[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Sleep is for the Weak [Closed]

[Flatline]

Episode 3 | Week 4 | Day 2

The Medical Bay in Blackridge... it wasn’t exactly the most advanced of areas available.

Cored rock walls and flooring. Lighting strung overhead in numerous points in an impromptu gridwork. Rough cabinets and storage options to try to organize things in any way possible. In the room were two medical berths that had been harvested from the Nemesis, and then a slab off to the side that was more bed than surgery table, meant for those that had to remain longer than the normal quick in and out fix. All three seemed banged up in one way or another. Some scrapes and dents, one of the medical slabs having a large corner crushed in... it was nothing that would impair function, it was simply an aesthetic issue. It was not the only cobbled piece of furniture however.

Off to the back right corner was a small desk of a work area that was only a simple panel of metal with legs. Beside it was a rolling cart that was too damaged, so it was repurposed as a set of drawers. The upper surface of the desk was covered in small tools and supplies, an object in its center that wasn’t immediately discernible as any one thing over another. To the left side of the room was a nicer desk... if nice could be applied to anything within this dilapidated environment. It was also made of basic metal with a single drawer, a salvaged computer terminal and a screen, with a couple of datapads resting face down.

At this piece of furniture sat a red Cybertronian who was looking across the room at a different individual who was sitting beside one of the medical slabs. It was the second who spoke up.

"So, Cintra did this?"

The dark clad mech was angular in design, primarily black with sharp red accents here or there, the most prominent of these being a medical cross on each shoulder with the Decepticon emblem in its center. He seemed to be thinking aloud more than he was having a legit conversation, his attention mostly on the tool in his hands that he was tinkering with. The device was a canister cage, a bar of metal hooking up and over a glass cylinder to lock the top in place. Beneath it was a handle, while below that at the base of the grip was a small opening of a concealed mechanism.

With an idle movement, Flatline's clawed fingertips were clipped onto the luminous orange cylinder's top, a faint scrape noise made as he rotated it left and right ever so slightly to make it slip along the threading of its connector. It didn't seem to be doing anything of value, nor was it detrimental, it almost a fidgeting action done while speaking. It was while he did this that his gaze drifted over to the readouts on their new guest, the unfamiliar mech laying on the medical table that was directly at his side.

"Ghn. Vitals still seem low functioning... You'd think with the amount of fuel given and its displayed levels he would be up and about by now, no?"

He had been topped off with fuel. His Spark was pulsing. His pumps were working. Everything just appeared... weakened, like some kind of element or disease was suppressing his function. Every Cybertronian was different, however. There was no standard staple of a rule they all followed other than each one had a Spark of some form... Some carried a larger percentage of fuel than others for their frame size, others being profoundly efficient to only haul a bare minimum. Flatline believed he had recognized the mech's standard frame type and model, yet things were not adding up as they should and it bothered him.

With a more decisive twist, the cylinder snapped into the cage with a snarled hiss as it connected.

"Who am I to be stingy for a Lieutenant?"

Rotating the tool in his hand once in a rolling motion while indicating the mech's rank, Flatline then turned and reached forward, his left hand pinning Nokta's arm down as he pressed the blunted end of the handle against his inner elbow. The moment this contact was made, a punching needle connected with the line, and the canister dispensed a portion of the orange compound. A mild stimulant of sorts that should, ideally, shock his systems online once it cycled to his processor. If this did not rouse the mech, they would need to then begin looking into neurological damages or starved processor components as the next step due to the means in which he was subdued.

[Knock Out]

The cherry-red mech that sat at the ‘nicer’ of the two desks was only half paying attention to what Flatline was doing across the room. His gaze seemed to be mostly on the monitor attached to the desk's surface, optics narrowing occasionally as the screen flickered. While the thing hadn’t quite died, the flickering was quite the annoyance at times.

Not that he was doing anything useful on it.

At the question, he wouldn’t fully turn his focus to the black and red mech - though would spare him a momentary glance as he shrugged. Cintra was something indeed, he hadn’t forgotten how she’d managed to dislodge Starkrieger’s arm from its socket - and while this newcomer had no missing limbs nor crippling injuries that he could tell, the maniac femme had been the one to render him unconscious if the Vehicons that’d dragged him in here were to be believed.

“Mm, apparently. She does seem to have a knack for injuring Decepticons.” his tone was mostly deadpan, though there was the slightest hint of amusement as he continued. 

“Gives us plenty to do though, hm?” he chuckled.

The mech that lay on the slab wasn’t badly hurt, though had arrived with dangerously low levels of Energon. They’d been quick to replenish those that’d been lost, only it hadn’t seemed to have done much of anything - and where Flatline had found mystery in it, Knock Out seemed rather indifferent.

Though he’d humor the conversation regardless. Should the other mech not wake up in a timely manner, he would absolutely look further into the causes - but aside from things appearing a little weak on the various monitor readouts, it wasn’t quite to the point of concern.

