[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]Cruor [Closed]

[Flatline]

Episode 2.5 | Week 1 | Day 1 | Midnight


It was the dead of night, the sun long departed, and moon hanging high above the Nemesis as it rolled lazily over a slumbering world below. While the ship would never be truly vacant through its winding halls and twisting corridors, it was peaceful in a way. Workers keying down for rest, the night crew initialized to take charge, while drones filtered out to start cleaning up any messes left behind from a busy day. It was through one of these hallways an individual strode, seeking solitude and avoiding the paths of Vehicons and Drones alike. Its strides were long and controlled, soft clicks of footfalls that would be rather recognizable by any and all that pay attention to the inhabitants of the ship.

While many of the main halls could be empty and devoid, the Medical Bay was another subject all together. Injuries could strike at any time, and the Cybertronian that called it 'theirs' would likely be around or on call at any given moment. It was this that Flatline was counting on, and would exploit at these late hours. Because of this fact, a sharp hiss rang out abruptly in the Medical Bay, its large doors spiraling out of the way rapidly with well tended to mechanics to reveal the black painted individual.

Flatline didn't immediately proceed any further, instead halting in place to look into the sterile environment with care and consideration. He would be lying if he said he wasn't envious of now much nicer this part of the ship was to his own lab, and harboring envy about the tools and devices he could readily see, but it was only logical. Any delays in getting to the working internals of the area, or not having the proper tools, could cause the death of an individual that may just be hanging on by a few fibrous threads. That said... the envy was strong, and it typically would show on his features with a sneer or a scowl of bitterness. When he wasn't a grouch ((or had a scheming plan)), he tended to sport a wicked smirk, betraying some plot, or goal, or having something he wanted to hold over their resident 'medic's' face...

This was absent.

Flatline appeared tired, and worn down, looking like he had been put through the wringer the last few days and was barely holding himself together. His features were deadened, drug down somewhat, with his eyes softening to a distant look. The optics themselves seemed pale, washed out and sickly, so that the brilliant red tones were now muted shadows of what they had once been. Despite this, he looked about the work area, taking a moment to appreciate or more... wallow in even more envy at just what was before him, before he half stepped forward upon seeing the Medic at last. It appeared Knock Out was busy filing a few last documents, and though Flatline did somewhat step in his direction, he never really left the doorway, leaving the mechanism pulled aside.

Sharp angled teeth were exposed then, his lips peeling back in dismay at the sight of the brilliant red Cybertronian. He was so clean cut, so polished, he didn’t look as if he did an ounce of work in his life, and he looked as if he didn’t know what it even meant to get his hands dirty while trying to save a life. His appearance alone caused Flatline's metaphorical blood to boil, and the quills running down his back flicked and bristled up in small twitches as a tell for the emotions surging through him. But... no... he had to try to not resort to instant insults. He had to try to pull himself back together. Besides, he couldn't stand in the doorway forever, knowing that Knock Out had to have heard him and was probably staring him down while he waged this internal battle.

"Very well Knock Out, let us say you won this little round."

Flatline spoke evenly, calm, stepping fully into the room so that the doors would finally slide closed behind him with a swift snarl of mechanics. His hand rose while he spoke, a medical plunger grasped firmly within its grip. The plunger was half empty of its contents, a yellow fluid sloshing around inside the tool while he waved it around, using subtle jabbing motions of the reinforced needle to punctuate his words.

"I have been feeling unwell the past week or so, and despite all my training am unable to pinpoint an issue..."

The words felt like venom falling out of his mouth, each one making nausea bubble and boil in his tanks in angry dismay. He hated this. He hated every second of it, and it was a sharp contrast to what had happened the other week. It was funny when Knock Out had to seek him for help, covered in filth, and whining about misfortune, but this here wasn't great. He felt stupid, ignorant, and untrained for not even knowing what was happening. This wasn't a situation in which he knew the problem, and just had to ask Knock Out to sanction the use of a chemical or compound mixture to remedy, no. All he knew was that something was WRONG and that was the bottom line.

Either way, after he said this, he reached his other hand up to grind its palm into his eye, rubbing at it anxiously. The optic burned, it felt uncomfortable, and it was driving him insane. He couldn't even stop rubbing it long enough to speak again, half muttering into his palm as he spoke.

"Will you be able to see me or must I make an 'appointment'."

Sassy.

Sarcastic.

A biting remark.

Punctuated a moment later by ragged coughing that rattled through his vents.

[Knock Out]

Sometimes, Knock Out enjoyed the quiet. The pristine cherry-red Mech who loved nothing more than being the center of attention did find an odd comfort in the silence that usually came from the dead of night on the Nemesis. He'd had a very long and rather unfulfilling day, and was finally winding down. Even though he hadn't done anything of note today in terms of work (hence unfulfilling), he found himself rather drained and wanting to be alone. He'd spent hours wandering the DMZ and being social to pass the time, and to get out of doing some work for once. He'd met that pretty Autobot femme... Which'd led to drinking, and then some dancing... He'd lingered long after she had excused herself, polishing off a few extra sneaky cubes of high-grade. That was probably the highlight of the day. The drinking.

Sadly, life went on even without him here on the Nemesis, and while Breakdown had done an amazing job of seeing to the Vehicons and Drones that needed their basic weekly checkup today? The paperwork was always left to the Chief Medical Officer. He wanted it that way. As much as he trusted his partner, he wanted the paperwork to be in good standing order, and done properly. He ran a tight ship in the Medical Bay, even if he himself sometimes avoided the place like the plague for one of his excursions. He was a hard worker and an amazing Medic. He took great pride in his work, but there was something about doing the same checkups day in day out that drove him insane sometimes, hence this insatiable need to escape every now and then.

Doing the paperwork while his processor was buzzing from the high-grade was probably a mistake, but it kept him focused. He had a small half-finished cube of rations on the desk next to him, which was also helping to sober him up. He wanted it to wear off a little before returning to his shared quarters. Having to explain to Breakdown why he'd spent the day drinking was... Well, less than appealing. Even if Breakdown understood that Knock Out needed to get away sometimes, there was something about him avoiding work to drink that wouldn't be taken as well. Even if he hadn't actually intended on spending the day drinking and dancing with an Autobot, it'd happened. He could hide that part of the story, but the high-grade would've been more obvious. 

So Knock Out worked. Catching up on the paperwork that'd built up throughout the day. In silence. Perfect, almost tranquil, silence. The only noise being the low hums and whirs of the equipment in the Medical Bay, and he'd long grown used to those and found them soothing. The main thing was, is that it was quiet. 

But it wouldn't last long. It usually never did.

The abrupt hiss of the doors spiraling open and cutting through the silence made him flinch. Had Breakdown come to check up on him? He'd told him not to wait up! He knew he should've locked the doors. Even though he was technically on call 24/7, which he didn't mind at all – it reminded him of the war when things were more exciting, and of course was all part of the job description – he didn't want to be bothered tonight unless it was an absolute emergency.

Whoever it was hadn't entered the room fully, despite opening the doors, and Knock Out would lean away from the massive cabinets to glance over to see who it was.

Aah. Flatline. This must be payback for what Knock Out did to the other medic only a couple of short weeks ago when he'd barged his way into his lab and demanded to be fixed. Only there was no barging here, and no demands. At least not yet.

There was something different about the other mech, and Knock Out had noticed it instantly – it was hard not to. His optics were paler than normal, and he took note of his quills twitching slightly. He seemed... Not himself. He wasn't even doing that sneering or curling his lip in distaste thing he usually did when entering the Medical Bay, which was another obvious sign that something was off. Knock Out knew from his last visit to Flatline's lab that the other medic should probably be in recharge by now, so he was even more curious as to what'd brought him here at this hour.

“I won this round? Can't say that I was aware we were even fighting over anything, Flatline. But I'll take any victory I can get, I suppose.”

He'd turn to face Flatline fully, leaning back against the cabinet for support – still a tiny bit unsteady on his pedes thanks to the lingering high-grade in his system, and not wanting to give Flatline reason to hold that over him. His body-weight closing one of the drawers, and he'd fold his arms loosely across his chassis once he was fully leaning against it. His gaze shifting to the plunger of... Whatever the frag that was, before he'd lock his optics onto Flatline's once more. He was confused by the comment, and was about to question it - that was until Flatline continued to speak.

“Unwell?” He hummed in thought, before tsk'ing softly and dropping his arms to his sides to show he was listening and not about to brush off Flatline's concerns. “And you waited a week before coming to me? I expected better!” Then again, it wasn't like he could talk. If he wasn't so damn vain, or had plans the day after his wheel got twisted by their Warlord? He would've put off visiting Flatline for as long as possible, too.

