[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Clinical Trial [Flatline, Q]

[Megatron]

Episode 3.5 | Week 1 | Day 1 | Closed

It was early in the morning. The medical bay had been cleared by Megatron's orders. Those nursing serious injuries were moved to domiciles with oversight, and those with lighter injuries or appointments were instructed to wait in the assembly hall. Only one was to remain, alone under the buzzing light and among the equipment, which had been neatly prepared on display, also according to Lord Megatron's direct orders and exact specifications.

Flatline.

But he would not be left to his own devices for long. Distant footsteps echoed from down the corridor, behind the metal door. Faint at first, then louder, louder...

Louder.

It was Megatron. Unmistakably so. But he was not alone. Two lighter sets accompanied his own. Then they stopped—all three of them. The door split open and the Warlord and his entourage poured in. He did not appear injured nor did the two Vehicons by his side, begging the question: Why precisely were such drastic measures put into place? He would let the smaller mech consider that, no matter what he may have been up to at the moment.

In fact, the Warlord initially paid him very little mind, instead taking a brief stroll around the facilities. He inspected the equipment with a diligent gaze as if to make sure that something was accounted for. But what could it be? Most of the equipment lay splayed across a long metal table as if prepared for an operation, yet many of the more advanced items from a medic's arsenal were conspicuously absent: no scanners, no centrifuge, or cosmetic surgery tools. This, too, was done by design. The Warlord seemed satisfied with it, looping his gargantuan hands behind his back, and finally, finally approaching Flatline with the Vehicons close at hand.

"It is time, doctor," he spoke gravely, briefly waved a servo upward in Flatline's direction, urging him to rise, then hid it once more behind his towering form, which eclipsed the medic.

It was time.

But for what? Tension and uncertainty infested the room as Megatron cast his gaze down upon Flatline with oppressive presence. He maintained a stoic composure, remaining as still as a statue while gauging the reaction of his (presently) only medic. He did not smile, he did not frown, nor raised his chest for an intake. His control was singular in its nature, paramount to the purposes of his visit, and most of all, utterly uncompromising in whom it would affect and how.

[Ren]

QLC-972 wasn’t sure why the Warlord had called upon him this morning. The meeting yesterday held zero clues as to why his presence was needed, though far be it from him to even begin questioning things.

The walk to the medical bay had been ominously silent, the Vehicon beside him - he wasn’t quite sure who it was - showing no signs of knowing what this was about. Maybe he’d done such a good job at guarding Patch the Autobot medic that he’d been promoted to some sort of bodyguard role, given they were trailing the Warlord on what looked to be some sort of official business.

As they made their way into the medical bay and slowly walked around while the Warlord inspected things, he noticed how sparse it seemed to be compared to the normal day-to-day. Equipment was laid out, not that he really knew what any of it was, and it seemed absent of anyone else other than the black and red mech.

Was Flatline in trouble?

That remained to be seen. He was not privy to a lot of things, and this was no different. The other Vehicon settled on the Warlord’s left as Megatron addressed the medic, while Q stood to his right.

Waiting to see what this was about.

[Flatline]

Flatline tried to always keep himself busy, forcing himself to find any sort of job he could so that he could fill his mind with something. Cleaning things around the Medical Bay when they didn't need to be cleaned. Organizing tools into neat lines into their drawers so they were easier to see and find when needed. Moving things out of the way in case someone needed to be rushed in for help so they didn't hit anything between the door and the slab. He would work on repairing damaged Vehicon parts to re-install, at this point knowing the ins and outs of their limbs and frame mass as thought he had a blueprint burned into his processor...

He had to keep occupied.

Because when he wasn’t his mind drifted back to reality.

Knock Out may give him occasional grief about being on edge as he was, not finding things particularly dangerous for him since he suffered the loss of his secondary limbs... but that did not mean Flatline felt the same. A set of arms that were not required to function in life, was not an equal exchange for a grand warship that offered shelter, and armaments to the Decepticons. Higher end mechanics, a fully enclosed space that could relocate when things got bad or the Autobots found them... if they were found in Blackridge, there would be no easy escape while being able to keep what they had managed to salvage.

When he did return to his sleeping area to try to get real rest not at a desk, Flatline could find no peace. Looking at the ceiling, wondering if that night would be his last recharge before Starscream decided he was done humoring him and to end his torment. It was horrific enough as was, yet now Megatron had returned, and his fears and unease doubled ten fold. If anyone were to act decisively to clip a loose end and make an example of him, it would be the Warlord himself. Flatline had not interacted with him but more than a flicker, but he knew enough, or assumed he knew enough, to know what was coming.

