Ep. 1 - Transition - [Closed]

[Flatline]

Basic maintenance was something everyone should do on a regular basis. It was obnoxious, and bothersome, often taking a decent chunk of time out of one's routine, but in the end? It helps to prevent many mental processor issues or other things from swinging up and compounding problems. However, slap atop this exceptional neglect, and general disarray due to the way his stases pod was deteriorating? And you had a heap of a mess that could take days to fix it all.

Really Flatline had to be a bit impressed with himself that he even survived the ordeal. It was almost as if there was a tiny breach in the stases pod, which had permitted his frame to degrade over the many vorns it was trapped underwater. It would certainly explain things well, since he rightfully should have come out of stases feeling just as he had when he went into it, although covered in the suspension gel. The details of the how did not really matter though, as it all came down to the aftermath and what was to come.

The Medic had a hard time just letting himself get worked on and repaired without snapping his own input. He cognitively could not handle repairing himself at the time, his addled processors and recovering dexterity meaning he was more likely to rip out a vital pipe than cut off a rusted spot. But this did not mean his vocals didn't work, and for the times he was conscious? When his torso panels weren't pulled open to replace the stripped gear or rotted wires? For all of the moments it was things he could see himself like his legs and arms? He and Knockout butted heads with verbal lashings at one another with so much sarcasm laced within each line it was almost toxic.

"Are you kidding me!? You can't use a NM-b cable there! Use a SER!"

"Oh FORGIVE ME, my medical training must have been mistaken when they informed me this connector was compatible with both types!"

"Oh I am sorry to CHALLENGE your diagnostic DOCTOR-"

Knock Out Scoffed

"-But you ARE aware that is attached to a SUBPANEL."

"This isn't my first repair, and this isn't a Romex to Service Entrance Cable!"

"Yes it is! I am looking right at it!"

"You aren’t seeing what I see!"

"You calling me untrained!?"

"Well if the boot clamp fits!"

"Oh ho ho, so funny-"

"I try my best-"

"Yeah well get the SER!"

"No need."

"AURGH!"

Needless to say, it was a very loud and angry series of repairs. It was to an extreme that some guards down the hall likely heard, not needing to get nearer to hear the entire conversation. But soon, Flatline was well off he no longer needed the others help. With his cognitive capabilities fully booted back online from the Energon infusions, he had a new situational awareness and clarity of mind that permitted him to absorb the environment for what it was.

He had been so hazy in thought, so clouded in judgments, he never really had a moment to absorb the quality of the infrastructure before, and the variety of tools and machinery in the Med Bay. With it lacked a couple non essential things that he was familiar with and accustomed to, it had so much more in means of prototypes and one of a kind machinery. Some of the stuff? He did not even recognize! It whirled his curiosity to no end, and he wanted to explore and tamper with them to see just what it was. But despite this longing, he had to hold back, he still had smaller calibrations to finish.

Flatline sat upon one of the metal slab tables that had been lowered back from its angled position, to a flat surface that he would not slide off of while resting. His thin digitigrade legs hung off of the edge, the joints lightly folded as the repaired hydraulics in one made a light hiss with subtle movements. His left forearm was draped down across his lap, where the long panel of metal had been opened and carefully removed to gain full access to the internal workings. With the armor plate gone, one could see the mass array of wires and cables.

Multiple small pistons were twined with wires, while further up the limb there were metal 'boxes' that sunk into the framework, each one currently empty, but capable of storing objects within the frame. Flatline's left hand gradually flexed, all of the tiny mechanics moving and twisting visibly with small clicks and whirs of the new oil pumping through the cylinder barrels. His right hand, held a minute calibrating device, the tool almost like a thick pen with a long needle branching off of its end. The needle sparked as a charge ran through it, Flatline running it alongside wires and sensory clusters. One by one he folded his fingertip to his palm, tapping the tool when the finger was fully closed, and when the digit was fully extended.

Flatline repeated this motion multiple times with each joint, reminding and refreshing the processor memory of just how far his fingers closed, and how far they could open. It was not a truly VITAL piece of maintenance, but it was somewhat needed for at least medics or engineers. If he did not? There was a capability he could get 'clumsy' with things and not grip a wire as tight as he should to drop and lose it inside a patient, or he could clutch it too tight and sheer the protective plastic coating. It was because of this, the Medic was very focused on his task.

When he worked, he tended to tunnel vision in on the subject at hand, not too aware of other individuals, or objects, unless there were multiple patients which could become distressing. But while he only had one subject to look after, himself, the silence of the area was getting a bit unnerving. He would hate to admit it, but if Knock Out came back, he would have enjoyed another of their spats, just to not be in the haunting silence of the Med Bay by himself. It reminded him of when he was on his ship for so many vorns. The isolation, the distress. Scavenging for survival, worrying where to go, not knowing where Energon could be found other than the bodies of those that were felled...