His expression would soften into one of slight concern, but he couldn't help but frown as Flatline rubbed at his optic. His gaze lingered, watching and trying to work out at a glance what the issue was... But, he couldn't. It must be serious if the only option Flatline had was to come here. Not to mention a massive blow to his ego, and a blow to his pride. He knew Flatline tried to fix himself whenever possible, so there must be something so very wrong for him to come all the way here in the middle of the night.

The ragged cough that followed Flatline's biting remark made him flinch slightly. He was tired, still trying to fully sober up, and wasn't quite used to sudden noises at this point after sitting in near-quiet for so long.

“Now? I mean... I suppose it is only fair. I did do this to you a few weeks ago, after all. Come in and sit down, and for Primus' sake stop rubbing your optic!”

While he waited for Flatline to situate himself on one of the medical berths, he'd turn to open the drawer that he'd closed, doing some last second filing before he'd forget. He had a feeling this would be a long night. Once done, and it'd only take thirty seconds at most, he'd turn to look at Flatline.

“So, aside from the obvious – which is to say your optic is bothering you... What do you mean exactly by unwell, and what have you done to try and diagnose said issue? Also what have you been doing in the past week, if anything, that would make you feel unwell?”

He was thankful for one thing at least, and that was the fact Flatline had medical knowledge also; therefore he wouldn't have to go through the tedious task of starting this whole diagnosis thing from scratch. Flatline would've ran multiple tests on himself, surely, thus hopefully eliminating a few of the more obvious causes of whatever it was that was bothering him.

But that also had a downside, in that if Flatline couldn't pinpoint what it was and fix it? Then maybe it was something pretty serious.

He was glad he'd told Breakdown not to wait up, as he knew this could, and probably would, take a while. 

[Flatline]

"I waited a week, because it seemed like a negligible issue. You do not seek medical help for frivolous things."

Snarled back, Flatline had to watch himself. He was here because he genuinely didn't feel well, and he needed Knock Out's second hand help. The new perspective of the other doctor may reveal something of value, for even those that trained at the same location could pick up different things along the way. Knock Out didn’t even train anywhere close to how he did, so his worldly experience... or lack thereof... would bring possible solutions! Flatline also had to watch himself because he couldn't afford to throw this opportunity out the window by letting his irritable mood get the better of him.

But boy was he irked.

And it showed.

The quills on his back continued to remain hiked up after he was nagged to stop rubbing his eye. Typically they sharp plates would flick, and then let gravity take hold and settle down once more, but instead they remained at half mast at rest. It turned his spinal strut into a jagged mess of flared armor, while the rest of his frame's plating was tucked in tight in discomfort and a guarded nature. But as much as his body posture screamed of a desire to lash out, Flatline's features were schooled, and he spoke calmly, thinking carefully about what was asked of him.

"Really, I started to notice it mostly after the incident with Roulette, but it may have been going on earlier. The last week was standard. Intruders to my lab, one Earth excursion to replenish metals... but by that point I was already... unwell..."

Moving, Flatline made his way over to one of the medical berths. There was a moment in which he stopped talking, just looking down at the metal slab in front of him. So many times he's worked on tables like these, hovering over others that needed help. There was a sort of... detached feeling knowing that now he was the one that had to get up and onto it. He stared at the slab for what felt like an eternity, but in actuality was only a brief few moments, before he palmed his hand flat on its surface, and hiked himself up to sit on its edge.

"The week before I greeted a new Decepticon, but I took a decontamination shower after, because who knows what filth she drug with her on her journey. Other than that is has just been work in my labs with Vehicons, and... unless you have heard of these issues with one of them, I doubt they gave anything to me."

With a light shove, he adjusted the way he was sitting for a moment, one of his digitigrade limbs stretching out before gingerly tucking back and under the slab of metal to hang loosely out of the way. While his primary not holding the plunger rested down on the edge of the table's surface, his secondary's seemed to subconsciously move, tiny fingers clicking against one another to try to find some way to occupy them.

"Something feels... off within my chassis. Vague. Like everything is shifted marginally to the side. Not enough to cause issue, but enough to be felt. My eyes burn. Like grit or sand is in them. In addition, three days ago I started spitting out Energon. Not from my tanks, but from my mouth."

Noncommittal, somewhat vague, perhaps because he didn't fully understand what was going on, this was what made it so infuriating to him. It was just subtle enough to seem like an easy to diagnose issue, or a bad loop or a memory leak that caused errors elsewhere, but a source could never be derived, could never be found. And Knock Out took the medical scanner back... so he couldn't even try that on himself. This memory caused his lip to twitch a moment, before he spoke more.

"I have done basic defragging, and scoured for injuries or weak points on my frame. I have tried to look into my own eyes, but all I see is refraction, I can’t get a good angle. There are no lacerations in my mouth to account for the Energon, and I figured there may be a contaminant in my lines that aren't showing on standard tests, so I used a nanite accelerant to try to flush it out."

Upon saying this, he lifted up the plunger in his hand, the light from the Medical Bay catching the sickly yellow fluid to almost make it glow. The booster should have accelerated and temporarily... well... boosted... the productivity and speed in which repair nanites work. It wasn't good to run systems with these long term, but for a critical situation or needing an extra 'edge' to get over something it was fairly standard use. It should permit his frame to fend off any minor ailments and get in working order sooner.

Should...

"I... injected a half dose in accordance to my frame size thirty minutes ago, and it only made everything worse. "

His voice dropped out, defeated, saddened. This should have done something, and if not? It would have done NOTHING. Inert. Nada. Why it made him feel worse was beyond him, and he couldn't understand it. Finally his quills seemed to flatten down, his weight shifting once more before setting the plunger beside him on the table. With his hands free, he reached up to rub at his face in dismay.

[Knock Out]

Of all the days for Knock Out to decide to cut loose and drink a little too much, it just had to be on the day that Flatline decided to do this. Luckily for him, he'd done complex work, surgeries even, while under the influence of much worse and far more potent things than high-grade. Unluckily? That was a long, long time ago, so it wasn't like he was used to working under those self-imposed conditions – and whatever this was clearly required some processor power to work out, and wasn't something routine like a surgery or other procedure – so he couldn't rely on muscle memory to get him through it.

At least the majority of the drink had made its way through his systems by now, so he wasn't nearly as drunk as he could've been. If it'd been a few hours earlier it'd be a different story entirely. Still, he was slightly buzzed, and if it were any other Medic? They probably wouldn't be working, or honestly even drinking to begin with – given they were on constant call. Something to do with ethics. Not that Knock Out had planned to do much more than paperwork tonight, and it wasn't like he could turn Flatline away! So he'd suck it up and deal. If anything, the fact he'd had to shift into work-mode would probably help sober him up quickly.

He wouldn't reply to the snarled remark – he personally didn't think that this situation was frivolous; given it'd obviously been worrying the other mech to the point he'd been forced to swallow his pride and come to Knock Out for help. If Flatline couldn't diagnose it? Then obviously it was something concerning. Either that or it was something painfully obvious and Flatline was over-complicating the entire situation. Quite often things in plain sight were overlooked. He just hoped that whatever it was, he could work it out fast. As much as he loved puzzles and mind-games, he didn't want to be here all night.

“The situation with Roulette..?” He hummed to himself, thinking back to it. He moved swiftly and with purpose away from the cabinets, making his way over to another set of drawers where he kept the various medical scanners. Flatline hadn't seemed off during the incident with Roulette, Knock Out remembered, but then again he'd been mostly focused on the femme, so maybe he hadn't noticed.

“I haven't seen, nor heard of any issues with any Vehicons or drones, either – and they're all very good about coming in for checkups regularly. I would've noticed if something was wrong with one of them. Breakdown hasn't reported anything odd to me, either.”

If anyone were to notice something off with the Vehicons? It'd be his partner – he was always asking the Vehicons about their day, and spent more time with them in the Medical Bay than Knock Out did.

He would continue to listen as Flatline spoke, a long slender digit powering on the scanner, leaning against the new set of drawers. He inputted something into the small keypad, and it beeped in confirmation. His gaze lingering on the screen instead of the other mech. He was listening, though, and this had quickly gone from him originally thinking Flatline was being dramatic, to... Maybe there really was an issue. Spitting out Energon? Burning optics? Things feeling off in his chassis? None of those were good, but sadly until he knew more? They could be symptoms of a million different things, some more serious than others.

