[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Double Dose [Knockout, Open]

[Deleted]

With Flatline’s outburst (a rightly justified one), Swan desisted in the veiled harassment of their twin. “Lucky?” They rounded on Flatline once more, this time lowering their helm and peering around Switch. You can only push your sibling around so many times before the novelty and their patience wears through. “That has to be the understatement of the year- at least!” Swan went to clasp their servos together at chest level, only to fail the action. They vented out in puzzlement and briefly glanced down so as to ensure the success a second time around. With the claws now interlocked, they resumed their interest in the conversation.

Switchfoot, sharing the same awareness for their frame, simply shook their helm in disappointment. There was a reason Swansong never got involved in the canvas based arts.

“Being the reason for the crash isn’t nearly as screen worthy as taking on the whole ship.” The excited buzz in Swan’s tone dissipated. Earth media spoiled them in regards to stories. Did they care that the Nemesis was no more? Absolutely not. Sure, they were bothered about their new and less than subpar home, but who wasn’t? Swan would complain to Switch about it later- they couldn’t tune them out even if they wanted to.

Third times a charm. Switchfoot finally clued into what all the excitement was about. Their first reaction was to doubt. Surely the ship wasn’t so delicate as to be downed with the efforts of just one mech- and a medic no less? They issued a new appraisal of Flatline with a sidelong glance. Once more Switch paused on the mech’s gibbled leg. A light punishment in regards to the crime? Couple Flatline’s reaction with Knockout’s continued banter, him being at fault was plausible.

Like Swan, Switch wasn’t partial to the warship either. Then again, anything they were partial to was long gone. To mask their lack of bothers to give, they scrutinized their assigned practitioner for a pointed moment of silence. If there were casualties in the accident... Well Switch might just consider it a bonus. A field trip for later perhaps.

Still staring? Glaring? Ah the ambiguity of empurata! There was a hiss of static, a false start to a lost statement. Another hiss, this time out of frustration. ”We -ill be s-re to lear- wh-- -e can. Woul- -ot want -o diss-ppoin-.” Concluding their observations and possible aggravations of Flatline, they politely lent their focus back to the CMO. ”-hank -ou fo- -our time.”

Swansong went to wave, only they forgot to unclasp their servos. After a quick correction, they waved off Knockout with passing success. ‘Oh, he’s rather fun! Don’t you think?’

’I am certain the novelty will wear off. Just look at the pint sized ‘destroyer’, he is fuming...’ And then for the dreaded part; the repairs. Once more, Switchfoot’s singular optic passed over Flatline. ”I -ill not -uestio- a -igh oppinio- -iven fou- times.” As instructed, the twins settled onto the medical slab, not quite yet laying down. One servo drummed at the surface, issuing a nonsensical ditty. ”I w-ll ho-eve- warn -ou tha- we are - diff-cult patien-.”

“Yeah... Our apologies.” Rather than elaborate, the twins brought their legs up and turned their mass so as to lay down. Shuffling their shoulders, the joint frame had placed Switchfoot closest to the working side. “Hack at ‘er doc!”

”-wan. It -s -ave at -er. Not -ack.” Another low vent. They were in no danger of overheating today.

[Flatline]

The second Knock Out fully turned away, Flatline's right hand swung up in a rude gesture in his direction, a sharp jabbing motion of frustrated spite. He had every intention of doing something later for vengance. Whether it was a series of small things like moving supplies to new locations, or if it was one bigger thing had yet to be decided... but he knew that there would be something, and he would know what that something was the moment it fell into grasping range. Whatever the case he let his hand fall back down to his side with an annoyed snort through his vents, before turning to the Twins, perfectly aware they saw the disrespect.

He had felt emboldened in that moment, willing to do such a thing, before it caught up to him that maybe, just MAYBE the newcomers were behaving simply because of the CMO's presence. It was one thing to tick off the lead medical worker, it was another to tick off a lowly assistant. This caused a new wave of nervousness to eek across his plating, the quills down his back pulling a bit flush along the vents they covered. Red eyes flicked back to observe them, listening as Swan spoke about his violent episode.

"I hardly took on the whole ship..."

He grumbled this out warily, before attention snapped right over to the silent twin. Swan was easier to 'read' it appeared. Energetic, more excitable. The one with the broken voice however was far fiercer. An illusion perhaps, a poor mix between their vacant faces and monotone droll... but that didn't really make him feel TOO much better all things considered, an uncertainty coming on. There was a strong thought of 'but why risk it?', especially as they appeared to be glaring him down, the bottom edges of his mouth crooking back into a nervous grimace.

A statement that could have been seen as teasing to Flatline, instead came off as a sort of threat to the black and red mech's frayed nerves. No joke, no observation... the 'thank you' couldn’t possibly have been genuine and was instead a hollow threat behind a veil of pleasantries. He was just going through the mental hurdles of translating this, trying to decipher the tone, before more broken words fell out, and this time he grappled a bit too hard and lost some of it.

"I... did not catch that first part."

He warily stated this, not really grasping anything after 'I will not-'.

When Switch spoke about how they were difficult patients while getting up on the slab, Flatline tried to relax his frame, an additional ex-vent slipping out to try to shake off nerves before he rolled into a walk towards some of the rough slapped in cabinets for storage on the side. His limp was getting a bit better still as time progressed, it stretching out from binding earlier. With this, he moved with more care, grasping onto a drawer to pull it out.

"As long as you don't lurch around, I can cope."

If they fidgeted all the time, squirming and flinching at every tap of metal against metal, there would be some serious issues. It would be one thing if it was a large hinge or merely buffing out a seam, but it was another when working on the smallest of components within their frame. If one of them decided to fling themselves and move at the wrong moment, one of his claws or the very tool he was using could gore into the system and completely impale it. At this thought he retrieved a medical scanner, opting to not collect more tools until he knew what he was dealing with here.

Clicked taps of footfalls, a careful approach, Flatline eyed the two as they eased fully down per his instruction, noting how energetic Swan was at the idea of their twin being ripped up.

"Let's start basics..."

He asked this as he got to their side and leaned his cane against the medical slab.

