[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Beyond the Call [Closed]

[Flatline]

Episode 3 | Week 4 | Day 1

Cold rock walls...

Dusted over and dirty floors...

The clunks and whirring of machinery that were muddled by distance...

Despite the outpost being an active mine system that was being worked on day and night for the Decepticon cause, their captive would be rather isolated and abandoned. Settled deep within a gutted-out tunnel, so far underground that contact with companions up upon the surface world, or even contact with others down the corridor, was borderline impossible. Any screams would muddle out before they got to any workers, a desperate call unheard beneath machinery and yelled communications. About the only one who could be spoken to, was whatever Vehicon was stationed outside the impromptu prison, a guard that may simply choose to ignore her outright as one extra layer of isolation.

Yet, there was one other.

Sitting upon a stool a few paces from the shackled femme was a black and red clad mech who was busying himself with basic cleaning of tools while watching a portable monitoring system lazily. Two trays were before him on a simple table, one holding a variety of devices that were speckled with Energon and dirt, the other likely holding the sterilized counterparts that had a towel gently draped over it to keep them clean from ambient dust.

Gently, curved claws would rub softly at a long-handled forceps, digging a solvent-soaked rag into the seams and groves of its gripping end. The mech seemed distracted by this motion and the monitors readouts, a couple conduits draped from it over to the young captive's chest and side of helm to actively track what was going on within her frame.

Patch had been grotesquely damaged. A missile used against her that should have obliterated her from this world to send her to the All-Spark. It was only by the grace of luck and fate that an Eradicon had been between her and the devastating weapon, taking on the brunt of the damage to then throw shrapnel from its own frame into hers. Just because its force had been muddled, did not mean the dampened strike was not devastating however.

Deep coring wounds... major lines sliced in half as panels of metal were ripped asunder... Despite her guardian soldier, it was a miracle she survived. Though, the medic assigned to her case was a large factor as well, determined to keep her from slipping away.

Cables were spliced back in place. Silicone lines removed and replaced by ones that were not damaged. Larger electrical conduits were re-attached and soldered, an industrial grade heat shrink bound about them to shield them from moisture and further lock them together under motion and transformation. Metal protoform flesh was re-attached back to its matching side. Outer armor plates welded firmly together and smoothed some by a grinder to level it mostly off with the surrounding material.

While Patch was not in visibly good shape, paint ripped off around damages from the repairing process, she was very much... patched... and was functional within reason. It would not be good for her to try to thrash or run with her freshly mended injuries, but she would be on track to be back to full health if given enough time for the changes to settle and self-repair to take hold. As well as followup checks if they were in the equation. Perhaps it was more work to stabilize her than necessary... she should have simply been made functional enough to survive and abandon the more 'luxury' elements such as making her leg able to move again with its fuel re-established... but her acting medic seemed to have some kind of pride in their work, or a guilt in leaving her in disrepair, enough to mend more than was likely desired from their ruling Seeker.

Flatline was not looking upon Patch directly, having finished his efforts to cobble her together a couple hours back. The tarp and bloodied mess of major tools that were used to save her life had already been taken away, her frame re-shackled once the welds settled enough to make such a thing possible. He simply was busying himself with the more mundane small tasks, keeping occupied until his patient would wake up on their own accord. He could forcibly push her to the realm of the living, use a stimulant or code to wrench her systems online... but he figured she had undergone enough trauma as is, and that she deserved at least some form of rest.

Red optics drifted across the digital readouts, occasionally sliding up to glare at the soldier that stood watch, before looking back down at the forceps that were gently moved under the towel on the clean side. Long fingers would then pick up an Energon crusted crossing file, continuing with his lazy work to now scrape a solvent soaked rasp brush to peel flecks of metal from between its grooves.

[Patch]

A steady, even pattern.

Repetitive, and calm upon the monitor- despite the electronic sedation wearing off considerably. Her sparkpulse remained slow, her pump’s pressure leveled off, for now. Ventilations easy, and her temperature now -mercifully- stabilized, as she rested.

A medic of Flatline’s caliber, with as much attention given over the course of several hours- as meticulous as he was, as concerned with detail… he would likely have noticed a matter of elements besides, and in addition to the femme’s most recent trauma.

He would have caught scars as he dug. Small ones, large, new and ancient, from dents to the helm to corrosion on her peddes- all long since repaired. Though the stories remained. Scratches across her finish, to gashes long since healed through her armor, mesh, and organs.