That last part of what Flatline said made him look up quickly, frowning as he peered across the room at the other mech as he sat on the berth. He watched as Flatline rubbed his face, and if it weren't for the scanner in his own servo? He'd probably would've done the same. He'd... Never heard of a nanite accelerant making things worse. Making things better? Yes, obviously, as that was their job. Not doing anything at all? Also yes. But making things worse? And with only a half dose?

“Interesting.”

He replied coolly, glancing back down to the scanner - trying to hide the fact that he honestly had no ideas based off what Flatline had told him. It was much too late, and he was far too buzzed. The other symptoms could be a lot of different things, and nothing really sprung to mind or jumped out at him as to what it could be – he wasn't even sure at this point if all the symptoms were related, or if Flatline had just been neglectful of himself so they'd built up onto each other and snowballed into something worse. With a casual roll of his shoulders, he finally made his way over to the medical berth.

“Was the accelerant expired..? I could always take a closer look at it through a microscope, just incase it's a bad batch. It could explain why it didn't have the desired effect,” He'd make small talk as he leant up on the tips of his pedes to pull a diagnostic cable from the ceiling. The cable would hiss as it attached itself to the back of Flatline's neck. It would settle once fully attached, and the screen beside the berth would blip on – revealing Flatline's vitals and basic information. He'd lean in and reached up and behind one of Flatline's secondary arms to ease out a thin wire from his side, plugging it into the scanner which he held in his servo.

With him being such close proximity, Flatline may be able to smell the traces of high-grade – while he wasn't slurring his words or stumbling like a drunkard, he was the tiniest bit unsteady on his pedes, hence the need to lean on things; although that was mostly to try and disguise the fact he'd been drinking from Flatline. He knew the other mech could be rather judgmental – and while Knock Out wasn't too bothered by what others thought, he wasn't in the mood to be lectured on drinking.

Between the diagnostics cable and the medical scanner? Hopefully they could work out what was wrong. It was totally overkill using both, but Knock Out didn't care – with two scanners going? It would technically be twice the speed, and the faster this went? The sooner he could go to his quarters and recharge.

“As for things feeling slightly off in your chassis? I could always open you up and take a look.” He was only half joking. He set the hand scanner down next to Flatline so it could run, sidestepping to the bigger screen and inputting a few commands so that, too, would begin to scan and hopefully diagnose the unwell mech. There were safety features in each, firewalls behind firewalls – the last thing they needed on the Nemesis were viruses running rampant throughout the systems, especially those in the Medical Bay, so the diagnostic procedure would be a little slow – especially given Knock Out had ordered a full scan on both.

Whatever it was that was wrong? Hopefully the scanners would find it.

[Flatline]

"Interesting is right."

He agreed, not intending to be argumentative at this point, nor sarcastic. The bit about the medicine was an odd occurrence that flung logic into the air and let it rain down as shattered shards. It really should have helped, or done nothing... helped... or nothing... there wasn't really a reason for it to go the other direction. Alas, Knock Out then made a few observations, that Flatline honestly had not put much thought into, pitching something that could explain away the oddity. It was at those words, that his hand smeared down his face enough for one of his pale red eyes to be visible again, the lens plate lazily focusing back to the bright lights of the Medical bay, before he glanced down at the plunger at his side.

"It should be viable, but by all means, check it. I immediately came here and have yet to run tests on it."

Flatline spoke rather... flatly... in response, his helm stretching forward a bit to expose the medical jack on the back of his neck for the diagnostic cable. Once the cord was connected, and his vitals came up into place, Knock Out would be able to see that everything appeared rather normal. The readouts on his systems were all coming back with standard results, perhaps slightly elevated from frustration and stress, but that was to be expected by anyone in a Medical Bay who didn't know the source of their issues.

With a twist to his frame, Flatline turned a bit to try to view the readouts himself. Sure he could look on his internal HUD, but it was always good to rely on... honestly... a more advanced specialized readout than what is just inbuilt as a generic check. Seeing that everything was standard, only caused him to sneer again, before he was startled marginally by Knock Out reaching behind his secondary arm to plug him into an additional scanner.

Flatline's helm raised abruptly in surprise, his secondary reeling back a bit as if insulted that it was even touched to begin with. This alarmed sort of insult, grew even further when he started to pick up on something. It was subtle, not really something he noticed too prominently at first, but once it nudged against his sensors enough he took a moment to actually register what it was.

It smelt like high grade, the potent fuel having a strong enough bite that he write it off as a cleaner at first, but at this close of a proximity... he could tell it had to have been a drink of some kind. This caused Flatline's slumped posture to gradually straighten even further, his helm hiking up high upon his shoulders to look down upon the smaller medic with newfound aggression and frustration.

Was... was Knock out Drunk!?

"Don't you think this is a bit extreme!? Or are you relying upon technology to do all your work for you since you are drunk!?"

Snarled, growled, a low chattered hiss filtered in with his angry words. He didn’t even comment or seem to recognize the statement about cutting him open, focused too far into the fact that the medic he had finally swallowed his pride enough to see, was inebriated and probably would just make everything worse. This newfound stress and aggression, instantly started to show on the readouts, his sparkrate spiking up, his fuel pumps driving harder to ready for action, and his internal engine clicking to a higher gear.

"Primus sake, were you going to try to hide that from me!?"

Flatline yelled this out abruptly, his gnarled teeth grinding against one another while they were fully bared to the open.

"Hope I didn’t notice!?"

After he snarled this, he slid forward off of the berth, his pronged hooves clicking down onto the floor. He made sure to not step too far forward, not wanting to wrench the cable out of the back of his neck, or pull the scanner off the berth with him. If the scanner were to fall, it could tear the thin line that connected them, and that was something Flatline didn't intend to have to fix later on. Alas, while he was complaining, the larger system scan in his neck hit a small hiccup.

The screen flicked momentarily as new data came in and was being processed, a low key churning of the systems calculation, before a small readout blipped up. It was vague, not very helpful as of yet, just a statement of an obstruction of some kind among a series of passed checks that all came back normal. Flatline didn't seem to pay this heed though, lifting a finger to point at Knock Out accusingly while he spoke, finally catching onto the other medic's last words.

"-and while talking about cutting me apart!?"

After he barked this out, his features contorted a bit, before he turned his helm and wrench spat out some Energon. The blue fluid splattered to the floor in a light spray, the colors pure and not mingled with coolant or oil of any kind it seemed. After this Flatline leaned back against the medical berth while trying to wipe off his mouth with a secondary after the incident. He spoke in low rattled words, a near growl under his breath, truly sounding insulted and distressed.

"...There's your sample... doctor."

[Knock Out]

“Drunk? How dare you! I prefer the term delightfully buzzed, thank you very much. If you wanted to see me drunk you are a few hours too late, as sadly the high-grade is wearing off. Even more so, now.” He droned this, his gaze shifted to Flatline at that last part, his optics narrowed, before his attention would turn back to the screen. Everything looked normal so far. Which was a shame, as it meant he'd have to run further tests if nothing showed up soon. He was hoping something would pop up near instant with what was wrong, since it'd been plaguing Flatline for a week now and should've been obvious, but... Of course it wouldn't be that easy.

He flinched as Flatline yelled. Loud and sudden noises were like nails on a chalkboard to him.

“I wasn't trying to hide anything from you, nor am I relying upon technology to do my job – two scanners ar-” He glanced up, not finishing that sentence. His attention now back on the other mech, watching with an amused smirk as Flatline slid forward from the berth. The smirk quickly faded, however, when he saw how worked up the other mech was getting over what Knock Out considered to be really nothing. What did he think he was doing? Was he leaving!? Because Knock Out had drank a little bit of harmless high-grade!?

“You really need to calm down, Flatline. No need to yell. I assure you, if I didn't feel upto, or in right of mind to even think of fixing you? I wouldn't. Aside from a slight buzz, I am fine. I've worked under the influence of much worse, trust me. I had my last drink hours ago. It's mostly out of my system.” Not that that little statement would soothe Flatline's processor any, but it was the truth. Aside from being a little unsteady on his pedes? He was alright. Bit of processor fuzz, but that was part of the fun!

His gaze shifted to the screen, he watched it flicker as new data came in. At a quick glance, he could see that it was some kind of obstruction, but they'd have to wait longer for more information – like where, and possibly what. He opened his mouth and held up a servo, index digit pointing up – almost like he wanted to inform Flatline of the new changes on the screen. He wanted to get the other mech to stop his screeching and to sit back down, buuuut Flatline kept going.

