wonderful, sonorous voice. With a short chuckle brought on by his own cleverness, Knock Out ended his thoughts on the seeker.
The ship’s lights flickered around him, his optics shuttered half-way as his mind turned towards darker roads. His peds dragged a little more, his wheel-heels gliding on the polished space-void metal between each step. (The one blessing of his frame’s composition was his small components for distraction and pleasure –though he prided himself on looking damn good all the same.)
But Starscream was the least of his worries.
Megatron’s prognosis haunted the doctor – he could recite those charts forwards and backwards if he so chose. Knock Out had seen his fair share of these “hardware” problems; where the CPU would continue to function, and yet the body was beyond repair. A simple procedure, really; though the medic doubted Lord Megatron would appreciate being reincarnated as a mere Vehicon, as those were the only spare bodies available on the Nemesis.
(At least the lord would be awake and capable of leading, though such good graces were lost on him more than once.)
The reverse, however, was much rarer, and much more…deadly – for both the patient and doctor. Knock Out had to amend his previous statement; he was only in danger because Soundwave was watching his every move. The silent mech was not stupid; he had to see the patterns. Starscream happily declaring himself leader, Knock Out being made second in command without any thought to the previously existing hierarchy among the Decepticons, lack of any real progress to Megatron’s condition – save for cosmetic – were not the brightest of signs that Megatron would make a full recovery.
Soundwave was the mastermind of the Decepticon forces – that was clear to members of both factions. Megatron was physically intimidating, vocally imposing, and mentally terrifying, whereas Soundwave was smart, silent, and still.
Knock Out did not doubt his master’s intellectual ability, but he did doubt his amount of drive. Soundwave had the patience to evaluate the different possible outcomes and consequences of a mission; Megatron demanded success at all times, no matter what the difficulty. A simple master to please, if not an intimidating one.
Soundwave became even more omnipotent.
(A shadow mech, optics and audios in all places, no escape.)
He assigned himself missions to the strangest of places on this world, only to return with energon and materials direly needed. Knock Out found himself locked in a political tug of war between Soundwave and Starscream. Both officers believed to have the greatest power on board, and Starscream was nowhere near giving up his “throne.” But, unlike Megatron, Starscream knew exactly what Soundwave was doing.
With an irritable sigh, he palmed open the door to his quarters, which were attached to the medbay. Decepticon-purple shelves jutted out from the wall, carrying Knock Out’s various buffers, waxes, polishes, and paints. Some basic, handheld tools also rested on the shelves, for easy grab if he had a case in the middle of the sleep cycle. (Curse this world for having too many time zones to count – up in space, every mech was regulated to Cybertronian hours. Those who spent endless shifts across Earth’s surface came back more asleep than awake; if they came back at all, that is.)
Two metal berths rested side by side; enough room for a small table between them, but not much else in the relatively small room. They faced the wall straight ahead of them, exactly parallel to the other. Their occupants were estranged enough to warrant bunks not facing one another, but friendly enough to prevent them from facing the complete other direction. Knock Out, as Chief Medical Officer, rested on the bunk closest to the medbay’s back door, whereas Breakdown rested closest to the main door, for protection. Knock Out had no shortage of enemies.
The silence when he stepped into the room was deafening, ringing in his audio receptors. That silence topped the list of things that were wrong with the medic today – there was no outlet for his other problems, no other mech willing to care. Knock Out skirted the larger, thicker berth, instead heading for his own. Sitting down, the medic allowed his wheels a perfect view to Breakdown’s side of the room. Heaving a sigh, he dropped his helm down to his servo, optics closing in shame.
Here, behind these closed doors, the guards around his spark could lessen, just the slightest. Not entirely, lest the voices begin again, but as long as he remained carefully neutral, he would be fine. Untouched. Normally he allowed himself to go as deep as he could, simply by virtue of Breakdown’s presence.
(A sharp, metallic rock cutting through his oil slick of problems. Knock Out never told, rather mutely climbed above his issues atop Breakdown’s shoulders. Charismatic red optics searched the ocean for any hint of something recognizable as the mech he once was, but the more he searched, the higher the darkness – and the higher the darkness, the more of a chance of him being touched. Still, Breakdown was better than no body.)
The one mech he could trust was completely avoiding him, and the hollow feeling of loneliness jarred Knock Out’s spark. Aside from standard work interactions – fixing their (beloved) leader or patrol – the medic hadn’t seen nor heard from the armored van. Normally they entertained themselves with slandering their fellow officers, and Autobots, over their private comm. frequency, but Breakdown had blocked his end of the link. Using the main line was suicide, but it didn’t stop Knock Out from occasionally probing to find his partner.
