Chapter Text
Nothing felt the same after Breakdown's deactivation. The med bay suddenly felt empty; repairs were suddenly harder to do alone; even recharging suddenly felt uncomfortable. Knockout wanted to curl into a ball on his cold berth and never emerge from his quarters again, or rip out his lifeforce so he didn't have to endure the hollow ache in his spark chamber any longer.
But the war continued to move on, forcing those who survived to adapt to the loss or be dragged down with it. And Breakdown would've wanted Knockout to stay strong, to carry on without him and take care of himself.
So for his late partner, the Decepticon CMO buffed his chassis till it glowed, slapped himself in the reflection of his mirror till his faceplate hurt, and continued to flourish around the warship like nothing had ever changed.
He brushed away condolences from the Vehicons.
He tended to patients and struggled to reach the high cabinets in his med bay (many new step-stools were quickly strewn across the room).
He went on missions, and defended the Nemesis from Dark Energon poisoning. Hunted down more Iacon artifacts and got his aft beaten every time he remembered Breakdown wasn't there to provide him back up. Snuck out "on patrol" to compete in street races whenever they popped up.
He fell back on his confident facades and boisterous pride, obsessive vanity and quick-witted sarcasm, until his vulnerable spark was thoroughly protected by layers of his new personality.
It took a while, sure, but in the end Knockout had managed to bury his grief for his lover and forge onward. He had nearly recovered from the whole "incident," even, and already had several different options of torture planned for Arachnid if she ever decided to show her ugly mug again. He was doing great-!
And then Cylas emerged from the rubble with a false life signal and a demand to join the Decepticons, all from within the hollow spark chamber of Breakdown's chassis.
Livid could not even describe the state of Knockout's mental state.
The only, singular relief he got from the situation was when Cylas' superweapon proved to be an utter failure, and it was turned over to the revenge-seeking medic for whatever endeavors he pleased.
Knockout took that freedom extensively. He poked and prodded and dissected every inch of Cylas' construction, if only to see how the transfusion was being supported. By all means, both parties should've been offline. Breakdown's frame was without a spark or a processor, his nanites dead and self-repair systems unresponsive. Silas himself was missing his entire lower half, and his organs were under heavy distress. Yet somehow, MECH's operatives had managed to combine the human's intact conscience with the Cybertronian's intact housing, in a way that gave one of them a second chance at life.
The cherry-red mech made sure it understood the consequences of that opportunity.
He had the upper-servo in this situation. It was strapped to his dissection table with no chance of escape, fed just enough energon (unfiltered and of the lowest nutrient content, of course) to keep it alive. Knockout would meticulously take it apart just to put it back together. He even tore out the new camera that had been incorporated into Breakdown's right ocular socket, just so that it had to endure the same misery of blindness.
But that was where he messed up. Knockout had been so careful up to that point, but in that moment of rage and grief, he had slipped and spoken too emotionally about Breakdown.
And now Cylas knew exactly what Breakdown had meant to him.
"Shut. Up." The medic hissed for the millionth time that cycle, glaring at the datapad he currently held.
"But you spoke so fondly of him! It's only fair that I learn more about my generous donor, is it not?" It taunted, flexing its borrowed servos against the metal restraints that kept them pinned to the examination slab.
Knockout sat down in a chair at his desk and dropped the datapad before he accidentally snapped it, vents heavy and dentae clenched. He pulled up a report on the latest batch of Synth-En he was attempting to incubate, praying the distraction would abate the fury in his rattling sparkbeat.
"What was he like with you? Not the brightest, in my opinion. More of the brutish type; the "act before he thought" kind of soldier. Those are the replaceable ones. The ones who die first." Cylas continued, rolling its helm to track Knockout's movements, "They follow orders well enough, though, so I guess that blind loyalty is worth the tradeoff of longevity."
Hold it together. It's just trying to get another rise out of you. The racer panicked, biting his glossa hard enough he tasted energon. His optics were stinging, but he refused to feed it with its desired response. You know Breakdown was smart. He bore through these insults for centuries; you can do it again.
