[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]In Vivo [Flatline, Nokta]

[Megatron]

Episode 3.5 | Week 2 | Day 2 | Closed

A week ago, a new item appeared on the medical bay schedule.

It was an operation booked for today, without Flatline's consent but with him as the presiding surgeon nonetheless. The order came from high above, much like it did on the morning of that fateful trial he had to endure at the hands of Megatron. A most ominous note towards the end of the listed documentation suggested that today's affairs were also the tyrant's doing. Perhaps it was an unsurprising note, but one made no less terrifying for it. Even announced so transparently, the presence of Megatron was not something to take lightly. Which made the remainder of the timetable seem all the more concerning. There were no further details, only the time, the surgeon, the overseeing commander... and the patient: Nokta.

The wraith from the derelict.

Megatron has been keeping an optic on this new asset perhaps a bit closer than some of his other lieutenants. The reasons were unknown, but the decision would have been felt regardless. Frequent reports, assessments, deployments on routine missions and one clandestine as his very first. The true nature of the despot's interest remained shrouded in mystery as did the details of this requested procedure.

But it was no coincidence.

Nokta had been chosen for this. Flatline had been chosen for this. These instructions were most specific. Were it not on Megatron's behest, it could easily be assumed that Nokta simply needed the surgery after his recent bouts with the Autobots, but no. Megatron wanted something specific and only they two would suffice. With him presiding over the whole affair, only a single constant remained for the doctor and the patient. If Flatline succeeded, further opportunities awaited them all—and further struggles. The Warlord was never a mech to leave well enough alone, after all.

It was on this grim morning, under these nebulous circumstances, that the door to the medical bay swung open with a heavy thud. Megatron stepped in, hands behind his back and chin tilted ever so slightly upward. He continued further in, deafening footsteps echoing throughout the main room. As he took in the stiff, medicinal scents, the expression on his face remained stone-cold and untouched—like an imperious bust of himself. The Warlord's commanding presence overtook the premises at once. It was impossible to ignore even if one wanted to.

Then, Megatron began to scan the surroundings for his doctor.

[Flatline]

No... nono... please no...

From the very second that Flatline noticed the new booking, his life had started to take that familiar spiral down into the dark pit of anxiety and despair. Uncertainty, fear, wondering if something had gone wrong somewhere along the line that was going to mark a new chapter of torture in his stay in Blackridge. He hadn't been coping well at all since the last one, and knowing that there could be another? It tortured him beyond all else, leaving him a ragged husk that was hardly limping through his assigned tasks. They were accomplished, yes. The black and red mech never missed a beat when serving his duties, though they were passed through enough to suffice, without any of the pride or confidence he used to hold as a staple.

Each day used to be a challenge, to do better and earn a role he sought viciously.

Now each day was survival, carrying the burden of said role.

He didn't want to be the Chief Medical Officer. The title was distorted into a blighted shadow that loomed overhead like a predatory animal, waiting for him to mess up, waiting for him to do poorly enough that he would be stripped of it and his very life. Would such a thing actually happen? It was so hard to say. On one hand, he knew he was NEEDED and that should bring forth a sort of immunity, yet on another he didn't know if smiting those who failed took higher priority to make a point that none of them were safe. Did Megatron have another Medic he would simply call in from another post...?

This thought tortured, Flatline left huddled in his normal corner with his little desk that was littered with small tools and supplies, a modest workstation that he called his own back when Knock Out was around. He certainly knew that he could go and claim the other mech's point, the larger workstation now available to him, yet he remained in his makeshift hovel, a tray centered on it where a piece of one of the Vehicon's internal pumps sat awaiting further repairs. He was making progress, already some components were fixed enough they were installed back, yet there was so much more left to do... though it would not be touched this day.

Not with knowing the monster was returning with a task.

Curling in on himself, Flatline remained sitting while he waited in silence, his head tilted down and to the side while his arms were folded across his chest, long fingers grasping over the wheels that formed his biceps. While the hub and actual mechanics of the limb were intact, the outer rubbers were absolutely decimated, long slices and cuts crossing them at numerous angles, triangular-shaped holes punched into their mass to a point that holding air of any kind was an impossible task. The source of such issues was easily apparent, as claws raked along the pliable material in a stressed motion, using it as a new unhealthy action to channel anxiety into. This caused a couple of new slivers of rubber to fall down onto the floor at his side, a trembling rake shifting through.

Any minute he would be arriving... any moment things were going to go wrong. One could say waiting was the worst part, and yet that certainly wasn't true, the thrumming sound of footfalls creating a new level of hell, one that came to a crashing crescendo as the door swung open with a heavy bang.

Instantly, Flatline's frame dipped forward in a hard lurch from the sound, it almost as though he were trying to dodge a bullet that had rocketed overhead in an active battlefield. It caused his fuel pump to race active for fight or flight, his spark searing as he knew he HAD to act and couldn't cower. He HAD to. With this, he peeled his hands off from his upper arms, placing them down on the edge of the desk so that he could stand, the motion stilted and awkward as he almost drug his left leg out with him.