As he stripped away the layers, Flatline would catch freckles of visible darkened spray within the last-sparked’s protoform, present since she was forged. A nurse of his background would know… Such flecks had likely dusted her frame before her metal had fully solidified, as a newspark. A theory that could easily enough be supported by the fact, where her mesh had regrown, over scars, the freckles no longer remained.

Perhaps in the times of the ancients, it could have been seen as an omen. In more recent history, a symptom of ill-kept protoformal rearing, unprotected from particulate in the air when she emerged, by those who did -or did not- aid her in her first few steps.

Her organs, her neural net, in addition, were littered with signs of stress. Not just recent, but all throughout her development. Old scars from scorching around her spark’s casing, fuel lines tightened and overworked from an overclocked fuel pump in a state of near constant emergency response. There were signs of long spans of energon deprivation, physical beatings in her joints and plating, repaired and broken and repaired once more in a never ending cycle of violence.

It was hardly an uncommon set of signs, in their species today.

The only thing that could be viewed as remotely odd, was that there was no evidence of a period of development where this was not the case, for Patch. She’d lived her life scared. It seemed that had been the case since she’d emerged, and though she was a young and virile specimen, it was hurting her to perpetually exist in such a state.

Her body had grown with the trauma… As much as a Cybertonian body could, at least. Her mind and frame had both adapted, in effective ways as well as damaging ones.

She was strong, certainly. Shown through her history, as well as her resilience during her treatment. Though it was in great part Flatline’s care that had kept her spark intact- she’d fought to stay. Hard. In the most desperate moments, it had likely grown clear, the robust little femme had quite a bit of will.

And was now, understandably, exhausted.

The monitor began to perk, slightly. The pulse of her spark growing brighter, and warmer, and faster- getting back up to closer to an ordinary speed for a relatively healthy, conscious grounder of her age. No warnings though, mercifully.

The cables twitched lightly as her helm softly rolled. A low, soft mum huffed out in mild discomfort. Optic ridges furrowed as small nicks upon her brow drew tight with tension. A heavier breath taken in as her senses lazily returned.

Her chest felt wrong to put it bluntly, a heavy, unpleasantly warm nauseation in her fuel tank and face. An internal sense of things having shifted that simply weren't supposed to, in ways they weren't supposed to… A sort of unnaturally smooth and well-moving, in tandem with a violating ache of things having been put in, and moved around beneath her plating by foreign hands and instruments.

Her optic shutters flicked a bit, she was trying to wake, though the focus of the eyes beneath was lethargic at best.

[Flatline]

Everyone's frame had a novel of a story to tell. Whether they were forged or not, from what era their model was pushed into existence, to even what modifications may have been sought through the years to try to deviate from the starting point... Markers from their original functions, injuries that may have been obtained while serving their role to the Caste System, or a notable lack of said injuries a shining example of how well sheltered they were from the toil of the lower class. An individual's body could tell much.

Even more so once war started.

Everything experienced could almost be mapped in a way, seeing what echoes ripple out from major milestones. Injuries, repairs, spliced on components or weaponry, to completely replaced panels and body parts where the makeup of the metal itself was different. Flatline may not have gone into this war recognizing such cues, having worked in a hospital and then manufacturing role before their world got turned around, yet it did not take long to quickly learn what the markers of a grenade blast were versus the shrapnel of a bomb. Seeing the aftermath on survivors and corpses alike was a better teacher than any medical book could ever provide.

Flatline did not mark down what he found out about Patch like he otherwise may have with a Decepticon soldier. It didn’t matter. She wasn't one of their own to be monitored and worked on through years, she was a temporary element that would be gone and never be found under his blade once more. As far as he could water it down to, she was simply another frame that had been thrown into war upon their creation to toil away, some elements more than recognizable to the black and red medic. He had seen many of the same markers within the Eradicons and Vehicons themselves, poor souls that were thrust into existence in their darkest times, left with no choice but to fight on. Some could idolize individuals in such ways. Hollow statements and praise of 'you are so strong!' as if it were admirable to make it through such events.

When the other option was death.

When the monitor deviated ever so slightly from the even pace it had been holding strong for some time, Flatline's gaze would drift over to view the machinery rather than remain focused on the current cleaning task. The rhythm of clicks had barely fluctuated... the faintest alteration of speed as an all too subtle audial cue... but the black and red mech's attentive focus made it stand out right away, ending with him now observing the screen straight on so he could read the finer details.

Heightening mental activity, systems starting to come back online enough to initiate functionality...

A faint tap sounded then, the sharp tip of his thumb clicking down a couple times against the metal rasp he was holding, debating setting the object aside. Yet, he didn't, at least not right away, instead looking back down at it lazily as though he was considering moving back to his previous task instead to ignore the monitor. The heightened senses and readouts did not declare true consciousness, and it would be a shame to stop what he was doing to stare at her for numerous minutes, only to realize he could have continued being useful.

