Chapter Text
“My dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed - my dearest pleasure when free.”
It was a slow ride back to base. Smokescreen’s subdued disposition had changed little and Knock Out offered only a brief explanation as to the cause. The remaining members of their little squad understood immediately and asked no further questions, though furtive, pitying glances were thrown to them as they made their way out of the bunker.
Wheeljack had taken it upon himself to fill the awkward silence for their ride back with another one of his little stories. Knock Out noted that rather than a tale of violence and bloodshed, it was one from his planet-hoping days. It was all in an effort to distract Smokescreen and while Knock Out found the gesture kind, he was quick to tune out the wrecker’s bravado. His own thoughts were plagued with visions no exaggerated story could cast aside.
He couldn’t get the tank out of his mind; its soulless optics watching himself even as the miles between them grew. It was not so much the mech itself, but the nearly intact frame it contained. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his processor from going down a dark path.
As part of his medic onboarding, he had downloaded the specs of every commonplace frame in the Decepticon command. He was surprised to find the tankformer’s specs in the archive, though the data itself was older and not as detailed as he would like. Still, in the quiet of driving back to base, Knock Out couldn’t help but take apart every inch of the schematics, dismantling the frame in his mind. It…was like a puzzle, taking the pieces and building something new.
Knock Out had been intimately familiar with Breakdown’s entire structural framework as his primary medic for thousands of cycles. Knock Out had been insistent from when they first met that he would be the only medic to ever work on his partner’s frame and Breakdown had been more than willing to abide by the request. In that span of thousands of years, Knock Out had done every operation under the sun for Breakdown: armor refittings, wire patches, energon transfusion, structural repairs and replacements. Knock Out had even been on the lookout for a replacement optic for Breakdown but hadn’t managed to find a suitable match before…
Well, it didn’t matter anymore.
Now all those years of expertise made piecing together a new Breakdown almost a game. There was a terrible, exhilarating pleasure in the exercise. A guilt and desperate want coiled in his tanks as his processor wove together all its knowledge of anatomy, surgery and medicine.
In the back of his mind, Knock Out could practically hear Ratchet’s bewildered huff. If he knew even a micron of what Knock Out was only thinking about doing, it would send the ambulance into a panic.
Not that it would matter.
Impossible , Knock Out could hear Ratchet’s exasperated tutting, you are picking a fight with nature and are going to lose.
Knock Out knew even if he could reconstruct Breakdown down to the smallest wire and cable, it wouldn’t matter without a living spark. His spark. Knock Out had heard tales of false sparks and while the science behind it was intriguing, it wouldn’t really bring back his partner.
As of right now, Breakdown’s spark had been released into the cosmos, biding its time before coming back to Cybertron.
But with a familiar host, perhaps it could circumvent its rebirth.
Knock Out cast that thought immediately, ignoring the gnawing ache in his tanks.
He had to stop this madness. He had to stop his ceaseless hope for Breakdown’s return. He had to accept fate and had to accept the hand he was dealt and had to move on .
But how does one move on when they were missing half of themselves? How could one step forward when everything was gone? How long would he have to go on feeling like this?
At their return to base, Knock Out felt out of body, his frame growing cold and numb. He watched wearily as the smile had returned to Smokescreen’s faceplates, the horrors of the chop shop gone from his mind now that he was back in familiar company. Knock Out wished he could feel the same.
He could still feel the tank’s optics on his back and everytime he closed his optics, all he could see was Breakdown, built anew. Perfect and whole and there.
“Joining us for refuel, Red?” Wheeljack called to him.
Knock Out snapped his helm over to see Wheeljack watching him appraisingly, his optic ridges pinched together. For a wild moment, Knock Out thought Wheeljack knew what he was thinking; knew about the grim surgeries Knock Out had been fantasizing about on their long drive back; knew about his hopeless wish for Breakdown’s return even if it must be done by his own hand.
“No,” Knock Out said shortly. “I don’t quite have the stomach for it.”
Wheeljack gave a firm nod of understanding. “‘Don’t blame ya. If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be.”