He visibly shuddered, grimacing as Flatline spat the Energon onto the pristine, sterile floor.

“Are you done with your tantrum? Yes? I can talk now? Good,”

He wouldn't give Flatline time to reply or protest further.

“Looks like we might have to open you up regardless, Flatline, while you were having your little one-sided screaming match there, it seems we may have found part of the issue. Now if you'd like to sit back on the berth and remain calm like a good little patient so the scanners can finish doing their job, we can find out exactly what is wrong.”

Hopefully.

He'd gesture to the larger screen, which still showed the awfully vague readout. That was good though. It'd picked up something that could possibly be wrong. Answers were always good! In the meantime, Knock Out would move to the other side of the berth to snatch up the plunger, holding it up above himself under the harsh lighting of the Medical Bay, twisting it slowly in his servo. It looked normal from here, no discoloration, nothing that screamed it should be off...

He'd hum in thought, moving to a bench beside the diagnostics screen – so he could keep an eye on that as he worked – and pulled open a drawer, removing a microscope. It didn't take him long to ease a few drops of the accelerant onto a slide, and pushing it under the lens, leaning down to look at it under the scope.

He was going to laugh and never let Flatline live it down if it were an expired batch. Flatline should know better, and he quite frankly deserved it after that little show of spitting onto the floor.

[Flatline]

Delightfully buzzed... UGH... And just when Flatline thought he could no longer be surprised by Knock Out's irresponsibility. If he had admitted upfront and stated right out of the gate that he was buzzed but he could still do scans and basic diagnostics, than Flatline... well... no... He would still be upset and find reason to argue, but in this exact moment he convinced himself that this heinous slight against him and his own well being could have been resolved sooner had the doctor not tried to hide it.

Be upfront, be honest, and don't drink on the job.

Since Knock Out was the only 'sanctioned 'medic on board, that meant he shouldn't EVER drink! What if a fight occurred and many of the soldiers were injured? What if someone from maintenance came in and found himself impaled upon a beam or a pipe? Unless he wanted to give Flatline a promotion to stand in his place when he wanted to go partying like some kind of young spark still discovering the world, than he needed to bite the bullet and just DEAL with being an 'adult' with 'adult' responsibilities.

Primus he wanted to throttle this runt, but actually held his tongue when Knock Out raised a finger to point something out. This gifted silence lasted only a fraction of a moment, as an angry huff of air shot through his vents, paired with a sneer when the red medic got sassy beforehand. Alas, when he finally looked at the screen, Flatline took note of the vague statement of codes that could imply a typical small break of a line, or something more.

Begrudgingly, with immense effort, he pushed back to sit upon the edge of the berth, the nearest primary to the scanner picking it up so that he could look at the screen as it updated. He tried to busy himself with watching it while Knock Out examined the accelerant; figuring deciphering the codes as they flicked by would help him refrain from clawing off the other medic's face. It helped, keeping him focused down and rooted.

Meanwhile, the accelerant wasn't expired, and it appeared to be a good batch. No discoloration, no viscosity issues, no imbalance of components to make it weighted one way over another... no... It really was just a standard as standard goes sort of boost, which meant Knock Out would be robbed this day of getting to gloat about such a novice mistake. But it was only a few moments after this that the scans finally completed on the larger system.

Blip. Blip. Blip.

One by one a few more obstructions and issues popped up upon the readout, the text a differing color so they stood out like beacons among the sea of passed checks. There seemed to be six in total, but the thing was that some could all be leading to the same thing, so it wasn't like there were six horrible things broken. Either way, it wasn't a fabulous sign, as the scanner then zeroed in on the areas, and started to attempt to do its best to figure out what was going on by leaching off of his lines and internal sensors.

The diagnostic tool then suddenly clutched down onto one of the things that seemed to be going wrong, as instantly a flood of smaller more precise errors started to scroll up the screen in rapid fire as it was being checked by different angles and attempts to actually recognize what it was. Really, it was just a lot of flashy information and scary text that just said that there was something small that shouldn’t be there that was blocking other processes, or something was shifted off its mounting. No heinous injury, no grand internal hemorrhaging, nothing flashy.

Boring.

Some vent line was only letting 50% airflow through, and a cylinder was reporting in some difficulty moving with ease. This was right next to one of the smaller fuel pumps in his frame, located centrally beside his lower fuel tank, the pump reporting in strain and the fact it was working double-time to the diagnostic tool. That was all that it could really pinpoint, going on to start to report on another smaller issue on the other side, but it was honestly more of the same, the scans unable to really figure out anything past 'stuff be happening'.

Looking at the diagnostic as it finally completed, Flatline's features scrunched up a bit while trying to piecemeal together what the error codes were related to, and just where in his frame it meant that had to be. He fully straightened his spinal strut then, reaching a hand up in order to place his pointer upon his armor. With soft clicks, he mapped out from his ventral seam and the middle of his side, to try to pinpoint in his mind where exactly the issue was located with his particular build. In actuality it only took a moment, before he realized that the cut line was somewhere in his chassis that he couldn't easily do himself.

Oh sure, he could set up some mirrors, and hold some tools with forcipes to gain varied angles needed to try to work in his own frame, but... it was horribly impractical, and in a ship where that wasn't a NECESSITY for survival, well... he really should try to trust Knock Out, despite the fact he is dru- mildly buzzed. It would make it go a lot faster, and he wouldn't need to try to deal with a local anesthetic and worrying if it wouldn't go far enough, or too far that he started to lose sensation in his digits. This was safer, even if he didn't want to admit it.

With a low growl of defeat that sounded like he was ready to go to war should Knock Out so much as give him a reason, Flatline detached himself from the handheld scanner, tossing it to lay at rest at the end of the slab, though he left the primary scanner so that the computer could still monitor him. He then lifted up his legs and plunked them down upon the medical berth, which ended with him reclined upon his back. His secondary limbs folded neatly under the pectoral plating on his chest, and his primaries rested loosely folded over his abdomen. His right leg was crooked up enough so that he hooked the hock of the limb over the shin of the other at rest.

Trying to get comfortable, Flatline glared up at the ceiling, his words rolling out in a gritty low growl while some of the Energon from before ran out of the corner of his mouth.

"Fine, I am trusting you to fix me."

[Knock Out]

It didn't take long for Knock Out to work out that the batch of accelerate was actually fine. There was nothing wrong with it. No imperfections. Nothing. With a long, slender digit he'd tap the slide ever so gently incase he'd somehow looked at it wrong. He hadn't. It was perfect, even. While he had been looking forward to rubbing it into Flatline's face, it now presented the question of why did such a good batch of the stuff make him feel worse with only half a dose? He was more than a little confused, although his field would remain calm and level.

The Blip Blip Blip of the scans would draw his attention away from the microscope and his thoughts, and he'd stand up straight, taking a side step and peering at the screen. His helm tilting some as the popups started to appear, and he'd fold his arms across his chassis as he studied them.

“And you said this was a frivolous issue and waited over a week to see me becaaaauuse...?”

He'd look at Flatline then, optics narrowed into a judgmental frown. How. How could anyone, let alone another Medic, get themselves into this state and not seek medical help? Sure it was nothing overly major, he wasn't hemorrhaging or at risk of dying or anything like that, but still. Megatron wanted, and needed, the entire crew of the Nemesis in tiptop shape! He had six things pop up from just one thing, and while some of them might've been due to the same issue? That was even more reason to get it checked out – as they could fix multiple things with one simple procedure!

Sometimes small blockages would dislodge themselves. Be it through daily movement, or shifting between alt and root-mode. That was if you were lucky though. And it seemed Flatline was not. With all the moving parts inside a Cybertronian it wasn't uncommon for things to shift from their mountings sometimes. So the fact the popup had vaguely stated that it could be either of these? Well, Knock Out was thankful. Both were easy fixes. If he had to guess, he would assume something was lodged in there – it explained the limited airflow through that vent line.

Then again, the... Cylinder that was struggling could be because of whatever-it-was that'd possibly shifted from a mounting.

Flatline what did you do?!

Juuuust think of the nice shiny new wheel, Knock Out... He did that for you, you can do this for him.

At least Flatline seemed to give up in defeat, and wasn't about to refuse any work from the delightfully buzzed Chief Medical Officer – although the yelling, the fact he'd had to focus on the microscope, and now the blip blip blip on the screen and the fact he would have to no doubt open Flatline up to fix these issues? Were sadly all very sobering.