"Are you now with the living?"

He knew she was alive, of course. That wasn't his question.

Flatline would focus back down upon the rasp, rubbing the cloth gently over its front to see what shavings to metal may pull out still.

[Patch]

She wasn’t facing the right way...

Her berth faced East- this wasn’t east. The berths in the medical bay faced North- She was sitting up, not laying back…

Her helm stayed lulled to the side as her optics opened, slightly. Cracks of azure blue just ever so tined with a lace of green, at the edge, from what little pain relief remained in her fuel.

Dark, dust, the hum of an energy field- the shadow of a tall form, facing away behind it, a bit out of focus.

Her helm nicked off the stone, lifting as though drawn up by a string. Bobbing up, then back down some at the unexpected weight. The lead above her audial dropped and swayed across the way between her and the machine, with the movement.

“Nnm…”

The femme’s gaze bobbed around as her already saturated senses attempted to absorb where she was. The monitor now picking up, as that oh-so evidently ever active fight or flight response seemed to kick on with a heavy drop into downright panic.

This didn’t smell like Omega’s sickbay- it didn’t smell like a sickbay at all.

The blips of the monitor didn’t sound right. They sounded… stolen, like stolen equipment.

There was a figure nearby... Large and, thin, and-... Not Ratchet.

“Where-...” the rest of this trailed off, though her intake still made the shapes. Her optics clenched shut, then, as a bout of discomfort seemed to overtake her like a salty waist high wave of sandy beach water.

Her intake suddenly wrenched shut as her knees popped off the ground. A deep, hard groan caught and quite ineffectively swallowed in her chest as she squirmed. Hands moving to pull forward over her chest, her stomach and catching behind her instead with a rattle of chain. All a bit… Sudden though sluggish, all things considered. The movements unplanned, and awkward and all but lost in translation between brain and body.

With all the focus of a moving corpse, as the monitor's rhythms accelerated, she blindly whipped her helm around, as though searching for nothing.

In a swift, breathy mumble she murmured “where am I-”

[Flatline]

Ah, there it was. More conscious thought displayed instead of incoherent mumblings. While the first single word held a sense of a drunken whisper through a hazed mind, the rest of the question had been accompanied with more active readouts upon the medical equipment, declaring that this wasn't some false alarm. It was at this knowledge that Flatline wrapped the rasp up within the cloth he had been holding, setting it gently down upon the makeshift flat surface so that he could turn and offer his full attention.

Pushing off the ground with his good leg, the black and red medic shifted around the stationary stool he was propped up upon, one hand grasping at its edge to further stabilize him at the motion. There was a faint clicking in this process, the four legs of the seat popping between three back and forth given the rough uneven flooring that sat beneath them. Once settled, Flatline would lift his hand away, both forearms looping just above his knees as red optics bore down into her intently.

"Underground. Details further than that I cannot offer."

Both because Flatline truly did not know, while also being because the femme simply could not be aware of where she was for security's sake. If she spat in the eye of logic, somehow broke free, and could run her destroyed systems out through the Vehicons and Mining Drones... while knowing where the exit to said mine was through all the tunnels... the lack of information on where to go after said point was in their favor. That was unlikely however. Flatline would wager her inability to perform such a feat with so much confidence that he would break off his own finger if that became a reality. Whatever the case, he had been dumped here to keep her alive, and that was about as much knowledge he had.

"You are being detained until events prove otherwise-"

"Until your usefulness is expended and you are cashed out or killed."

"-I recommend finding what comfort you can, as it may be some time."

Flexing his hands out some, Flatline's digits would momentarily splay to stretch the narrow joints, before loosely curling once more, the inner blades placing against the palm of his hand, while their smoother sides rested on the edge of his wrist given the fact their length surpassing the hinge. He would watch the way the femme maneuvered, looking for any immediate signs of profound pain. She would not feel good, that was a certain, so discomfort was expected, but he wanted to be more than attentive if she was in agony on par with something being legitimately wrong.

"Please do not thrash... You cannot escape, and it is better for your friends if you don't rip yourself up."

Flatline was hoping the mention of her fellow Autobots would keep her from potentially killing herself in a desperate grasp for a sense of control that simply was not there. A soft reminder of how much she may care for them, and they in turn. It would be more beneficial in the long run if she tolerated it all and went with the flow.