With that, the wrecker led Smokescreen and Bulkhead towards the mess hall, a firm servo on both their back struts. Knock Out bade Ultra Magnus a brief goodbye before rushing to the medbay to lock himself into his private quarter. He needed to be alone to clear his helm, to rid himself of these thoughts.
In his haste for isolation, Knock Out haphazardly unloaded his haul from their scavenging mission. He tossed the tools and patch kits onto one of the recently cleared off medslabs. He would deal with them tomorrow, perhaps teach Smokescreen how to remove the rust and sanitize the tools for reuse. If the kid was so eager to play apprentice, Knock Out had no issue offloading some of the more mundane tasks.
He paused as he held up the data drive. The casing was aged, weathered and chipping but there was a chance it was still functional. Knock Out knew he should hand it off to Ultra Magnus for inspection, but instead found himself booting up his recently refurbished console and plugging it in. He might as well see if there was anything of value on it to begin with. Due diligence was a quality admired by Autobots, surely.
It took a while to download. The fact it was even compatible with his current setup was such a surprising relief that Knock Out found himself fine with the wait time. He forced himself to do some self-maintenance in the meantime. He had not been keeping up with his regiment since joining the Autobots. It wasn’t for lack of want or lack of time, but motivating himself to do anything was a struggle. The bare minimum seemed to take all his energy from him, leaving him a husk of a mech.
Right now, though, the mindless routine was a welcome break from his processor’s ever maddening thoughts. Every time the tank dared cross his mind, he shifted his attention to the hairline scratches across his bumper and the steady pressure of the buffer in hand.
By the time he had finished his entire frame- buffed and polished by hand -the download had completed, showing hundreds of files neatly arranged. Hunching over the console, Knock Out was surprised to see the depth of information compiled on the one tiny data drive; there were saved correspondences, Decepticon soldier records, supply manifests and inventory spreadsheets, and pages and pages of intensive research notes.
At first, Knock Out amused himself with skimming them. Several of the papers were from various other medics and- to Knock Out’s great surprise -more than half of them belonging to a prewar Ratchet. Apparently, the old ambulance had a Decepticon fanbot. Go figure.
It was when Knock Out began reading the mech’s own research that his amusement shifted from mild curiosity to intensive fascination.
Apparently, dissecting living mechs was only the tip of the iceberg.
The subjects were as vast as they were disturbing: vivisection and pain receptor readouts, unorthodox organ transplants, numerous torturous experiments on both Autobot hostages and injured Decepticon soldiers. One file caught Knock Out’s optic, his frame nearly stalling as his intake hitched.
Revival and Resurrection
Knock Out did not hesitate in opening the file despite every rational thought telling him not to.
The research was sparse. Whether the mech had met his fate shortly after starting this particular field of study or had simply moved onto a different, gruesome topic, Knock Out was not sure. But there were scraps of interesting information compiled in the short document. Some were snippets of past research. A few were philosophical debates on the morality of such a feat. Others were failed case studies and experiments, though- from Knock Out’s understanding - true reanimation was never attempted. Just theoretical simulations and nerve testing on deceased protoform.
But it was there , somewhere amongst the vague reports and sparse research. Knock Out was not the first to ponder the possibility of reviving the dead and if fate had gone out differently, this cruel doctor may have even been the first to attempt true reanimation. He could see it, in the contemplative notes written by the mech himself.
“The life force of Cybertron is divided into three primary focal points: body, mind and spark. Body focuses on the structural frame of the individual and the physical components that make up the form. Life cannot exist without physical form. Mind goes beyond the physical processor and sensor readers, but that of cognitive, independent thought. To think for oneself is to be living. The matter of spark is simple; a life force must be present for there to be life. Without a spark, a body is just a husk and a mind cannot think.”
Knock Out captured the words, imprinting them across his processor as his optics trailed over the short passage over and over again.
Body. Mind. Spark.
Three concrete goals.