"When did this issue manifest? Was there a trigger?"

Impact damage, a scream pushed too loud... something to guide him a bit in some kind of direction. It was then he started to put the tool through a boot-up process since it had been completely off in storage.

[Deleted]

From exasperation to what was it? Unease? The twins were quick to note Flatline’s transition through his emotions. Swansong wasn’t too surprised by the gesture, the annoying ones tend to seek out and elicit such an effect. What held their interest, aside from the Nemesis’ fate, was the fact that Flatline chose to act out once he was no longer in the CMO’s line of sight. It was too early to toot the coward whistle, but the paranoia was certainly making a ruckus.

“Then do tell- what’s your secret? There’s gotta be some truth behind the emphasis.” From the fishing tone of a gossiper, Swan switched to something more level. Something that sought to appease through the possibility of a threat. “Like Knockout said, it’s best we get our information from the source- meaning you. And if I were you, I wouldn’t want someone else further sullying my reputation...” No longer as excited, Swan still maintained a peppy buzz. “Besides, KO said he’d be testing us later- I’d really hate to disappoint our commanding officer on our first assignment.” There was a heavy emphasis on the first ‘our’, belaying the information that Flatline would be seeing the twins around with a frequency not many fancied.

’Can you ease up? I would not enjoy an angry medic working on my only decent mode of communication.’ Switch maintained their usual attentiveness, which was to say it wasn’t much. They were not bothered about Flatline’s little display, no, they merely were intrigued to see the gesture in motion- trying to commit it to memory for their notes later on. It was very rarely that they got to witness frustrations directed at someone other than them.

‘Why do you think I’m pestering him, hm?’ There it was, the backhand Switch was waiting for. Propping their frame up by resting on their elbows, the twins watched as the mech moved about the bay with improving steps. Swan rolled their helm in their socket to dispel the already building energy. Eventually their movements involved draping one leg over the other so they could freely bounce their foot.

Switchfoot wondered briefly if what they said was worth repeating. It wasn’t like what they said held much importance- they were strangers after all. Still, it might offset Swan’s crusade to upset. ”- -omplimen-.” That worked well enough, at least Switch thought it did. They could do without the elaboration. ”Lurching -an -e avoide-.” With medical matters being of more importance, Switch did their best to fully enunciate the necessary information. ”Breaks. -e -eed to move. Five mi-ute-.”

“Basically- we can only sit still for so long. Otherwise there will be complications. Switch can better explain the science or whatever it is- it bores me.” Impatient with the talking? Yes. Swan could not wait to enjoy the silence with which their twin would have to go under.

Not wanting to say that they simply didn’t speak for several years, Switch had already prefabricated a lie for their condition. It was a good lie too since it included other truths from similar experiences. ”It -s recurring. -very -ew decades. Not -omp-tible.” Shifting their weight off one arm, they made a pulling gesture at the rough location of their vocoder. ”Magnets -ull at -onnections.” Almost as if in illustration, a charged arc of light danced between their claw tips, prompting a brief shake of the servo.

[Flatline]

Why was everyone in his vicinity a gossiper?...

Knock Out was bad enough to deal with. Milling around like a starved animal trying to pull any nugget of information out of others. No... not information... Flatline thought such a word incited the idea of knowledge and learning. Instead, Knock Out seemed to seek backwater filth that painted pictures of teammates beyond the face they showed others. It wasn't worth Flatline's Energy. He didn't care for such frivolous uses of time. He liked efficiency, and should gossip come around? It had to be casually without impairing work.

"My reputation is already sullied and burning at the side of the road."

This comment could be translated as melodramatic, a sort of somber cry that he was nothing but garbage now at the side of the Decepticon's warpath, however it was etched with a sort of irritated dismay. Acceptance, uncaring, an edge of flippant irritation, he knew he had fallen quite far and he had accepted it already. He spat venom from the sidelines while trying to keep low enough that those traveling on a higher tier wouldn’t deem him worthy of their effort. It was a balance he tried to take, yet it was difficult given his naturally antagonistic persona that had been built up for countless years.

"I got ill with a disease that induced psychotic rage, and I assaulted Knock Out and slashed his face open."

Neutral words, no real inflection as he droned out facts like he was reading from a book.

"Which is likely the reason he torments me now."

Red eyes shifted to peer over at where Knock Out vanished, a flick of his upper lip forming a moment before he turned back to look directly into the singular optic of Swan. Flatline was not ignorant of the statement of the word 'our', catching onto it in an instant. He only really had one foothold in this world now, one use. He was an assistant to Knock Out and should that be considered expendable beyond what it already was? Well, he could simply be replaced and put in an even more demeaning role. Because of this his helm rose up a bit, eyes half lidded while peering up upon the other Cybertronian with a judgmental gaze.

What were their skills? What were they capable of? Did they mean to simply imply 'our' in the sense that any Commander could order them? Just as Shockwave was 'his' Commander as well despite no longer working beneath him? Or did they wish to say they were of the medical field? This put a darker haze upon things, especially if the cold and calculating Switch was the surgeon, and Swan could offer the gossip and flare the red mech would consume like Syk. They could hit both tiers he could not and that made them a threat.

Flatline moved on, but was more alert to what was happening.

"Ah, then thank you."

A compliment? He saw them as hollow words from a patient trying to offset the forming ire. Flatline put no true value on them, focusing instead on trying to decipher what came next. Thankfully, Swan elaborated with more care, so he didn't need to try to ask again for clarification. Once Flatline understood the problem, he let out a sort of 'tsk' before he placed the booting scanner down on the edge of the table, and then held his left arm out.

There were three red panels upon his forearm. They looked like decorative patches to break up the flat black of his body, but one of the chunks lurched up some, before popping out with a snap, the small transformation revealing a simple pair of pliers that fit the most generic often used size for ease of use. His right hand pulled around to grasp the device, before holding it out for one of them to take. The tool had a spring and lock, meaning it could be clutched and squeezed with enough bounce to open again, or the lock could be flicked open and closed to latch it so it would no longer open. It was a means to drain off a small amount of the energy to buy him marginally longer work times.