He watched as Flatline traced his servo across his chassis. While Knock Out already knew himself where the issue was, based on the information on the screen, it was refreshing in a way to have someone who knew what they were doing. Vehicons came in with their usual herp-derp “I HURT” but were rather vague in where they hurt, so to see Flatline pinpoint the area exactly after going off the data on the screen was commendable.

“And fix you I shall!” His tone lilting as he stepped back and away from beside the berth, moving over to yet another cabinet to pull out a cylinder of numbing agent, as well as a painkiller. He'd give them a small tap with his index digit, before making his way back over to Flatline.

“Now, are you going to lay there and behave or should I restrain you..?” He purred this as he leant in to administer the numbing agent to Flatline's chassis and side. Sometimes the stasis locks were needed, the last thing that any Medic ever wanted was a squirmy patient – but maybe Flatline being a medical personnel himself would lay still.

While he waited for the numbing agent to set in, he'd reach over to place the now half-empty cylinders on the bench next to the berth. There'd be a whir and hiss of hydraulics as in the blink of an eye, Knock Out's servo was replaced by the circular saw.

He really wasn't joking about opening Flatline up, then again he really had no choice.

[Flatline]

A soft noncommittal sound escaped Flatline when Knock Out scolded him, a placeholder instead of barking out a new slew of hate and anger that he oh so wanted to do. He tried to let this silence suffocate him, tried to just mentally retreat to some little psychological haven. When dealing with intolerable Towerlings back in the day, he would have to retreat like this just to keep from wanting to strangle them. Their demands, their requests, their ludicrous expectations and cheap ways... you would think one with more money than the mass majority, wouldn't care about finer details of costs that varied so little, but no... They pinched their metaphorical pennies and drove him mad, surviving only because of his mental bunker that he was boarding himself within this day.

No reply, no true comment, Flatline laid there calmly while Knock Out retrieved what he would need, and continued to chatter. Flatline had to wonder if it was for him, or if the red Cybertronian was doing it for himself to entertain some weird humor quota he wanted to meet. There was also the wonder if it was because of being buzzed... but... he didn't want to consider that, he didn’t want to get going on that tangent again, despite it being a rather real worry for him. He had to try to trust, he had to try to have some semblance of faith...

Knock Out was going to fix this and then he could be gone.

The needle pushed in between some plates into a larger line in the area, and Flatline's outer armor flicked in an involuntary action, as if trying to dislodge a stick that had gotten its way there uninvited. It wasn’t anything he did consciously, that much apparent, but what he did do was move his primaries down to lay at his sides out of the way. Long slender fingers hooked over the outer edge of the medical slab in a loose grip that was more to keep his hands occupied than anything else.

He wouldn't need to be restrained, no... as long as the proper amount of pain suppressants were administered ((which it felt right considering the warm buzz now blotting out the area)), than he had no intention of moving. Who would? Who in their right mind would want to move around when a medic was rooting around INSIDE them and possibly mess them up? Granted... a lot of people would be put under for a terribly invasive surgery so they didn’t need to go through the experience of knowing they had a hole opened to the outside world, but... it seemed Knock Out was keen to punish him in some way. Probably for his prior actions against him. Then again, he didn't really want to be put under either, as then he couldn't intervene if things went horribly wrong, so this 'vengeance' or 'oversight' was actually in his favor.

But... plans have a way of changing. Intentions can only carry someone so far, and the rest was pushed on by fact and reality. It is hard to really plan for things with a great unknown, and there was no greater unknown right now than some mystery blockage within a frame that had no apparent source. No injury point, no clear diagnostic. They could open him up and find that something simple just broke off of a rusted attachment point, or they could find some organic filth from the planet that crawled inside and decided to make it its home, only to die.

Instead of make a verbal reply, Flatline's expression deadened to a neutral pallet while his eyes opened just enough to peer at the ceiling. They were half lidded, strangely calm, the pale white light from his optics creating narrow slivers to reflect off the nearby grey and blacks of his helm. He opened his mouth a bit, readying to speak when Knock Out pulled out the circular saw, but no words would form.

A loud gurgle welled up; Flatline's frame arching a bit off of the medical slab. His hands that had been resting lazily on the edge of the berth, now clutched down solidly, hooked curves of his talons grating into the metal and leaving scratches as he tried to get a firm grip on its surface. A moment later, he wheezed and hacked, Energon spattering up into the air, only to fall back due to gravity and slap against his faceplate and throat, making him grimace in displeasure, his eyes pinning closed again while features twisted into pain.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

There was a crackle, a rattled click while Flatline roughly rolled onto his side, the plating on his frame now seeming to hang slack, shifting and hydroplaning over the ridged base of his inner protoform. Normally he held himself together, pulled in place, professional, the mountings ridged and secure, but now they were anything but. Some areas of looser armor that moved wildly during transformation, now gaped with large openings that could almost look like wounds. The voids led to internal armor layers that have only seen minimal exposure, leaving the black paint glinting like an open injury.

Laying on his side now, he hacked again, but his clenched teeth forced the air to expel out through his dorsal vents. Energon now flecked against the slats there, vibrant and bold as tiny pinpricks against the dark base coat of his armor. Maybe a restraint wasn't a bad idea, but it seemed to be too late for that as Flatline's primaries placed flush against the slab below, so that he could curl over entirely onto his knees. Mouth hanging open as if he was about to expel all of the Energon he had left in his tanks, there was a loud rasp for air, another crackle, a sound of something snapping, that was the last warning Knock Out had to step back and away.

---

The dark form of the Cybertronian wrenched upright, spine arching into the air, crested with angular plates, spikes, and the rough shape of its turrets that jutted up in a jagged display. Hooked into a crouch, hunched on the edge of the medical berth, digitigrade legs were curved beneath it so that the sharp hooves of its peds could grind down for a sturdy grip, while its hands grasped over the edge for its own security. Its talons were bared with a deathly clutch that strained the joints, causing soft creaks to form from the assembly while flecks of metal peeled away under the claws. This was a minor detail though, for the gaze locked down upon the red medic was far more notable.

White eyes. Nothing was left of the red it had once been. No details, no differentiating tones of grays to break up the varied layers of the optical plates or iris lens. It was all just a sea of white that shined boldly, agitation and discoloration etched along the outer edges of the faceplate with tints of cobalt. The optics themselves were wide, feral, a ferocious look of confused desperation that paired well with a gnarled maw that was pulled back dangerously far. Energon slicked against jagged teeth, the dripping spray that had landed on his face now draining and beading at the points of his chin guard to fall down below.

A low snarl, a predatory glare, a field bristling with static and white noise like a thousand nails down a thousand chalkboards. Knock Out would only have the briefest of moments to try to realize what was happening... before the black Cybertronian lunged out instantly with a snarled screech.

Claws bared.

Maw agape.

Flatline gone.

[Knock Out]

Knock Out didn't find it odd that Flatline had gone quiet, figuring his patience had probably run out and he just wanted this whole thing done with. The two of them didn't get along at the best of times, so it was partly to be expected that this whole thing would be done in mostly one-sided silence once Knock Out got to the nitty-gritty part of it, with the occasional comment from Flatline asking how it was going – if that.

If only this wasn't going to be such a simple thing to fix. It'd be nice to chat with someone who was up there with Knock Out in terms of intellect for once. His partner understood basic medical lingo, sure, but Knock Out couldn't exactly nerd out with him over things like that. If they could only put aside their differences for more than five minutes, both Knock Out and Flatline could be amazing co-workers, maybe even friends.

The thing was, Knock Out was so used to doing the small-talk thing while he worked, that 'enemies' or not? He wouldn't treat Flatline any different than any other patient. He would chatter away whether Flatline replied or not. It was normally a mutually beneficial thing. If he talked to patients? They were distracted enough to let Knock Out do his job quickly, Knock Out got to hear the sound of his own voice, and it gave him some variety in a job filled with the same old basic weekly maintenance on the same old Vehicon frame types. The same thing day in, day out was what drove Knock Out to sneak off the ship sometimes for his little excursions. Another added bonus to the chatter was that the Vehicons saw a lot on their daily patrols, meaning they were the biggest source of gossip for the Chief Medical Officer.

It really was the little things that got him through the day.

Some of the Vehicons loved to chat. Hell some of them could talk for days if they could get away with it. Those were the ones that Knock Out couldn't stand – and he'd send them to Breakdown because... Well, his partner actually gave a slag about what they had to say. Small talk was fine. Hearing someones life story when you really did not care? Not fine.

The offer to restrain Flatline wasn't due to any malicious intent or plans that Knock Out had. It was something he offered to everyone if he had to cut into them – even for basic and mostly non-invasive procedures such as this. It was something about seeing a drill or saw coming toward you that made people flinch. Even if they couldn't feel anything – they knew what was happening, and nobody could help involuntary jerks. The restraints were simply an added safety benefit for both parties.