(He pretended not to notice the stares, the jeering laughs he got from Starscream.
The drones didn’t dare. To piss off the medic was to destroy any hope of making it out of the war alive.
Soundwave was nothing more than a whisper, a specter, a thought of order and nothing more.)
Every mech was entitled to their secrets, but secrets that jeopardized the very purpose keeping them on board were secrets Knock Out could do without. The only reason he remained on board was to save Megatron – frag, it was the sole reason he had been brought on board.
(It did not escape his notice that his very summoning was nothing but a ploy for Starscream to appease Soundwave. Nor did it please the medic.)
What good was a medic if he couldn’t even keep his subordinate under control? Not that Breakdown was the troubled mech out of the two of them if anything; it was Knock Out who was the wild card.
Sighing, Knock Out stretched back onto his berth, closing his optics in thought. Breakdown wasn’t physically ill; secretive scans whilst his partner recharged told him that much. They hadn’t fought in the past few work cycles – how could they have, they weren’t even talking – and Knock Out didn’t recall irritating his partner any time in the past. (The red medic knew he was high maintenance, which typically irritated his partner. Most of the problems were caused by his habits that he had developed whilst they toured the world alone. Talking in recharge, not getting up until nearly midday, and taking the scenic route [or what counted as scenic on this backwater dirt ball of a planet] whenever they had to leave for missions, to name a few.)
The silent treatment was wearing on Knock Out's nerves. The dark silence that greeted him whenever he opened their quarters
like all those nights lost and broken, behind bars and dance clubs
chained up until the Bosses came back, mouth stained with the memories of mechs and the stench of transfluid
credits stuffed between armor plates
took his processor down dark roads, delving deep into his past, dredging up memories of similar eerie silences
filled with panting intakes before their spikes pressurized once more, and it all was repeated
until Knock Out could only hold onto his sanity by completing menial tasks or slipping into recharge. (Alone in his ocean of problems, the mech couldn’t stand on his own.)
The comforting monotony of recharge and repetitive motion soothed away the demons raging in his spark, leveling the voices off into a low buzzing in the back of his mind. Never leaving entirely, but no longer a problem.
Knock Out released a sigh of frustration and irritation as he rolled onto his side, one servo beneath his cheek, the other dangling off the bed. His elbow was bent, stretching his abdominals as he lay. Though not like organics, Cybertronians could, in effect, gain weight. The protoform that lay beneath all the armor and metal healed itself depending on the amount of energon in the body. Bigger mechs required more energon to maintain a healthy thickness of protoform; but if Knock Out were to ingest the amount of cubes meant for a mech, say, Breakdown’s size, he wouldn’t fit into his own armor.
As a medic, Knock Out was sure to manage his intake to healthy levels – his philosophy was to be perfect inside and out, there was no way he would strain his internals by refusing to drink his energon – but a little stretching never hurt. Exercise without trying; the best kind.
Hazy red optics looked around the berthroom, catching the shadows on the wall. He idly swung his arm, just to listen to the click of his joints as he moved the appendage. There was nothing to suggest the blue truck had been there since the solar cycle began. The berth remained empty as a hollow husk of a vehicon, the room’s colors matching the dull shine of a working class mech.
It wasn’t worth it. Slowly, Knock Out began to shut down different parts of his CPU, wishing to drag himself into recharge and forget. (There was no high-grade to turn to – how could there be when there wasn’t even enough regular grade to go around?)
Soon there was nothing left but to actually fall into recharge. And yet, somehow, Knock Out couldn’t. He lay there for minutes, trying in vain to push himself into the comforting ignorance of sleep.
“To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd,” he whispers, the human words feeling strangely elegant and profound to his glossa. Sitting up, he bent his knees and rested his forearms on them, right behind the elongated crowns on the front of his knee strut. His wheels roll against the berth as he thinks, back and forth, a grimace on his face.
Where had he gone wrong?
Transforming, Knock Out sped down the hall at top speed, nearly wiping out a few drones. Starscream hadn't damaged anything vital, except Knock Out's pride and finish. But Knock Out would do much worse when he was done with him.
Half of his processor was trying to come up with ways to get back at the volatile seeker. Megatron himself would be thrilled once he was restored and brought back online, and maybe Knock Out would be promoted to SIC.
The other half busied itself trying to catalogue the damages, and estimate the amount of time that fixing all of this would take. He supposed if he only fixed the damaged areas, he could be finished in around half a joor. But the resulting spottiness was just not worth his time. He would have to completely redo his entire finish, re-coat it all, but that whole process would take about 5 joors.