The damaged limb was braced in a way that almost looked permanent, L brackets and bands affixed in place with no hinge, as one of the straps from the medical table was cinched just above the knee flush with the metals. Gaps were filled in by an expanding foam, effectively disabling the joint as though it were fully welded stationary.

The changes to his knee were not the only new element since the last time, other pieces affixed on his chest just below the sternum paneling. It was rough and unlike the knee was temporary in design, with a couple of bands holding up what appeared to be his secondary arms. They were folded neatly in place with the hands and fingers curled inward and taped so that they did not snag or hook onto anything. It was apparent they were unable to be used at this time, fresh welds being the only evidence they were even slightly attached with a flash of raw silver, while the bottoms were open with disconnected wires pulled out enough to clip to a side to be worked on after the graft would start to heal.

With limped movements, and a tap of his cane, Flatline stepped out further, his frame dipping in a shallow trembled bow.

"Lord Megatron..."

What was going on?

What fresh hell awaited him?

[Nokta]

If there was anything Nokta knew, it was that outside appearances seldom reflected their interior.

He had rarely been one to indulge in the endless preening and detailing so many others were oft to do in their freetime, even when he’d had the color scheme to aid such things. He wasn’t special, he didn’t need to flaunt or boast as some others felt the need to do. He was unassuming, forgettable, and that was by design. It made him good at what he did. Perhaps too good.

But today he was in the wash racks despite all of that.

He hadn’t been asked to do this. He didn’t know the proper procedures to take beforehand, in fact, he could barely even remember the last time he even had surgery. But vaguely, he did remember the importance of ensuring the removal of extraneous material from the frame beforehand.

It would be important then, in his mind, that there was not a speck of grime or dirt to distract the surgeon as he worked.

His frame would have to be pristine for the procedure. At least, that was what he’d been telling himself as he silently scrubbed himself down in a way he hadn’t in quite some time. Perhaps it was just the way the sound of running water drowned out all else, creating a numbing, white noise of silence. He was always looking for excuses to enjoy silence.

The last pebbles that had lodged themselves within the seams of his digits ever since his trip to the Andes had been removed, cascading down the drain with the rest of the grime. Dull crimson optics stared at a spotless servo in front of him, watching as solvent pooled in his palm.

He didn’t even know why he was doing this.

It was done now, body parts that likely wouldn’t even be touched by the surgery had been cleaned about as close to sterile as he could have managed by himself in the hour he’d had to himself before it would be time. He spent another few silent moments beneath the warm stream of water before a servo reached out and the faucet grinded to a stop.

If he died today at least he’d look nice.

---

Not long after Megatron himself had arrived, so too did Nokta. He was not as loud, nor as imposing as Megatron had been when he entered the medbay. In fact, his arrival threatened no sound at all, and so Nokta made sure to allow the gentle sound of the door closing behind him to announce his presence.

He stepped in, for once looking more put together than the rest of the room around him. Though there was hardly a single room in Blackridge Hold that held a very high bar for appearance.

There was something different about Nokta, and it wasn’t just a frame that had been cleaned more thoroughly than usual. But whatever it was, it was not enough to impede the proceedings he’d been called there for. He stood in place as he bowed his helm first to the tyrant, who he greeted with a mellow rasp. "Lord Megatron."

Then, to Flatline. "Doctor," he nodded to the medic.

Reticent, he would remain standing in front of the door, still as a statue. Content to merely be seen and not heard until he was given instruction. There was no need for a husk to speak when they had not been spoken to.

In his arms there was a cylindrical device with jagged antennae sprouting from the top– the sole reason for their gathering, though Flatline did not seem to know it yet.

[Megatron]

Megatron waited patiently for his newly enshrined CMO to deliver himself forthwith. He watched him bow with an impartial gaze which eventually and perhaps inevitably slithered down his form to the affected limb and the many supports required to keep it in position. There was a time, a long time ago, when he would perhaps feel pity or sorrow over having seen such a wound inflicted on one of his own. It called to mind a period before the war, when gladiator and miner alike would suffer similar injuries in their line of work. Today, he did not concern himself with such complicated emotions. His posture remained commanding and his voice iron-cold when he asked: "How is your leg treating you, doctor?"

The concern was superficial at a glance, a token of curiosity rather than of genuine concern for Flatline's health. Even still, it was more than that on some deeper level. Megatron required that all Decepticons functioned as he envisioned, as he desired. Flatline's recovery may not have been of much trouble to him, but he hoped that his chief medical officer would soon be able to fulfill his duties to the very best of his capability. Of course, these thoughts of his were of no comfort since he did not speak them. Nonetheless, some artifact of that gravity made its way into his tone, an aftertaste of bitter seriousness at the end of a casual question.

It was just about then, when he had finished asking about Flatline's condition, that he heard the door close behind him. He did not need preternatural senses or optics on the back of his head to know what this meant. The last mech of the hour had made his appearance. Without turning around, he continued to speak, opening with a satisfied sigh, perhaps one that was more of anticipation than relief.