Building a body would be easy- his processor linked the task to the ample supply of parts in the chop shop, pulling up his puzzle piece schematic for reference - and the mind would take some research, some trial and error, but it wouldn’t be impossible . But the matter of spark, of life-
A knock on at the medbay doors had Knock Out’s train of thought come to a horrifying, spark-stopping, screeching halt. It was like ice froze the energon in his lines, Knock Out’s entire frame seized up. He sat there, still and unmoving as the sudden reality of his situation fell on him. If anyone were to catch a hint of what he was thinking, he would be tossed into the waste lands of Cybertron to fend for himself or he would be locked away in the brig once more and forgotten. They may have reluctantly accepted a traitor and turncloak into their fold, but Knock Out had the uneasy feeling the acts defying the very laws of nature wouldn’t be so forgivable.
Another knock echoed across the medbay but this time it was followed by a small, muffled voice.
“Knock Out?”
It took the medic an achingly long moment to realize the voice belonged to Smokescreen, though rather than carrying its typically care-free quality, it was muted, almost shy.
“You have a moment?”
As if anti-freeze had been poured into his system, Knock Out moved in rapid speed. He quickly shut down the console, closing up the data drive and stashing it away. It sat heavy in his subspace as Knock Out did everything he could to quell the faint guilty tremble in his digits. His spark was hammering in its chamber, threatening to dent his plating in its effort to escape. Fear and anxiety mixed with sickly, sticky guilt; not so much for the thoughts themself but for almost getting caught.
A third knock rang through the medbay again.
“Coming,” Knock Out yelped, hoping the panic in his voice did not carry through.
He had to calm down, settle the shaking in his digits, the rattling of his spark. He closed his optics, taking a deep and steadying inhale and letting it out slowly as he pushed down the wave of morbid fear that tugged on his cables.
He pulled on his familiar mask, his sharp smile covering the clamminess of his plating. It had been…a while since he had felt the need to don on appearances. Saccharide tongue and biting wit helped him little to gain the Autobot’s favor and as long as he played the good bot, there was never any real risk of harm as there had been on the Nemesis. Throwing up the charade of being calm, collected and controlled felt clunky after cycles of disuse, but Knock Out figured when against Smokescreen it should be adequate.
He disengaged the medbay lock to find a rather withdrawn Smokescreen. The younger Autobot’s door wings hung low on his back, optics gazed towards the floor as he waited for Knock Out. Upon the doors opening, his helm bobbed up to meet Knock Out’s eye before dropping back down.
“Sorry,” the younger bot said quickly, “I bet you were getting ready for recharge. I just…” the words died and Smokescreen seemed to shrink in on himself.
Evidently, the experience of earlier today had not gone away with fun adventure stories and comradery with his fellow Autobots. Momentarily, Knock Out was rather assumed that out of everyone in their base, Smokescreen sought out Knock Out , the recent ex-Decepticon. There surely had to be an irony there but it was difficult to feel when Knock Out was also, in a way, still reeling from their mission today.
“Say what you need to say,” Knock Out said, his voice even and not completely unkind. “It’s better than letting your processor stew on it.” It was advice he should maybe heed himself but if he said his own thoughts, the brig may be the least of his concerns.
Smokescreen let in a deep, steadying inhale, his jaw clicking as he released the tension. He still refused to meet Knock Out’s gaze as he spoke.
“It’s not the bodies that bothered me,” Smokescreen said quietly. “I’ve seen dead bots before. I’ve killed before. I’m…maybe not like Wheeljack or Bulkhead but I’m not naive . I just-” Cutting himself short, Smokescreen scrubbed his faceplates “-I just don’t get it.”
Knock Out let out a small snort. He didn’t blame the kid for not understanding a last resort measure like a chop shop. His ideals were still too pure, still too hopeful. In a way, Knock Out didn’t want to ruin that. Just because hope and purity got beaten out of him in the early years of the war didn’t mean everyone else had to follow his sad miserable path.
“It’s better if you don’t get it,” Knock Out said. Smokescreen’s optic ridges pinched together, his lips pressing tight in his confusion. “You don’t need to understand the dilemma of not being able to save everyone. You don’t need to get what it means to decide who is worth saving and who is worth dying. You don’t ever want to understand what a mech needs to do in their darkest hour, in their final last resort. You should be grateful that you can’t comprehend it.”