While Flatline spoke, his tone of voice was neutral, stating each word with more pronounced annunciation should she still be drifting to and from the hazed state. He didn’t want her to muffle out large chunks down to a buzzed hum, wanting her well aware of what was happening here. This clear and monitored pace however, removed some of the personality of his words, there no sense of sadness, nor friendliness, or even anger.

This could change as she woke further.

[Patch]

At the voice, the movement- the stimulation from the form before her, it seemed her optics caught upon him. Struggling to focus, though panted, shaky ventilations as again her intake moved to mumble speech. She did not produce any sound- by all indications softly repeating his words. A few fluttered, drunken blinks as she fought through blur and pain to see him clearly.

A long face, sharp teeth- she caught the medical insignia… He was loosely familiar now. Some abstract sort of known, as various details caught her currently quite slippery attention. Evoking foggy memories of mere moments before, for her.

She slowly seemed to process… She was wrestling for focus. A silent, if brutal internal battle.

Her optics closed again, helm dipping as it seemed the femme took another ark of discomfort. As though swallowing either pain or nauseation. Perhaps both. With effort, she cycled a few shallow ventilations- frame tightening, or shaking slightly. Almost twitching in various places as her chin cocked back then, helm sinking a bit into her shoulders as the back of her head hit the stone with a clunk.

“Nnnm….”

Patch's optics loosely cracked once more, blue glow flickering slightly, trying to determine a ceiling above. She heard blades, sharp metal, against itself. Her gaze shifted to the sound- she caught a glimpse of his servos.

They were, so sharp… Long and spindly, reaching all the way back past his wrist- even in this inert state… Mecha could kill with servos like those. Pierce right through a spark chamber, if they knew how.

Her optics drifted behind the figure now...
She settled on the instruments, behind him…

A low strike of something heavy in her spark, as the notion seemed to light up behind her optics.

“Please-...”

A soft, viscerally frightened whisper as her gaze now locked upon the tools.

She eased to a stop, slouching back to her spot on the wall like a rag doll. Her armor slackening into a deeply uneasy state of rest. Like relaxing into unwanted sedation. Her eyes, despite tired un-focus remained feral, and wide, on the instruments. They encompassed her entire world, it seemed.

“Please don’t hurt me…”

Weak words pushed through broken systems. She didn’t have the strength, nor the wherewithal to think it through. She was submitting. Showing her cards, expressing a very base WANT, in her altered state. She was so tired, her entire frame ached… It seemed her body chose freeze, however, in the battle between fight or flight. Scruffed, by the notion of even more pain, at the -very sharp- hands of this looming stranger.

[Flatline]

Flatline let out a soft annoyed grumble.

For some reason, he had assumed Patch would be able to comprehend a basic explanation of what was going on, and piece things together fully. Instead, she almost seemed to daze in and out again, muttered sounds being tossed out that didn't really equate to any real conscious communication. It left him with a feeling of frustration. Not that she was taking her time to wake up... no... that was fully reasonable and he understood that entirely. This negative feeling however was inspired by the fact he had given her so much benefit of the doubt, thinking she was one of those who only made noise as they woke, versus those who make noises long before they are even briefly coherent.

Flatline could have been working still then, casting idle 'oh really?' or 'you don't say...' and other hollow responses to her mutterings while cleaning. It was true that he could go back to work with ease, they were not that far away... which... ended up being beneficial. The sight of the objects almost appeared to stabilize her a small amount once her flickering gaze registered what she was seeing and just what they could do.

Or more, what they could MEAN in this given situation...

Red optics glanced over somewhat in the direction of the tray as Patch managed to utter out words that were punctuated by an all too fearful look that came right from her core. There was no way to feign an expression like that as far as Flatline was concerned. If someone was able to do so? They were a very skilled actor that could clutch the most minor of nuances that were so instinctive and natural to all. Patch was no actor here. No. She was truly scared it seemed. Clutching onto the fight or flight response that could do nothing due to the shackles and weakness. Lucky for her however, the subject of her fear wasn't of any concern.

"I just saved your life; I am not going to hurt you."

A lower grumbled noise. While Flatline continued to speak clearly and carefully, his own exhaustion wove beneath it all at the mere idea that he would tear someone up after mending them, only to have to turn around and fix that which he just broke. No. that wasn't his goal here, and to further show this, his frame eased upright and twisted enough so that he could place his palm atop the cloth covered tray. A soft shove was offered to the supposed threat, pushing it further away from him towards the side of the desk. Not in danger of falling, but the sentiment of 'casting it aside' was clear enough.

With this motion done, Flatline's frame would return to the earlier inert state.

