Chapter Text
An ideal cannon fodder is a soldier that does not fear death, its life easily reduced to inconsequential statistics.
Thus, a certain mech only finds it logical that warrior-class Vehicons are to be programmed with low self-preservation protocols; however, it would not be their default. It would be wasteful if the Decepticons were to lose valuable numbers and resources from preventable accidents caused by recklessness.
There needs to be a balance within the self-preservation modules— between which warnings can be acted upon and which can be disregarded; when to avoid danger and when to engage with it.
Fear can be a reasonable emotion, Shockwave supposes. Fight or flight, but the Decepticons have no need for foot soldiers who would flee unless ordered to.
So, Shockwave decides to tie the Vehicons’ combat systems to the nullification of their self-preservation protocols; the soldiers will lose their fear of termination when in active battle. Of course, their combat systems will only come online when confronted by identified adversaries.
Not hostiles, Shockwave would have to clarify. After all, it would be illogical for a lowly soldier to have their combat systems activated in a need to protect themselves against violent punishments issued by their own superiors.
The Vehicons need a healthy fear of Decepticon authority, lest they question their loyalty to the cause that necessitated their existence.
There was no hindsight to be drawn from a scenario too outrageous, too impossible, too unbelievable to even occur.
A second consciousness borne from death, merging with its new host. Overriding them. It didn't take long for the host's programming to be overwritten by alien memories, experiences, and individuality. The host was designed to be dispensable, their will intended to be weak-- they never stood a chance against a creature known for its tenacity to be seen.
How was one supposed to predict the combined outcome of a Vehicon’s nullified fear settings and the whimsicality of a human?
I don't think I’m as scared as I should be in this situation, you think to yourself, baffled, as you go through the chores assigned to the Vehicon body you recently hijacked. It's a familiar routine, your frame sliding into the motions of jobs done a million times before.
Your designation is F-E572, an elite flight frame under the direct command of Commander Starscream. You are not to be deployed unless Commander Starscream, himself, is deployed with you as you are his assigned reinforcement— or, y’know, Lord Megatron orders you otherwise.
But also, you were once a human from what seems to be another dimension, considering Transformers don't exist in your world outside of entertainment. You try not to dwell on that; you don't like a repeat of your existential crisis when you first woke up in the Vehicon barracks.
It's been three days since then, and you think you've got a good general gist of where you are in the Prime timeline.
Breakdown is long dead, Shockwave is part of the Nemesis along with the Insecticons, and the Predacon has yet to be Predaking— you're somewhere in Season three, which optimistically, means the end of the war is nearing. Pessimistically? The worst has yet to come.
Considering you have yet to hear stories about contagious vampire-zombie bites, common sense dictates that you really shouldn't be looking forward to that; that you should escape while you still can.
Your mind, however, seems content to just… go with the flow. After all, you're curious— to see everything up close. You suppose you can take advantage of any presented opportunity to escape, but…
Eh, you shrug to yourself before moving on. Whatever happens happens.
To Knockout, it begins with a genuine,
“Thank you, doctor.”
Knockout stares dumbfoundedly at his current patient— a flight-framed Vehicon— his intake agape at the unexpected gratitude.
At first, Knockout was irritated at the foot soldier for being caught in a preventable accident by the ship engine’s hydraulics— their arm flattened when they weren't too hasty in removing their appendage from the crushing path of a descending piston. The fix was easy, yes, but it's such a waste of spare parts and his time!
And he won't even be thanked for it, because it's considered his job! Ugh, the nerve of the troopers. Just because they can live off their day-to-day lives with ungratefulness, doesn't mean they should extend it to other bots!
So, one can understand that when his patients typically (ungratefully) only shrug off his efforts and leave without any words, Knockout isn't really used to, well, this.
“Uh…” Knockout hesitates, his temper simmering down to confused contentment. “You're… welcome.”
“Any requests before my departure, doctor?” The Vehicon politely— politely!— asks him, and once again, Knockout is caught off-guard by the considerate question.
“... Not at the moment, no,” Knockout eventually answers.
“Alright then,” the Vehicon says, making their way to the exit. “Have a good day, doctor Knockout.”
“Wait!” Knockout isn't really quite sure what goaded him into this. Could be curiosity, could be simple appreciation, could even be a deprivation of such rare courtesies in this Unicron-damned ship. He asks, “What’s your designation?”
“Oh, it's F-E572.” F-E572 lightly waves at him, before taking their leave.
Knockout thinks they ought to have a more memorable name if they're gonna leave an impression like that.