Smokescreen’s faceplates didn’t shift, the tension still coiled in his frame.
“I guess…” Smokescreen murmured quietly, almost to himself. Slowly, he looked up, bright blue optics piercing Knock Out as if he could see right through him. “You said you had to do stuff like that before?”
Knock Out smiled a mean, cruel little thing. “I have. Not to that extent.” The chop shop may have started as a last resort but in the end had turned into the medic’s personal experimentation torture room. “But I have.”
“Was it worth it in the end?” Smokescreen asked. “Or do you regret it?”
Knock Out stared at the kid for a long moment. He had siphoned the still warm energon out of dying mechs before, he’d snuffed the life out of soldiers on his med slabs in order to free up a spot for others. He had pulled out fresh parts from graying frames and squirreling them away for later use, just in case . He had done so much, all with the excuse that it wasn’t for himself.
It was for Breakdown . It was for the sake of someone else, someone he loved, someone that deserved it . It was for keeping them alive long enough to see the end of the war. How could he ever regret that? He may not have accomplished his goal, but he had gotten as close as he could get. If he managed to keep Breakdown at his side a few hundred years longer because of that, how could he not see the value in that. Those years may have been hard and painful, but he would never give them away if it meant he could cling to a few more memories of his partner.
“I don’t regret anything I’ve done,” Knock Out said sharply, the words cutting through himself. His servos clenched into tight, biting fists as a wave of grief threatened to climb up his intake. “The only things I regret are the things I didn’t do.”
He should have gone out looking for Breakdown. He should have kept a better eye on his partner. He should have tracked his signal better, sooner. He shouldn’t have allowed that human scum to come anywhere near his partner.
He should have listened to Breakdown when he said they should go rogue all those years ago. He should have never cut a deal with Starscream to secure them a spot on the Nemesis.
He should’ve, he should’ve, he should’ve.
Maybe then, Knock Out would be standing here, side by side with the only mech he’s ever trusted.
Smokescreen nodded his helm mutely. “Thank you.”
Knock Out pulled his mind away from his swirling thoughts. He’d almost forgotten he was having a conversation at all. “For?”
Smokescreen shrugged, tangling his digits together in front of him. “Being honest. It’s surprisingly hard to find here at times.”
Knock Out snorted at the irony of it all. “Sure thing, Kid.” He watched the corner of Smokescreen’s lip plates pull up into a half weary smile. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow we have a fun day of rust removal.”
The smile immediately dissipated as Smokescreen groaned.
Recharge eluded him.
Knock Out spent the next several night cycles tossing and turning in his berth, his mind traveling to unspeakable places. Every time he’d shut down the thought tree, wiped the data from his short-term, his mind would be back on that path not 10 kliks later. Every time he cycled his optics shut, tried to force a hibernation, the visage of Breakdown would be staring back at him, mouth moving but not speaking.
The day cycles provided him no relief. Work and Smokescreen’s company provided only a marginal distraction from his thoughts.
The medbay had always been a place of control and power for Knock Out. It was his domain and his sole ownership. He had full control over its operations and visitors. It was his small kingdom. It was a home when his had long been swept away.
Now it felt hungry . The dark corners of the room were watching him, waiting, expecting . His empty medslabs haunted him. Every tool and every piece of equipment begged for use. His mind was eager to provide a subject to satiate. It felt like he was losing his grip, his control waning with fear and want and grief taking its spot.
Knock Out hoped time would make the yearning pass, distance would quiet his mind. Instead, madness had dug its claws into his spark and every night as Knock Out bid his un-official apprentice away, he’d find himself rooted in front of his console with the data drive clenched in between trembling claws.
He had never turned over the data to Ultra Magnus or Bumblebee and enough time passed that Knock Out knew he never would. He couldn’t fathom having to part with it. The very idea of letting go made his tanks turn and his spark ache. It was his last piece of hope, his last connection to a reality in which he could have his partner back. Logic and sense clung to him weakly, their resolve slipping with every sleepless night spent in the depths of research.