"Relax. At this moment, you are safe. Your injuries have been mended, and you are fueled."

'Mended' was putting it so generously though. So much still needed to settle and repair. So much could still be done just to try to get her on her feet and active as soon as possible. However, she was not a Decepticon that needed to be slammed back together and thrown onto the front lines. She was something that just had to keep her spark alive, and as such much would be left to self-repairs and follow-up work when required.

If she ever got to such a point.

"The only way you will be hurt, is if you try to escape and hurt yourself."

Matter of fact.

These words were said more casually, Flatline shrugging his shoulders lightly while he had spoken. Unless something went completely sideways such as Starscream being bridged in with a new plan to kill her off or use her for a trade, then she was perfectly safe here. No threat of some rogue Decepticon deciding to break in and down an Autobot for some level of who knows what logic should she have been within the Medical Bay. She was in a contained little sphere, and Flatline was currently on sentry as she woke.

"So, your name is Latch?"

Flatline damn well knew that wasn't her name, but he wanted to see if she caught onto the error. Testing how coherent she was, his gaze intense.

[Patch]

"-I am not going to hurt you."

Patch exhaled a slight breath of relief- only to twist the air right back in through a hiss between her denta. Right back up into pain as the newfound fear eased enough to let it through. Rolling straight into a ragged cough, that rattled her newly mended internals.

Again, the femme’s frame squirmed. A pop of knees off the stone as she drug them slightly inward. The bare, heel-less edge of her missing tire grinding against the stone with a rough, short squeak. Another draw against the restrains as though that would somehow release her servos. As it was, her chest simply felt so *tight*. So exposed, as the fresh wounds stung against the heavy air.

With optics shut hard, the young sturdy form forced herself to take a proper breath in, then push it out slowly- this action then cut into by the dark stranger’s words. The teal glow of her gaze cracked open upon him once more, taking in his sharp form, listening as intently as she was able, at the moment, with her helm so heavy.

"Relax. At this moment, you are safe. Your injuries have been mended, and you are fueled."

At this, it seemed regret kicked in.

Her helm rolled to clunk sideways now against the wall, in a slightly petulant gesture. Eyes twisting shut as her intake tightened over a mum in complaint, and pain. What had she been thinking- why had she Run.

Why had they Fixed her? Why didn’t they leave her to leak- why hadn’t they killed her on the spot?

“It’s Patch-”

She rasped softly, optics shut through the discomfort. A reset of her voicebox, as she struggled to sit herself up a bit more.

“Like patch kit.”

Her optics shut as another rough series of coughs rattled through her vents. The fans inside rotating slightly with the press of air and movement. Further jostling her chassis.

Her optics cracked open and settled once more on the medic.

“What’s your name?”

[Flatline]

"Patch. I see."

Flatline continued the charade that he hadn't already known her name. There was no point in doing otherwise, nothing to gain in declaring that he was testing her or doing any sort of mind games. That was not his goal here at all, and open deception on such levels could influence any further commentary or discussion that would come in turn. As such, he rolled with it, the simple statement of confirmation punctuated with a lower sound as though he was trying to imprint it to memory.

Then the question was turned on him.

"My name is Flatline, but don't let that concern you."

Yes it was ironic. Yes he was aware. No he wasn't going to change it.

His designation was what it was, and it was perhaps a cruel sort of joke given the field he had gone into. Should this have declared his purpose with far more accuracy, Flatline likely would have been in a morgue dealing with deceased Cybertronian to perform some kind of last rites before dismantling and smelting to return them to Primus. That is, unless they were the few high enough in rank they were stored away to not be meshed within mere 'commoners'. Whatever the case, it was irrelevant. He was a doctor since his creation, and he took it seriously.

"I know you are familiar with medicine, and know your way around things-"

On what level he did not know, but due to her frame and what had been found in her medical kit, she was capable enough to be able to consider his next question with a more critical eye.

"-So, I ask that you please try to think tactically over emotionally."

She would think emotionally, there was no doubt there. There was almost no point in Flatline's following words, yet he felt compelled to do so.

"I know you are in pain, but is it enough to warrant more medicine?"

Perhaps it was another test in its own way, much like the first that was done to see how coherent she was, this time challenging her professionalism as a medic. Trying to see if she was born into the role and had it hard coded into her very lines, or if she learned the skills through the war, whether out of survival, or out of a willingness and desire to do so from a personal dream. As far as he was concerned, a true medic from their flickering seconds of consciousness, would have the innate want to help others... that strong DESIRE to do well and not rob a soul of painkillers or other medicines when they may truly need them.