Compounded anxieties.

Ones that were then pushed to a limit.

Knock Out was missing, and he had no clue where the mech had vanished to. If it had been a few hours he would pay it no heed, even if he was worried that he missed the meeting. Then it turned to a day. And that scared him. He didn't know where the red mech was, and that added even more terror until he could barely function as was.

Flatline did his job. He always would find the ability to. When another's life was on the line, or he had to make sure someone was functional, he served as if nothing was wrong. Yet, when those individuals were settled... when time had to be taken to wait... he no longer could keep himself occupied, his processor running in loops so much so he only recharged when his frame decided enough was enough and he hit the table.

It was said table the black and red mech was sitting at, clutching its upper surface while his gaze stared ahead in unblinking fear. He had no idea at first why everyone had been removed, protesting at first for the sake of the injured to yell at the soldiers, before realizing it was ordered by a higher rank. Then the tools were laid out. The more utilitarian ones that were meant to be used in tandem with more sophisticated pairs. Said pairs missing from the equation overall. Was this preparing for a specific individual? That was what he had to tell himself, yet that made no sense.

Then there were unmistakable footfalls.

The turrets behind Flatline's shoulders clicked and whirred instantly at the start of the sound, the barrels letting out an angry ratcheting noise as it tried to reel the nonexistent harpoons back into the launching mechanism. The fact the barbed posts were not in place, made the inbuilt chain rattle and clunk noisily around the reel post a couple times, the motion done out of alarm and an instinctual want to defend himself, only for the action to stop as quickly as it had started. The harpoon launchers crooked up in an idle state at the ceiling, while the panels upon his back flattened flush.

No...

As Megatron made his way into the room, Flatline felt as though his spark was running at a constant hum, red eyes locked up at him to a point he did not even see the Vehicons in his terror. They were not important. They were simply noise beneath a much larger force. It was only when Megatron stopped moving and finally regarded him, that a choked ventilation was taken, everything suddenly feeling real rather than a nightmare.

Another choked sound was made then, Flatline's jaw tightening in stress so much so that the dental plates couldn’t even scrape against one another in his nervous quirk. He had to try to stand however, to comply with the implied request, though it was a struggle. A clicked scrape sounded out as he did so, a snap as the dislodged disk in his knee was forced back into place roughly. A sort of rasped gasp of a noise of pain was stifled behind his teeth, before he tried to move about the table to not be using it as a useless shield to separate them.

Just as Flatline took a couple shaky steps, his fear mixed with his perpetual instability on his less than functional leg caused him to dip and fall.

With a scrabbled motion, the black and red mech managed to grab the side of the ratty table to use as support, fingers curling over the edge in a firm hold for his life, while the rubber of the wheel of his bicep helped give more grip so he didn’t slide down to the floor. It was here he remained, the hoof like ped of his good leg scraping against the ground in a futile motion to try to get traction, while the damaged one was bent beneath his suspended frame at a crooked angle where the hock down was almost parallel to the floor on its side.

He couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t stand.

He could only stare up at Megatron.

[Megatron]

He watched.

He watched as Flatline, the great failure who had destroyed his Warship, killed his troops, and nearly destroyed his entire inner circle with a single mistake, slowly and shakily mustered to follow his gestures. Pathetic. He could barely stand. This would not do. Not for what he had in store for the medic. With another motion of the hand, he gestured to one of the Vehicons to his side. QLC-972. Megatron knew his designation, if not for any other reason than the numerous reports of his continued idiocy and most of all, the irritable nature with which Flatline regarded him. His presence, too, was by design. Just as the tools, the empty medical bay, and Flatline's current position.

And on that note, Megatron turned to his dimwitted underling, "The cane. Fetch it for him." His command rung clear yet it was absent of malice. He did his utmost to maintain composure in this situation, for he would need it in the following moments. His gaze would linger on the drone a while longer, observing how long it would take for him to react and carry out the directive, and whether or not he wasted time with chatter beyond a simple acknowledgment of the present circumstances.

For the sake of brevity, the Warlord made certain not to give him any space to do so. Any overly long conversation would be cut short on the spot. He wished to be brief today, as every moment they spent on this matter was a moment delaying all of their duties. This added pressure, too, was by design. Their meeting here was time-sensitive, and so he wasted little of it on preambles. Instead, he spoke directly to Flatline while Q presumably did the one thing people like him were good at—fetching things.