His form visibly shuddered a moment, the metal on his shoulders clinking as the gyros within whirled as if trying to shake off a bad feeling. He had to keep reminding himself he was not trapped here, that he could probably walk the halls right?... but what if he was not? He never got told he could go as he wished, just to report to the Med Bay. Was he trapped here by rules? Alone? His hand that had been working, slowly lowered, no longer pushing the needle into the clusters of machinery, while red optics blankly stared ahead in inner thought.

He was oblivious to things around him while his mind whirred.

[Deleted]

Megatron regarded the mech from just outside the doorway to the main body of the medical bay, his form still in consideration. There had been little data gleaned from Flatline's stasis pod, and Soundwave had only been able to compile a relatively basic profile of the Decepticon medic.

Flatline was skilled - that much was obvious in his self-modified frame, and in Knock Out's affronted reports that his patient was determined that he knew better at every avenue and was 'obstructing' his own treatment. Knock Out's ego and ruthlessness always made quick work of weeding out the laymans from the specialists, and his storming into the Decepticon Commander's office to complain that the mech was making his job impossible told Megatron a great deal about his potential.

That potential was... somewhat lacking in the scene before him; Flatline was distant, his field small, and his frame crisscrossed with the marks of extensive and invasive repairs. Knock Out had declared him fit to leave the medbay, however, and Megatron would not have any skilled mech on the Decepticon flagship sitting idle.

Megatron stepped forward, entering the room that Flatline occupied without ceremony, and narrowed his optics on the mech. Waiting for him to make an impression.

[Flatline]

Flatline's distant gaze continued to look out at the opposite wall, for the longest time there was no movement or visible emotional changes occurring to signify if he was even online. All he could think of was the long hours he would spend doing this very thing in his escape ship. No one to talk to, nothing to do but survive and exist. Conserving Energon by just... sitting dormant. It was a haunting feeling that felt like it made his Energon flow colder a moment. It was only after this lull, his optics did flick, as the rotating focus ring contracted the lens enough to actually see what he had been staring at. Once he could focus and see the keyboard and large screens? He seemed to tune back into reality, and turned back down to look at his exposed inner arm.

The Medic continued his work then, oblivious to the fact he was being watched. He assumed if he forced himself to keep working? That the silence would not bother him any longer, overshadowed with actually having a task. It was with this thought, he ran the electrified probe down along one of the tendon cables of the inner arm, the upper lip of his faceplate pulling some into a narrow sneer. But once this was done? Everything seemed to actually be DONE as he lifted his hand up in front of his face a few feet away.

Long spider like fingers flicked, doing everything from clapping together into one unified shape, to fanning out as far as they could, his optics scanning over the motions to try to calculate if he had done the calibrations properly or not. It was only after a few moments of this, he thought he saw someone out of the corner of his eye. Flatline started speaking with a low growl of a voice that sounded terribly unamused. It hissed out with confidence and decisive purpose.

"Look, I don't care what you say I am not going to ins-"

He had turned a bit while he spoke, and the sight that met him caused his Energon to truly run cold a moment, and his spark to halt function just as long.

Knock Out had not come in to harass him about some decisions he had made, and it was not just some guard looking in.

It was Megatron.

Flatline's lenses contracted sharply, so that his pupils were only that of tiny dots. His expressive features, seeming to drop severely from the snarled anger to a look of mortified horror. For all the fuel and repairs he had gotten? For how much better he had been feeling? It almost felt like his processor froze for the briefest of ticks, making it impossible to figure out what to say or do. He had started to snarl and sass back to his Lord!? Flatline's optics clicked over Megatron's frame a second, before he seemed to snap out of it.

"Lord Megatron!"

Flatline' declared this, while his exposed and unarmored limb swung up to plant a fist against his chest just over his spark chamber in a sort of salute. The motion was hard, a clank ringing out from the velocity in which it hit. After this salute, he slid down off of the slab, his post like feet clicking upon contact with the floor. If Megatron was standing? Then you stood as well. If Megatron sat? You made sure your head was lower than his. Never be above him, always below. To be at rest while he stood, was unwise. Flatline may have never met Megatron before, but he had that sort of programmed innate knowledge of what he thought he should do.

"How may I be of service?"

He kept his hand pulled up against his chest in the salute, while his forward angled neck, dipped his head down some. His red optics were barely visible beneath the arch of his helm, though they peered up at his leader carefully with two red slits, trying to determine if he was in trouble, or what was happening. While externally he now appeared much calmer, and ready to act, internally he was stressed, the fresh seams on his frame aching.