Whether they took the tool or not didn't matter, Flatline's attention was pulled to the explanation, and the small spark of static that seemed to flicker between throat and fingertips. To him, this implied an improper grounding circuit, electricity that was used to power the component simply set loose with no restraint. It was... a shoddy piece of craftmanship as far as he was concerned, though he couldn't blame whoever made their cobbled mess of a frame. It had to be the work of whoever had hacked off their helm, perhaps taking with it the pieces necessary.

"Does Swan ever have said issue."

Picking the scanner back up, Flatline pressed a few keys, before holding it out so that the green bar of light flowed over Switch's throat, looking to see what other anomalies the tool could pick up on.

[Deleted]

Swansong could be respectful- a rare trait given it was conditional. One that only showed when they finally got to hear what they wanted. Flatline did not share tales with the dramatic flare they enjoyed. To Swan, he was infuriatingly factual. Serious. And threatening. Threatening because they feared boredom could kill. In their experience it had led to death, just not theirs. Practiced and to the point- like he had repeated only an explanation and never a defense. Swan desisted in their probing, partly out of pity, mostly because they wanted drama, not a documentary. “Ah, well, burns can be repaired... As for the tormenting- hardly hellish.” A lopsided shrug. Their helm losing focus at some point across the room.

Swan knew more than a thing or two about torment.

At the mention of illness there was some added animation to Switchfoot. Their audial fins shifted upwards, their view centering more fully on Flatline. Psyche and ailments were not their specialty, but they still intrigued. ”There -as -n out--eak? -f not too -ersona-, I -ould like to kn-- -ore.” Switch wasn’t after stories, only information. Notes to study later. ”-as there man- -asualty--?” They softened in their posture, doing their best to display a somber attitude and mask further interest.

Catching what could be judgement for Swan’s little slip up, Switchfoot narrowed their shutters at the mech. Without a word more, they made a point to raise their three-clawed servo and wiggled the stiff digits. There were no knuckles, only a hitch like joint that connected the dull claws to a central structure. The ‘thumb’ was centralized, and when closed, it nested between the other two claws without contact. They could only grasp things. Flatline needn’t worry. Until they got compatible replacements, the twins were virtually useless. Even with new servos, Switchfoot wasn’t even certain if Knockout would accept a colonist’s license, or if papers even mattered anymore.

Hearing a small snap, Switch was quick to look down. They despised the idea of being worked on by others and did not want to entertain any surprises during the procedure. Seeing the pliers, their helm titled to the side, quizzical like. Waiting for their processor to catch up, Switchfoot hesitantly took the offered instrument in their poorly articulated grasp. A few test clicks later their audials perked up, and their gaze shot back to Flatline. ”-mart.” They were perhaps just a little bit embarrassed to not have thought of a similar solution- and peeved that past practitioners had failed to think of the very thing.

Easing themselves back onto the operating table, Switch made a point to ignore the scanner. There was more embarrassment, shame primarily, because they knew what a mess would be seen. Switchfoot tried to focus on the idle swaying of their elevated foot, and the measured clicks of the pliers in hand. Flatline was talking again, not that he said much to begin with, interrupting the ignorance they were trying to maintain.

Swansong’s helm popped up, more than ready to brag about their relative health. “Thank Solus, no! This voice? Au naturale.” A minor lie given the fact they never speak with their original pitch or accent. ”Switch has a synthesizer. A shoddy one too apparently. I know literally no one that would actively choose to drone rather than speak.” Another jab given freely, Swan was satiated once again.

On the scanner, what Flatline believed about the quality of their build up was more than true. At first glance, their structures mostly appeared to be Cybertronian, but there were some natural bits that just didn’t quite match the textbook stuff. They certainly didn’t match the buildup of their helm. Switch’s internals were a patchworked mess. A fair bit of pain nodes were gouged out and filled with rough welds, evidently self inflicted. Any nodes that remained sent signals that they had since adapted to. Switchfoot’s vocals were an archaic device, set into a ground out space and secured by screws. Any sign of what was originally there was completely and sloppily erased. They were lucky to even be able to speak- no care was taken to make a piece that fit with their anatomy. Besides, it was cheaper for a surplus device to be used.

[Flatline]

In the grand scheme of things? Swan was right. Flatline's issues were small versus others, but that did not make his plight any less valid. He really wasn't doing super well at Blackridge, and adapting to the scenario had been really hit or miss, especially with his secondaries straight up amputated... Alas, he did not comment on that particular facet of the discussion longer, focusing instead on Switch's question, trying to backtrack and fill in the gaps as best he could.

"The crash of the Nemesis took out more than the actual disease did. Numerous Vehicons, Virtuoso as well as a couple others."

He said this indifferently, though it bothered him he had been the root of that.

"Megatron was believed deceased, but that proved to be... inaccurate."

What a surprise that was! The day Megatron was declared alive was the day Flatline thought his spark would rip out of its casing and take out everything around it in one blast. The mere thought still caused his systems to gear up a small amount, as if it was trying to kick into fight or flight despite this not being a moment to do so. He suppressed this down.

Whatever the case, at Switchfoot's compliment about his adaptability about their condition, Flatline finally seemed to break from the mold of a disgruntled beaten down passive aggressive soul. The top edge of a lip twitched up a bit into a half lopsided smirk, a sort of arrogant knowing look as eyes were half lidded. The single broken word had validated his smothered beliefs, and reminded him that he hadn't grown dulled under the monotony of the War Machine. Call it cocky, call it egotistical, but he ate it up before his attention drifted to the scanner as it finished up.

Oh Primus.

What a fragging mess.

Flatline's angular brows hiked up a small amount when the readout finished, giving him a nice comprehensive look on just how absolutely abysmal this individual's voice was. The thing shouldn't even be functional to the limited degree it was now, it like putting a fuel pump from a primitive generator inside a Cybertronian and expecting it to work for longer than four minutes. This voicebox should have burnt out countless years prior, if it even worked at all the moment they first booted up after the surgery. It was a damn miracle it hadn’t straight up melted inside their throat to glue other things together given the charges were likely incompatible, a tinker squeaker toy that somehow articulated words within a cage of mangled bits, soldering, and torn out chunks.