Breakdown followed, also transformed, driving much more carefully after his partner. Knock Out supposed it was habit; when one transformed, so did the other. The medic groaned as he fishtailed around the corner, transforming back into his mech form and skidding to a stop on his hind wheels. He leaned against the wall next to the doorway to their quarters, his back to the majority of the hall, preventing other mechs from seeing the damage. His arms crossed over his chest as one leg crossed behind the other one, his shoulder against the dark wall. With optics closed to the world, he tried to control his ventilation
the demons in his spark – ever present – raging against their bonds, going in for the kill
as quickly tapped in the passcode to his room. The door opened with a hiss and he darted inside, a flash of red among a void.
Breakdown transformed as well and walked through after his partner, the doors closing immediately behind him. “Well that sucked,” he muttered, automatically putting the lock on the door. He watched as Knock Out pulled down his paints and waxes, cloths and brushes. The humans were very fond of their automobiles, and the CMO benefited hugely from their mutual obsession.
“Fragging seeker, thinking he’s in charge – just who does he think he is, ungrateful son of a glitch,” the medic growled, tapping a switch below his berth to move it flatter, like a human’s berth. Only in the depths of recharge were their berths ever upright, the rest of the time they were flat. But races waited for no one, and to find one that was worth his time took a lot of searching. He almost regretted leaving that morning, now sitting there with a detached door (he had sent Breakdown to retrieve it) and scratches.
“He is, for the time being.”
“Well it doesn’t mean I have to listen to him, ungrateful fragger,” the racer bit back, tending to his finish reverently. Delicate servos pressed the cloth against his chest, cleaning away the ruined finish there.
“You kind of do,” Breakdown replies. “You have no choice. He’s in charge until Lord Megatron is brought back online -”
“And you know Starscream has no intention of allowing us to do that.”
“That aside, our Lord is strong. He’ll make it through. There’s no way he won’t.” A touch of feverish devotion colored his tone, a sickening yellow marring the words. Breakdown loved his mate and his cause and Megatron – he often claimed the mech gave him a second chance when he didn’t think he would ever get one. “Lord Megatron -"
“Enough!” Knock Out dropped the cloth to the berth as he turns to grasp his next layer of paint. “I’ve had just about enough of your pontificating. Megatron can only return if we make him, and as we’ve clearly seen, our new leader won’t allow for anything to happen that he doesn’t approve of,” he mutters, clicking under his breath in Cybertronian curses.
“Starscream is not my leader,” Breakdown growls, turning on his partner with a furious expression. “I only listen to two Decepticons, and one of them is currently laying offline to the world on a berth and no one seems to want to do anything about it!”
“And what would you have me do? Risk my finish saving a leader that no one wants back?”
The echoing silken silence that followed comprised of three separate movements; a high melody of the medic’s vanity, a constant thrumming of a temper longing to escape, and a breathless buzzing in the background of a disturbed mind. A symphonic break – then, the hiss of a door and suddenly the trio was cut to a duo.
In the days following, Knock Out hadn’t minded the silence too much. Breakdown remained helpful and present in the medical office, and he didn’t offer any resistance to doing what Knock Out ordered. But once their shift was done, Breakdown disappeared.
There was no reason for Knock Out to go searching after his partner; after all, he was hardly his guardian. Breakdown was a fully grown mech, and was probably spending his time lounging about with those vehicons, refueling and talking about…well, whatever it was they did. Knock Out wasn’t sure. He had his own life to get back to.
The medic raced. The assistant covered. They both ignored the other.
And now, a week later, Knock Out was stuck on his berth wondering where he had gone wrong. “There are no men among fools; there is no honor among thieves.” He rolls out of his berth, headed to the medbay door in the back of his quarters. There served no purpose for him to attempt resting, if he could be seen attempting to be helpful.
Knock Out takes a few steps toward the medbay, and sudden pain cracks along the back of his helm, drawing a pained groan from the mech under siege. He drops to his knees, denta clenched in pain as he struggles to keep from screaming.
The voices were back.
He stood, stumbling, inelegant and struggling to remain upright as he palmed the door open. One hand to his forehelm, his optics nearly crossed in pain. The pain only increased, coupled now with a burning in his spark, bringing him to his knees with a howl.
Oh Knock Out, how we’ve missed you…slut, shameless whore, left alone by his body guard? How sad – no, it’s pathetic.
Knock Out’s fingers dug into his helm, trying to pull the voices out from within. But it wouldn’t work – he had been suffering with them for years. His optics opened and he stared into the foggy haze of the room. Was this something he would have to deal with again? He thought he had left it all behind – he had been doing so well, not a relapse in a few weeks…
He stands, legs trembling as he grabs ahold of the spare medical berth’s edge to stabilize him.