[Deleted]

The warlord had expected Flatline to kneel, as was the precedence for a first meeting. Given the mech's unusual frame structure, Megatron was inclined to believe that he could not do so easily and thus bowed instead. The exposure of the more vulnerable points on the back of his neck, and the overall lowering of his mass, achieved the same impression. Subservience. Respect.

"Knock Out informs me that you have been discharged from his care," he murmured, running his critical gaze across the open portion of Flatline's arm. "If you are fit to serve me, I would install you in an environment suited to your abilities."

He left it to Flatline to interpret whether that would be a medical laboratory or a facility dedicated to experimental and theoretical scientific pursuits. Given his profile, he was not certain what area Flatline could best serve in. Knock Out and his staff were already competent and efficient, and he doubted that the racing mech would appreciate sharing space with another senior medic with an ego. Similarly, he did not wish to place Flatline in Shockwave's company. With such a unique and extensive self-modifications, he would tempt Shockwave's curiosity, and that often didn't leave much to work with.

The smaller lab that had seen little use since arriving on Earth was available, and they had the resources to run it. It would depend on what Flatline wished to do in the basest of terms (create weapons; explore chemical enhancers; pursue optimisation through structural modification; probe at the very fabric of the universe to further space and groundbridge technology) as to what Megatron would give him.

Decepticon engineering had given them a substantial edge in this war a hundred times over, and though space on the flagship was limited, Megatron would see the pursuit of advancement nurtured.

He brought his hands behind his back, indicating that Flatline may stand at ease. His tone remained as flat and rich as before. "So: how may you be of service?"

[Flatline]

Flatline seemed on edge.

The doctor would get bolder in time, once he had a foundation and footing where he knew he had a niche and home. He would still fear Megatron's hand of course, but he would not be as downright anxious and radiating the anxiety as he did now. He just had to keep trying to remind himself over and over, that he was worth more alive, than he was dead. He had to hope that his skills and value held merit to earn a position.

Upon Megatron's words, Flatline's head raised slightly to peer up at him with a more leveled gaze. The helm was still angled slightly down respectfully, but he could watch for anger or hostility or any emotions that may be displayed easier. Once he absorbed what was spoken, he calmly replied, or... it sounded calm... internally he was wound tight like a spring.

"Indeed, I am within working order, and just need minimal calibrations to regain my steady hand."

The second part of his lord's words, did distract him some into trying to figure out what it had meant. It seemed to entail this was almost an interview on where to place him. This was only further confirmed, by the follow-up words asking him of how he could be of service.

The Medics eyes lidded a bit, while he took the cue from Megatron to stand upright once more into a calm stance. His shoulders rolled back, the gyros within recalibrating to his new torso angle with a few subtle whirs. He seemed to be in thought, contemplating just what he could do on this ship. But honestly? He had no idea what was NEEDED most. He dabbled in many fields, and because of this? He spoke up frankly.

"I carry multiple talents all centralized upon the physical framework of our kind. From health and medical needs, such as surgery and vital repairs to sustain life, as well as the superficial modifications to enhance a structure to perform other functions with greater efficiency."

While he stated this, his primary arm motioned up to the base of one of his secondary limbs, tracing the shape to outline and declare wordlessly that he had made the little arms himself.

"This also ranges down to the deep core Protoform Framework. Applicable to current living individuals, or those yet to be given a spark. I am able to build full frame mechs that upon activation function to their full capabilities, or compose the materials and machinery to create Hatchlings as I did before the war."

Ahh the Sparklings... looking at Flatline now, it was almost surreal to imagine him being a sort of Pediatrician for the little bots. Granted, his frame had changed much since then, and he now looked much unlike his spark-form. He was now jagged and harsh, personality worn to a honed edge through war and determination to earn a place.

"However with new life unable to be created by traditional means, my most recent work had been dedicated to trying to split and rip energy off of current living... subjects... to fuel the frames needed for war. However that requires a strong spark, and all... endeavors... thus far died instantly, or only lived for a maximum of an hour before the fabricated body rejected the spark energy and expelled it. My work in that field was cut off upon the evacuation, and subsequent Stases."

His fingers gingerly curled at this into a fist, a bit of a frown crossing his features. He was not pleased that a large chunk of his capabilities, had been rendered mute by the All-Spark going missing. Nonetheless, the more he spoke, and the more the alarm subsided from his system, the more confident he started to sound, his voice growing bolder.

"My skills are all at your service my Lord, I know not what your ship needs, or what would be most valuable for your goals and ambitions. But I have a hunger and NEED for knowledge, so I can transition my talents to serve other fields if needed."

He stood tall, prideful in his capabilities and work ethic. He just had to hope Megatron saw this, and would not place him as an assistant little runtling.

[Deleted]

It was immediately obvious that Flatline found security and contentment in his own work, a trait he shared with most scientists. His expertise with young sparklings was rather pointless given the loss of the All Spark and deactivation of Cybertron's core, but a few key words caught Megatron's attention.