When dawn came and it was time to head to morning refuel, Knock Out hardly felt himself anymore. His plating felt too heavy for his frame to carry, his mind possessed by thoughts he now accepted may never fade. It was as if another inhabitant had snuck into his body the day they had found the chop shop and it was slowly pushing him out. It was the only way to explain the thoughts, explain the desires, explain the hundreds of schematics he drew in his mind throughout the night cycles since.
Even now, as he trudged through the base, he tried to rationalize his nightly endeavors and was fighting a losing battle.
“Oh jeez,” Smokescreen greeted as Knock Out entered the communal refuel station. Arcee was there, watching him with critical optics while Ultra Magnus was reading through one of the several datapads he had neatly stacked beside him. “You look about how I feel.”
Knock Out could see a grogginess in the normally excitable speedster. Evidently, he too still was coming to terms with what he had witnessed even though nearly a week had passed.
“A rough night,” was the only excuse Knock Out could give as he all but collapsed in the seat across from Arcee. She passed him a cube with a patient look. One of the others must have clued her in and for once, Knock Out found the sympathy slightly bearable.
In a rare occurrence, Knock Out found himself eager for conversation, desperate for a distraction, anything to take his mind away from Breakdown and the vile desires of his spark.
“Ready for your shift today?” Knock Out teased slightly. “We have a very fun task today.”
Hope flashed across Smokescreen’s faceplates. “Really?” Kid had not enjoyed the tedious task of rust removal and was clearly desperate for anything different.
Knock Out nodded his helm slowly. “Mold removal. Very different from rust removal, I promise. You’ll love it.”
Smokescreen’s face curdled as he dropped his helm to the table top. “I thought you said fun .”
At this, Ultra Magnus turned his focus away from the datapad he had intently been reading. “Sanitation measures can be fun.”
Arcee quietly snorted into her cube and Knock Out bit back a grin as he watched Smokescreen try and fail to respond.
Smokescreen was saved by the opening of the doors and the entrance of Bulkhead. The mech was bright and chipper this morning, a deep, rumbling hum coming from his chassis as he swaggered in. Knock Out raised an appraising optic ridge and turned to see Arcee doing the same.
“You’re in a good mood, Bulkhead,” Arcee nodded in greeting.
Bulkhead grinned, his faceplates splitting in glee. “It’s a good morning.”
“Special occasion?” Arcee chirped back.
“It’s Jackie’s and mine’s anniversary.”
“One of them anyways,” Wheeljack said, entering a moment later. There was a smudge of oil on his cheek but the wrecker seemed to be as bright and energized as ever as he wheeled himself next to Bulkhead and bumped shoulders with him.
“You have multiple?” Smokescreen asked curiously, optics darting between the two. “Which one is this?”
“Conjunx,” Wheeljack answered with ease, stretching his joints out as he spoke. “Not that we had an official ceremony or anything, but we made due.”
Knock Out swallowed the rush of staticky bile that threatened to come up from his tanks as he watched the two mechs smile at each other with soft affection.
“We did it during a refuel stop,” Bulkhead divulged eagerly. “‘Managed to get away for a cycle to make it special before rejoining our squad.”
“Thought we hid it pretty well but pretty much everyone knew the moment we stepped back on the ship,” Wheeljack chuckled to himself. “‘Said we were grinning like fools.”
Smokescreen fired off another question but it fell on deaf audials as Knock Out turned away from the scene, his optics focused on his half cube of energon. Suddenly any appetite he managed to muster that morning vanished.
“Come on, Doc,” Breakdown’s far away voice whispered to him, “We’ll get away from a few kliks and no one will ever know.”
“Breakdown,” Knock Out’s own voice purred back. “After the war. I’m not getting conjunx on this rust bucket. I…want to do it right. You deserve that.”
“All I want is you.”
Knock Out pushed his cube away harshly, droplets of energon dripping down the side. His tank flipped unsteadily as the memory came and went.
“You see, kid,” Wheeljack was speaking again, his smile faint but ever present as he spoke to Smokescreen, “as a wrecker and with our lives away on the line, we had to take every chance we could. I couldn’t wait. The second Bulk suggested it, we did it.” Wheeljack shrugged as if it were the easiest thing in the world. As if the choice was a no brainer. “The idea of something happening before we could do it,” Wheeljack’s smile flickered painfully, “I couldn’t live with myself. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.”