“You’d think. Could simply be enjoying the nap?” he mused. “Can’t say I blame him. I’d pretend to be in recharge too if you were looming next to me.” flashing the other mech a wink, he’d lean back in his chair, shifting his full attention then to what Flatline was actually doing, brow quirking some.

“Oooh look at you, bringing out the good stuff!”

It wasn’t actually anything special in the grand scheme of things, a simple stimulant that would hopefully pull him from whatever held him in sleep. If not? Well, then they had bigger problems.

[Nokta]

Smoke.

Endless…smoke.

Trapped within the confines of a fiercely haunted psyche, the lieutenant waded aimlessly through the darkened halls of his memories, thick with ever-present fog.

Here he walked with phantoms. He waltzed with a lover through the grand dance halls of old Nova Cronum. He painted the dark walls of a ghost ship turquoise with energon. He gazed upon a faceless abyss waiting in front of a raging portal. He saw an honorable Captain– a friend die in his arms. He watched beautiful blue paint circle down the drain and fade to a cold, unfeeling black.

In waking hours, such things could easily be brushed off, ignored, sectioned off to that innermost compartment of his being and tossed away. Feign apathy, subdue all possible weakness, and leave behind only what will fuel you for the fight going forward. This was the mech he’d learned to become.

But not now. Not when he was a slave to stasis. When his own mind seemed so keen to torture him, like his very being– what he’d become– was a virus that needed to be expunged from his very frame.

Unlike his prolonged and strenuous release from stasis aboard the Ad Infinitum, however, his return to the waking world would be one much more gentle in comparison. Medically induced, and with a full tank on his side, the second the stimulants mercifully entered his systems the dull fog was flooded with golden light, like a sunrise.

And just as soon as the mech turned towards this light in the trance– optics came online in the real world. No sounds were made; no vents, vocalizations, or movements– only the gentle lifting of soft metallico eyelids as two crimson optics burned to life once more. So fleeting one might have had to check twice to make sure it wasn’t a trick of the light.

No, he was very much alive, and very much awake now.

The first sight to meet his gaze was the dull, rock ceiling directly above him, blown out by the harsh lighting strung overhead. As a faint ringing in his audio receptors faded, other sounds could be heard. The voice of mecha, though incoherent as they were dulled momentarily while his audio receptors powered back on.

The onyx mech’s horned helm would dip down as he set his gaze lower, upon the sight of his own frame blasted by fluorescents, millennia of battle scarring over arms, chest plates, legs, and peds on full display. So long out in the wastes of war without a proper wash, paintjob, or even adequate medical attention to take care of minor injuries had morphed his frame into a hellish sight indeed. But he was alive, and all those disfigurements were proof that no Autobot had bested him and come out of it alive thus far, and that was more than good enough for him.

The room’s interior was given brief surveil by his optics, he appeared to be in some haphazard workshop– though he didn’t give much more time to inspecting it as he next saw a device strapped around his arm, held onto by dark mech wearing friendly insignia. A medic.

It was then that the double-take occurred. Optics didn’t even grace Flatline’s faceplates as they washed back over the room for all it was worth. The bombed-out office that he’d assumed to be a kind of workshop before he now realized was supposed to pass for a medical bay. Nokta’s vermillion gaze then turned to the third occupant in the room, a shiny red mech, one whom he did not stare upon for long before the sheer strength of the mech’s reflective finish began to overpower his still-adjusting optics.

He would speak to the nearest mech first, optics cold and weightless, his voice steeped in a chilling velvet rasp as he asked what he thought in his mind to be a very simple question. One that had better be answered.

"Why am I not aboard the Nemesis?"

[Flatline]

"Gives us plenty to do though, hm?"

"I suppose."

While Flatline did not wish injuries on others of their team, he did like having his mind occupied with something. Whether the job was as rewarding as saving a life, or as mundane as snapping the shoulder back in alignment on an unfaithful trash mech... or even the scary tasks like doing more secretive jobs for Starscream's own plans... it did not matter. He needed to be busy. He NEEDED it. Otherwise, his mind would drift, and when his thoughts drifted? They always went back to what he had done.

And what punishment was handed out in turn.

The mere memory would make his chest ache and ghost pains flick through his systems. Feeling limbs that were not there, able to sense tactile touch without any logical reasoning. Psychological over physical... that was a fact, for he and Knock Out made sure everything had been disconnected properly. Whatever the case, it was a reminder that he was living on borrowed time. That what was dealt against him was but a taste of the nightmares to come. None could convince him it was an equal exchange, and he would die by that belief. Thankfully, in the now, these fears were nothing but a hiss of a whisper in the back of his processor, his mind distracted with the readouts on the monitor.

"-I’d pretend to be in recharge too if you were looming next to me."

"Oh please. Don't give me that crap. If he wants to escape, he'd wake up and scurry off. Primus knows that enough people seem to have issues with medicine these days. The 'why' is beyond me."

A grumbled growl of a statement that snaked out at a lower volume. Flatline did not understand individual's abhorrent hate of medicine. While it was never fun to be vulnerable, and injuries could be translated as weakness in the Decepticons by the most ill-equipped perspectives... it was not some place of torture unless they made it so themselves by being stubborn idiots.