"Ah, the patient has appeared," the tyrant announced Nokta's coming in a rumbling voice. His optics shifted to his side as he stepped to the left, making some small amount of room for the wraith to pass through. Pausing briefly, he acknowledged the lieutenant's address of himself with a firm nod and a wave of a servo, thus ushering him further into the room as if to adjoin him into the conversation. Eventually, those fiery reds locked onto Flatline once more. Some elaborations were in order. To set his mind at ease, of course: "You are familiar with Nokta, I trust? He is one of our more recent arrivals."

As their lord spoke, his crimson sight drifted from the medic, gradually, until it settled on the device in Nokta's hands. Megatron did not smile, but all the same, he was pleased that it had been kept safe and undamaged all this time. The first phase of his plan could finally begin.

"I have entrusted him with something very special and I require your assistance in implanting it."

[Flatline]

His leg? Why did Megatron care? No... he didn't care... It was simply making certain a tool could still do what it was meant to do so that it would be apparent if it needed to be cast out and replaced by something of more value sooner rather than later.

"It serves its role so th-that I may focus on things of greater importance f-for the time being."

Terrified. Trying to bottle it down.

Flatline's gaze was avoidant and subdued, a level of passivity shown that displayed nothing but submission. He was there to serve, and all else would be cast aside in order to do so to the best of his ability, even at the cost of his own health. While he couldn't sprint across the Medical Bay in a panic during a crisis, the room wasn't so large that such a delay was astronomically dire in his opinion. Could it result in death? Sure... though he would do his best, and the disabling of the joint could permit him to move fast enough since it wouldn’t be bending and causing pain on the backswitch tab. Either way, after these words he heard the soft sound of the door closing, noting the second arrival.

Why was Nokta here? Did this mean it wasn't another trial? No... The presence of a Lieutenant meant absolutely nothing. The mech may have messed up something catastrophic and was about to be punished by putting his life in the hands of another. Not putting faith in a soldier he needed to, and so he had to do so in a form of irony... Some forced lack of control... or who knows what else. It was hard for Flatline to try to piece these thoughts together as his mind raced, attempting to think three steps ahead when he needed to live right in the moment. It was hard not to, however, trying to remember the last time he had looked in a cabinet, and if there was a moment he left the Medical Bay after that point until here and the now.

Even a small team of Vehicons couldn’t eviscerate the contents again in such a small window... could they?

Not that Megatron couldn't simply demand he not use any of it without the theatrics.

Trying to pull his mind back, Flatline shakily looked up at the monster slightly without remotely making eye contact, red optics hardly blinking, if at all, as he tried to absorb every word that was uttered. It was a good thing he hadn’t psychologically blacked out in terror as the final words came to an end, a little dash of clarity and comfort in some form or another brought by them. While there could always be a trial planted between the lines, the task did not immediately seem threatening to his very life, since the installation of something wasn't an impossibility dependent on an individual's frame configuration.

"Certainly, my lord."

Breaking focus away from Megatron, Flatline's gaze settled on what the silent mech was holding onto, feeling it was safe to assume that it was the object in question. It was difficult to directly access its size or even what it was from where he stood, though it wasn't as though he was expected to configure things without seeing it closer. With this thought, he took a shaky step forward, his left arm pulling away from his central mass so that he could hold it out palm up, the disproportional limb outstretched.

"May I inspect the object and inquire its function...?"

A small tremble was wavering beneath Flatline's words, though he was doing well to throttle any further stuttering that may have otherwise formed. While he wasn't sure if he was meant to know or not, if it did serve a function that affected placement, he would certainly need to be aware of it. Nothing worse than needing to try to move it after the fact, ending in more stress for both doctor and patient.

Flatline's previously avoidant gaze rose, looking at Nokta straight on with a fearful edge snaking behind it, perhaps searching for any solidarity to see if he was in a similar state of duress.

[Nokta]

Quietly, he took to the space made at Megatron’s right, silent footsteps padding the short distance until he was positioned beside the tyrant. He’d waited until he was called upon and that was that, he spoke nothing more for the time being. Optics cast not fully forward but with a downward tilt, they appeared transfixed on a point somewhere behind Flatline. What that was didn’t matter, because he wasn’t actually staring at anything, he was thinking in silence as the other two mecha spoke.

Flatline was stuttering, utterly terrified in the midst of their leader’s imposing greatness, despite his attempts to suppress it. Nokta didn’t blame him, really. He'd be trembling too, if he had half the track record Flatline had with failure. As Flatline continued to speak, prompting their commander for permission to inspect the object in Nokta’s servos, the lieutenant would pass the device from his opposite servo into the grip of the one closest to Flatline, not offering it out to him quite yet. Flatline had posed a question to Megatron and Nokta wouldn’t assume his answer so soon by handing the device off to Flatline hastily.

In the meantime, he raised his gaze to land upon the doctor’s visage. Flatline had that telltale look of someone who was desperately clinging onto whatever it was that remained of their current situation, even if that was laughably little in the grand scheme of things. Somehow though, the way he carried himself in front of Megatron did not seem as regrettable as the scout’s own conduct with the warlord had been just one week earlier. At least Flatline’s groveling could be seen as flattering, in a way.