With the lack of valuable supplies in this war, if she were to get greedy it could cause another to suffer, even if that other was an enemy soldier.

Flatline knew he had little pain tolerance himself. He would feel compelled to beg for relief because he was a weak soul and he knew that about himself. He would feel bad taking such aid above others, but it was what it was, and he would be greedy and heartless on that particular topic. Did this young Autobot follow the same path? Or did she hold a more 'noble' standing that was oh so stereotypical as what the Autobots tried to project? It in the end didn’t matter much, he couldn't afford to even give such things unless she could pose a direct threat to herself by neglecting it. If she continued to squirm that could make the choice for them, yet he wouldn't take back what he had said.

While awaiting her reply, Flatline laced his long fingers together, forearms still resting upon his thighs, the left safely above the damaged and crippled hinge.

[Patch]

He was sitting very still, Patch noted this, while he explained himself. While they spoke. He could have easily been up and about, making her watch him, track him. Yes, in this position she was looking up at him, but it wasn’t a strain to do so. Perhaps there wasn’t anything left for him to do, walking around..? She noted the lack of tools around her, the lack of fuel on the ground…

At this her optics turned down, chin bumping the top of her chest as she hunched. One of the cables bounced with the shift, swinging again between her helm and the monitor. She noted the lack of fuel on Herself- her plating wiped down, it seemed. Small streaks of light colored dust and water spots across fresh welds and missing paint.

How long had she been out? …How long had they been sitting here?

Patch looked back up the mech when addressed. At the question, she melted, a little. Pain in her eyes, as though he’d asked her to perform some chore. Almost regret, as she ex-vented, and let her helm roll into a drop. She closed her optics a moment, as she lifted it again, plopping it back as she whuffed a few ventilations.

“I don’t know-”

Assessing…

Or more… Making peace with her answer.

“… No.”

A slight shake of the helm, optics still shut lightly, and turned to the ceiling.

“No. Save em.”

Patch’s optics had opened to this much pain before, and she had coped alone. Much younger, much weaker. Much more frightened. And without ever having experienced anything close to such damage before.

She was scared now- she was Hurting now. Badly.

But at least this time she wasn’t alone.


For that reason, perhaps she wanted to backtrack a little.

Without opening her eyes, still breathing heavy, she muttered lowly.

“...Thank you for saving my life, Flatline.”

Deep, ernest words, paired with the closest to a bow-like nod she could manage without shifting her body too much. Sort of angled to the ceiling with her eyes still closed. Jaw clenching slightly, as it seemed even that much movement hurt her.

Maybe he had worked in a morgue. Maybe that had been his given profession, and he had expanded during the war. Maybe he had poor prospects, as assigned by a corrupt system *LONG* since dismantled, and had been named accordingly, despite being permitted to try.

Any number of reasons he could have been named as he was- but That did not matter, to Patch, right now. She scarcely even considered- she didn’t have the energy.

He had saved her.

Even if he was prepared to move on from that quickly, she wasn’t.

“I imagine I didn’t make it easy.” A weak, almost wicked smile. A twisted joke at her own mangled frame’s expense.

Again, at this, her vents rattled up into a few hunched coughs- these restrained, somewhat behind a closed intake. The glowing blue hue of her optics cut out by their shutters. This seemed to be painful- her features scrunching together in discomfort.

The monitor continued holding true, the patterns even, if… stressed. Her spark-pulse slowed -if slightly- as they continued to speak. Back to a semi-normal speed as the fear of being actively dismantled decreased, and made way for the utter exhaustion wrought by damage and repair.

[Flatline]

When Patch declined receiving more painkillers, Flatline's helm would raise and crook to the side, looking down upon her with a sort of new consideration and perhaps a dash of respect. He expected her to instantly plead for relief, especially since it would be taking potential medicine from one of her enemies if supplies were that limited. It is what Flatline would have done. Yet, she did not. He didn’t know if it was her own set of morals, or if it was hard coded into her upon creation, but it was there, and it spoke volumes of just WHAT she was.

As far as Flatline was concerned, Patch was a medic upon her creation, and her choice made this a fact. Brought into this world with a specific goal, and possible passion where the Caste system had placed her well within her desired ambitions. The only other alternative is if she admired and envied medics so much, that she strove to try to get to their standards, possibly emulating a mentor or even a fictional character in a book or show that she felt she could relate to. Yet... she had declined painkillers. Whatever the case, the details did not particularly matter, what mattered was the fact she was giving, and cared about another's pain, even when she suffered herself.