"I will be brief," his voice echoed. It was a firm voice, that which belong to a general of many armies, the Warlord, and not the great revolutionary who spoke at the stand upon his return. Today was not about talk, not about loyalties, not about their glorious conquest and purpose. Today was about accountability.

"A test of your competence will commence shortly. One which will determine your position within the Decepticon ranks."

By all accounts, Megatron was within his rights to execute Flatline here and now. He would make a fine example, and there would be others to take his place even with Knock Out absent. Shockwave, in particular, was always a favored agent of his. To surrender the command of the medical bay to him would pose no challenge—yet that was not the reason Megatron came. He came to see the medic tested, and put on a trial. A generous offer, all things considered.

"Long have I pondered how to suitably punish your grievous mistakes. At first, I had considered simply removing the weak link which had threatened the Decepticons entire in my absence."

Megatron was known to often deal with failure in such a manner. Not always. He could be merciful, encouraging, even, yet he did not harness his reputation for brutality and extreme punishment from nowhere. Behind every tale of his cruel and unusual verdicts was a very real victim who suffered and died in often gruesome ways. The Fusion Canon was often considered mercy compared to what he could inflict upon others.

But Flatline needed not to fear such a vile fate, at least not for the immediate moment.

"Yet...Time and time again, Knock Out vouched for your skills. Time and time again, I have been made to believe that there is a spark of the extraordinary in your mediocre existence. His words and records alone stayed my hand from reducing you to atoms. Consider that when you listen to what I am about to say next."

He paused and leaned forward, closing what little distance of personal space he allowed for Flatline to have.

"Do you understand?"

It was a plain question, yet spoken with gravity and gravitas both. The weight of it came crashing down like an avalanche of stone. Those rocks Flatline ever so often wished Primus would throw his way came crashing down out of Megatron's mouth. Pointed, looking for an answer.

[Ren]

While Megatron had taken the time to briefly inspect that everything seemed to be in order, Q’s attention - aside from that initial glance to notice the laid out tools - had mostly been on the black and red mech that sat at the rather normal looking desk. He wasn’t exactly a master at reading body language, it usually taking him more than one hint at the best of times to realize something was wrong, however it was so weirdly obvious that Flatline was not okay. The tension, the stare.

Normally the other mech was sassy and animated - glaring at the Vehicon for reasons he was not sure why. But there was none of that now, no. Just a sort of fear that Q himself did not understand.

Again, this brought up more questions. While he had been summoned here by Megatron, he did not know any details beyond that. Whatever Flatline had done, it must’ve been bad if the Warlord was here personally to sort things out - and with bodyguards at that.

He watched as Flatline eased into a stand only to immediately buckle. A glance was given to Megatron at this, as if silently asking if it was okay to help him to his feet, though he managed to refrain from acting without orders.

But then, an order did come. A brief command, and one Q absolutely knew how to do. The stick thingy! Granted he wasn’t sure where in the room it was, and with the Warlord’s imposing figure looming next to him, he knew he couldn’t waste time searching the entire medical bay.

Wait, there!

Propped up against the other side of the desk, he recognized the cane in an instant. If only Flatline had gone the other way around, but when gripped with fear, such things probably weren’t thought of. No matter, Q could help like he’d wanted - and now he’d been ordered to do so!

A brisk step taken, then another - he moved with purpose for those few, short steps over to the other side of the desk, snatching up the cane with a sort of triumph because hey, he’d done it - and quickly at that!

Scurrying around the desk before Megatron started speaking, he would offer the cane out with one servo, while the other reached out should it need to be used to help the black and red mech to his feet.

“Your stick thingy!”

Once the item had been handed over, he would retreat back to his original spot in the room, not wanting to get in the way of Megatron and the conversation at hand.

[Flatline]

Flatline had been so locked down into the moment, so focused on Megatron, that the Vehicon's words nearly flew over his head. A dull hum... a muffled sound... it was only after he saw the cane, and the offered hand, that his processor backed up to consider the statement made and the voice that carried it. It was this anomaly that caused his gaze to snap up at the trooper’s face, a sort of confused surprise in play while he looked over the cloned features. Did he hear right? Or was he imagining things from the strain that was being put on his psyche? What was the incompetent soldier doing here?