Unlike Flatline, Nokta did not fear Megatron– at least, not in the same way Flatline did. What he feared was failing him. Were that untrue, he’d have swiftly departed in the night a week prior– and not before dousing the beacon with his own waste, leaving it to rust on the tyrant’s doorstep.

Where Flatline searched for something of his own fear in Nokta’s optics, he would be met only with a cold, stern gaze back. There didn’t seem to be any ill intent toward the doctor in his expression, but it was as serious as they came, even for Nokta. The only solidarity to be found there was his desire to get the job done so they could all carry on to the next fresh hell that summoned them.

[Megatron]

"You may," Megatron answered the medic at once, waving a servo towards Nokta. He glanced briefly at the lieutenant and burdened him with a nod, perhaps suggesting—no, ordering—that he move closer and hand over the item in his charge. If that was not enough of a cue, the fact that the Warlord's optics naturally shifted to the device would ensure that his intent would be conveyed without any excessive words.

"It is an astrogation beacon. I had it fashioned as an alternative whilst the more advanced facilities aboard the Nemesis remain out of our reach."

In truth, the word "beacon" was a rather inaccurate descriptor, a convenient euphemism for Megatron to use when he wished to gloss over the reality of what implanting and carrying this device meant. Before Flatline even had the chance to reach for it and perform a closer inspection, it'd become more than obvious that this was no standard-issue equipment. It curved slightly, and it was pliable, segmented, like the vertebrae in one's body, though it lacked their distinction. It possessed a smooth, angular shape without any exterior access points, clearly intended to interface directly with a mech's biology. Whereas one would expect a firm, structurally solid device to simply weld onto one's back, arm, or shoulder, this was meant for an internal installment, to be connected with an organ no less vital than...

"You will graft it to the lieutenant's spine and connect it to his neural network," Megatron continued his explanation of what was already plentifully apparent from the sheer audacity of the design. He narrowed his optics slightly, letting them trail off to the ground, to Nokta's pedes, and then slowly trace their way back to Flatline's, legs, torso, hands, optics. Optics to optics. There was a particular look in them, one that the medic would know all too well—Megatron was measuring him, searching for something.

Perhaps he wished to see his reaction, to know whether Flatline would oblige him or if he would have to rely on the cruelty of Shockwave's assistance. Perhaps the medic even sensed this himself, that should he fail or decline to perform the procedure, his patient would be delivered unto the merciless grasp of someone who would, someone who cared not for the implications of installing such a device directly into the nervous system. Would he spare Nokta the pain? Would he choose mercy? Or would his own hesitance, fear, and doubt consume him?

This was no test, this was simply the reality of being Megatron's one and only medical officer, cruel though it may have been.

[Flatline]

Ah.

Flatline didn't particularly know what he had expected to see when he looked upon Nokta. A little fear? A little uncertainty? No. That was irrational. No self-respecting Decepticon would offer such emotions so transparently even if they felt them. This meant that the hollow gaze that was cast back at him almost felt like daggers, a chilling reminder that it was a kill-or-be-killed environment where he had just shown Nokta he was someone who could be easily challenged and pushed over. It made his searching gaze swiftly cast aside, trying to steel his own expression the best he could beneath the shadow of the monster.

Listening to Megatron's words, Flatline would take an additional two dipped strides forward, retrieving the device that had in turn been held out to him after the approval. The second he got it in his possession, a form of cursory look was offered, rather surprised that something so traditionally mechanical and utilitarian in design, instead opted to resemble something organic to their species' physical biology. This caused his helm to crook to the side slightly while rocking it over, before he looked up further as the monster spoke, still refusing to peer beyond collar level. Despite the lack of eye contact, he could still sense the confrontational gaze, feeling judged.

'Without a warship, why is celestial navigation a concern?'

'Why would you need it attached to an individual?'

'Why would Nokta be chosen as a beacon over Soundwave?'

'Why does it need to be inbuilt and hidden?'

Easing his weight back, Flatline's centralized gyroscopes helped balance him as he moved into action once again, turning to walk over towards one of the medical slabs that were crooked down already for emergency situations. While he relocated, he continued to inspect the object, noting how its segments adapted beneath his fingers, and just how far each bent before there was a form of resistance. While he could ordinarily be apprehensive manhandling something so valuable when his life could be on the line, the fact was that if it broke or deformed under such insignificant prodding, then it would have never survived the first day to begin with being installed at such a flexible region of the frame.

"By neural, do you intend for it to be simply felt to keep it safe and powered, or that and facilitating its use by Nokta?"

There would be absolutely no doubt in Flatline's spark that Megatron wouldn't install something like this for the sole purpose of making sure another individual would legitimately keep it safe. No better incentive to guard a possession with one's life when it was indeed directly attached to it! With this thought, he would gently place it down upon the table's surface, before continuing past it, looping a claw over the rim of one of the rolling surgical carts that he would then start to drag behind him to the work storage cabinets, where he hesitated a second.