Flatline, it seemed, did qualify for the laboratory space.

Seeing no need to remain in the Medbay, the Commander flicked his claws for the mech to follow and led them out into the corridor. Flatline could fine-tune his limbs with the instruments in the lab, and Megatron wished to see one who had spent so long in stasis and solitude acclimatized to life on the Nemesis as soon as possible.

As the Decepticon flagship, the ship was never truly quiet. They had stepped out of the Medbay midway during the third duty shift, when most of the officers were relieved and the corridors were quieter. The Medbay was located midway between main engineering and the Eradicon manufacturing plant, and thus saw a great deal of traffic on the main concourse.

Megatron spoke as they followed the narrower corridor out towards the main concourse, passing only two Eradicons on the way. The Commander did not acknowledge their crisp salutes as he passed.

"You will find, Flatline, that a growing number of the Eradicons on board the Nemesis have evolved beyond their original coding. So far as we can determine, the change originates in the spark of the drone which in turn broadens the cognitive matrix of the processor. Likely this is a natural maturation, unexpected and it was not anticipated that the units would remain active for this long."

The main concourse was larger and still bustling despite the hour. There were very few mecha not of the drone's frame type, and cross-beams ideally suited to lurking cassettes swept overhead. Eradicons were clustered in small groups, talking or transmitting in their own shortband as they walked or idled. They left Megatron and Flatine a wide berth and there was a slight drop in volume, but they largely remained as they were.

Megatron took them to the right and down the middle, towards the lift to the laboratories below. The labs were contained near the belly of the ship, structurally partitioned so that they could be jettisoned if the need arose. It would take them several minutes to reach them.

"These 'awakened' Eradicons, most of which are Vehicons, are now, for all intents and purposes, unique individuals. Whilst their skill set is uniform, individuals are now showing certain aptitudes." He cast the mech an appraising look. "As you seem uniquely qualified in frame modification, you may be suited to specialising some of the Eradicons to better perform their tasks. As mass produced, cold-cast Cybertronians, their sparks can be difficult to negotiate past base manufacture and require a specialist's careful attention."

They had reached the lift, and the doors opened into a space large enough to hold multiple energon pallets. It was a similar size to the room where Megatron had found Flatline only minutes ago, and hummed quietly when the appropriate keys were tapped into the panel.

"Breakdown oversees the Eradicons on board the Nemesis." There was a pause as the doors closed. Megatron regarded Flatline's profile as they descended, considering. Finally he added, "With regards to individuals among them, I would refer you to Fairwinds. She knows many of them well in an informal capacity."

[Flatline]

Flatline was hoping for some kind of reply, some kind of phrase or word to show that Megatron perhaps had an idea of some use for him. However nothing was said, there only a wordless motion for Flatline to follow. This caused him to pause a moment, before he reeled about and grabbed hold of his arm plate hastily. There was a few loud clicks, as he slammed one end of the plate against the seam opening nearest his elbow, before it pivot shut together with a hiss of internal components re-sealing. He flexed the hand to double check things were ok, before he quickly pursued his Lord.

Acclimation was... frankly? Going to take time. The war was only so far when the escape pod had shuttled off, and as such there was much he had missed out on. Much advancement of goals, and likely much with technology. It would not take him long to catch up if given reign of a computer to research though, his almost psychotic addiction to knowledge deranging any normal pacing to learning. It was almost a glitch compulsion where he would try to consume information as much as possible to keep his upper hand. Besides, he had a solid foundation already formed.

Flatline followed his Lord with his head still angled down, red eyes cast ahead of him to the path they were walking. He tried to keep tabs on where they were, so he did not get lost in the building. That would be an embarrassment he did not wish to partake in. While they passed the Eradicon, the medic's gaze scrutinized them as if viewing a piece of technology rather than another living thing for the short time he could as they passed.

Finally Megatron spoke, though what was said gave him pause in his advancement. For a moment, he even stopped walking, his upper frame rolling forward then back to regain balance as he halted all forward momentum. His eyes were wide, as he tried to process some cannon fodder were growing advanced sentience. There was a well of panic in such regard as well, as if something so disposable, something sent on suicide missions, something that could be THROWN AWAY could realize you were being unjust? There were possibilities for rebellion was there not? Protests and spoken words against it. Flatline hurried then to catch up, his footfalls making high clanks against the metal flooring. He wanted to speak, but it seemed his Lord still had more to say, so he held his tongue.

When they entered into the main concourse, Flatline could not help but warily peer at the mass of drones. How to know which was truly cognitive, and which were not. Wondering what they may be planning, what may be ticking through their processors. It was a sort of ingrained distrust, since the mini war upon the escape ship of scientists and medics alike, back-lashing for personal survival. He tried to smother this though, following Megatron closely, behind his step, but to his side. The position was chosen to not be directly behind his master, not in a blind spot, but also not directly at his side, not wishing to act as if he were even close to some equal.