Knock Out sat motionless as the words coiled around him.
I couldn’t live with myself.
Hollowness had opened up in Knock Out’s chest, iciness feeding through his lines.
I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.
The hungry maw of loneliness was around him, threatening to snap his jaws and consume him. Knock Out forced himself to remain seated, forced himself to not draw attention, forced himself not to think about Breakdown, of his own loss, of his own failure.
“You can’t lose me,” Bulkhead laughed heartily, pulling the smaller mech closer. “I’d find you anywhere.”
“Sap,” Wheeljack shot back teasingly, his voice softening in fondness.
It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to picture Breakdown there, beside him. Similar words said- not exactly the same but the sentiment identical. The memories washed over Knock Out, each one a direct stab in the spark.
“It’s you and me, K.O. Now and always.”
“You can’t get rid of me, Breakdown. You are mine.”
“Always together,” Breakdown chuckled into his audials, “never apart.”
“Even if you fall apart,” Knock Out cooed between kisses, “I’ll put you back together.”
Knock Out paused at that particular memory, Breakdown’s scrunched faceplates and soft smile haunting his mind as his own words echoed.
I’ll put you back together .
He had promised that once. Promised that many times for that matter. At the time, it had all been in jest. Knock Out could never have imagined a future in which the pair would not be together. Breakdown had always been…invincible. Every scratch and dent had been lovingly cared for by Knock Out. He never would have thought that one day Breakdown just wouldn’t come back .
A shudder wracked through Knock Out, his processor twisting itself.
I can bring him back, Knock Out thought, the datadrive of impossible promises and the schematics of possibilities so tantalizing that…why couldn’t Knock Out do it?
The research was there. He’d combed over every single glyph and found the logic sound, but untested. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t work and Knock Out would never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t try.
I don’t regret anything I’ve done. The only things I regret are the things I didn’t do.
If there was a chance, however small, that it may be that he could have Breakdown back at his side, then there was no reason for Knock Out not to try.
He truly had nothing left to lose.
And just like that, all the grief and all the desperate earning and all the guilt over these treacherous thoughts evaporated, and in their place the soothing sensation of a plan, a goal, hope coalesced warm in his spark.
Knock Out picked up his cube of energon once more, a ravaging hunger he had not felt in decacycles clawed at his tank. He caught Wheeljack’s optics and raised his cube in a silent congratulations and drank.
Knock Out felt light as air as he went through the rest of the day. No amount of Smokescreen’s whining and the sharp stench of bleaching acid could dampen his spirits. After being alone for so long, there was hope on the horizon. A hope that relied on no one but himself and his own skills. There was a dizzying delight to it. He would be the one to bring back his partner; not Ratchet, not Optimus Prime, not even Primus himself. Just Knock Out.
He grinned wildly to himself as he scrubbed at the persistent splotch of mold clinging to the optic rinse station drain.
Nothing could stop him.
He was practically buzzing throughout the evening refuel cycle. Even Bulkhead and Wheeljack’s obnoxious display of affection could not hinder his morale. It wouldn’t matter soon enough. He wouldn’t need to look at anyone else but his partner.
And once he had his partner back, they would be out of there . They’d set out on their own, just like they should have from the start.
Knock Out downed his cube quickly and counted the kliks until it would be socially acceptable for him to leave. Tonight of all nights he did not want to give any of the Autobots cause for speculation. He nodded along with Wheeljack’s stories, chiming in when deemed appropriate. He shared amused looks with Smokescreen and occasional Arcee. He chuckled with the group as if he were one of them. It was all easy to pretend and fake it. Knock Out had lied, cheated and masquerade through the majority of his life. It was easy to fall back into a lie, all the while his mind plotted so he would be ready the moment striked.
That time didn’t come until the dead of the night cycle. With the majority of the Autobots tucked away in their berths, it would be the optimal time for Knock Out to sneak out and begin his work.