Red eyes flicked from Switchfoot's throat, to eye, to scanner, to eye, to scanner...

While the look of shock wasn’t hidden fully, he couldn’t mask it over perfectly given the situation catching him so far off guard, he did steel himself readily once he registered the thoughts enough to do so. His face returned to neutrality and bland indifference, nuking the smirk from before. While he may not have friendly bedside manner, he knew better than to fling someone into real worry that they may never be able to speak again given wartime supplies.

"So, we have a couple options."

With care, Flatline flicked a switch on the scanner to set it to stand-by, before he reached over and across the twins to place it on their opposite side. His disproportionally long limb made this rather easy, leaving the tool in range, but not in the way without touching or bothering them since countertops were limited.

"Option one, I can try to repair what you got while installed. It looks to be incompatible with your build, and of lower grade materials, but I should be able to rig it a bit better so it can be roughly functional. Chances are it will continue to fail however, meaning said work must be repeated."

A simple but obnoxious task, though if things were to go haywire again when it came to their outposts, having the ability TO do another patch could be... questionable.

"Option two, I straight up remove it, and reconstruct at the workbench. You will be mute until I can rebuild the thing out of better materials, which given current lack of supplies could take a few days. Maybe week..."

Few days was being generous there. It depended on if he was assigned something more valuable by High Command, and then if he could field all the materials needed to actually craft it. Should a more important task be dropped on his lap, Switch would be heaved on the sidelines and told to just 'tough it out' being a mute trapped in their own body with a chatterbox twin that would likely view it as a vacation...

"Option three, should your current voice not be favored, we do have Vehicon parts in borderline abundance after the... incident... yet if they will fit or not is a question and I'd rather not try to retrofit the innards of your neck if it can be helped given all the... solder... making it a large ordeal."

He could do it... if he had dedicated time... but that'd be a crapshoot in the dark though. What voice will you get? Deep? High? Rasped? Smooth? Sure, it could be tweaked a small bit once installed, but they would be playing with roulette there.

[Deleted]

Hearing that lives were lost in the crash? It should have stirred something in either helm. But the news didn’t. Not really. Switchfoot was already pondering what could be done with the remains- dress some, garner favour, get new hands. Pretty straight forward stuff, even though getting to the dead was a challenge, they didn’t know where this batch of cons’ compassion lay, nor could they fashion the hands themselves. Problems for later, solutions to come. Swansong did not care one bit- the dead were dead, let them be. What did prompt something was their self made visual of Flatline’s first encounter with Megratron after his supposed death. The fear! What they would give to see such raw emotion! An amused hum left their systems, a sound that was pitched lower than the regular hums of their systems, and carried the odd melodic note with it.

They would find a way to reenact the scene later, when no one would give them hell for it. At the present however, Swan was rather fond of making this medical visit hellish for their counterpart. So when Flatine briefly displayed shock, they were very quick to latch on to such an expression. “A face like that, it better be terminal.” A delightful leer of a tone, poured out of their perfectly functioning vocoder. They leaned towards Switch, forcing them to move their helm away.

Switchfoot glared at them from their periphery the best they could given their physical limitations. A silent appraisal, a moment to select their next path of action. To further provoke Swan meant greater issues for later. Best to douse the flame before it blazed. ”- die. -ou die.” Quick, simple, and to the point. Just how they liked it. Was the statement truthful? Maybe. Maybe not. Swan was on a need to know basis. They did not need to know.

Red optic darkening with a panicked understanding- if it wasn’t gossip they valued, then it was their life. Swan was quick to peer around their counterpart, who had since eased back, and in a quick flurry of words pleaded, “I take it back. Don’t let Switch die! Please, you gotta help them Doc!”

A low hum issued from Switchfoot’s side of the joint frame, their helm giving the faintest of sideways shakes. It was nice to get back at Swan, even if they did not realize that was the case. ’Stop interrupting and he will.’ One lesser nuisance dealt with, Switchfoot exvented to further aid in the preparation for their results. They knew roughly what to expect, so Flatline’s straight forward attitude was well respected.

The first option was one Swan was most familiar with- the solution that they were most comfortable with. It was the least invasive procedure, one that has temporarily worked time and time again. They merely nodded in response to it.

The second option was promising up until Flatline mentioned being mute for more than a day. ”No.” There was calm and then there was straight up fear lashing out into Switchfoot’s energy field. Visibly the only reaction was them freezing, optic brightening as shutters constricted. They were fine with being quiet. It was just the very thought of Swansong being given free reign- them being able to jab and jive with reckless abandon- the damage they would no doubt cause? The damage they had already caused? Hell, both twins wore the results of Swansong’s unchecked behaviors. Any further punishments would most likely be a death sentence. And while Switch delighted in studying death, they weren’t so ready to be damned to it because of their malicious counterpart.

“Yes!” Simultaneous with Switchfoot’s negatory response. Swansong’s glee at speech without restrictions completely smothered and drowned out their twin’s reservations. Their shared field engulfed the fear with absolute joy, unintentionally giving Switch the opportunity to reign in and contain their own emotions.

Once more there was a, ”No.” Painfully clear and concise, but of course it could not carry the tones that Switchfoot needed. This led to the idea of a pilfered voice box to be very appealing. And also damning. Keeping fields in check was one thing. Watching their tone? Being able to speak with an actual voice? Switchfoot was millions of years out of practice- a synthesizer and a vocalizer were two different forms of communication. The former making certain thoughts aloud, the latter requiring forgotten skills to use.

A borrowed piece of equipment also required further modifications- risky ones given compatible pieces were so far and few between. So much could go wrong and Switchfoot couldn’t even blame it on an outside force. And yes, the solder... That was on them. The slow clicks of pliers ceased, the tool being kept closed in a stressed clutch.