Flatline would keep an eye on things. If he felt she truly required aid so that she didn't injure herself in the process of shifting and moving erratically, he would indeed assist her. He couldn’t have her rip something in a writhing thrash of pain, and undo the repairs he had done to try to keep her stable. He couldn’t afford to. He had messed up in Starscream's eyes to lethal levels already.

Leaning back some on the stool, he would listen carefully, taking mental notes on coherency still.

"...Thank you for saving my life, Flatline."

"Of course."

His pointer and middle finger absentmindedly tapped against their matching palm.

"It was not easy, that is for certain."

Oh boy did is not. She was a defiant little monster that couldn't recognize any form of logic in those moments. Did she seriously think she could win? No. There was no win there.

"You should try to work on that. Get a little more tuned into the reality around you."

Perhaps a taunt, perhaps a real warning... It was hard to say.

"I wager your friends would appreciate such a choice. I imagine you have quite a few?"

Red optics were focused down. While he had a relaxed sort of expression to his features, he was certainly fishing.

[Patch]

A pained, breathy chuckle escaped the femme’s chest- what seemed like genuine entertainment slipping across a wide grin. Almost a sparkle to her optic as her gaze turned to the ceiling.

“That was smooth…”

Optic ridges lifted in respect, a slight shake of the head, her helm rolling back and forth just touching against the wall. It seemed the young femme believed she'd caught the medic in the act of something.

“g-No… “

She huffed the next few words, pain still behind her voice. 

“I’m not gonna do that.”

She wasn't just going to up and tattle how many Autobots were here on Earth! She may have been delirious but she wasn't stupid! That had to be what he was going for, wasn't it?

Optics closed as a cocky, crooked, lopsided grin spread across her face, still upturned.

“You’re funny though.”

Patch seemed comfortable in this phrase; relatively speaking, of course. Her body and face both relaxed- but her sparkpulse… She was stressed, and the monitor indicated this. Her brain activity flickered up as not only the speed- but the temperature of her spark increased slightly.

It seemed the notion that Flatline was prodding for information frightened her.

[Flatline]

Once Patch started to reply, Flatline seemed to grow concerned and confused, his angular brows furrowing while looking across her body language with a couple of quick flicks. He didn’t understand how what he said was considered laugh worthy, making him start to try to pick through her reaction and line it up with his own statements. Attempting to spin translation, shifting words to mean a different variant... Despite best efforts, he couldn’t cobble it together properly due to the fact he was already committed to his one thought process and couldn't break it.

Even if she had only ONE friend out of them all due to her placement making her an outcast in a sea of others... forgotten other than in the eyes of a single soul... that was all that may be needed to help her. To let her think about how that person would feel if she were to cause her own demise simply because she couldn’t comply. Knowing that waiting patiently for things to progress could give said companion a chance to save her. Alas, communication between them had crossed poorly.

Flatline did not care about the Autobot numbers here on earth so long as he was protected away from the battlefield and wasn’t starving. In addition, he was no interrogator in any way shape or form, meaning that even if she had answered the question that she thought he had asked? He wouldn't know how to even tell if it was right or not. Truthfully, he could look at spark rate and other signs to try to do some makeshift polygraph process, yet he wasn't even in that sort of mindset, glancing over as Patch's systems seemed to show signs of stress.

"I... don't know what you are talking about."

Cautiously stated, making his thoughts on the matter rather apparent in his tone of voice. He wasn't here to posture, to play up some Decepticon normality stereotype. As such, he remained comfortable where he was sitting, casting another glance to the side at the monitor showing Patch's details. What had she thought he had meant? Just what could have stressed her out?

Ah well, it didn't matter.

"Suppose the role of a medic can be alienating."

Dryly stated.

No effort... NO effort was made by Flatline to make friends. He did not care about it. He did not NEED it. Perhaps on a psychological level he may have an ingrained want to not be alone... hence his slow building friendship with Knock Out, yet he didn’t know that consciously, and was more than aware that being a doctor could sour others' perspectives upon a soul. Seeing some hollow figure that had to deal with their ailments. An injured individual having no choice but to be at their weakest state which could cause unease once repaired. Whatever the case, perhaps a different topic was in order to try to piece together if Patch was lucid, or if all of this was sourced from a disjointed hazed existence in the now.

"How about we test your coherency? Do you recall the name I called you before you told me it was Patch?"

His helm crooked some to the side, red optics flicking to the machine once again before looking back at the femme. It really hadn't been long at all, however to a recovering and waking mind it may feel like ages. It was hard to say.

"Or, you may talk about something of your own choosing."

Flatline's pointer finger tapped absentmindedly upon his palm once more in a subconscious movement.