According to the diligently maintained roster, only Ultra Magnus and several newly instated vehicons were on watch duty. With such a small crew working the nightshift, it was pitifully easy to sneak through their blindspots and under their noses. Knock Out wasn’t sure if that was a sign of how woefully unprepared the Autobots were to operate without Optimus Prime’s leadership or a show of how trusting the Autobots were.
Either way, it suited his needs perfectly and Knock Out was racing through the empty barren fields of Cybertron in a matter of kliks, the base dwindling to a speck in the distance.
It was remarkable how quick the journey was compared to when they had first visited the Decepticon bunker. Knock Out felt as if he had made the trip in a handful of kliks, though he knew the time on his chronometer would state otherwise. It truthfully didn’t matter as Knock Out all but rushed inside.
He was quick to disable any and all scanners he had equipped. He knew exactly what he wanted and where to find it. All he needed was a quick elevator ride down.
The tankformer was waiting ever so patiently, dead optic casings staring emptily at the doors as Knock Out walked in. The medic smiled in greeting. It looked nothing like his partner, but Knock Out would remedy that soon enough.
“Hello, big guy,” Knock Out all but purred as he knelt down beside the large, rusting frame. “I hope I didn’t keep you long.”
There was no answer, but Knock Out wasn’t delusional in thinking there would be. He knew it wouldn’t help his case to be talking to the dead, but if his plan worked, then his big buddy wouldn’t be dead for long.
“First, we got to get rid of you ,” Knock Out directed to the medic entangled with the tank.
He pried his claws between the pair and peeled the medic away, stiff servos reluctant to let go of the other but in the end, Knock Out managed to separate them.
“No hard feelings, hm?” he said as he pushed the medic away.
He turned his attention back to the tank. It was time for step two.
“As lovely as the place is,” Knock Out sneered at the grime and decay around him, “I have a better place for us to get to know each other .”
While there was a lot of merit in keeping his project away from Autobot optics, the utility of the chop shop ended there. Privacy would do him nothing if he had no equipment or time to work on it. Sure, he could steal away into the night as he had done tonight, but the longevity of that was fraught with risk. Just the time it took to get from the bunker and back alone would eat up the scant precious hours he could be away without notice- and that was assuming he could keep up the act of sneaking away without getting caught.
However, if he had his prize in his medbay, he could work with ease and comfort. He’d have all the tools necessary and constant access. He’d have a fully functional medbay and the entire Autobot knowledge base as his fingertips. It was an easy choice, even if it meant he’d have to hide his new friend.
Luckily, the medic quarters were attached to the medbay and the Autobots of the past had the foresight to provide him with enough berths.
All he needed to do was get the big guy home.
“I don’t suppose you could make this easy for me and transform just this once?”
Not that he had any way of hitching the other to himself. But no matter, a little dragging along wouldn’t damage the plating too much. If anything, the arid sands would assist in buffering off that tacky purple.
“Small blessings,” Knock Out hissed through clenched denta as he dug his digits underneath the arm sockets of the tank and began to pull.
The fragger was heavy .
Strength had never been one of Knock Out’s strong suits. He was built for speed: armor plating thin with a slight flexibility to it, delicately curved for aerodynamics. He had always delegated the task of heavy lifting, lest he scratch his shiny finish in the attempt. He always had a partner more than strong enough to carry both their weight, quite literally.
But Knock Out didn’t have a partner. He had no one but himself to rely on. So for once, he couldn’t and wouldn’t care about the state of his paint job as he half dragged, half carried the tankformer out of the chop shop and into the elevator.
There was a terrifying moment as Knock Out let his engines cool that the lift wouldn’t move, but it vanished as the elevator groaned and slowly began to ascend. When the doors opened, Knock Out let out a quiet sigh of relief before he began the dragging once more.
He could feel his paint chipping as the body shifted in his grasp, but it hardly mattered. His goal meant far more than keeping up appearances.
It took…longer than expected. Getting the tank out of the old, crumbling bunker was one thing but getting it all the way to the Autobot base was another. Knock Out had spent several kliks wrapping the tankformer in knots chains that he looped through his windows in order to pull his new friend home. He couldn’t risk going too fast- he didn’t want to risk the chains coming undone or digging into the fragile framework of his own body -so he kept a crawling pace, constantly vigilant of the clock ticking away.