“Hm... Option two does seem promising. Look! Switchfoot is already practicing how to be a mute!” A pause of speech, Swan’s helm tilted down to think useless thoughts. “I could practice a ventriloquist act with them!” Helm bobbing up once, freezing, and then lowering once more. “I suppose I’d need a mouth for that to work... Scrap.” They sunk back into plotting their counter’s torment- a favourite past time of theirs.

Meanwhile, Switch let the back of their helm rest on the medical slab, finials resetting to something neutral. “Opti--n one.” The words were broken and garbled- a result of emotional interference that masked itself as the usual glitches. “It -s the -east cos-ly.” It was alway the most affordable option that Switchfoot would choose. It’s why they spoke how they did now. Funds were always directed to sustenance, towards satiating Swan. Never them.

Once more the clicks from the pliers resumed. This time measured, and no longer idle.

[Flatline]

This duo... how they have survived as long as they have was beyond Flatline. Should he have been stuck with Swan, he was fairly certain he would have abolished the other processor so it became a mindless husk hanging off his spark. Something that couldn't contest or aggravate, something that wouldn't hinder and torment him in some endless game of push and shove... Try to make the other Cybertronian some kind of cancerous leech of a growth rather than something that would badger him like that. Cruel? Horrific? Monstrous? Yes... But it would be worth it.

Then again, Flatline hadn't been created in such a way, and as such learned to greatly appreciate his solitude and ability to focus without interruption. If he had been thrown into life with such a... defect... he may view it differently, the silence a harrowing idea, the concept of NOT having another there more torturous than enduring their madness. It was certainly a clash of worlds. All he knew was the fact he would not cope for five minutes like that, let alone a lifetime.

These thoughts flicked through his processor as he reached over to grab the top of his cane, pulling it close to his frame to start to ease his weight down onto. Red optics shifted over with a sort of quiet unamusement while they spoke over one another, enduring the whiplashes of emotion that snapped through their frame. One side saying no with a static droll, the other crying for yes with eager abandon to logic. Flatline didn't seem to react much at the outburst, his eyes slowly blinking before settling upon them again, trying to let them get it out of their systems... only he could see problems coming fast.

A low drum of fingertips... long blades curling over the hook of the cane... Flatline's 'claws' that were meant for delicate work more so than attack clicked in a single rhythmic motion along the metal handle, the thin pinpricks of white in his eyes settled solidly down onto Swan while she belted out her desires for the second option and a want to pick up a new hobby. It did not require someone particularly astute to know she was not excited at the idea of a more permanent fix, but was more looking for the most effective way to torment their... arguably better half... The interjections were obnoxious, and were almost muddling over the opinion of WHO mattered in this scenario... an individual he had enough problems understanding as is anyway.

It was best to nip this in the bud.

Sharply, Flatline's free hand pulled up then, before hooking down abruptly while his frame crooked forward. The tip of his claw would suddenly jab unceremoniously into the closest representation of Swan's forehead, pushing her helm down against the table with a clunk. It wasn't enough force to damage her, the tip of his finger more akin to crook from any REAL pressure, but it was there, and the motion ended with Flatline's broad frame almost hooked over Switch to cast a dark shadow across them both. His words snarled with spatted punctuation right at their far more jittery and annoying counterpart.

"My questions aren’t directed at you."

Snarled, a low gravely hiss as his lip crooked up and back into a sneered expression. At this closer vantage the roughed gnarled edges of his teeth would be plainly visible, irregular angles and gritted wear marks from grinding obsessively to cause a distorted cutting edge. This paired with his fierce look and the way his mass blotted out the light above him, showed he was throwing his weight and slamming his foot down on the problem.

"You are not the patient here."

Sure, some could argue they were. It was part of 'their' self, only... as far as Flatline was concerned their 'shared' mentality was broken at the point their necks branched away from their body. From that collar up, they were individuals, and Switch's choice on what happened to THEIR voice, wasn’t going to be steamrolled by some jabberbox that Flatline was already very well over and done with. Whatever the case, the black and red medic's frame crooked up and back then, allowing the ceiling lights to flicker back down upon them as he eased onto his legs properly, the grip on his cane tightening a moment.

"You must repeat yourself Switch-"

His voice then dropped to a lower grumble.

"-Hopefully without disruption..."

Flatline took his job very seriously. He wanted to help! And despite what had occurred he was not one to baulk entirely at conversation. He would not mind Swan talking at all, but the second they were barreling over the patient like their thoughts played any role here? That was what set him off. His patients had rights, and while those two were connected, he was trying his best to treat them as 'individuals' as it was what was 'right' even if it felt bizarre. Flatline already wondered how the paperwork would be done... but that was a call for their 'CMO' to make, so he could cast that aside for now.

Turning away, Flatline would start walking towards where the supplies were stored. He didn't hear what was said at the ending there, but he did have a good feeling the choice was the temporary fix rather than a long-term solution. If it had been that for a Vehicon's donation, he could change tactics then, but for now he grabbed a dented medical tray that was salvaged, slapping it down onto the counter before starting to fish for supplies.

[Deleted]

Had Switchfoot ever thought of doing away with their counterpart? Yes. So many, many times. And with increasing frequency. As a matter of fact, they were contemplating it at that very moment. Timing the clicks of the pliers with the rush of energon pumping in their audials, Switch wondered after how difficult it would be to drive the tool through the other’s optic, into their processor. Would Swansong fight back? Could their will power outwork Swan’s? Or would they reach a stalemate, both minds warring for control? Those questions were only a third of a problem- a matter of could I?

There were so many questions and too many risks. Switchfoot wasn’t even sure if killing one helm would allow the body and the other to survive. And it would be killing- there would be no half measures when dealing with Swansong. How would their spark bode? There was a certainty that all the building energy would cripple them further. Switchfoot had considered looking into various forms of energy dispelling devices- but materials to study and resources for such things were hard to come by. With Swan gone, how much of the body could Switchfoot even control? Too many what ifs and hows.

It was infuriating.

Swansong was infuriating. Switchfoot wasn’t the only one that thought so as made evident by Flatline’s figure darkening the pairs’ field of view. A laugh was bubbling out of Swansong’s vocoder, ready to make fun of their twin’s increasing frustration. Only and mercifully so, it was cut short by the mech pushing Swan’s helm down to the medical slab. Now instead of amusement a strangled “Eek!” left them.