"And don't make a snarky comment. I know you have one ready to go already."

He wasn't in the mood for another 'they don't want to see your ugly face' or whatever Knock Out had pre-loaded into the insult cannon.

"As for the medicine... I figured if we were going to use it, this is one of those situations."

Pulling his hand back, the cartridge disconnected from the downed mech's line with a snapped hiss, its short needle pulling back into the mechanism which snapped closed promptly. With the needle protected, Flatline would ease back into a more comfortable stance again, letting go of the Lieutenant's arm so he could lightly grip the top of the cylinder once more. The mech may require another dosage of the compound, but there was no need to rush. He wasn't going anywhere.

Lifting his hand up then, Flatline rapped the back hook of his pointer finger against the side of the monitor, giving it too taps as if it would jostle the screen from a running loop to show something more recent. On the Nemesis he would have never considered the readouts possibly being fraudulent, but the concept was now running through his processor since the mech beside him seemed to not be responding to anything. With the medic's focus locked down onto the processor activity readouts that were going up, he missed the other mech's movements.

Until he spoke.

Flatline flinched in response, startled that this half dead mech suddenly made a noise out from nowhere. Not just any sound however, but coherent words. For a flicker of a second, red eyes would lurch back to the monitor, seeing that processor readouts were active, but his frame was still suppressed, before his gaze drifted back at Nokta. Thin white lens plates bored down upon the other mech, an almost fierce focus at the question that had been asked.

"Circumstances don’t permit it."

Flatline's casual speech patterns from before bled away instantly, folding into a more professional factual approach instead. It was with these words he lifted and sat the stimulant cartridge onto the rolling cart at his side beside other tools of varied types. The device was no longer needed, though it was still on hand.

[Knock Out]

A gentle ‘tsk’ was the only reply to Flatline’s comment, and for the briefest moment, his attention would drift back to the monitor. While Cintra was a lunatic, she had given Flatline something to do - even if it’d been as simple as slamming a joint back into place. Knock Out had noticed the other mech in moments of silence, how he seemed to have a need for distraction of some kind and kept himself busy. Things were mostly quiet here, aside from the mundane routine of the day to day, which left cleaning and... not a whole lot else.

Well, aside from paperwork, but as much as he despised that part of the job? Knock Out did most of that on his own.

While Cintra had played a part in whatever happened to this mech, he wasn’t sure she was the cause of everything else. The anomaly on the readouts seemed to be simply how Nokta was, and it was going to be a case of waking him up to gauge how things were when he was able to vocalize.

Glancing back to Flatline as he spoke again, he could only chuckle - opening his mouth to respond, but just as quickly shutting it as the black and red mech preemptively shot down whatever comment was to come.

Another tsk left him.

“Aw, you know me so well!” he smirked, splaying one servo across his chassis before setting it back down onto the small keyboard, though he did not type anything.

“Though you’re right about people having issue with Medical Bays. Though that’s certainly on them and not us. Not a lot we can really do except keep track of those that try to avoid those fun fun checkups and chase them down.”

Flatline couldn’t really comment nor judge, he’d avoided the Medical Bay for a long time back when they had the Nemesis. Though that was mostly out of spite and a petty hatred for the CMO than anything else - but ah, to Knock Out? It counted.

Ah, but here they were now - Knock Out helping to fix Flatline’s knee, and being there to assist when he’d lost his secondary arms. Assigning him work, asking for the occasional help with things - not because he was too lazy to do it himself, but because the other mech needed it.

They were a good team.

“You figure correctly. Might as well use it on someone, eh? It isn’t like anything else exciting is happening around here to warrant it.”

He wouldn’t watch Flatline as he worked, the other mech not needing any sort of supervision with anything these days, and as such was mostly left to his own devices. He would of course rush in should this - for whatever reason - end in disaster, but for now, he was content to remain seated.

Though as the other mech in the room spoke, he would once again look in that direction. Ah yes, the age old question. Phrased differently each time, but basically the same at its core. What happened to the Nemesis?

Should this have been a few months prior, Knock Out would’ve practically jumped at the chance to tell the truth. To remind Flatline of what was probably the biggest failure in recent history for the Decepticons. How it was all his fault they had lost practically everything.

Ah, but luckily for Flatline? He was far past the point of wanting to rub the entire thing in his face. As such, his optics narrowed ever so gently, observing how the other mech reacted, watching to see if he was okay when confronted with the question they probably both saw coming.

It seemed so. At least outwardly.

“How are you feeling - Nokta, was it?” a swift change of subject, though not done awkwardly. He pushed off into a stand, giving himself more of a presence in the room.

He’d only momentarily glanced at the file that’d been sent with his identification codes - at least enough to remember the other mech’s designation, at any rate - and that was the important part.

[Nokta]

Upon the sensation of the needle ejecting from his arm, and the removal of Flatline’s servo thereafter, Nokta silently slipped his arm away from the doctor’s immediate reach. He inspected his arm, rubbing a thin servo over the injection point, before flipping it around altogether to check for damage on the opposite side, happy to find that the limb was still firmly attached to where it should be.