Everyone was watching him, nowhere was safe – Soundwave was out to get him, he wasn’t safe, he wasn’t protected, he couldn’t escape, no no no.
He locked the doors, shutting the medbay from the inside out. This was an emergency protocol, in his mind
- the shattered, fragmented remains of what remained of his thoughts –
and not even Soundwave could breach his locks. Which was the point.
You can try all you want to keep the spy from coming in, but you can’t stop us from talking. You’ve tried everything – pills, forced stasis, liquid medication, and yet you can’t get us to leave. Wonder why that is?
A figure shifted in the far right corner of the room, dark and shadowy. The room began to fill with fog, first at his peds, then at his knee struts. It was light to walk through, the wispy touches against his plating not restraining his movement in any way. That was somehow even scarier.
The lights dimmed – or was it his eyes closing? The fog kept touching him, and the figure moved closer. Big, taller than the medic, and physically imposing. There was no fine detail to this being, other than the faint outline of a body.
He was everywhere and nowhere at once.
Poor, poor Knock Out. Abandoned by all, loved by none. The voice came from the figure, with glowing green eyes –
- red would have been a comfort, blue a threat. Purple is chaotic, and gold –
A choked sob escapes the medic, and he falls to his knees. Clawing at the berth now, not his own helm, he realizes just how much Breakdown’s absence had affected him. Was it actually Breakdown and not his medication that had –
…his medication.
The medic had grown so comfortable in the presence of Breakdown, and was with him all the time, had he remembered to keep taking it? He had slipped it in his morning energon, until Breakdown had stopped talking to him, and his routine had been disrupted. A medic who couldn’t even take his own medicine. How pathetic.
The figure steps closer. Knock Out bolts. Ungraceful, running to the cabinets on the other side of Megatron. Before he can reach his drawer, the figure reappears, hissing with no mouth, but those green, green optics were so hypnotic, he couldn’t look away.
A scream bubbles up and dies in his throat, as thick as a pot of boiling squid ink and just as choking. The figure leans forward, grabbing him with his servo – curious, he had no digits, a giant claw in it’s stead – and jerks him forward by the throat. You think a bottle of pills will make us go away? You think you can stop this?! You’re pathetic, Knock Out, you’ve done nothing but shun us. We’ve protected you, we’ve helped you, and what have you done in return?! Burned us with pills, drowned us with tears, and instead of just ending this pitiful life you’ve –
The figure looks up suddenly, toward the door. Everything goes on pause – the lights flicker once weakly, then shut off, leaving them in complete darkness. No sound remained, save the deep hiss of Megatron’s inhalations. It was like the void, being in that vacuum filled with light of long dead stars spread across the darkness.
…someone’s coming.
And everything disappears, for one, quick, blessed moment. A moment that Knock Out uses to tear the drawer open, grab his scattered pills, and swallow four in rapid succession – one a pulsing yellow, one a clear mint green, one the shade of silver found in the interior of circuit boards, and one a thick matte black.
The pounding in his head takes a moment to stop, and he finds himself pawing at his throat – once he could feel and register what he was doing, however. He dropped his hands, panting on the floor of the medbay. The lights stopped flickering, the static hissing returned to its usual low buzzing sound.
That…was the worst it had been in a while. Almost as bad as when he first started…well, he didn’t want to think about it. It had been a while, since before he joined the Decepticons, since he had last had an episode like that. But one thing he had learned, whether for better or for worse, was that the voices were never wrong. Someone was coming, and he was in no shape to deal with anyone at the moment.
He got to his feet, closing the drawer with a pale fraction of the same force he had used to open it. Turning around, he shuffled back to his quarter’s door, sending a burst of code to the medbay to allow its doors to open again.
The quarter’s door closed just as Breakdown entered. Knock Out, exhausted and drowsy thanks to his medicine – should he have taken the black one this early? Now he couldn’t remember – collapsed onto his berth, recharge whisking him away like the savior he never had, and always needed.
Breakdown stood, dumbfounded, in the entrance to the medbay. Where was Knock Out? Hadn’t he heard the screams? Or was he the cause of the screams?
He walked forward, looking around for something as to a clue of what happened. He was bruiser by choice, a tracker by necessity. There were claw marks on the edge of the berth – Knock Out’s fingers – and a faint pile of purple paint chips from the metal of the cabinets. Megatron’s vitals were as they had been for the past few weeks.
Knock Out was gone, and something had scared him, but whatever it was, wasn’t here…anymore. The bruiser turns to the berthroom door, large silver peds walking heavily on the metallic floor. Wherever the medic was, at least he was safe. Or so Breakdown hoped.