He saw Flatline's mouth open just slightly. He waited for the sass. The snark, the bitter and venom-laced reply that would no doubt come from being asked if he was going to behave.

Instead? There was a gurgle that made Knock Out pause momentarily. Then things... Happened, and they happened fast. The arching frame, the other mech's servos gripping the edges of the berth made Knock Out's normally calm field blip with mild confusion. He'd rush forward, alert now. The circular saw sliding back into his arm to be replaced by his servo. This wasn't good. This wasn't normal! Mild panic showed on his faceplate as yet more Energon was spattered into the air from the other mech. He saw the pained expression and knew he had to act. Fast.

“Flatline?!”

He made a wary glance to the diagnostics screen, and reached out to try and keep Flatline still with one servo – his servo pushing against the other mechs chassis to try and hold him steady. With the other, he would try and reach over to snatch the stasis-locks that hung under the berth. If he could just get him restrained, then he could put him into a medical-stasis and fix whatever the hell had happened in what felt to be just a couple of seconds.

One servo wasn't enough to even begin pinning down the other mech, and the crackle noise made him withdraw his servo quickly as Flatline rolled. He'd... Never seen anything like this. Flatline's condition had degraded so quickly that he hadn't had time to process what was happening. The high-grade that lingered in his systems also hindered him and his thoughts to rationalize all of this. Of all the days to drink. Why did it have to be today?

“Just. Stay calm okay? I said I'd fix you and I will. Don't worry! Try to lay still.”

He said that mostly for his own benefit. His tone unchanging, despite the fact he was internally starting to panic just slightly at how fast this'd happened. Talking also weirdly kept him focused and calm. He could fix this, right? Flatline was still linked up to the diagnostics machine, all he'd have to do was do a medical override from the console and he could have him out in a second. Stasis first. Restrain later. That was the plan now.

As he turned his attention fully onto the diagnostics machine, Flatline would shift once more so he was curled onto his knees. Knock Out watched from the corner of his optics – he couldn't help it. Flatline looked horrendous, and in a world of pain. The noises he made were like something out of those human horror movies he'd seen so many of. Another crackle, the sound of something snapping. His attention still on the task at hand. Long slender digits typing in the commands to place Flatline into a medically induced stasis.

He was so close to doing it. So close to inducing the stasis.

When Flatline wrenched upright and, in doing so? Pulled Knock Out's attention away from the screen.

He should've given the command. All it'd take was his digital signature to verify. It'd take two seconds, if that. Instead? He couldn't help but stare like some bewildered deer caught in headlights. He pulled his servos away, stepping back and away quickly from the diagnostics machine – and more importantly, away from Flatline. This was more than wrong. Flatline had gone... Savage? Rabid, even? He'd seen things like this back in the day on Cybertron, mechs on circuit-boosters that'd gone crazy and snapped, for lack of a better term. But... Flatline would never dabble with those, given his outburst about high-grade. And there was the fact he'd been feeling off for more than a week... And had been chatty and.. Well, fine, when he'd come into the room. It just didn't make any sense!

He should've given the command. It'd take two seconds.

It'd take two seconds that he clearly did not have.

He found himself unable to look away from Flatline's optics. He was transfixed for a moment. They were normally such a vibrant red, now? White. Pure white. Why? Not that this was the time for asking questions or pondering such things! He'd snap out of the weird fascination quickly, narrowing his own optics. Raising his servos, digits splayed out - holding them up to show he meant no harm.

“Flatline, hey! I'm here to help you! I'm not going to hurt you, and- Aah!”

Then Flatline lunged, screeching as he did. Cutting off Knock Out's sad attempt to try and calm him down. Knock Out wasn't a fighter. That was Breakdown's job! But he did have a tool that could subdue rowdy patients, Autobots and even humans should he need to. His Energon Prod.

He may have been slightly buzzed from the high-grade, but this was all horribly sobering. Defensive mode kicked in. The will to survive kicked in. As Flatline lunged? Knock Out would duck and dodge to the side and out the way. He had speed on the other Mech, at least. There was also the fact that Flatline was still attached by the back of his neck. Not that the cable could withstand the force of such a lunge and would no doubt tear itself from the other Medic due to safety mechanisms.

Not that Knock Out had any time to even see if that happened! He'd dodged the initial lunge, scrambling toward the back of the room to where he kept the Energon Prod. Making a mental note to store the damn thing somewhere closer to hand in future!

If there was a future.

He'd tear the Energon Prod from the wall like his very spark depended on it, holding it out in a defensive position. A small button press would turn the thing on, and it would crackle and spark, glowing blue with almost lightning-like Energon.

The thought of calling for help hadn't even entered his processor yet. Hopefully with a well aimed jab of his weapon, he wouldn't need to go to such measures. While he wasn't a fighter, he could hold his own.

Or so he hoped.

[Flatline]

The diagnostic screen offered nothing to help before everything went south. The only new information that was plucking up on display was the elevated readouts on Flatline's vitals that started to spike from stress and whatever was causing this. His spark rate pulsed, his fuel pumps strained, his internal engines clicked to a higher setting in a flight or fight response, it was all just superficial readings, and didn't share anything more on an actual CAUSE of the incident.

Either way, Knock Outs placating gesture did nothing to stop what was coming, the other Cybertronian making eye contact for only a moment, before he had lunged out at him with full intent to tackle down to the ground. The jump itself was abrupt, and held within it the full force of speed that Flatline could muster with his digitigrade limbs, which evidently was not enough to get to the intended target in time. Speedy, quick, and structurally smaller even though they had about the same chest mass, Knock Out had scampered aside, and to the corrupted Cybertronian he almost seemed to vanish entirely. There one second, gone the next!

Adjusting his lunge to account for the fact he would not be colliding with a solid target this day, Flatline's arms wrenched back sharply, and his helm lowered down. His armor that had hung slack, now flared out and shifted with a minor transformation, starting to plate over his joints and lower back. What happened next was fast, everything occurring in fractions of kliks in a way that blurred details together into one slide of motion.

The first thing to occur was the diagnostic cable being removed. Flatline's hurling mass was simply too much force for the cable to even PRETEND it could hold up a chance, it tearing out of the back of his neck with an audible crackle of ripped lines and small electrical charges. The specks of electricity snapped across raw relays and twisted connectors, but the sight of it would be long gone, first from his neck guard that covered up the back of his throat and head, and the fact said neck guard was sliding forward more with the shifting metals.

The second thing to occur was Flatline hitting the ground, his frame twisting enough not to land or attempt to land on his hands, but more to collide with the aforementioned neck guard in a duck and roll. The bang it made was immense, a punctuating slam that was then paired by his entire body finishing his transformation into a wheel like state that was neither a true wheel, nor a robot in root form. The armor along his back finished pulling down to cover his lower spine, flaring in panels to protect the area from impacts, while the harpoon turrets slotted back to nestle out of the way. His arms had folded up in front of his body, the gently curved forearms unfolding to create a larger surface area that meshed together.

This wheel like form whirled abruptly to absorb the momentum and force of the impact, it launching him forward with more speed than he had initially leapt at. This speed, momentum, and the additional thrust of the gyroscopes in his torso, caused Flatline to continue on as a variable weapon, crossing the short distance to the far wall in a blink. The impact with the countertop mounted on the wall created a slam that dwarfed the previous impact by a thousand, the notched prongs on the wheels surface catching the lip so that the Cybertronian rocketed up into the air momentarily.

Nearby containers and jars on the workstation rattled and clattered, the edge of the desk dented inward as if Breakdown had punched it with a fist. It was while momentarily airborne from this, that Flatline uncurled half way from the transformed state, his long arms and narrow legs folding out fast enough to latch down and clutch onto the top of the counter to abruptly halt his progress. One of the pronged hooves of a ped kicked out to grapple for purchase, kicking over a centrifuge in the process which sent the samples and expensive equipment down to the floor below. The impact had also caused a drawer to slide open, battered and punched in at the corner, Flatline paid it and the collateral damage no mind, as he reached an arm forward to grab the edge of the drawer and began to press his weight forward, slides creaking, and the drawers surface crunching down from too much mass being applied to it.

Flatline also paid this no mind.

He only had eyes for what Knock Out was doing.