A servo came up to touch and feel around his throat cables where he’d been assaulted on the ship. Browplates creased some as he felt a mild ache in the cabling that would likely only make the oral consumption of energon slightly painful for a time. Nothing that would actually inhibit that consumption though, which was the important part.

Less importantly, what passed for color on his grayscale frame had returned, distinguishing all the different layers of blacks and greys unlike they had within the dark depths of the Infinitum. And given that he felt full and nourished for the most part– this likely meant the minor starvation issue had been amended, though some aches from overworking himself during the energon deprivation still remained. Those would not likely pass for another cycle or so, not that he’d let them stop him. What he was really concerned about was the possibility of processor damage obtained through his extended stay in stasis under the effects of energon deprivation.

"Circumstances don’t permit it."

Optics then snapped back to the black and red mech with a start, instantly clocking Flatline’s vague answer, along with his abrupt change in tone compared to how he’d been speaking before. His answer was almost certainly a broad sugarcoating of the real reason he found himself in this backwater medical bay. This lieutenant did not like vital information being hidden from him.

"What?" Nokta would mutter, his own confusion clearly audible in that single word as he peered at the black-red medic. For them not to be on the Nemesis right now meant that either the veracity of his own identity was still in question, or these mecha were hiding something truly sinister from him– either way, the information would not be kept from him. But just as the lieutenant had been ready to open his mouth once more, the bright red medic spoke– addressing him by name.

With deathly deliberation, Nokta’s helm peeled away from its focus on Flatline to now stare at Knock Out in a silent stare upon the latter’s attempt to distract from the current subject. Instead of directly answering Knock Out, two burning scarlet optics stared down the doctor with nary a word, and no visible tells on the mech’s charcoal faceplates to get a read on what he was truly thinking behind that icy gaze. That would be about as much an answer as the cherry red medic got, as Nokta turned his attention back to Flatline and the matter at hand.

"What circumstances?" A cold rasp coiled out from the pit of his chest, through a worn vocalizer, and past thin derma to wrap around Flatline like the scales of a boa constrictor. He spoke excruciatingly slow, those two simple words each given firm pronunciation so that despite the lieutenant’s haggard voice– there could be no misunderstanding of the question.

[Flatline]

Try as Nokta might to sound imposing and direct, Flatline didn't seem to care at all. The newcomer was acting tough with a fierce glare at Knock Out and snarled words, trying to keep the upper hand... or more... a pitiful illusion of an upper hand in his opinion. The brief earlier conversation about individuals posturing and being defiant in the Medical Bay was starting to come to light once more. Why couldn’t they have a pleasant individual ever? Why was it always the extremes of blind hostilities and fear?

Red optics drifted over to Knock Out with a tired look, almost conveying his thoughts on the matter with one glance alone.

As annoying as this was, Flatline did find a level of relief in a side effect of the unknown mech's words and Knock Out’s following reaction... or lack therov... incredibly grateful he did not rub his face in his own mistakes. It was something he would remember well, and it was something that was a marker in how far along they have come. As mild as it was, it was help, and it was appreciated beyond all else. Whatever the case, his gaze would then drift back to Nokta, thin white lens plates locked unflinchingly down into his own to try to challenge back.

Once the mech got more stable... once he was out of this room... Flatline could likely fear him, just as he did many higher up on the metaphorical food chain. He was but a rat that had caused the destruction of a prized possession, and once Nokta knew this? He could possibly be above him as a threat that could take punishment in his own hands as some vile act of retribution. Then again, he was medical personnel, and he had no idea where he sat on rank, even if he was just an assistant. Until then however, this was Knock Out's turf, and within this room he had a sort of shield to separate him.

There was a pause then, though not one of apprehension, his words then following like a direct blade to cut to the broad strokes.

"A plague hit and the Nemesis was downed in the process. Means of recovering it are underway, but until then, this is your home."

To accent these words, Flatline lifted his right hand, making a vague gesture to indicate the rock room around them, as well as the concept of all that surrounded it. After this motion, his long arm would fold back closer to himself, its forearm resting on his knee idly while continuing to speak.

"You have already been immunized during refueling, so you needn’t concern yourself with such details."

Should they have asked if he was alright with such things? Perhaps. That would be what would have happened if this was back on Cybertron in more normal circumstances, however this was not that. It would be obligatory either way, so simply doing it without having to have some long-winded discussion to convince him by giving him a list of what the disease would do to him was the way to go. If he found issue with it? He could take it up with Megatron or another on high command, though such a complaint would fall upon deaf ears.

"What is important in the now, is telling us how you feel, as this is a Medical Bay."

Finally breaking his eye contact, Flatline looked back at the monitor readout that very much appeared the same as it had previously. His upper lip would flick up at this, before he reached over and turned the screen off. It powered down with a slight whir and crackle, waiting a moment, before he would turn it back on to see if things would change or if it still tried to convey the seemingly fraudulent readouts.