Following words form Megatron, made him turn his head a bit, giving his Lord a confused look as if he had just spouted off gibberish. He understood the words, he understood what was asked of him, but he could not process exactly WHY offhand. Though it seemed like it was a backwards way of getting new true life rather than hatchlings or cold-cast... but still... they were Eradicons! They were disposable!? Would they not see and understand what you order the mentally blind ones to do?

He entered the lift, and kept once more to the back corner, trying to keep stock of where they were while raging his internal debate on the subject at hand. Eventually he saw an opportunity that would gift him an appropriate time to speak, assuming, hopefully correctly! That Megatron was done speaking for a moment.

"My Lord, I ask forgiveness, but I must inquire WHY it is a good thing to modify and improve cannon fodder that has gained cognitive understanding. Does it not bring you alarm to have them gaining such sentience? I would not wish for them to protest given their less than savory... or possibly suicidal... objectives given to them or their peers, no?"

He looked up at the display as the lift descended down, the rotating rings in his eyes spinning slightly to focus in on the lettering that was clicking by. Perhaps it was a bit racist to view the Eradicons as completely separate things... but it could not be helped.

"Whatever the case, I can accomplish such a task if given enough time to study the particular manufacturing specs and information on their build. I assume this... Fairwinds...? has the information on the subjects that would destine what modifications are to be made to each individual? Or is there an overarching theme you desire such as brawlers or..."

He trailed off, and for a moment he clicked his teeth plate in inner thought. The motion was almost a habitual thing he did without thinking, the sharp jagged like edge grating some. He just hoped he was not asking too many questions, but... he wanted to do his job RIGHT.

"Lastly, are there less than applicable, or... damaged... ones that can be used as... disposable control tests...?"

He would hate to try a new code installing something, only for it to fry the processor of one that was meant to be hopeful. To even have one broken drone that he could slap code into, test, and then wipe clean and try to reboot for something new could be irreplaceable to the successful upgrading of others.

[Deleted]

The warlord's field already filled the elevator, but now it turned almost suffocating. There was a crackle of anger under a noticeable wave of surprise. Megatron turned to face Flatline fully, his expression hard.

"It was the Functionalist belief that one could not, ought not aspire to be anything more than what they were built for that sparked the revolution," he murmured. The impact of his voice was not lessened by the subdued volume. "The refusal to change that belief, to deny the so-called 'drop castes' and 'cogs' of the disposable class a name and personhood, triggered the war."

Megatron considered Flatline in silence for the descent of two floors. The mech had been in stasis for the vast majority of the war; had missed his rhetoric, the exposure of the corrupt Senate's past transgressions; the rise and domination of the heavy-labour builds over the Towerlings in the warzone.

He presumed that Flatline was holding a distinction between drones and the disposable class he had once been a part of. Certainly he would not bear the symbol of a miner turned revolutionary if he held Functionalist sentiments.

Megatron would, he decided, give Flatline the benefit of the doubt.

He turned back to face the closed doors, optics narrowing. "Use the drones for your... riskier tests, and ensure that they are not in the process of gaining true sentience prior. I believe Shockwave still possesses several suitable units."

A beat, then he added: "Make no mistake: the 'cannon fodder', as you so call them, have sworn fealty to me and to the Decepticon cause. They go nowhere I would not go myself, and fight alongside my officers as soldiers. As such, they warrant your respect."

[Flatline]

The change in the fields was painfully apparent, and Flatline somewhat shied away to press against the metal wall of the lift as it descended. His frame was pushed so flush against it; he almost 'locked' himself into the corner, his small post like legs angled severely in order to keep him pinned. Even before Megatron spoke, he could tell he had downright screwed up on a core level, and this was just punched home further at the following words that bore into him. Flatline didn't make eye contact, more out of fear of losing a limb, than a sign of disrespect. He honored his Lord, but dared not look in his optics in fear it would look like he was challenging his words at all, taking the wrench back in line with strides.

Flatline refused to let his pride and boldness show, not when he was no new, not when he didn't know the subtle cues to look out for. While it felt almost surreal to be so meek, clashing with his typical persona, he also felt if he tried anything he could just be expelled off the ship like worthless scrap. The last thing he wanted was to fall to his death, seeing it coming, KNOWING it was coming... nope...

With a click, the quill like spikes on either side of his spine flattened down flush with his framework while the turrets on his shoulders almost tried to do the same by pulling back. The motion was futile though, as the weaponry could not fold away, landing with them more angled towards one another and slightly behind Flatline. The barbs on the harpoons were clapped closed and not fanned out in any way.