Gradually, cautious, he leaned forward from his perch upon the counter top, white optics settled on Knock Out and observing the weapon that he had obtained. There was thought displayed, he processed what he was looking at, and leaned forward a bit further, fingers clutching on the edge of metal below that strained and bent further. Before the drawer could give in and break entirely, Flatline pulled back, his hand flaring in thought before the snarled sneer returned.

He knew what that weapon was, he knew what it could do to someone. The pain, the agony, the momentary paralysis as systems tried to struggle to reboot. Electricity was a dangerous tool, and weaponised it could be particularly destructive against their kind. But... Flatline had his own weapons, and sometimes the tried and true barbaric methods could have more impact.

That was the only warning the other Medic would get, before the two turrets on Flatline's shoulders whirled to life. A sharp jerk of the barrels, a twitch of his frame adjusting to aim properly, and a flick of the metal prongs along the shaft of the harpoons engaging, and the weapons discharged to launch two piercing rods of metal attached to chains. The harpoons themselves were as long as Knock Outs forearm, and when expanded the barbed end was as big as his hand. Tempered, and strong, trying to dodge them would be in his best interest.

[Knock Out]

Knock Out had been too busy running for what felt was his very life at this point, to even notice Flatline tuck into a ball. It all happened so fast behind him as he scrambled to get to his Energon Prod. He just had to keep moving. Get the prod. Then he'd be... Well, somewhat safe. Sort of. At least he'd be armed then.

He resisted the urge to turn around despite the noises that came from behind him, having seen enough horror movies in his short time on Earth to learn that turning around while running away usually meant the vicious killer was literally right behind you, and then WHOOPS, you're dead. The noises were terrifying though. The strain and snap of the cable, the slam as Flatline missed his intended target, the shifting of metal panels as the other mechs armor flared out and he shifted into an armored pillbug-type-ball.

Once he had the weapon in his grasp, he turned just in time to see Flatline whirl around in his wheel-like form, slamming into the countertop. The noise made him flinch. Knock Out would've normally gone straight into worrying about the mess that was being made. The destroyed equipment was expensive. The centrifuge custom built and hard to replace, and he dreaded having to explain why it was broken to Megatron. But right now? All he cared about was himself – and rightly so! Flatline was out for blood.

Knock Out's blood.

He watched with baited breath as Flatline perched on the countertop. Again he found himself wondering what'd happened to his optics. Was that even Flatline anymore? It looked like him, sure, and.. Well.. Obviously it was him but... Had he snapped? Was someone hacking his processor? Was it him in there? Was it the 'obstruction' that Knock Out had no chance of finding anymore?

He knew where the obstruction was. Flatline had pinpointed it out himself even, but the likelihood of Knock Out getting a perfect hit there with his Energon Prod, and somehow fixing everything with one shot so he'd live happily ever after? Well, that didn't even happen in the movies! Okay... Maybe it did in really bad movies. But sadly for Knock Out, this was no movie.

There was a weird but oh-so-very-unnerving sense of calm before a storm as he watched Flatline as he leaned forwards. He didn't dare move, nor even blink at this point. He wanted Flatline to make the first move – he wasn't about to go charging over there blindly! So he would remain standing, Energon Prod held out infront of him...

Then he noticed the snarled, twisted sneer had once again spread onto Flatlines face.

Fantastic.

He vented in sharply, his breath hitching as the two turrets on Flatline's back jerked forwards and aimed right at him. This was fine. This was good. Awesome. So not only did Flatline want to kill him, it seemed, but he had a ranged weapon. Knock Out had forgotten this tiny detail. Hell he wasn't sure he'd ever really paid the turrets much mind before, figuring they were for show or to make Flatline look more intimidating.

But no, they worked. Of course they did. And he'd fired them both at Knock Out.

“Flatline!! What has gotten into you?!” He squawk-yelped as he tumbled into a rather ungraceful roll to dodge the harpoons. While normally he would stress about his pristine finish, right now? A few scratches were better than, well... Being dead. These would buff out! And you can't buff yourself while you're dead!

He'd roll and then scramble up to his pedes, taking this moment of downtime – he hoped – while Flatline took the time to pull in the harpoons to reload them, to charge at the other mech, Energon Prod held forwards – he wasn't aiming anywhere in particular, he just wanted to hit the other mech somewhere. As tempting as it was to have the Energon Prod set to kill for this little indiscretion, that wouldn't bode well with their Warlord. Instead it was set to a rather painful stun level, which would hopefully disable Flatline enough to give Knock Out a second to think.

Or to call for help. That might be good.

[Flatline]

The harpoons rammed into the far wall with a heavy thud that was swiftly followed by a rattle of the posts jostling from the force of the impact. The barbed ends were completely embedded into the metal and gone, and a good half of the shank was as well. Curled coils of chain swooped up in their wake, looping and draping behind the posts down to the ground with rough clatters, while Flatline let out an angry roar at having been denied the hit he had been hoping for. His screamed feral cry drowned out Knock Out's demanding question, not that he really seemed to care or even hear it to begin with.

While Knock Out rounded about to try to get at him while he was momentarily distracted with the weapons, Flatline's helm gradually followed his progress, white optics narrowing sharply with anticipation and a sudden thrill that warped his savage sneer from pure viciousness into one of genuine joy and pleasure. This dark amusement, this delight, it wove into the savageness into a sadistic look of a predator that was watching its prey make a mad dash for cover. Far from catching him off guard as initially hoped by the other mech.

Moving with a level of calm fighting skill and preparation Flatline frankly did not, SHOULD not, have, he rose up onto his hind feet in order to free his primaries from supporting his upper body on the counter's surface. His right ped slid forward while this happened in order to clip the longer of two prongs over the edge to grip and clutch on so he didn’t topple over. With his hands now free, they crooked and bared aggressively, their honed edges ready to lash out if he got the opportunity and range, ignoring the chains that draped in front of his body.

Flatline was physically above Knock Out in more ways than one. First, his overall mass was generally bigger. Standing on ground level he would be able to look Breakdown in the eye and act as an opposing force with stature alone. But... not only did Flatline have mass and height; he also had higher ground, perched atop the countertop that gifted him more than half of Knock Outs entire height as an additional advantage. This manifested itself in full when Knock Out lunged the electrical weapon out...

And Flatline's primary swooped in a hard down slash to grab onto its middle.

The impact of his hand ramming into the safe area of the weapon redirected the dangerous end into the void created by his hunched posture and concave abdomen. Electricity chattered and sparked aggressively into the air, dancing between the prongs and lapping out at the surrounding area to try to transfer to the nearby metals, but not having the range needed to make a connection and disrupt functions on the larger Cybertronian.

Looking down, Flatline seemed to take a flicker of a klik to confirm that he had indeed done what he intended to do, before looking back to lock eyes with Knock Out. The grin returned then, peeled back not unlike a Cheshire cat with speckles of blue draining down to drip off of the edge of his spiked chin guard. This moment of consideration, was then abruptly ended by a roar of engines revving to life.

Smoke from burning oil slid out from the gaps in Flatline's turrets, the engines within screaming to life with a sudden violent lash that abused the underused mechanics in ways they didn't normally endure. This made the chain connecting him to the far wall start to reel in quickly, going taunt for only a moment before the harpoons tore free along with some slivers of metal and insulation matter. The harpoons themselves were smoothed now though, the barbed ends folded back which was the only reason they had pulled free to begin with. They rattled and banged against the ground while they began retreating to their owner by the coiling chains, a noise Flatline counted on distracting Knock Out.

Whether or not the distraction played out as he hoped, Flatline lunged forward while hefting his weight down atop the Energon prod, attempting to slam it against the counter so the dangerous bit was between his legs and out of the way, or if he was super lucky it could snap in half from the strike. Not likely, it wouldn't have served as a weapon for long if that were the case, but one could hope, as his free primary then swung around in a sideways swipe to try to drag its talons across the other medic's face.

[Knock Out]

Knock Out had realized too little too late that this little plan of his wasn't going to work. Still, he didn't want this one shot he had while he thought Flatline was distracted to go to waste. Sadly for Knock Out? He'd been more focused on Flatline's torso and frame, trying to work out where to hit rather than paying attention to the fact that the other mech's helm was following him, and that the other mech was indeed watching his every move - and therefore was anything but distracted. Knock Out wasn't a fighter, so he was predictable with his movements – and it didn't help any that he was being watched.

Still, he would try his best.

He thrust forward with the weapon quickly as Flatline rose up. As long as Knock Out stayed back and away, keeping his distance? He should be fine. The Energon Prod was long, and had some range on it. All he had to do was hit Flatline once. That should be enough to down him, then Knock Out could call for backup in moving him back to the berth and putting him into a medical-stasis where he belonged.