Morning was quickly approaching as Knock Out finally returned to the Autobot headquarters. Keeping his distance, he wheeled around to the back where the emergency access was. It was the quickest path to the medbay and only guarded by two rotating vehicons. Knock Out had scoped it out earlier that day and already had the door rigged with his access code so he could enter without setting off the alarms. He also had left himself one of the rickety gurneies from the medbay. He figured dragging his companion through the barren fields of Cybertron was one thing, but leaving the deep grooves and paint transfers on the newly refurbished floors of their base might cause some questions.
It was a painfully impatient wait for the vehicons to rotate positions but once they did, Knock Out was quick to race forward and grant himself access. Once inside, he hastily loaded the tank onto the gurney. The mech was too big and his limbs spilled out from the sides, but Knock Out had no time to worry about that as he booked it through the halls, nearly bursting through the medbay doors.
It was there the gurney’s life gave in. With a loud creak, the entire cart collapsed, the corpse of the tank dropping with a reverberating clank. Exhaustion finally took its toll on Knock Out and he collapsed not too far away as his fans roared in a desperate attempt to cool his overworked frame. With shaky limbs, Knock Out scooted himself back to lean against the nearest wall as his optics scanned the hollowed frame.
Under the crisp white light of the medbay, he could truly see the sheer work he had for himself.
He’d have to scrap the tank’s wheel treads and most of its axle components. There was no chance in scrap Knock Out was trading in Breakdown’s alt mode for that of a tank so he’d have to rebuild much of the undercarriage structure from scratch. He wanted to race his partner again, to go out on the open roads and spin their wheels together. So, the treads had to go and the caterpillar tracks that rotated them. Finding the right axle shouldn’t be difficult, and it may take some work to get five matching tires, but he supposed the spare didn’t have to be an exact match and could always be changed out later when a better one came along.
So four. Four matching wheels, or ones that were close enough.
At least most of the armor plating could be reworked. He could see now that the abdominal plating was a lot more segmented than Breakdown’s. In this case, it was actually a bonus. Knock Out could weld the pieces together into the right shape for Breakdown without having to do much cutting. It would leave his plating a bit fragile so he’d have to add some underlying reinforcement which would add a bit more bulk than Breakdown had before, but Knock Out didn’t mind. Breakdown had been too vulnerable before. He’d need more protection on his second chance at life and if Knock Out could ensure that in the design of his partner’s new body, then he would make every modification he could. Breakdown wouldn’t mind, not when they’d get to see each other again.
Knock Out let that thought fuel him with the jumpstart he needed to climb back to his pedes. He still needed to get the body out of any possible view. Shame his gurney busted but Knock Out could drag him the last couple of meters.
Digging his digits beneath the tread tracks, Knock Out resumed his dragging. It took a lot of effort but once he got the corpse through the doors, he let them snap shut.
Upon taking up the medic’s quarters, Knock Out had not really felt the need to decorate . On the Nemesis, his quarters had been filled with trinkets and baubles, most of them gifts from Breakdown or funny little mementos from their travels. His human movie collection had taken a large portion of the desk, as well as the flimsy little projector Breakdown had snatched for him. It had only taken a little tinkering to get it to work, converting its power source from the electrical voltage the earthlings favored to an adapted Cybertronian one.
All of that had been left in the docked and sinking Nemesis. Bumblebee had offered Knock Out access to retrieve his old personal belongings but, in truth, all he had grabbed was the buffer and a few personal medical supplies, which now sat neatly tucked away in the corner of the sterile, empty medbay.
Now , with the large tankformer’s corpse in the center of his room, no amount of decorating could liven the space up.
Knock Out smiled to himself, his sparked pained but hopeful. Breakdown would have found that one funny. He would have to remember to tell it to him once he came through. In his HUD, he pulled up a memo and jotted it down for later.
Knock Out stared down at the body sprawled in the center of the room. He would need to set it up on a proper slab once he actually started work. He eyed the large mega-berth he had been sleeping in and the decision was made easy.
What’s mine is yours.