Indeed Flatline did have a distinction between the two. He had always thought of the Eradicons as incapable of greater cognitive capabilities, housing zero possibility of evolution, as if it was hard programmed into their very processors. To try to develop and grow such complex components on one's own biological evolution, was laughably absurd in his eyes, yet, here he was being proven wrong. Here he was being told that these bots had somehow gained something unique and cherished during the time he was locked away.

"I beg forgiveness my Lord, I just never thought they were physically capable to achieve such grand and impressive bounds of evolution. I believed the internal components needed were far too advanced and complicated to naturally form and permit the surpassing of base core parameters without outside influence and aid. I reacted brashly, responding as if it were one of the computer server databases growing cognitive sentience."

He spoke meekly, trying to explain himself. He should have just remained silent, should have shut his trap, but he felt a need to try to smooth over the proverbial ruffled feathers so he did not look like such a dolt.

"I will look upon them as if any other of equal sentience."

Respect was a bit of an edged word. Sure he would respect their lives, and their ability to think and feel, but true respect to them at a core level? HAH HAH Nooo he was not quite there yet, but he would dare not mention that. It would take some time before he could even look into their emotionless visor faces and not just think 'computer'.

[Deleted]

Flatline's mortification and anxiety were palpable. Megatron did nothing to ease him, leaving the lesson to be burned clearly in the mech's processor. While he understood Flatline's surprise at the capability of the Eradicon psyche to evolve beyond its limitations, he had no wish for that to be the point of interest. It simply was; mysterious or not. Like Dark Energon, there were simply some things in the universe that could not be entirely explained...

The lift stopped, the doors opened, and they were admitted into a corridor dim by even the Nemesis' standards. As they stepped out, sensors brought the lights up in a ticking wave running ahead and around the curved corner.

"Come," Megatron intoned, his field calmed. "There is a labnot currently in use that should suit your needs."

Said lab was the second they came to, accessed by a keypad and spark-signature scanner. The lights inside came on automatically when they stepped inside, and though the space was clean and organised, it was obvious that the previous occupant had preferred a gloomy, sinister ambiance.

Megatron turned to the hunched mech. "There is a computer terminal, and the Nemesis database is at your disposal. If you should require an assistant or staff for menial work, that may be arranged."

He motioned to another doorway at the rear of the lab, situated between two deep alcoves containing equipment, sample containers, and vials of some unknown green substance. "Through there is a space suitable to use as quarters. If you would prefer the room repurposed, you will be accommodated elsewhere. Questions thus far?"

[Flatline]

Things that could not be explained? Things that COULD NOT be explained!?

Oh no... no no no... Flatline would have none of that. Megatron may be all fine with that nonsense, but the medic's psychotic dedication and obsession to knowing everything in play, made such loopholes maddening to him. To not know, to just accept something was the way it was for some abstract reason, was like trying to walk atop crumbling ground, hoping it stayed that way out of some blind wish. No. He wanted to know WHY the ground was crumbling, what was keeping it from collapsing, what could reinforce it to make it better, and if not, at what point it would fail if at all.

Needless to say, Flatline may go absolutely mad for a week if he got an opportunity to study Dark Energon before he calmed down enough to not try to just hurl it across the room in a vain attempt of understanding. Any unanswered questions would always bother him though, even if he tried to hide it and returned to 'normality'. This would apply to the Eradicons. He already wanted to pull ones helm off and back, to expose the processor and directly see what was going on.

Finally the lift stopped, and the on-edge medic looked up to view which floor they had arrived at so he knew how to get back to this place at a later date. Megatron's calmer field, permitted Flatline's own to creep back up from fear and panic to a more normal state of being. Taking up his position behind and to the right once more, he strode after his Lord carefully, observing the surroundings with a scrutinizing gaze.

A lab not currently in use?... does that mean... he would have his own lab!? His own area again!? He would not be some minion dancing around another's work, but instead be able to freely maneuver and work on his own goals?! Organize it to his flow of motion and preference?

Flatline could not help the wicked grin that pulled back across his faceplate, a grin that grew even more so when they entered the lab and he got to view what would be his domain. His optics glanced across all of the machinery, and took in everything that his Lord said about the back quarters. Carefully, he strode forward, approaching one of the machines that were stationed on the side of the room. He fanned out his right hand, and slid it across its surface, cleaning off a bit of dust. While the lab had not been used in some time, the display code of what the machine was, relayed just how advanced a piece of technology it was, causing Flatline's field to spike up with almost an eagerness to want to start preparations.

"None whatsoever my lord. Just gratitude."

His frame stooped forward a bit, his left hand planting down onto the ground a moment while his back animal like limbs slid beneath him into one 'step' to the side, before he went upright to observe the shelving units with the vials of green fluid. His head bobbed from one side to the next, to observe and not touch the material he didn’t have identified, before he knelt down a bit to look at the lower shelf, spindly fingertips moving back a small piece of machinery on the ledge, to expose others behind it.