Fearing an empty interior, Flatline's hand stalled, twitching slightly, before he grabbed the door and opened it. Upon seeing that everything was indeed there, he appeared to relax significantly as though a large weight was removed, offering assurances that this wasn't some obscene challenge to test him, and indeed was an actual functional task that needed to be accomplished. While the tool was undoubtedly irreplaceable with their current situation... possibly... The tension and stress that brought on paled in comparison to another form of nightmare as Flatline was well accustomed to having another's life trapped beneath his claws.

With this, he started to retrieve specific things, each one making a hollow click against the thin metal cart as they were placed in neat lines. One of the objects he picked up seemed to be a slotted wedge of some kind with deep indents and a U-shaped cutout in its middlemost point, showing either that it had been well used for countless years, or that whatever it was used for was more aggressive. This was slightly rolled between Flatline's fingers, looking across the raw exposed chips of metal, before he glanced back at Nokta, red optics boring down into him a second.

Seeing what he needed, he placed it down with the other items with a solid clunk that caused other things to rattle in response, betraying its pure heavy mass.

"I must warn, spinal neural attachment of any kind will result in limited functionality while grafts and the channel set. Depending on how deep it mounts to find a fitting void, there also may need to be a temporary external bar to immobilize and assist in recovery for a couple of days."

Flatline spoke clearly at this, finding the work to be something he could narrow his focus down into. He was able to take his normal precautionary steps, and prepare accordingly, and as such Megatron would see a slightly more accurate representation of the medic. While he was still scared, and he very much feared the tyrant, the ability to move at his own pace while not once looking back over at the monster brought some stability as he mapped out upcoming steps in his mind.

If Megatron's aggressive gaze had been looking earlier for hesitancy in the form of ethics, Flatline showed none, the line in which he worked already offset through brutal spark-splitting experimentation in the past.

[Nokta]

Megatron gave permission for the beacon to be handed off with a wave in Nokta’s direction, to which Nokta merely responded by a mere tilt of his helm as if to expose an audial to some quiet whisper. From his peripheral, he spied a wordless nod from the warlord, and Nokta moved to carry out his silent order. The beacon he’d been guarding close for over a week was now to be handed over to the doctor. While there was still some irrational hesitance gnawing at him to hand over something he’d been entrusted with by their lord himself, it did not show in his bodily movements as a steady hand proffered the device to the medic.

He then simply returned his gaze to the back wall of the medbay, listening intently, but remaining content in his silence all the same. That is until Flatline began asking questions that denoted a certain lack of understanding as to the day’s procedure. Nokta’s optics flickered upwards to examine the doctor’s faceplates once more. While he himself was healthily curious as to the full extent of beacon’s influence over his frame– be it merely physical or more mental in nature– he was more concerned with Flatline’s words. Certainly, he’d been briefed on all of this beforehand? At the very least, sans the more confidential information unrelated to his station, he would have known the kind of procedure he’d be carrying out, no?

But now that he was looking Flatline in the optics, Nokta began to realize that the doctor was not as ‘in his element’ as he would have otherwise assumed he’d be. Those weren’t the optics of someone merely afraid of a mech that could easily kill him– those were the optics of someone fully out of their depth as it related to the current situation.

Was a half-afted briefing really happening now? Nokta surprised himself with the annoyance that flared up and out from the instinctual recesses of his processor as he began to realize that Flatline had likely not been spoken to in private beforehand as he himself had. A patient more knowledgeable of their own procedure than their surgeon. Woeful.

Trying not to look as restless as he felt. Trying not to feel restless at all. He knew he should be more resigned to his situation than either of the other two mecha present. He woke from recharge this morning ready for the worst, after all.

So why did he still feel waves of discontent rolling beneath the surface of his calm exterior?

"I had understood Shockwave’s design would not compromise my mobility to such extents," the wraith finally spoke, the tenor of his voice clear and comprehensible, despite his accursed rasp.

He would not presume to suggest Shockwave had somehow made a mistake. The sharpest scientific mind in Megatron’s court would not be capable of such things. Even with Nokta’s medically difficult-to-navigate spark aberration, Flatline himself had already built a profile for this irregular spark architecture upon the lieutenant’s arrival to Blackridge. It stood to reason such things would be on file and taken in mind with every fleeting upgrade, repair job, and medical visit– and mandatory for such in-depth changes to the frame as this. Thus, the only thing to remain an obstacle to an effective design would be ignorance on the part of someone other than the designer.

The idea of having to spend more than even one day in a medbay with the state the Decepticons were in– rigged up to some external, immobilizing equipment no less– was asinine to the lieutenant, to say the least.

[Megatron]

To all of this, the Warlord merely offered a short and firm nod at first. Flatline's estimations did not seem to phase him as much as they did the lieutenant, but given his preternatural calm, perhaps he had something else in mind to off-set the discontent his underling felt at the revelation. For this reason, he regarded him next.

"Indeed," he answered decisively, "Shockwave's design is flawless, perfected to my exact specifications and requirements."