The sound came not because of surprise at the force of movement. No. It came because the mech’s denta were even more grisly up close. Swansong had the rare sliver of common sense not to mention that thought. There was a new noise made in an attempt to counter the first statement, it was nothing coherent. Swan’s last lucid train of thought trailed off at denta because when pairing the feature with the fierce displeasure that Flatline wore, their processor made the executive decision to completely avoid the conflict by checking out. They were in for a world of indignance when they rebooted.

In the meantime, Swansong’s optic merely darkened as their shutters dilated. Once Flatline backed away, their helm simply turned to the side. To those unfamiliar with the twins’ ‘unique’ traits, the action would most likely come across as Swan doing their best impression of a cold shoulder.

Switchfoot lifted their own helm off the table once there was room enough to do so, and glanced down at their counterpart. Twice in one day? Swan was getting worse. A fact that very much bothered them. Switch knew that this decline had been happening a long while but tried very hard to just not notice it. They couldn’t afford to- doing that meant acknowledging the fact that their, no her, Swansong wasn’t coming back.

This was the final third of Switchfoot’s problem- was her sister still in there? Stuck in this manic imposters mind? That one worry was perhaps the biggest one. Switchfoot would be lying to themselves if they didn’t miss who their other half was.

Flatline’s request for repetition did not register at first. Switch was stuck simmering in a slew of problems- stuck focusing on the rapid clicks of pliers in hand and the hunger that gnawed as it always did. Without so much as asking permission or giving notice, the joint frame swung their legs off the side of the table and straightened up. The movement didn’t come soon enough, and as a result the energy transferred into what parts were currently moving; that being the claw which operated the tool it held. Either Switch was squeezing too hard or something had shorted.

There was a sharp and sudden ‘POP’ followed by the hum of a powered item shutting down. The connection between arm and claw failed, letting the part fall to the ground in the dull thud of something heavy hitting dirt. Switchfoot was quick to flinch away from their twin, expecting an abashment that never came from the lulling helm. A burst of static from their synthesizer, an attempt at an expletive that could never be processed.

Staring down at their fallen part, Flatline’s earlier request had finally processed. ”--e firs- -ption.” Switchfoot’s helm rotated the 180° back to check and see if such a failure of their systems was noted. Their gaze didn’t linger long before they were off the table and crouching to scoop up the claw with their remaining one. ”--sier.”

With Flatline preoccupied at the supply station, Switch took it upon themselves to pace and further dispel excess energy from their systems before the procedure. Still holding their lost servo, the mecha waited to see if the cuffs would either reboot or not. If they did, perfect! If not, it meant opening up the pieces and seeing which part blew.

In an attempt to bury the new problem, Switchfoot was asking after the other’s previous project. ”--e arm. Wha- for?” Keep the words simple, cut out anything that could further be garbled.

[Flatline]

As Swan effectively shut down and turned away, Flatline's red eyes danced across them to try to read exactly what the action meant. It could be the cold shoulder for certain, a snubbed response to shun him spitefully for daring to stand up to her. That said, their arms didn't half cross or other such motion to try to convey a sort of huffiness. It could simply be a fearful turn, something to not show weakness by a 'scared' reaction. While they no longer had a face to emote with, ingrained habits could be still present to produce such an action. Whatever the case, there wasn't enough evidence to deduce one side or the other, and he wasn't willing to pitch an absolute fit for making assumptions.

Once off to the side, Flatline was starting to gather his tools, before he heard a sharp movement followed by the rattled pop and hum. This understandably drew his attention, a flickered jolt of fear surging through him. He wondered if he had offended enough that they were now going to come after him, moving to stand up to tower over him and gain an upper edge. His frame shied away with such a subtle edge, ready to fling an arm up to defend himself, only to notice they were simply standing there, and that their makeshift hand...

Flatline looked down at the dropped hand, then back up at Switch, then down at the dropped hand again... He didn't understand fully what had happened. If their wrist was half broken, he thought they would have disclosed that as well to attempt to seek a fix so such a thing didn't happen at all? Yet, there had been no mention of their hand to speak of up to this point. It may have been in the report that had been sent to Knock Out however, the red mech leaving him in the dark... just as much as this newcomer was by not even remotely addressing it past what he imagined was a cuss and retrieval before they paced.

"Ohh... kayy..."

Awkward, drawn out, he narrowed his eyes slightly before turning back to retrieving tools. This only took a couple more moments, before he turned, grasping the tray in one hand, and the cane in the other. With care to not jostle things off the platform, he would walk back towards them, relying on the gyroscopes in his torso to keep his upper body steady. Once he was near, he would set the supplies on the medical slab, knowing the fact it was oversized for individual's even Megatron's size meant if they were to lay down again there would still be plenty of room.

Flatline glanced then over at the Vehicon arm as it was addressed.

"The elbow joint got twisted while working down in the mines, while the rest was unsalvageable. Given value of our metals and parts, I take it upon myself to repair."

In an attempt to be useful, Flatline was doing his best to try to staple back together Vehicon bits and pieces so that they had a viable stock to pull from should an accident happen. In this case, if a still living trooper got their arm obliterated, they would easily be able to pluck this piece when completed out from storage rather than make the individual half useless while the part was repaired. Proactive. Flatline wasn't biting onto this distraction however.

"Lie back down. Were you planning to seek help for your wrist or were you just being stubborn?"

Flat words, unamused, trying to look at the joint from his vantage point to see what was wrong.

[Deleted]

Admittedly Switchfoot was disappointed in Flatline’s answer. They were hoping to hear about some fanciful study of the inner workings- maybe something about the cables or energon lines. But no, the doctor seemed to be one of the good ones. That was not a bad thing per say, it just meant they had to watch themselves furthermore. To behave without ethics could mean greater trouble than it usually did.

Still, Switch could be impartial from distaste and admire such a task. ”Resou--efu-.” A helm tilt to the side, away from their twin, to better view the arm from where they paced. It was always interesting to see potential and use after life- it was their preferred field of study after all. Their absent walk took on a more purposeful stride, carrying the joint frame over to the object of conversation.