Should things not update, Flatline was even thinking about detaching the monitoring cable from Nokta's chest and putting it on himself, to see if it was saying his systems were slow as well.

This would not happen yet however, his gaze dancing over the screen.

[Knock Out]

Well, Nokta was looking at him - that was good, right? Normally when addressed by the CMO, most people would answer, given his importance here at Blackridge Hold.

…

Oh who was he kidding, it felt like he received absolutely zero respect around here - except of course from Breakdown, and when they weren’t sassing each other to death? Flatline. To be fair, there were some that held him in some sort of esteem, however it seemed this newcomer was not one of them. This was why when Nokta’s attention shifted directly back to Flatline, only to ask another question to try and pry a similar answer - thusly ignoring him entirely? Knock Out could only scoff quietly.

Rude.

He caught the glance from Flatline, giving a similar look in return - paired with a gentle shake of his helm before his own attention would drift back to his monitor, slender digits hovering over the small keyboard - though still he did not type anything.

He was listening, though, to how the black and red mech handled things. Given Flatline’s role in the Nemesis going down, and the fact this question was one that’d been answered far too many times now, he wondered if the other mech would get creative with how he replied. Spin some random tale of fancy to make things interesting…

…Oooor he could just tell the truth. Well, part of it.

It was then that the cherry-red mech would start typing. Whatever it was, wasn’t very long - details about how Nokta had acted upon wakening? Perhaps. Comments for Flatline to read later? Possibly.

“What he said. If you want more details as to the whys and the hows, I’m sure Soundwave or even Starscream would be happy to oblige. I hope you like dirt, dust, and more dirt - we’re going to be here at Blackridge Hold for a while.”

He wouldn’t look up as he spoke, typing something else on the small keyboard that’d clearly seen better days.

“Just know that we are safe here. From plague, anyway.” sparing a glance to Nokta, his lip would twitch into the gentlest of smirks.

“Crazy pink femmes, however, are another matter.”

[Nokta]

Home? What a quaint concept.

Nokta had only ever had one home, and it was taken from him a lifetime ago.

It was no surprise that in his absence from the war Autobots had gotten so desperate as to resort to biological warfare. They had, after all, been on the run from Cybertron in a seemingly vain quest for salvation when Nokta had boarded the Infinitum some vorns ago.

If the Nemesis had been damaged from such an attack to the point that High Command would resort to moving their base of operations altogether– it must have been quite the nasty plague. And yet, the mech before him claimed him to be immunized so soon? They had developed a cure to an entire plague faster than their flagship could be recovered? Something didn’t add up there, but the subject was shelved inside the mech’s processor for future consideration.

Momentary attention was given to the fact that Flatline was having an utter time of it trying to read his suppressed telemetry through the monitor– it was the same story every time he set foot in a medical clinic. This was not something that was immediately addressed though, as the showroom mech spoke up again.

Blackridge Hold. So that was the designation given to the barracks those here called ‘home’. Where some believed they were safe from the Autobot menace.

“Cintra will be dealt with.” Nokta assured Knock Out in a murmur, less direct in tone than his earlier questioning of Flatline. Truthfully, the mecha who’d brought him here were the furthest things on his mind right now. Just as soon as he’d addressed the cherry sports car, he’d turned to the hearse again.

“Filter out the high-end frequencies on your equipment, you may get a better read on my baselines,” Nokta suggested to his assigned medic. Keyword ‘may’, of course. If they had been on the Nemesis, surrounded by all of that state-of-the-art equipment he’d heard so much about– getting a read on him after filtering out the unneeded noise would be a non-issue. But given the antiquated nature of the equipment present…well, Flatline looked like he knew what he was doing at least.

He hadn’t forgotten the medic’s question, of course, “how he felt” and all such business.

Scrap. He felt like fragging scrap.

But that was no indicator of anything other than that he’d just come out of an extended bout in stasis with empty tanks. He felt feverish and ached to high Primus– he’d used nearly every inch of cabling in his frame to perform the maneuvers needed to adequately control the situation on the Infinitum, and he’d done it deprived of energon. He’d almost feel a little cheeky about that if it weren’t for the fact that the only part of his body that didn’t ache was his helm, and his processor within, which had been the part that had been hurting him most back on the ship. In fact, his helm felt rather numb.

“Run a diagnostic on my processor.” The scout rasped, narrowing his optics down upon the berth he sat on, thinking to himself silently. Something didn’t feel right.

[Flatline]

Another sidestep made by the new mech, another attempt to take charge of the situation... Flatline leaned into in his chair, his injured knee letting out a faint creek as he looked back at Knock Out once again to see him typing. Was the CMO making notes on Nokta's conduct? That would be his guess, or rather, what he would be doing should he have his own data pad to jot down things on his own.

For all Flatline knew, Knock Out could be playing some game, the mech's professionalism wavering from completely flippant to full focus at any given moment. There was some respect offered however, noting how the truth behind the Nemesis, and the starting point to its fall, was danced around instead of rubbed in his face. This muddled over any disgust and judgmental thoughts into a low hum, an appreciation felt that was beyond measure. If it had been weeks previously, he would have been thrown in front of a bus to try to defend himself.