"He mentioned you, you know. When MECH had him underneath our saw. Screamed your name - begging you to come save him. I wonder how much it hurt him when you never showed up."
A choked sob tore itself from Knockout's voice box before he could stop it, coolant instantly spilling from his optics. That could've been a lie, but he wouldn't have known. Because it was right. He hadn't gone to save Breakdown. He'd chosen their leader's orders over his partner, and he couldn't take that decision back.
"What does that say about you, Knockout? He devoted his life to you, and you couldn't even be bothered to return the favor. Did you ever really love him? Or were you just parading him around, making him follow orders like a good little assistant?"
The medic pressed his helm to the desk top and covered his audio receptors, although it didn't do anything to block the onslaught of torture that continued to leave its once-familar intake. He cried harder, pauldrons pulled tight against his sides and rattling from the force of his shaking. His vents struggled to filter cool air through his systems, which only added overheating warnings to the multitude of notifications that crowded his blurry HUD.
"J-Just stop." Knockout whimpered, denting the table from the force he applied with his forehelm, "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up-!"
"Breakdown said Decepticons don't break easily, during our first interaction. Perhaps that was only a means of self-assurance for him, but I truly did expect machines such as ourselves to be... more resistant to emotional turmoil than you're proving to be." That Primus-damned parasite relented with a grin,
"So whadda you say, Knockout? Why don't you release me, and I can comfort you with a hug, just like Breakdown used to? I bet you'd like that..."
The cherry red Con wanted to bite back - they were not machines; it was only him that was a natural Cybertronian - but the sounds died on his glossa, replaced by a whine of agony as his spark clenched around the pit that should've housed its other half. Because frag, he wanted a hug. He truly needed one. He needed to feel Breakdown's strong arms and his broad chest plates. But that wasn't Breakdown. And he would never trade his lover out for that thing.
The sound of the med bay doors sliding open violently snapped Knockout to attention, jerking upright from his chair and spinning around. His vents were still rattling and coolant poured freely down his pale faceplate, processor foggy with warnings, but if that was a member of Decepticon High Command then he needed to tend to them immediately, appearance be damned.
And sure enough, Soundwave was standing at the entrance, silent as ever.
His blank visor tilted ever so slightly as he took in the surroundings, pausing for an uncomfortable amount of time on Cylas before settling on Knockout.
"G-Greetings, Soundwave. What do you need?" The medic asked, clawing at the mess of coolant dripping off his chin.
"Knockout: // Not answering // summons. // Soundwave: // addressing matters." The Communications Chief replied via a collage of different voice clips. Most of which were Megatron's, a few from Starscream.
The other mech immediately blanched, scrolling through his crowded HUD to where, in fact, a message from Lord Megatron himself was sitting unopened from nearly a half-jorn ago.
"Slag, I'm sorry-"
"Soundwave: // understands lack of // response. // Apology: // not needed." The interruption was curt, bubbling with an ire Knockout had never experienced from him before. Yet... it wasn't directed at him.
Soundwave marched over to the parasite strapped to the leftmost examination berth in that deliberate, calm way of his, and deployed one of his extra cable appendages, snaking it toward its wide-opticed gaze,
"Soundwave: // took // vow of silence. // Recommends: // you should do the same."
The appendage wound around its helm and covered its intake in tight loops of black mesh and purple biolights, feelers crackling with electricity. It constricted enough that the chipped orange faceplate sunk with indentation, pain subsequently flashing through Cylas' remaining optic as its piloted servos jerked against the restraints. A mumbled cry or a set of words were attempted to be spoken, but Soundwave paid it no attention.
"Knockout: // tend to // yourself. // Presence // requested in // command deck // for // medical inquiry. // Soundwave: // will join shortly // after // appropriate punishment is given." The silent Third in Command ordered, the last sentence ground out in Megatron's furious tone.
Knockout nodded stiffly and spun for his full-frame mirror across the med bay, snatching a clean rag as he passed the counter. He carefully scrubbed the coolant from his faceplate and wiped his forehelm for good measure, practicing a quick, plastic smile in the reflection before exventing and sprinting toward the door.