Crouching down to eye level with the arm, Switch deposited their limp claw on the table so as to free up the other claw. While Flatline didn’t fall for the distraction, Switchfoot certainly did. Knowing the unspoken laws of not touching other’s projects, they looked over it from a respectful distance. Audial fins were raised slightly, and their wing plates twitched with an animation that showed some form of emotional energy. Switchfoot’s line of sight traveled from the shoulder socket, paused on the elbow, and then rested on the servo- one of their favourite parts to observe. There was some envy at how easy it was for the Vehicons to switch and interchange limbs and such with one another. A harmless envy, but a green feeling nonetheless.

”-ha-?” It was time to get back to reality. Their helm rotated back, Swan still remained in absence. A blank stare from Switch as they waited for the words to catch up. Once they finally did, Switchfoot merely shrugged one shoulder. ”No.” An answer to both sides of the question. The malfunction was such a common occurrence by now that it was more of an inconvenience than a concern. The joint frame pushed back up to their regular height, snatching up the claw in the same motion. ”-t -ap-ens. No- im-ortan-.”

They gave the claw a sort of jerking motion, paused, and listened for any sort of noise. The faintest of hums, coming from the clunky band at where the wrist should be. It was a start.

As ordered, the joint frame returned to the operating slab. Switchfoot placed their malfunctioning part at the end, out of the way so it could reboot without interference. Settling onto the table, Switch would have apologized for the possible annoyance, but that would mean having to continually excuse their shoddy buildup, a tiring task. It took a moment to properly adjust themselves as they had to discreetly angle Swansong’s limp helm so as to not create discomfort.

[Flatline]

Flatline watched from his position at the Medical Slab as Switch seemed to puppet the joint frame over to his project. He did not understand really the fascination in play, not knowing what was so interesting to peer so closely and with a sort of awe that seemed unnatural to him. To the black and red mech, the arm... it was an arm. There was nothing interesting about it, there was nothing of note. He was so desensitized to the varied builds of their species that it took ones such as the individual(s) before him to really draw curiosity out from the smothered depths of his processor. They sere simply looking over a prop, and his fingertips rolled with a light click over the hook of his cane.

Eventually it seemed reality caught back up to Switch, their attention drifting back to gift a partial word to address him once again. The single statement however was not caught onto or understood, no inflection of a question really heard through the monotone buzz to cue him in to its meaning in any way. As such, Flatline did not respond, his half lidded gaze looking out upon them while waiting for more of an explanation, or for them to return to the slab so he could get to work.

Then there was denial of aid.

"Oh, I don't know, spontaneously losing your hand seemed pretty important to me."

A flippant comment. Flatline couldn't imagine living his life with a conjoined twin, a mutilated camera face, AND damaged wrists. This individual... these individuals? Had drawn the short stick on the freak chart and comprehending what their day to day life was like was headache induing. While nothing could be done to fissure them as far as Flatline was aware, and their supplies weren't even REMOTELY good enough to try to fix their heads, fixing a wrist was another thing altogether. A hinge joint, some cabling and rotational mechanics... These parts could be poached rather easily, if not made eventually through a couple weeks of tinkering at the workbench. A hinge was a hinge... only... it was deemed not important?

Confusion, Flatline's brows crooked down into a partial glare. As with before, there was nothing to read on their faces, nothing to really go off of. He had to simply roll with the punch, watching as they finally returned to their post so he could get to work. It was while they settled he somewhat pieced together that Swan wasn't being a petulant little brat, but seemed to have checked out? Helm limp and not really stable...

Ah well. No loss.

"Should you need to expel energy, warn and I will give opportunity."

Flatline moved forward then, reaching out to grab a slim flat angled tool before his free hand loosely grasped Switch's throat with little warning. His pointer finger was crooked down so he did not poke the underside of their helm, while pushing the camera up towards the far wall to get a better view of the connection joint and how things were rigged. It seemed to be a woven mesh of two different models, which was more than expected at this point, his gaze trailing along the slats and cables that provided maneuverability to look for the appropriate latch point for their structure.

After a moment, Flatline pulled the tool forward, still clutching the underside of Switch's helm as he gently started to wiggle it between two of the slats near a vertical cable. Should he have guessed the model right, the rounded end should snag onto the connector point, allowing him to softly add a bit of leverage to pop the external paneling up and away to reveal the actual internals below. It shouldn't hurt as it was simply a protective layer, a bit away from the... decapitation point...

[Deleted]

For the twins this was their normal. The failing of systems, state sanctioned mutilation, being attached to one another. There was no other baseline to compare to. And so what Flatline viewed as dizzying misfortune, they always shrugged off as a typical day. If anything, Flatline was a puzzle on his own. The fact that he was still standing (even with the presence of a limp) was a feat. Being allowed to live after playing some part in the Nemesis’ end? There had to be more to the punishment than just the ruin of a singular limb. And Reputations? Those things were meant to be banged up- the marks can be buffed out later. Reputations are only shiny in theory.

“It -as no- spontaneous.” Switch tried their damndest to get the word out, moving their helm to see if maybe it would help the connection. Experiencing sub zero temperatures (thanks to the Head of Intelligence), and staying still for too long were two things that were bound to cause malfunctions. Throw in the stress, and Switchfoot was surprised it didn’t happen sooner. They could explain the technicalities of their modified parts to put Flatine’s confusion to rest, but they hadn’t the proper speech capacities just yet.

Fortunately they had someone capable, and relatively considerate.

Not only had Flatline provided a device to help the joint frame’s movement requirements, he also now gave them the opportunity to move should they need it. While he may have told them to settle down (which was to be expected with medical work), not once had he told the pair to keep still. And if he was frustrated with the movements, he didn’t show it. Frustration with their personas’ was most definitely expected and accepted.

All in all, Switchfoot was rather appreciative with how ‘delicately’ things were being handled; mainly their neck in the present moment. They tried their best to tune out the procedure, not particularly enjoying the sensations. It wasn’t that they were actually painful, no, just painful reminders is all.