The plain and unchanging way in which Megatron spoke could only mean that he was telling the truth and that it was never his intention to deceive. After all, Nokta had only ever asked whether the device would impede his function—not the recovery. Such matters were somewhat beyond his ability to guarantee, and yet, he did not simply choose Flatline to install the device because his expertise in internal surgery weighed well against the gruesome alternative of becoming one of Shockwave's playthings.

"...But as the good doctor can attest, our own mortal bodies are much more fallible."

Megatron focused on the doctor next, raising a brow at his braced leg. The bitter synergy between his words and the motion would certainly not be lost on Flatline. A rare indulgence in irony before the matters had to proceed according to schedule.

"That said, I had hoped you would offer a less conservative estimate for the lieutenant's convalescence, doctor," he closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to a brief smirk, "Surely, a visionary of your talents can be expected to do better."

Flatline had a dark and accursed history, but one that was nonetheless marked by advances into medical sciences some thought to be unconventional or even forbidden. His was ever a grim work. That is, before he'd become a resident medic out of necessity. Frame modifications, spark splitting, the very nature of the soul. His intellect brought him into the farthest reaches of knowledge. His perspective was unique, invaluable. How fortunate indeed that he survived the trial. One could call this fate, but regardless of whether it was by divine providence or sheer determination...

Megatron intended to exploit this knowledge today.

"Perhaps if you were to forego standard procedure..." He mused idly. Though, in reality, he was placing the weight of expectation on Flatline already and his "musings" were more for show than anything else. The tone with which he said those words was almost goading, inviting the medic to show off, to expedite what should not be.

At the cost of risk, of pain, of torture... Clearly, things were not to be so simple as they seemed a week ago. One might even come to consider whether Shockwave's hand would have proven to be the less cruel. That is, of course, if Flatline obeyed the implicit command and Nokta submitted himself to the circumstances.

Megatron expected nothing less.

[Flatline]

At Nokta's nervous protests, Flatline's attention would drift over from collecting his tools, noting that perhaps they were both lost on some of the details of what was coming next. This was unfortunate, though it was what it was, and he wasn't remotely surprised in the slightest that he may not consider that the issue was the installation itself rather than the object in question. Some things could be one and done in a couple of hours, though this was not one of them. In contrast, Megatron understood what was meant instead, articulating the truth of where the delay would be. It was good that the monster wasn't blindsided and angry, though what wasn't good was the way that the Warlord dodged around his question about how the object should be connected, in favor of pointing out his inability to even help himself.

Instantly reacting to the sideways strike, Flatline quickly pulled his disabled limb closer to his central mass so that it appeared normal, the plating on his back bristling from the spike of nervous energy. It had been slightly skewed out to the side as if it were dead weight, left to hang forgotten as he favored balancing upon his right while collecting tools. How badly he wanted to be better... how much he agonized over it and just what he and Knock Out were missing. It had to be something so profoundly simple that slipped between their fingers, something that would be revealed should they take the time to dismantle it as well as his good knee to compare and see if a tab or other component was simply missing, more likely than not resting somewhere in the Nemesis.

Even with their absent CMO he felt they couldn’t afford days of him being unable to walk, merely sitting on a medical slab useless as both of his legs were disconnected from the bottom of his wheels down, small bits mapped out with wax pen noting just what each of the scattered pieces were.

Trying to look back at what he was doing, Flatline shakily picked up a smaller box to check the contents, some fear forming again as the monster behind him spoke further. What had been the calmness brought on by a procedure he knew how to do and simply had to go through the motions, suddenly became a new sort of mind game, making him doubt his own plan of action that he had started to line up like a set of dominos.

"I-I see..."

Closing the lid of the box, Flatline pulled the container closer to his chest, anxiously scraping the inner edge of his claw against the dead metal while he thought. Cutting open Nokta was unable to be avoided, it not like he could just latch remove all the plates needed to get to the section he wanted. Trying to cut in from a different angle such as the Alt-Mode was just as problematic and concerning, and bypassing the back assembly in favor of the front or side was even worse and only good for certain individuals. Which Nokta was not.

Another scrape sounded as Flatline's claw raked again, paired with his jaw clenching as a blank gaze stared out ahead at nothing in particular. The grating of his teeth was subtle if not impossible to hear, though it was evidence of just why they were as chipped and mangled as they were.

Running a cord externally along the spinal strut up to the back of the helm was a possibility, though that would require more than one opening and some rather vicious cable threading to a different point that would need repairing. Nokta could walk and go about his days while it mended, though it was more fragile and Flatline couldn't afford an installation failing because the patient was careless, making him look bad. An outcome that was unacceptable.

He then realized what he needed to do, a more grim tone coming into play.

"Th-there is an alternative path, though it has its own costs..."

Finally, the box that was being clutched was placed onto the cart, some fresh silver cuts running along its edge from where he was channeling his anxious energy. Once his hands were free, he took multiple limped steps aside to pull out a drawer that was seldom used, retrieving what appeared to be a heavy hammer with a rubber surface. It was a viciously mechanical tool that looked more befitting to a workshop than a Medical Bay, especially due to the fact it wasn't small in the slightest, holding the size equivalent to half a brick in the hand of a human.