He just had to hit him once.

Which was easier said than done.

What he wasn't counting on, however, was the fact that Flatline was fast. Faster than Knock Out could even think to react to anyway, and he yelped in horror as one of Flatline's primaries swooped down to easily grab the middle of the Energon Prod, redirecting the blow easily. Due to the fact that Knock Out had to angle upwards to even attempt this hit, he was easily overpowered by the bigger mech and thus found himself unable to yank it free from Flatline's grasp for another attempted hit, nor could he try and twist it upwards to try and ram it into Flatline's torso.

Frag. He did not think this through.

His optics were wide as they locked with Flatline's. Being stared at with those eerie white optics was bad enough – but then that grin...? Primus, it was enough to make Knock Out run screaming. But still, he defiantly held onto the only real defense he had, and would refuse to let go of the Energon Prod. He still didn't know what was going on, but whatever it was? He knew that Flatline probably shouldn't leave the room in this state. Keeping him confined was probably the way to go, as then he could be easily dealt with. Or so Knock Out hoped. Not that he'd worked out how to even begin dealing with this, his first plan had failed and he didn't have another! From here on out he was winging it!

The abrupt noise that came from Flatline's engines made him cower slightly in a moment of panic as he scrambled to work out what it was. He found his gaze still locked on Flatline's, and he couldn't help but notice the black smoke that began to curl from the gaps in the other mechs turrets – maybe he'd burn himself out with this! Knock Out could only hope! The chain began reeling in - although Knock Out wouldn't look away from Flatline; as if silently asking what the hell was going on, and could he please cut this slag out because it was far too late and Knock Out was far too tired to deal with this. The amount of paperwork from the damage alone so far was tremendous, and there was probably more to come. Not that it mattered right now, as Knock Out was trying to not die, but come on Flatline, please. Please stop.

While the noise didn't make him turn and look away, as he knew damn well what was happening – the sudden movement from Flatline lunging forwards and down did distract the Chief Medical Officer. He hadn't expected that, and would yelp in surprise and scramble back – letting go of his weapon. Something he regretted instantly. He didn't scramble back fast enough though it seemed, as a split-second later there was a blinding almost white-hot flash of pain as Flatline clawed his talons along Knock Out's face.

His beautiful, perfect face. At least the Energon Prod didn't snap, but that meant very little now that Flatline was in possession of the tool.

Now unarmed, and bleeding from the scratch marks down his faceplate? It was probably time to call for help. His left servo would slam onto his face as if it'd help make it better, while his right would shift into his saw – which he held out infront of him defensively as he continued to back away slowly with hesitant steps.

He was about to screech over the comm for Breakdown - hell anyone at this point would be amazing – when the door would slide open. Three Vehicons moving into the room. The sounds from inside the room had alerted them, and while they were used to the occasional noise or argument from inside the Medical Bay between Knock Out and his partner? This was different, and had gone on for longer than a simple spat - and luckily for Knock Out they'd decided to come check it out. They took note of the damage, the huge dent in the bench, the smashed equipment... The fact Knock Out was clutching his face, the fact Flatline was looming over there on the bench all creepy-like with Knock Out's weapon, with Knock Out holding his saw out at the other Medic. Well it didn't take a genius to work out what was going on, although they had no real idea of what exactly they'd just walked into - all they knew was that it looked bad.

“Knock Out, Sir. Is everything alright in here? We hea-” One of the Vehicons started, but was unable to finish his sentence before the Chief Medical Officer snapped, interjecting him angrily as he continued to maintain optic-contact with Flatline, getting ready to move should he decide to lunge again.

“Does it LOOK like everything is alright in here!? Flatline has gone savage and needs to be restrained!!”

He growled from behind his servo. The Vehicons didn't have to be told twice, and were swiftly at Knock Out's side, moving infront of him to protect the ranking Officer. They were built for combat, and weren't too scared of Flatline. He was usually all sassy bark and no bite, much like Knock Out. There was a brief moment of silence, before they would split up and moved quickly. A Vehicon approached Flatline from the left side, one from the right – and one straight on. Aiming to flank him from all sides, their weapons drawn - but not firing just yet. Knock Out wouldn't move. They could deal with this. Three versus one. It should be an easy fight.

“J-Just get him over to a berth and hold him down!” His voice wavered some as he barked out the order, no doubt in shock at having his face clawed and this entire situation in general. “And be careful of the damn Energon Prod!!”

[Flatline]

Flatline's claws sheered easily into Knock Out's faceplate, tearing through the white mesh and leaving a nice mark that would take some work to get rid of in full. The black and red Decepticon almost seemed overjoyed at this, having enough cognitive capabilities to recognize the pure novel horror such a wound likely brought the prissy individual, a new amusement and delight forming that wasn't in play before. He even got an opportunity to cherish it too, for the buzz saw was produced and he knew better than to lunge out or try anything, temporarily halting him in his place once again.

Not wanting his arm cut into, or sawed off, nor having a blade rip and tear into his center mass, Flatline hung back upon the cabinet, eyeing Knock Out to try to calculate the best course of action. It was during this lull the harpoons finally slotted back into their turrets, and the shafts snapped down into the cylinders with a heavy click to lock into the launching mechanism. A snarl sounded, the device charging to fire anew, while the barbs on the end that were smoothed flush with the post, now flared and flicked active.

He would not get the opportunity to come up with a plan, nor the ability to fire off his weapon again, for the doors opened up with a hiss to permit three Vehicons to enter.

The arrival of the troopers seemed to make Flatline back off even more, a wariness and hesitance that was not present before. While Vehicons where considered cannon fodder to many, they truly did hold skill that surpassed the normal civilian, and wouldn't be an easy pushover for one such as Flatline. If he had real training, if he knew what he was doing in a fight, he could hold his own. Use his weaponry, claws, and cunning viciousness to his advantage, but... he was running off of base instinct, and thrashed wildly in combat just to survive. It is because of his, Flatline rocked back on his perch until his frame bumped against the far wall, and his grip on the Energon prod tightened some, maneuvering it around to be facing away from his torso.

The Vehicons moved in formation perfectly, weapons drawn and held up at the ready. None really expected to NEED to use them, due to the individual in question, but something was really wrong and in these sorts of situations you couldn't completely disregard someone as a non threat if they were to snap. This said, the one walking from the right hand side faltered suddenly after one of his strides, flinching as if he had stepped on something of value. He lurched back a bit onto his opposite ped, and the slick faceplate of his helm crooked down to try to see what had gone wrong, his gun rising to point at the ceiling at an angle.

The sudden movement caught the attention of the other two, their gazes breaking from Flatline to try to see what happened. Did Flatline attack? Did something go wrong? This falter was all the dark plated medic needed, before he acted out instantly.

The Energon prod was suddenly thrown, the weapon lodging itself between the left Vehicon's throat guard and body plating. The strike alone would have been scoffable, more just a stinging smack to make the trooper take a step back, but the electrical charge that flowed through the weapon was the second punch needed to take him down. With no resistance, the trooper swung backwards and slammed onto the floor of the medical bay, convulsing with a chattered yell as electricity surged through him. Luckily the weapon was still set to a stun state, Flatline not knowing how to actually use the device, so the moment the Vehicon's thrashing dislodged it and it fell to the side, he began trying to recover.

While the individual fell backwards, the attention of the center Cybertronian yo-yoed back over like a confused animal, trying to process what had actually happened. This was all the distraction Flatline needed, and wanted, as he kicked off of the platform and lunged at the right Vehicon whose lurched step had triggered the entire ordeal.

A hard slam, a bang of metal against metal, Flatline's open hands clutched down onto the Vehicon's shoulders as he used it as a platform to jump off of. The individual tried to stammer back, to take the weight of the other Cybertronian to try to push him off, but the second Flatline's hoof like peds planted down against his chest, it was all over and he began toppling backwards like the one that had been electrocuted. As the trooper tipped back, Flatline's hooves ground down to snag and claw at their front armor, getting footing in a fraction of a moment to lunge and kick off.

All this happened in a split moment, a hiccup of a second of frantic yells and confused sounds. Flatline had kicked off and over, landing in a low crouch before he was trying to run away from the soldiers and get someplace where he could act without looking down the barrel of a gun. It was after he landed though, that the central Vehicon whose attention snapped left and right in alarm, had swung his gun round, and fired a shot.

A sharp cry of pain, a flash of fast movement, and Flatline was out of the room from the door the Vehicons had entered in, a few speckles of blue in his wake from a new wound.