A stall. A lull. Flatline held eye contact a second that felt like an eternity, before he reached out and took the cane with one hand, the other grasping the soldier's offered forearm with the other.

There was no room for such hate to show itself. This was no place to give a glare or snarled word. Bitter pride and ego was sat aside to simply do whatever needed to try to save his life. As such, Flatline pulled with the help, his teeth gritting as he tried to make his legs actually work. He had to. He simply HAD to! As there was no other option in this moment other than to stand. If he was too worthless to even get on his feet with help, then what was the point in getting up at all?

Gripping onto the cane and solider, Flatline used the gyroscopes in his upper torso to further assist in keeping from toppling over. It gifted enough stability that he got his leg fully beneath him, the limb scraping against the rough stone floor before weight was put onto it, the knee that let out a couple more gritted pops as everything finally lined fully into place. This process however made him clench his jaw and eyes, helm lifting as he stifled down a rasped noise of hurt into a snarled whine.

Flatline had a pitiful pain tolerance. That had always been true. Serving a low exertion job back under the caste system, serving in the war behind the front lines as a medic, and even serving as a scientist researching sparks, completely caged away from any conflict. He had very little exposure versus others, and as such it was more difficult for him to cope with the pain he was enduring in this moment.

There was no choice in the matter.

With his damaged leg finally beneath him, Flatline pulled his good limb in enough to get traction, pushing with it to ease up to what was a full stand for him. He was still hunched forward, digitigrade legs bent, yet that was simply his idle state and could not be changed unless he took active effort to do so. Despite this, his gyroscopes still softly hummed, keeping himself as stable as he could before he let go of the soldier to fully clutch his cane with two hands.

A soft thanks... a trembled single word offered to the soldier... one that was strangled within his throat out of fear rather than spite. He couldn’t dwell on this however, as red optics moved back to Megatron to listen to what he was saying with his full attention.

"At first, I had considered simply removing the weak link-"

Primus, if that is where this is going, just get it over with and let it be fast...

As Megatron spoke further, Flatline seemed further confused, the panels along his spine clicking slightly with a flinch of anxiousness.

Knock Out had vouched for him? He knew that they were on better terms, that their venomous rivalry had diluted until they were effectively friends at this point... friends that spat insults and jabs meant to annoy the other at times... yet, to hear that he would do that for him was a lot. He didn't have to. He wasn’t obligated to put any effort into helping him with such things, given Breakdown could assist him just fine. They served the cause with just the two of them for who knows how long, and Flatline was nothing but a tool to be used to clean or help on call.

A mere convenience.

Was this why Starscream had stayed his hand? Did Knock Out help him out there as well? It changed Flatline's views in that regard. It made him realize that the Seeker likely had set things aside for the moment, instead of using delays to torture him over prolong time, simply because of the red mech's words on the matter. It was impressive he had enough say to influence Starscream to do such a thing, and it was borderline inconceivable he had stayed Megatron's hand enough to not blast his helm clean off its shoulders into vapor.

These thoughts consumed him a moment, so lost in the idea that Knock Out had saved his life more than he realized, and the fear that his closest friend was missing in full, that there was a brief pause after Megatron finished speaking.

Flatline’s mouth opened to speak, a tremble in place that almost choked his words away from him, before he managed to spit them out.

"I-I... Y-yes l-lord Megatron."

Flatline's voice jittered, further evidence of how terrified he was.

"I understand."

Long fingers tightened their grip upon his cane, the joints creaking some as he tried to figure out what exactly his trial may be... though the evidence of medical tools spoke volumes and he could already see where this was going.

[Megatron]

The Warlord waited patiently for a confirmation. Not for a yes, not to be addressed by his title, but for a clear and resounding "I understand." And then, it came. Jittery and fractured, but it was there, clear as day. Once Flatline said that, Megatron turned back and moved a short few steps away from the medic, clearing the room directly between them.

"Good," he replied with a dignified sort of satisfaction, "Now, QLC-972, step forward."

He turned back around to face Flatline and extended a hand in front of him, towards the space between the medic and himself. Then, just as patiently as he waited for Flatline to respond, he too waited for the drone to follow his second order of the day. Following that, Megatron once more retracted his hand, not behind his back, no, not anymore, but to his side, where it rested with an open palm. His other, too, did fall beside his torso.

Now, he addressed Flatline once more. The tone of his voice returned to being cold and imperious.

"As Knock Out is currently missing, it falls to us to find a suitable replacement, be it temporary or permanent."