After this calm look, red optics would slide back to Nokta with a pointed gaze.

"Dodging our questions won't get you out of here any faster."

One would think a mech of his rank would be eager to get out and establish themselves so they could start planning future goals. Find out who may be available to command beneath them, or try to show off to High Command to earn additional favor. Unless this mech was already known by those who lead them here on Earth, he would likely need to prove himself to even get anywhere. Who was to say however? That was not Flatline’s business, for he was constrained to this singular room where he acted on a very simple consistent goal of 'try to keep everyone alive'. His job seldom deviated from such things, the role of sciences and his research on Sparks cast aside.

Which bothered him sometimes.

"I reiterate, you are in the Medical Bay, not a commanding post."

Dryly spoken.

Flatline reached forward as he said this, using the back arch of his pointer finger to gently tap controls on the scanning machine so he did not stab the plates directly with the sharp tip. He typed lazily, at points sliding his digit against the touchpad to lower one parameter, before raising another. He seemed almost bored as he did so, the turned away screen hiding its results from the black clad mech.

He was technically doing as Nokta said, though he made no indications that he was listening to him, it just as likely he was doing his own diagnostic tests still to figure things out on his own. This indifferent approach showed on his features, a slate like calmness as red eyes flicked across the readouts.

"I need to know how do you feel, so I can better assist."

Why should he have to prod around and look through every part of his frame and processor for anomalies, when he could just say 'I feel dizzy' or 'my arm is numb' or any number of other ailments. Flatline didn't have much to do around Blackridge, he often WAS bored and had to scrabble to find something to do to keep his mind occupied! However, that didn't mean he wanted to play two thousand questions and meticulously scan and examine every component to make sure it was in top repair.

Would he do it?

Yes.

If push came to shove, Flatline would dive into such a task, using it as an ongoing busy project to essentially build Nokta from the ground up. Tightening cables or re-seating specific parts, turning mounting brackets to a new angle that may have been tweaked out of alignment from eons of use... but if he were to do so? The Lieutenant would be put back into stasis, which at this point didn't sound like that bad an idea. If he was going to ignore them entirely and interject his own commentary? It wasn't as though they were having a discussion at all to begin with.

Looking away from the readout to stare Nokta down once more, the corners of Flatline’s mouth would pull back into a sort of grin for forced pleasantries.

"If you would be so inclined."

Professional tones bled away at this, a more mocking irritation showing beneath the surface in a lower growl. This was as aggressive as he went however, staying his tongue for more abrasive commentary that he would likely use upon common solders. Nokta did hold rank here, yet the extent of which, and the sway he may have, was a grand mystery.

[Knock Out]

The quiet assurance from the other mech was met with a gentle quirk of a brow. He was not completely privy to the situation nor circumstance that’d brought Nokta here, and while he knew Cintra was a little bit wild at times (or, uh, most times), the way Nokta had phrased the sentence - or was that a threat? - had him a little on edge.

Maybe he was simply trying to play up the tough guy act. He’d seen that far too many times in this line of work, more than he could probably ever count, and so for now he would pay it no real mind. The only other response from the cherry-red mech was a quiet ‘Hm.’ of absent thought.

Though he did make another note, typing quietly.

As Nokta spoke again, this time at Flatline, he would lean back ever so slightly in his chair to pay more attention to the conversation at hand. Was this mech really telling the other medic how to do things? Since the fall of the Nemesis, they had adjusted rather seamlessly - all things considered - to the lack of decent equipment or tools. It was not an ideal situation at all, but it wasn’t as if they’d had a choice in the matter.

They knew how to account and adjust for different situations and frames, and while he hadn’t specifically watched Flatline calibrate the machine, he was confident the other mech had put measures in place to make sure things were accurate.

Maybe. The readouts had been a little weaker than normal, but not to the point of concern.

His gaze drifted, settling on Flatline. His own expression was mostly neutral, though should one look close there was the faintest hint of amusement, especially after what sounded like another order was given.

Oh that’d go over well - and sure enough? Flatline was not impressed by the sounds.

Did he feel the need to step in yet? Not really. Flatline more than had this handled, though he wanted to see just how long the black and red mech would stubbornly push the question - and how long it would take Nokta to finally answer. 

[Nokta]

"If you would be so inclined."

Another change in tone wrested Nokta from his own thoughts. The monitor had been turned, so there was no way of telling whether or not Flatline had actually acted on his suggestion. He’d give the medic the benefit of the doubt though, hardly looking to insult his intelligence by assuming he couldn’t follow simple directions.

The lieutenant craned his neck to stare up at the grouchy medic, who now sported an obviously forced grin as he spoke. Nokta set his unflinching gaze on the black and red mech for another moment of contemplation. To the outside observer, the apathetic default Nokta sported could lend to all kinds of assumptions about what he was really thinking at any given moment.

Right now though, Nokta was realizing how easily Flatline could be aggravated.