[Patch]

It seemed the young femme's fearful state had pushed her to add context- subtext that was not really there. For this reason, once it became clear this ‘Flatline’ was not worming his way around, probing her for answers? But rather, genuinely asking her if she’d… talk about people she cared for? It threw the young femme for a loop.

Why would he do this? Why would he care? Wartime base medics didn’t always have a reputation for their beside manor. Especially not Decepticon medics. Exceptionally not towards their Autobot prisoners.

Patch didn’t believe for a second this mech genuinely cared about her personal relations. Not beyond what he could glean and report about the Autobot’s strength to a superior, or another department for clout, or ‘glory’ or whatever it was it seemed Cons used to rise up through their ranks… Even still though, he was being so… Gentle. It didn’t make sense to her.

If he wanted to ensure she was awake, he could have given her a stimulant. Patch was willing to bet they had the resources to spare- and even if NOT, he could have easily ‘stimulated’ her just fine with physical pain. She was restrained, she was weak. She was vulnerable.

Yet he was asking her docile, harmless questions. He kept his distance, though… He didn’t pace, or loom. If the femme was feeling generous, she might even have said he looked, relaxed.

Why..?

There was still a chance he was merely, extremely good at playing off her suspicion, but… That genuinely didn’t seem to be the case, to Patch.

The young femme’s bracing smile faded as she realized this was what had happened. Her ‘armor’ of dismissal coming off, it seemed, as an almost confused relief overtook her scuffed, freckled expression.

A question.

“Augh-...”

Switching gears. Her optics widened as it seemed she drew a blank. The femme’s gaze flicked to the ground, tracing the concrete as her intake hung open. Trying to manifest the word- she knew this, she knew it was said only moments ago…

Another route- another option. A welcome relief to her pain-addled mind.

“Why- why did you guys help me-.”

This was warmer, more genuine. The pulse of anxiety from before bled through into her voice a little more, as the chain behind her rattled with a shift. This new tone perhaps more closely hinted at her age, mental or otherwise. She was still in pain, and this was clear, though it didn’t seem an unfamiliar state to her. The only real, external sign -besides the heat discoloration- a slightly irregular pattern of ventilations; as though it hurt to cycle air.

“Why did you keep me alive?”

She still seemed loopy. Fighting for coherency- though coherent nonetheless.

[Flatline]

Ah, she had already forgotten what he had called her.

Flatline waited patiently, wondering if she would chew over the question further and find that bit of information that had been lost, only instead she gave up on that goal and narrowed her focus onto the second of two options. It didn't truly matter in his opinion, which is why he had offered the choices he had rather than rooting down stubbornly and pressing her about the first prompting. So long as she spoke, and showed improving coherency, then the more he knew that he did his job well, and that he had the medicine leveled out in a way to not be wasteful. They could simply put her into a medical shutdown, which would save so much effort and time, however, there had to be a reason for her to be functional and awake, probably so that they could show the Autobots she was indeed alive and not just immobile on a table with the promise that she wasn't a cadaver.

Tapping his pointer against the palm of his hand a couple of times once more in a contemplating motion, it was then Flatline's turn to think over how he wanted to reply, and what he could get away with saying. The thing was, however, that there really wasn't much he COULD say even if he wanted to give her the full scope of what her role would be here. Bait or a bargaining chip was the obvious choice, yet to a more strategic mind, there could be an abundance of other elements that could be exploited that he just didn’t know.

A low grumbled hum slipped out, an almost thoughtful noise filtering through his more ragged vocoder.

"The answer to that is above my position."

He didn't ask, he just did his job. They needed Patch alive? Very well. Flatline made it so that she would not cross the threshold of no return. That was where his knowledge essentially ended, and from this point forward it was a large question of what role he would even play, or if he would be shuffled aside. Once she was stable, he imagined he would return to the Medical Bay, keeping this little event secret from Knock Out... which wouldn't be difficult he felt since he wasn't a terribly social soul even on the best of days.

"It is easy to assume it is tactically inspired."

No dancing around the fact she was a prisoner of war. Even one as delirious as her could start to put those pieces together he felt. If she wasn’t able to do so just yet? It would potentially start to form the further that she walked into the waking world.

"I do not know the endpoint. What I do know, however, is that it is in no one's best interest for you to perish."

Flatline rolled his wrist as he said this in an idle gesture before his forearm looped to rest on his upper leg once more.

"So there is that bit of silver lining."

If it could even be called one. Flatline knew this wasn't a great spot for her, and he almost felt bad for her as it was certainly out of her little world of expectation he was sure.