The pure unhindered curiosity and eagerness to learn, displayed that Flatline would not be one to sit 'idle' once he was cut free with a goal. But he knew he could not go full exploration and take stock yet, for there may be other things he needed to know. With a heavy heart he pulled himself from viewing the storage, to look back at Megatron, the spines on his back flicking slightly.

[Deleted]

Watching Flatline begin to investigate his new lab was much like watching Fairwinds empty a stolen shipping crate, circling and climbing and poking and peering with a sparkling-like curiosity and delight. With the mech's rather unusual frametype, the similarity was a little unsettling.

Flatline seemed to remember that he wasn't alone, standing once more with composure more befitting of his position. Megatron nodded in approval that he had been listening whilst he explored.

Taking a step forward, the warlord considered the mech in silence for a moment. He wanted to impress upon Flatline that this laboratory and freedom to work was a privilege easily lost, not a right granted to his abilities.

"Do not mistake this for generosity, Flatline," he murmured, a quiet but undeniably present note of warning in his tone. "I will expect you to produce results that I can use, not products of your own amusement."

The moment passed and his intensity eased back closer to baseline, though that was still mountainous. "I will have Fairwinds meet with you tomorrow, once you have settled. Shockwave works on this deck as well, and will be available if you have any problems."

[Flatline]

((Taking a risk here XD But hey, I feel it could fit considering some of the nonsense concocted up while talking to others about how awful his job had to be before the war. If it is too much? If you feel this is out of line? Than let me know and I can tweak it easily.))

When Megatron replied, Flatline's head rose a bit and tilted to the side. He did not seem threatened, he did not seem to see the warning, or if he did? He obviously did not care for a change. This was something that did not scare him. Megatron would have had to yell what he had said to cause him to flinch back, and even then? It would have just been the volume and the anger that did it more so than the terms themselves.

"But Lord Megatron, don't you see thoes are both the same?"

He said this a bit boldly, his right hand raised with the palm angled up to motion with this matter-of-fact statement. It is because of this, his grin peeled back further, the lip edge moved so far at the outer corners it was exposing the edge of his teeth plate all the way to where they connected to the underlying form. The teeth plate was gnarled and broken so much that some areas almost overlapped in spots like a razors edge zipper

"I find great enjoyment in what I do since the war! Great pride! And this is not me trying to make first impressions, this is the TRUTH... But really..."

His aura shifted then, more to some animosity and anger. The red optics slid to the side some, not looking at anything in particular. His hand that had been raised now lowered a bit so that the elbow was angled down, and the palm was curled to hover in front of his chest. The long sharp edge of his forefinger, ground absently upon the thumb, as if trying to pick and sift through the words that shifted through his processor.

"Any job applied to me would be a reprieved vacation after working with shrieking Sparklings and irate parents that do not understand that I can't just arbitrarily ADD components to a hatchling formed by their own CNA. If you wanted to customize them down to the optic color and frame, why didn't you just cold-form them instead of going through the insanely expensive process of growing one!?"

Flatline's vocals had started to raise a bit, gradually amping until he was yelling at nothing in particular. His optics no longer even cast Megatron's way, as if forgetting he was there while flashbacks of before the war came crashing back in a tidal wave. Really, one should have PTSD stress like responses to things DURING the war, not BEFORE. But this was Flatline... and he did deal with Towerlings on a regular basis.

"BUT NOOO! Hoity-toity rich bots want the best of both worlds! Changing minds part way through growth of the bud when it already has life. Screaming their sparkling doesn't transform yet! THEY ARE FIVE DAYS OLD! Of course they won't! OH OH And don’t forget when a Sparkling VOMITS and they want to RETURN it for being DEFECTIVE! Oh NOOOOooo a under formed hatchling you need to nourish and grow to your standards has issues at times processing food... that’s WHAT THEY DO"

The spines on his back were completely up, vents seething and hissing out air as his inner motors churned, wanting to lash out but not making connections to the hydraulics that would power his limbs to do so. After a moment, his tone dropped rapidly back down to a calm one, reasonable, 'sane', as if he were talking to a customer.

"Oh but you're paying out the aft for this, it is expensive, I understand. It is costing practically an arm leg, and loss of five servants to pay for... or other nonsense... But that’s what you must do for something that holds great social status and possible prominence formed from both donors. But I am not Primus! I can't just pull a talking, non vomit, transforming, perfect paint job, always clean baby out my aft and display it as some heavenly thing of glitter and magic!"