Knock Out could be found in a day, but there was always a distinct possibility that he would never be found. While that eventuality concerned Megatron to some extent, he did not let it show. His gaze remained as commanding and steely as ever even as he divulged his intentions to Flatline. Additionally, even if Knock Out was found unharmed, his proclivity towards eccentric personal bends did sometimes hamper his availability. In short, they needed someone else to not only run the medical bay but onboard the CMO's duties whenever he was unavailable.

"Depending on the outcome of this test, you may very well become that replacement."

Had Flatline not caused the immense tragedy which befell the Decepticons only a short few months ago, this speech would be a simple formality. There would be no test nor trial, only a brief conversation to appoint him as the interim CMO. However, Flatline did incur immense costs on resources, lives, and the overall momentum of the cause. He had to be punished in some form.

"Fail me, however, and even Knock Out's medical opinion will not stop me from disassembling you where you stand."

This was the middle ground, the compromise. Fail and die. Succeed and reclaim your glory. The arena may have been different, the fight performed with surgical tools rather than blunt hammers and dull swords, but nonetheless, this had all the makings of a gladiatorial fight in the pits of Kaon. Megatron discarded many things throughout the War, but his love for the dramatic was not one of them.

"Shall we begin?"

[Ren]

There was no verbal response to Flatline’s quiet ‘thanks', though Q would nod to show that he had not only heard, but appreciated it. It wasn’t often that the Vehicons were told such a simple phrase, and to hear it come from Flatline? Wowie! Maybe things weren’t so bad between them after all.

It was as he stepped back into line that Megatron began speaking. Q stood with both arms looped behind his back as he stood up as straight as he could manage, trying to seem as formal and proper as possible while standing alongside the Warlord.

He was confused by what he was hearing, though an inability to show much of an expression would thankfully mask this. A test of Flatline’s competence? But he’d saved Patch the Autobot Medic from certain death! She’d been in pretty bad shape and she was still alive! Didn’t Megatron know that the black and red mech was a pretty good medic?

As Megatron continued, Q’s confusion grew. Mistakes? Weak link? What was he talking about? What had Flatline done wrong? Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty bad to have Megatron here. Maybe he’d killed someone on the operating table and had to fix things? Show that he was good at his job?

That had to be it.

Staring at Flatline, almost in an attempt to be ‘intimidating’ - because after all, he was a bodyguard here - he found a sort of satisfaction in hearing the black and red mech respond in the affirmative.

He remained standing still as Megatron moved forward, helm tilting ever so slightly then as he was called forward.

Oohhh. This was starting to make sense. Megatron did know about Patch the Autobot Medic and how Flatline had saved her, but Flatline hadn’t done it alone, no. Q had helped him! While he hadn’t thought himself anything special in that moment, he’d done what’d been asked of him, and acted as an assistant to Flatline in saving Patch’s life!

Taking a brisk step forward as asked, his arms wouldn’t unloop from his back. Simply following orders, ready to help Flatline with whatever was to come.

You got this, Flatline!

No! We got this!

[Flatline]

The second that Megatron told the soldier to step forth, Flatline's frame tensed up, red optics drifting away from their Warlord to look at him with fear laced in his eyes.

Wait.

He knew where this was going.

What was coming.

It was so very apparent in a flash, that he didn't know why he hadn't put it together fully until this moment had hit him. Flatline knew it was a test of his skill as a doctor... that was more than apparent given the room, tools, and verbiage that was cast his way... yet the reality on just where said test would come from had been muddled beneath other thoughts. If it was someone from the mines that had been injured, then they would already be rushed in since time was of the essence. They couldn't have been lurking in the hallway for Megatron's word, as a critical situation such as that would not be able to wait for a conversation to conclude. No. A patient would need to be MADE when the metaphorical arena bell would ring.

Flatline may not like the Vehicon, a soldier that had tormented him with its idiocy, and evidently had lied to him about his name, but that did not mean he wished death to befall him in such a situation. Fallen in battle? Such was the way of all their lives now... but he was going to be shot... Was he not? And dependent on where the shot struck, the trial that Megatron had thrown upon him could be over in a flash when the mech would die before he even hit the floor.

As the Warlord continued to speak, Flatline's gaze snapped back up to him, trying to process everything that was a borderline blur that made him feel even more sick. They were words that he dreamed to hear woven with a nauseating possibility of being alone. He wanted to be promoted, he did! To show Knock Out how a real Medical Bay could run. To be a reliable staple to assist anyone who came in needing help. He knew he could do better in his opinion, but he wanted to earn it with his talent, not by the red mech being permanently gone.