For the silent speedster, communication was often kept succinct in the field for the sake of expediency– just as he’d always known as a courier. Data running back then was just as much about a mech’s capacity for rapid-fire decision-making and predictive algorithms as it was about actual speed. The less time and processing power was spent speaking words, the more could be devoted to parsing your next best route. Fresh out of stasis, this was all merely a habitual default in his processor.

That the phrasing also happened to sound like orders…well, that may very well be a different habit altogether. Either way, in the spirit of sparing both medics from all this, a switch was flipped.

"Forgive me for my poor manners, Doctor–" The scout paused a moment, "Doctors," he corrected himself in what would seem like polite affirmation of Knock Out’s presence, in contrast to his earlier death glare, though this affirmation was done without looking directly at the flashier medic just yet.

Lips would curl upwards into a cold smile– an added physical display so untrained it almost had a deranged quality to it. The slender soldier may be smiling now, yes, but those hellfire optics never changed.

"As it happens, sudden departure from centuries of stasis do nothing for one’s social aptitudes," the demon spoke in a raspy lull. A light jest, perhaps done with the intention to ease the evident fuss in the other’s body language. It was well known that careful application of dry humor could do much in any situation. Then again, perhaps this was only done to simply draw out Flatline’s waiting even longer, as his assistant seemed to be getting some amusement out of this as well.

Speaking of.

He then lolled his head back to Knock Out and waited for just a second too long after locking eye contact, smiling all the while. For all the sudden eloquence in his words, a feigned smile did nothing to exude compassion or benevolence of any kind– there was nothing under that fabricated mask but frigid hollowness.

"By the by, I feel fine," Turning back then to speak to the resident grump, "I do ache, unabashedly I ache– but what worries me…" His smile began to droop just slightly as he spoke those words to Flatline, like too much paint applied to a canvas it seemed to drip right off his face just as quickly as it had been applied.

"Is the lack of ache here." A slender digit was raised to tap at the base of one of his horns, gesturing to the brain module hidden between his finials. Nokta wasn’t a medic, this much was true. But he knew his own body. He had to have a certain level of understanding of his own frame to do what he did in the field– and Primus knew he’d been victim to various bouts of energon deprivation before. Never had he come out of them without pounding migraines that lasted for a day or two afterward.

What followed next was another careful wording of what would have otherwise been an order, so as not to further upset the irritable medic in his own domicile, "I wonder if you’d reckon a cause for the numbness in my helm, Doctor…?" Nokta trailed off then, his brow cocked with the desire to know his caretaker’s name so that they may converse as equals, as opposed to working mecha only there out of necessity.

[Flatline]

As Nokta changed his approach, so did Flatline.

The black and red medic did not want to be hostile towards his patients. As abrasive and cruel as he could seem, and as aggressive as his appearance was, Flatline was still there to help and do what he could. He took great pride in his job, and wanted to do well even with the most limited of supplies to make others feel better. It was something that rooted down all the way to his fist days in function, his role in medicine held for as long as he could remember. A challenge... a want to win... a want to do it RIGHT and win... He only became antagonistic when others didn't respect this standing and gave him grief. As such, when things took a sidestep from the direction they had been going, Flatline's entire stance and way he carried himself shifted gears abruptly.

No further pushing would be made on his part then, as he was happy despite the fact Nokta seemed to be forcing things with an unnatural smile that was less than enthusiastic. That didn’t bother him however, for the words were the important bits.

"You did awaken roughly, only to be cast into stasis again."

Flatline's growl was no longer present as his voice shifted far more conversational, agreeing outright with the other mech's statement of fact. It was almost like a fresh start in a way, as though Nokta had only then come online. To pair with this, his gaze returned to the downed mech, looking away from the monitor to watch and take note of exactly where he was gesturing to.

For most individuals, the layout of the processor was much the same. One quadrant being one thing, another focused on a different subsection of the frame... some deviated from this norm, as was the nature of their species and the variety available, however Nokta appeared for all surface layers to be mostly standard. Well... standard save for his lower readouts. Structurally all looked well and was familiar, so Flatline was confident in assuming what component was being pointed at.

A broad spectrum. Speech, behavior, vision, hearing, and memory... there was no saying just how accurate the mech was even pointing and how deep the issue was towards its center, due to the numbness in play... and if it was even that section to begin with. Nokta could have meant to aim higher up, or even lower on its surface. Perhaps the issue was motor control itself and he intended a completely different zone. Processor damage could be funny like that, as sometimes even an impact to one spot could leave the nearest point undamaged while the connectors and piece behind it were crushed in.

Or maybe he meant the armor plating itself and not what was within.

"Body aches are to be expected, though the helm situation could be many factors."

Flatline clipped a couple more buttons on the screen, before he leaned back, seeing that the readouts were now 'stronger' and more visible. It was then he got his first view of the data this day, starting to look over everything carefully. Across the way, Knock Out would likely be able to see the spikes and lines that mapped out brainwaves and spark rates, though the finer details would be blurred out from distance. In fact, Flatline was effectively disregarding the other medic outright, taking charge for once which he was incredibly happy over.