The last bit of course was one final screech. His frame was hunched over, arms curled under him as the long fingers were clenched into tight fists so much so it strained at the cables. The spines were still upright, twitching gradually, as he seemed to zone back into normality and what was happening in front of him. The red optics twitched, before shifting over to view Megatron. An awkward cough slid out, as he then tried to smooth his proverbial 'ruffled feathers' standing back upright.

"No but really my Lord, any job you apply to me will be savior from those days. I gratefully look forward to enhancing your armies to the best of my capabilities in order to serve your needs."

[Deleted]

Flatline's shift into animated loquaciousness was so abrupt it drew a genuine look of surprise on the Decepticon Commander's features, the angular planes of his brow lifting dramatically until irritation schooled his expression.

This was the Decepticon flagship, and Megatron commanded an army of soldiers. Flatline had been in stasis for millennia whilst their species tore themselves apart, had contributed nothing, and now presumed to act with familiarity in his presence.

About five seconds into the soliloquy, Megatron reached for the countertop to his immediate right with every intention of smashing it down on the mech. Six seconds in, his hand tightened on the polished metal to crush it into a mangled ribbon instead. Centuries of not killing Fairwinds was all that saved Flatline's mesh. He had built a significant tolerance to whiplash fits of hyperactive chatter, though he certainly never thought he would need it outside of their quarters.

The actual content of Flatline's speech -petty, hyperbolic annoyances stuck in the past- was of no interest to him. Everyone within the Decepticon ranks, without exception, held some sort of resentment against the Tower mecha. They had been the ones to benefit most significantly from the corruption in society, and the most ardent and powerful voices against change. There had been few survivors and even less architecture left when Megatron was done with them.

However, this was not the time or place for Flatline to air his grievances in this manner. And certainly not to his Lord.

When Flatline regained himself, Megatron was on top of him instantly. One massive hand scooped under the mech's throat, closing tight enough to grip without constricting any lines, and lifted until he was off his modified pedes.

Megatron snapped him close, right into the black miasma of his field. Optic to optic, he voice was a subsonic growl. "Do not forget your place in my presence again."

Then the mech was dropped - an act of mercy if ever there was one - and the Commander was turning to leave.

[Flatline]

What had he done? He had let his emotions run wild; he had let his mind trigger off into a side road of thought. He had always been so good about this sort of stuff, always been able to remain cool and collected. Why had he branched into such a thing? True, it was all rage he had felt, it was all things he harbored that he hated and wanted to vent, but this was Megatron!

Perhaps it was the gratitude he had experienced, the fact he had just been gifted a wonderful opportunity that lowered his guard. The misplaced feeling that his Lord? The very one he had always been told was some brutal monster? Was being GENEROUS in a way. How misguided, how foolish, how stupid, and he didn't notice it until it was all said and done, and his optics saw what had happened to the countertop.

Oh...

Flatline could feel the spines on his back go upright, not in anger as they had before, but in fear, terror. His form starting to duck down and to the side, as if planning to throw himself onto the ground. While he knew it'd be BAD for him to try to dodge, as if by some hand of Primus he actually managed to somehow? It would only compile the anger in his Lord. But the motion was unprocessed, unthought, meant to survive more so than any act of logic. Luckily, he didn’t get but a few inches to the side other than his posture change, before he realized he was grabbed and his feet didn't have traction.

Digitigrade limbs stretched post straight for a change, the small toes flaring out as if trying to grasp and claw for a ground it could not reach. At the same motion, Flatline's hands swung up violently, grabbing onto his Lords' wrist, another action of panic over logic. It was only after the suffocating darkness of the field flooded over him that he stopped squirming. There was a hiss as the hydraulics in his legs gently folded somewhat, no longer stretched out or flailing, while the clutching grasp his hands had dropped away.

The field was suffocating, pushing Flatline's own down into complete meek terror. There was no longer joy, there was no longer excitement or gratitude, nothing but unhindered unfiltered horror as he was suspended by his neck. The Medic's vocalizes did not want to work any longer at this point, as he simply nodded as best he could and as hastily as he could in understanding of what had been said. The words Megatron had said? Would burn into his processor like a brand, the smoldering scar of which would be remembered for a very long time.

When he was dropped, he landed unceremoniously with a clatter, large hands splayed out to keep his chest and head from hitting, but his legs sliding against the ground so that he was dropped down onto his knees. This was for the best, as he was not sure if his gyros even were relaying information properly to his shocked mind, so even if he had been placed on his feet? He would have lost balance and crumpled anyway.

It is here Flatline remained, planted upon his knees, his form stooping over them to take on a bowing stance, his head nearly touching the crest upon it to the ground itself from the severity of it. He had his forearms stretched out in front of him, the palms down, fingers splayed, further giving the subservient look, as so easily one of the delicate pieces of machinery the medic RELIED on could be stepped on and crushed. He would remain here, submissive, until his Lord was gone, as he doubted he would be asked to stand.