Peeking through the small window set in the black door, Breakdown saw his partner locked in recharge on his berth. He must not have properly set himself up for sleep, as he seemed rather…haphazardly thrown onto the berth, as if he were a sparkling’s discarded softform sleep aid. He was mostly on the berth, however, and Breakdown thought it good enough to leave him alone.
He exits the medbay, returning to his original destination when he had been sidetracked by the screaming. He never left Knock Out alone, as creepy as it sounded. His partner was as much his responsibility as Breakdown was his. Camaraderie that strong hardly lasted in the Decepticon forces – one died too soon to form meaningful bonds, and Starscream was as much a retroactive member of the command crew as Ratchet sometimes was to the Autobots.
The duo had been working together long enough to be content and comfortable with the other. Rarely were mechs partnered up together for extended periods of time. Ever since the war had gone off world, named individual partners had been fewer and fewer. The Decepticons had had several harsh losses in the beginning the war, decimating their population to nameless drones and a few select officers. Now, they had the bare necessities.
A leader: Lord Megatron. A second in command and Air Force Commander: Starscream. A third in command and Chief Tactician: Soundwave. A medic: Knock Out. Ground forces: Drones and Breakdown.
The few remaining mechs that Breakdown had heard of weren’t currently on board, or had been offline for a while. Makeshift. Dreadwing and Skyquake. And, of course, Shockwave. According to what little Breakdown knew of before he joined the war, Shockwave had been a brilliant scientist, and had studied with Starscream at the science academy before the war had begun. But now the inventor was lost to time, Makeshift was dead, as was Skyquake – which was a damn shame, Breakdown recalled good times with the green twin. His twin allegedly still lived, but if they were split spark twins, then he wouldn’t be for long.
Now, the halls were empty. It was one of those strange hours where the humans were all recharging – but only in certain parts of the world, where it was dark. The lighter parts remained awake and alive. Being in space, there was no light and dark to instruct them when to sleep.
He slipped around the corner and into the berthroom. While they had no set recharge hours, it was good practice to take what was given. Or, in this case, what wasn’t given. With no tasks due for Starscream nor any other Decepticon, Breakdown took advantage of the time to himself.
Walking quietly through the room, he stepped to his own berth beside Knock Out’s. He lay down in the standard position – though he never stayed that way – flat on his back, optics to the ceiling. Knock Out was silent next to him, aside from heavy intakes and sighs.
He was right on the edge of recharge when he heard Knock Out calling his name. Blinking golden optics open, he turned to his side, away from the medic, hoping that his feelings were still made clear. But instead, Knock Out continued to call. “What now, Knock Out?” he muttered, irritated that his precious little sleep was being interrupted.
“Don’t leave me don’t leave me no,” he rambled, the words intermingling with static and clicks. “Stop don’t stop yes stop miss you need you voices voices….h-h-haahahaha, voices.” The laughter was disturbing to say the least and Breakdown sat up, looking over at his partner.
Knock Out was still asleep, and his mutterings were fading away as he rolled over, but Breakdown couldn’t help but feel as if something were going terribly, terribly wrong. The last time Knock Out had talked like that was when they had first arrived on the Nemesis, and he was surrounded by mechs he didn’t know. The talking had lasted for about a vorn, until he eventually stopped. Breakdown didn’t know how to deal with it, but it had been fine for the past few months…until now.
Whatever caused the change isn’t something that’s new…or so I hope. Breakdown was something of a guardian to his partner, even if Knock Out was the brains. Just because Breakdown wasn’t the most eloquent speaker didn’t mean he didn’t understand what was going on around him. He was a doer, not a thinker.
But he had thoughts.
Right now, laying on his berth, Breakdown watched his partner find peace once more under the blanket of recharge, optics shut and servo’s spread across his waist. He was delicate, Breakdown knew. It appeared now that that wasn’t limited to just physically. Breakdown held great respect for the medic he worked for, and with Breakdown, respect equated to loyalty.
Part of Breakdown knew that his loyalty to Knock Out ran deeper than his loyalty to Megatron. But when one was threatened, he would lash out at anyone. He knew his behavior toward Knock Out was inexcusable and childish, but he had felt the loss of his beloved leader for too long.
(Breakdown was like a dog, loyal to two masters. One held his leash, the other had collared him in the first place. Who was in what position was something Breakdown didn’t want to focus on – because he was afraid the truth clashed with his carefully constructed reality.)
The bruiser found sleep in a few moments more, restless spark matching in tandem with the mech next to him.