"Thank you, Soundwave." He whispered over his pauldron.
He didn't wait for a response, and disappeared from his work center, leaving it to whatever fate Soundwave had in store for it. The interaction replayed itself on loop in his processor as he sped-walked through the corridors, surprised and honestly unsure how to feel.
Soundwave knew Knockout was struggling over this Breakdown-imposter, yet he hadn't done anything to help Breakdown when he was abducted by MECH. Yet now he recognized Cylas was toying with Knockout, and cared enough to silence it himself. There had been emotion there; anger on his behalf, solemn understanding - that was deliberate.
The medic decided to let that moment of compassion lift his spirits instead of dwelling on it, and refocused his attention on the approaching summon from his leader.
Wonder what he needs... He thought, striding toward the folded doors that led to the central command hub.
Knockout straightened his spinal strut and rolled his pauldrons as the metal entrance opened, curling his lips into the flawless, smug grin he was known for. The embodiment of perfection: frame and paint glowing, EM Field controlled, gait prideful.
"Lord Megatron." He announced, bowing before the immediate gaze of the warlord, "Please forgive my delay. I was engaged with sensitive calibrations for the Synth-En formula I managed to recover from the Autobot medic."
Whether he believed the timely-curated lie or not, Megatron's overwhelming displeasure seemed to settle a notch. Reproducing and stabilizing the Synth-En formula was Knockout's top priority; taking him away for a comparatively trivial request was acceptable for a delay in arrival.
"That will have to be postponed for the moment, doctor. I have a far more pressing matter." The silver mech dismissed, clasping his servos behind his back, "Now that Optimus Prime has acquired the Star Saber, I have been searching for a way to even the playing field once more. I believe I have found a way, but I require your confirmation that it will succeed."
He began pacing back and forth on the bridge,
"As we have regrettably learned, the Forge of Solus Prime will only respond in the grasp of another prime. So enlighten me Knockout, if I were to obtain the original appendage of one such prime, would it grant me the ability to wield the forge?"
The Decepticon CMO thought about it for several breems, a servo folded under his chin as he worked the idea around his processor, but hesitantly began to nod.
"I suppose it could work... but it would have to be fully integrated with your systems, my liege. Your CNA is similar enough in composition that a graft shouldn't be rejected, though any limb you could retrieve has been dormant for so long that the nanites in it are far dead. It may be difficult to establish mobility, or any sensation at all." He started, freeing his servos to gesture vividly as he spoke,
"Forgive my wording, but your size difference may also be a problem. The original 13 primes were quite large: trying to transplant a limb of such caliber may hamper your equilibrium. Further, it would take a longer duration of time to adjust to, and I know you wouldn't withstand the required medical leave.
Then there's also a high possibility that the Dark Energon in your lines could severely alter, or completely inhibit your ability to "pilot" the appendage. We would be working with the blood of Unicron, against a force of Primus' direct descendance." Knockout finally finished his tangent, quietly gasping for air by the end.
Megatron huffed in response, annoyed that it was his poor life past decisions that proved a current fault in their situation.
"But the physical transplant could still work? I just need to depurate the Dark Energon from my systems?" He stressed, temporarily refraining from wearing a hole in the floor to stare at his chief physician instead.
"...In theory..."
"Then I request that you prepare the med bay for surgery. Dreadwing and I will return to you once we have secured an appropriate specimen." The leader of the Decepticons instructed, already reaching a digit up to his audial to inform the bulky seeker, "You are dismissed."
"Understood, my lord." Knockout intoned, and spun on his heel to leave the command deck.
He backtracked down a couple of halls before Soundwave rounded the corner in his direction, silent as ever, yet he could swear his nonexistent EM Field was bleeding with satisfaction. The medic let a single strand of code pass through his processor with concern for Cylas' condition, before squashing the subroutine and nodding toward the Communications Chief. It deserved whatever he had done to shut it up.
If only Knockout had the tanks to permanently shut it up himself...