This was placed down beside the more streamlined objects with a noted thud.

[Nokta]

The disquiet Lieutenant Nokta had felt upon fearing Flatline– and therefore himself incapable of providing Megatron with the results he required was swiftly replaced with an irritable eagerness to get on with all he’d been preparing for in the last week.

"Perhaps if you were to forego standard procedure..."

The room had quickly begun to spin as the conversation dragged on, their voices trailing off into mindless chatter, indulgent theatrics and pointless stammering assaulting his audials until their cacophony combined atop one another. Heat prickled his faceplates, his peds pressed harder into the floor as if trying to remove himself from the stagnation that clung to them all.

Atop his HUD and unbeknownst to anyone in the room but him, a warning had begun to blare in bold Cybertronian lettering. A long since unneeded factory setting from his days as a courier, warning that he’d been standing still for longer than sixty seconds on an active delivery. His caretaker would not be pleased– he’d be sent to the undercity to take over more of the older models' routes at this rate.

The delivery service– but he wasn’t there now. He was standing in this Primus-awful Earth barracks that had more idiots than doors. The defunct string of temporal coding within his processor was shunted away with a forward clinging of his peds to the medbay floor.

When was the last time he had to remind himself where he was like that? Had it been some time on the Infinitum? Had he been so angry then, too?

Nokta blinked his optics and glared upward at the sickening amber of the Blackridge patented overhead lighting. His fuel intake had become dry sometime between now and arriving, and the liquids from the washracks had dried in a way that made his joints itch with unparalleled discomfort. He’d definitely overdone it with the solvents.

"Th-there is an alternative path, though it has its own costs..."

He could be patient, but not like this.

He had to keep moving. Had to be efficient. But they were still talking. All the while instinct quite literally spelled out to him in detailed numerics just what an inefficient waste of their collective time this was. It was all nearing a breaking point within him as his fellow courier seemed to trail off from saying what needed to be said. Another HUD notification popped up, another delivery coming in. Always deliveries. Enough, enough, ENOUGH!

"Can it be done?" A rasp stern and sudden.

The archaic warning on Nokta’s HUD dismissed itself.

The anger did too. Faster than he was able to parse where it had come from.

A question posed to the room nonetheless– to both mecha– but mostly to Flatline. The scout’s eyes flickered toward the black-red hearse with a dark weight to them. There was conviction in Nokta’s optics. He needed this. Perhaps more than their leader needed a test subject for his latest gambit. Likely more, if Megatron’s laissez-faire attitude towards the doctor’s role were any indicator.

Nokta stared at the doctor now, and not just because he was searching for affirmation. He couldn’t bear to look Megatron in the optics again without a harsh reminder of their last conversation. Not yet. Not until a sense of wholeness– even a fleeting one, in the form of this beacon– had begun to return to his tortured anima.

But Nokta’s current state wasn’t Flatline’s fault or his responsibility. The latter was to make what needed to be done happen– even if that required unconventional means. It seemed as though if the beacon itself was to become the lieutenant’s burden, the complexities of its implementation were to be the doctor’s.

[Megatron]

For a while, Megatron remained silent and allowed Flatline to adjust to the situation and to continue in his preparations. The mention of an alternative method must have pleased him, otherwise he would not have smiled ever-so-slightly at the mention of it. But was it truly satisfaction, pride and hope that he felt? Did he smile because he had faith in the doctor—or was it a cruel expression enjoying the fleeting stutter, the barely concealed hesitance. Surely, their master was not so merciless as to take perverse pleasure in such realities, and yet, it was difficult to deny that he had an oppressive air about him.

Even a smile could be a threat when it came from Megatron. But was it really?

Taking a few short paces towards Nokta, the tyrant observed the medic shamble about a while longer before he finally parted his cracked lips as if to speak again, perhaps to further discuss the details with the medic, or, more likely, to ask Nokta for his consent in the procedure, token though the gesture may have been. Megatron knew that he would never be denied in the heart of his domain, but it went against the unspoken rules to apply force without due consideration.

How surprising it then was that Nokta had done exactly that... After a fashion. So Sudden. A Rasp.

Megatron furrowed his brow and his expression sunk back into a grim nothing.

"Lieutenant?" He asked in a deep, rumbling tone that equally cautioned and inquired. Clearly, the Warlord had registered an irregularity in Nokta's behavior. Though he had no way of peering into his mind, to feel what he felt, to see what he saw, Megatron sensed the impetuousness through his voice alone.

How very unlike what he'd come to expect of him. Whether it was a boon or a curse... Well, that remained to be seen.

[Flatline]

When Megatron advanced a couple of strides further into the room, Flatline's frame would dip instinctively, the faintest of tremors raking through him that coincided with those that could be felt through the stone flooring. It was a built-in response at that point, one that was hard to overlook and even harder to fight against when an already fearsome force distorted into a literal demon in his life. At any second it could torment, or simply claim another tally on a wall of death should things not go according to plan. This fracture from his momentary confidence could be a problem due to how involuntary it was, posing the great question of 'will I flinch mid incision?' that even he could not answer.