"It could be you convincing yourself you should feel pain given the nature of the assault, and the lack thereof is concerning, or it could be something that actually is problematic."

He was in no way looking to write things off as nothing however, focusing on the latter readily after his previous words.

"Are you able to try to articulate further if it feels as though it is related to physical motion or not?"

The fact he genuinely wanted to help showed in his voice and more neutral expressions, appreciating the lack of snark and aggression that was now offered to him. It was after these words, Flatline would grab onto the monitor's edge, spinning the device around so that Nokta could see everything. Did he expect the mech to know what it meant? Not really. Though, he had been surprised by less in the past, and thought it would be ideal to give the benefit of the doubt.

"In addition, I have your readouts now. I assume the subdued nature is an attribute you have had your entire life?"

Knock Out was still cast aside as nonexistent.

[Knock Out]

Oooh, and just like that? Nokta had found a modicum of common sense. Waking up and insulting not one, but two medics within minutes? Not the smartest of ideas. While they would give him the care and attention that was needed, manners certainly went a long way in how he would be treated. Knock Out had been known to be slightly rougher than needed with those that’d been rude, or for exceptional cases? Spitefully using just enough of a numbing agent that a wound would not be agony, but juuuuuuust enough to be felt.

Ah, but there was none of that this day. At least not from him. This was Flatline’s show, if only because the other mech had been lurking near Nokta when he’d awoken from stasis - a case of bad timing, no doubt. Of course, he would assist should he be needed, but given this was all mind-numbingly routine so far, he was perfectly content to sit at his desk to continue on with whatever it was he was doing.

"As it happens, sudden departure from centuries of stasis do nothing for one’s social aptitudes,"

“Indeed.”

The only word spoken, it was then that Nokta looked his way.

The eye contact from the patient was a little unnerving, if only because he held it for what was definitely a moment too long. The smile was eerie - a little crazed, even - but was met with a gentle one of his own regardless.

As the other mech looked away, that smile would fade in an instant, and he’d lean one elbow on the desk, a single digit tap-tapping idly against his helm as he listened to the conversation - or, more accurately, how Flatline handled what’d been said. He could see the monitor from here, even if the finer details from the readouts were lost from this distance, and would jump in as needed should the readings start to plummet. 

The fact he was mostly being ignored by the other medic was fine (though he’d probably whine about it later) - it was nice to see Flatline in his element, and he was curious as to how this would go.

[Nokta]

The mech remained silent as he listened to his doctor listing the possible causes for his issue. As the screen was turned to him, optics flared up slightly taking in the newly provided information. From the looks of it, Flatline had adequately recalibrated the monitor as best as he could to account for Nokta’s telemetry.

"Ah, there I am– well done, medic." The second half of that sentence, while still steeped in the grating rasp that was his natural speaking voice, was lighter; more thoughtful, as if he were thinking out loud. One would be surprised how many so-called “medical personnel” struggled to properly compensate for the abnormal nature of the lieutenant’s body over the years. Knowing now that High Command settled for nothing but the best was somewhat of a relief considering his current situation. When failing to account for things like these could mean life or death in so many cases, it was nice knowing there were medics that could actually accommodate for your medical nuances.

"I assume the subdued nature is an attribute you have had your entire life?"

"You assume correctly." The scout replied with a single nod of the helm, a sudden change in tone present there, though only mostly jarring because of the way he’d just spoken to the medic previously. The subject of his "attribute" was often an exhausting conversation piece for him, especially amongst overcurious medics– not that either mech had proven to be one yet. Nokta wouldn’t elaborate any further, he’d go into more detail only if it was absolutely pertinent to his current condition.

He then focused his efforts on trying to pin down the specifics of his ailment, the mech growing momentarily quiet. Optics lazed off to the side as if attempting to turn his gaze inward to get a read on things. Emergency notifications within his HUD were double-checked– still nothing seemingly out of the ordinary. The lieutenant slowly moved his helm from side to side, depressurizing a few joints under his neck cabling while he was at it with a couple of pops, fissures blowing excess steam that had built up from laying stationary so long. Optics lidded themselves at the small sensation, borderline euphoric after centuries of being tucked away. After testing head motion like Flatline suggested did not provide any results, that numbness neither increasing nor retreating, the mech pursed his dermas.

"Nothing. If it helps, I can tell you that when I first came out of stasis the initial pain was localized at the…" A pause as his servo was lifted, balling the longer middle digits into a fist so that only his smallest, pinky digit was sticking out as he dragged around the back side of his helm with a soft scraping noise, his finger now pointing at the lower back of his helm where the horns began to taper inwards. "...base of my helm, around here." A soft tap, tap followed that statement as he prodded his digit against the aforementioned area.

Nokta glanced over to Knock Out again. At first, he’d assumed the shiny mech was more of an assistant figure to be called upon by his senior if help was needed, but seeing Flatline quite eager so suddenly, like it was rare for him to be doing exactly what he was doing now– Nokta was beginning to think otherwise.

But that was neither here nor there, the wraith would silently wait for whatever Flatline next deemed would be the appropriate course of action.