When Swansong finally started booting up again, it was a welcomed distraction. Their helm rolled against the slab as they woke, Switch made sure to maintain control on their frame so as to stop any sudden movements. Switchfoot had expected a continuation of their fit, not a settlement.

‘I... I did it again. Didn’t I?’ The internal dialogue was groggy- the fight gone. An affirmative mental hum answered back. Swan’s helm rolled to their twin’s side, watching the same scene played over again for the umpteenth time. They never did thank Switch for carrying the burden that was supposed to be theirs. Swansong thought of it from time to time, but found it easier to blame their counterpart. Had Switchfoot not made the choice to leave Caminus, or perhaps even granted more creative freedom, they wouldn’t have to be in this sorry state; Swan wouldn’t have to punish Switch for their misgivings.

“Hey, doc?” Their voice still held that annoying tone of a dramatic, but didn’t carry such an offensive energy as before. Swansong was careful to raise their helm off the slab so as to not cause any physical disturbment. Their gaze briefly scanned over their separated claw, striking a chord of annoyance, before they focused their attention on Flatline.

[Flatline]

The slat pulled away with ease, which was a very good sign all things considered. While the sever of helm and body appeared to be higher up on the neck, closer to the grotesque replacement, there was no saying what sort of damages may be lower beneath surface looks. For all Flatline knew the outer 'flesh' and sheath of metal was ripped down, borderline 'flayed' to the clavicle aperture to access more core elements like the controls that moved the neck. The internals may have shocked him, and the connector may have been moved so the tool only pulled at welded points to cause discomfort.

Thankfully that was not the case.

Flatline had never worked on severing a helm to perform such a procedure on another. While theoretical evaluations could be made on how it was done, it was not something he was specifically trained in, nor sought out to learn. It was one of those 'interests' that he felt he would have no real use for. The closest he came was when he manufactured one from scratch on a dead frame, or when repairing helms that underwent significant external damage... however... that was always trying to save what was there, and not completely transplant something new in its place to a point the actual cage for the processor may have even been swapped.

With care, the centermost slat would pull away, revealing more delicate internals. Red eyes scanned across the vertical cables that connected to the back of where their jaw would have been, noting the solder and welding points. He couldn’t see much here, merely an edge of it that peeked in from the sides, needing to remove more external slats to properly view, however that was not his purpose here this day. As such he focused instead on the voicebox that was slammed in with what looked like a half hazard whack of a hammer it was so crapass.

A low growl rumbled out at this, his hand pulling back to curl fingers behind Switch's neck, the back hook of his thumbs pressing on either side of the voice projector almost as if he was strangling them ((without the excessive force however)) while he gently pulled the neck at different angles to watch how it moved. He was making sure that it wasn’t the actual twist of the neck that rubbed the internals wrong, a fault by turning their head too far to one side or another where a weld line scraped and tore at the mechanism. It was while he moved the helm as far as reasonable side to side with a firm grip, he chose to finally comment on how it was no sudden issue.

"Spontaneous or not, it is a fault."

Blunt, no care given to be polite about it.

It was then Swan decided to return to the land of the living, Flatline's intense red gaze breaking away from the opened neck to look over at them. He stopped pushing Switch's helm around since he was no longer watching, his gaze staring a moment in dismay before his fingers uncurled and he eased back. The black and red mech assumed they needed to expel energy, yet was uncertain. Whatever the case he was giving them a chance now while the obnoxious parasite could speak.

"What."

[Deleted]

Switchfoot wasn’t going to get back into the habit of arguing. (Especially since arguing all those years ago is the reason for their current predicament). It was easy to agree with Flatline’s blunt assessment. Mostly because it was true. Switch couldn’t fight the facts. “-ault. Ye-.” When they spoke, one of the connecting wires buzzed on the missing syllables.

They went to speak once again, almost moving their claw to add tone. Then they corrected and opted back into a state of stillness. “Parts a-e -arely compatible.” Switchfoot pushed the last word through, causing that same wire to heat and spark ever so slightly. With their throat now open to room, it was hard for them to miss what was actively happening. It was even harder to ignore the fact they were back on the operating slab- that touch of anxiety definitely did nothing to calm the building charges in their systems.

To quell this touch of nerves, Switchfoot continued to explain- after all talk of anatomy was a fun thing- a nice thing. Well, to them at least. “--placeme--s -re po-rly modi-” Further talking was the exact opposite of a solution. With Flatline’s thumb digits very much in their throat, plus their bout of stillness, well, it was the perfect scenario for a small disaster. The wires were not enough to handle the charges that the twins’ body often produced. It was a small miracle that the previous repairs lasted as long as they did.

The end results were... Shocking. Literally.

The same issue that popped off the pairs’ claw, replayed on a smaller scale. Flatline’s thumbs happened to be the next new and exciting target. While the jolt wasn’t overly aggressive, it was one of those experiences that one would not wish to repeat.

‘There is no coming back from that.’ An internal hum of glee. Swansong made certain not to express such a thing outwardly. They were trying to be apologetic after all. A hard task on a regular day, even more so now that they could feel Switchfoot tensing up from embarrassment. Both annoyance and pain within the first hour of meeting someone new.

It beat their previous record of half a day.

Swansong took a moment to compose themselves, plotting their next string of words so as to not cause further annoyance. “I-” A pause too long for a space, “-would like to apologize.” They were feeling a little sorry.

Only because they got told off.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen others. A long while.” Swan lost their train of thought, helm drifting as they chased it. Then they found it. “I forgot proper self conduct.” Truthfully, they lost their obedience training. “And resorted to acting out.” They did what they wanted to.

Swansong had calmed their tone, a surprising thing given the fact that their twin was actively in discomfort. It was hard to play the remorseful sort during their favourite activity. “Thank you for reminding me of myself. And again, I am sorry that I forced you to respond in such a way.” They lowered their gaze slightly, definitely not focusing on Switchfoot’s procedure. Swansong was the picture and song of someone genuinely making an attempt at reconciliation. They half expected an applause.