With the faintest of rattles, the flared plating on Flatline's spine would shakily smooth back down as Nokta's voice cut through the air instead of Megatron's, his helm crooking over so slightly to the side to show he had heard it, while not doing so enough to actually see him.

With a click, another tool was placed onto the tray.

"Anything can be done."

This was a statement that could be interpreted as something to please Megatron, however, it was not said for his benefit, but rather was a mindset that Flatline had even before the war kicked off. So long as proper tools were in play, and the supplies to go hand in hand with it, anything could technically be accomplished, he believed. Was whatever scientific goal currently possible as is? No. Not always. Yet just like his Spark Splitting experimentations, he felt there was an answer, it just was a matter of where said solution was hiding and how long it would take to find it.

After saying this definitive comment, Flatline retrieved another set of something that was already bound together, tucking it on the outer edge furthest from him on the filling cart. He poked it slightly to make sure it didn’t fall and was nestled in the tray, before he started to limp back towards the primary medical slab, dragging it behind. It was the main work table that the Vehicon had been thrown onto, which was problematic for Flatline's psyche, though it was the best equipped for such works and had the repaired light up top that had been broken previously during said trial.

"How much must be changed depends on your frame."

He remembered what Nokta's structure type was, though there was running off memory, and then there was seeing it under hand. Wear and tear, modifications, or injuries could completely change things, and he needed to get an eye on it beneath the filter of just what their current goal was, rather than basic medical snapshots.

"Sit on the edge of the slab please..."

Flatline tapped his pointer claw down twice on the corner as he said this, swiftly casting a quick sideways glance in Megatron's direction almost as a quiet 'watch yourself' to Nokta. He didn't want the Lieutenant to step out of line, and then get impaled simply to send him down a new medical trial. After this subtle communication, he spoke further.

"Any developments with your helm...?"

Putting blinders on, Flatline tried to ignore Megatron again.

[Nokta]

Since the words had left Nokta’s mouth, his gaze had remained set upon the doctor. But after a moment, something crawled up and down the side of his frame, a slithering sensation that seemed to originate from the warmech standing beside him. It took him a few seconds to realize that the sensation his body registered had been Megatron's voice.

Megatron had gotten closer to him, multiple paces closer, and he had not noticed. Remarkable, considering the mech's size and force of gait. Nokta's helm snapped upwards in realization, quickly assessing the warlord's gaze. The expectant look on his leader's faceplates told the scout all he needed to know.

He knew that look. He’d seen it many times before. The kind of gaze that was looking for one thing. Weakness. Nokta would show none. Not now.

"I'm fine," he responded to the larger mech's question, voice clipped. He turned his helm away just as quickly. You didn't stare a predator in the eyes when it was hungry for food, after all. Against the rules, that was what it was.

Nokta cleared his throat, dry and hoarse. "I forgot to take my ration this morning. Forgive my impatience." It was a reasonable claim. Not even untrue, today was a big day for the lieutenant after all. Certain things could easily be forgotten and fall to the wayside when your daily routine was disrupted.

Almost as soon as Flatline had instructed Nokta to take his position on the medical slab did Nokta depart from Lord Megatron’s side. The sudden movement was not hasty, nor even fearful, but made as though his gait itself could physically wind the clock forward on this entire situation in a way more suited to the ex-courier’s pace.

“Any developments with your helm…?”

Well aware of the third mech listening in, and even more so aware of his own desire for Megatron to know as little as possible about his own processor issues, lest they be misconstrued by their leader as something far more debilitating than they were, Nokta was careful with his response to this question.

His immediate instinct was to respond in a way that forced Flatline off the subject. To growl something under his breath, quiet in a way that was all too clear he only wanted it to be heard by the medic. But to shoot out a simple, clipped ‘no’ just to rush the topic along would have been far too telling.

Nokta propped himself up onto the edge of the slab before answering Flatline’s question. He kept his gaze downcast, not looking at either mech, merely focusing on another vacant space somewhere in front of him.

"Nothing of note, I’ve been monitoring it as per your instructions." Of course, he didn’t want to lie by telling the doctor that the issue had resolved itself. It hadn’t. He’d only had one episode in the two weeks since he’d first seen Flatline, so there was no telling if the issue was getting better or worse. It hadn’t even occurred to him that his hallucination was an ‘episode’ until just a few days ago, and by then he was far too busy preparing for today to bring it up. But now was decidedly not the time to bring that up.

"All of my residual symptoms cleared themselves once my energon levels stabilized upon arrival to Blackridge." That last part was a given, Flatline likely would have already known as much but Megatron didn’t know that. The phrasing was intentional, an added cherry on top of the seemingly mundane answer he’d already given, to lessen any assumed severity of the subject matter.

And all of that was to say nothing of the anomaly he’d just experienced a moment prior. He wouldn’t think back on this for a while. How ironic Megatron had been the only one to truly notice it. Nokta had spent more than enough time compartmentalizing worse horrors into the recesses of his battered psyche to dwell upon this right now. Not when important work had to be done, no.