All Flatline had hoped for was being twisted into poison that he was being forced to swallow, a dark cloud mottling over any minuscule silver lining. He didn't care about that silver lining. He was too scared at everything. His fate this day was going to end with him taking his friends place on the roster, or to be torn apart by blade or gun, all of which further relied upon just how much damage would befall the Vehicon that had stepped forward.

Then Megatron expected confirmation.

Waiting for him to hit the start button.

This was senseless. There were so few of them left! It was that reason that Flatline had started his research on splitting Sparks. Sure, there was scientific curiosity and the thrill of a challenge that played a role as well, but the start of all of it... the formation of such an endeavor... was the fact the Well had been locked away. Unable to be used for any new souls. No new soldiers. No new workers. No nothing. They all held a sort of priceless value, even those that he silently wished would perish. Flatline wouldn’t have taken his saw to this soldier... Spit venom, cause pain? Yes. But not destroy him, and now he was being told that should he accept the challenge, that it would be HIS word that triggered a shot.

He could be wrong... There was always that risk... but it felt so obvious, and when a mech who served his ENTIRE function as a doctor or medically focused profession was told to kill someone? It drove a blade into his side and twisted it, causing even more psychological pain to form if that was even possible. He couldn’t kill one of their own. He was meant to save... not kill.

"W-wait for someone applicable!"

Flatline loudly cried this out before he even realized he was speaking, his fear laced eyes dancing across Megatron's steely features.

"It is bound to happen sooner rather than later!"

His frame trembled, clutching onto his cane like the lifeline it was.

"There is no need to force this!"

[Megatron]

Megatron took a few steps, placing himself behind the Decepticon soldier, his eyes locked onto Flatline's nervous, trembling figure. All he waited for was the signal—a nod, an answer, but neither came. Through that cold, silent stare, the shock of the moment, the insult felt at the audacity of Flatline to stall at a junction such as this, crept through just an inch, his optics widening for a split second.

The Warlord quickly composed himself, then.

"There is no need to force this!"

"Oh, but on the contrary, doctor, there is an urgent need," he countered the medic's plea with an irate baritone. A loud metallic click followed, then the sight of gleaming steel—weapon drawn from a sheathe beneath the fusion cannon. He did not wait for Flatline to say more, he did not wait until the Vehicon realized what was about to happen to him. With a mighty swing, he drove the sword through the soldier's abdomen, then pushed him off the blade and to the ground with his foot.

The trial has begun. The clock was ticking—whether Flatline consented to this or not.

After all, it was never up to debate. Whatever confirmations or protests he had, they did not matter to Megatron. He could argue and dance around the matter with Starscream, but not him, not the Warlord. Megatron could not be reasoned with nor dissuaded once he set his mind to something.

Perhaps now Flatline would understand that his opinions, his position, his thoughts and feelings were simply respected out of formality, and that ultimately, all were equally worthless before his Lord. Just as coldly he had cut the Vehicon, he now stared at the scene and observed Flatline's every action. Life was contingent on the success—not only his, but that of his fellow Decepticon. If he could not succeed at stabilizing a wounded comrade in a controlled environment, what good was he in his current occupation?

This was not simply an opportunity for a promotion, it was also his sentence for the damage he had caused. The Decepticon ranks were not for those of faint Spark, and should Flatline cease to be of use, he would cease to be altogether.

[Ren]

In that brief moment where nothing seemed to be happening, Q wondered how he’d best be able to assist Flatline. When helping the medic with Patch the Autobot Medic, he had to rummage through a box to retrieve equipment as it was called out and fill a syringe of Energon when it was needed. He’d done it dutifully and without question, and was ready to help again with whatever was needed of him.

Though, this situation was a little different, for one - all the equipment that Flatline would probably need was laid out neatly, though a few crucial things seemed to be missing. The little scanners that were always used when he came in for routine checkups weren’t here, and… uuuh. There weren’t any syringes of Energon, that was for sure. Lacking the expertise to know what else was missing, these - to him - seemed to be the only things absent from the table.

There was also no patient, but that was probably okay! With how many Vehicons got little ouchies in the mines, it’d only be a matter of time before one was sent up here, and then he and Flatline could make them better and save the day, and he was more than ready - and excited to be able to help.

He still hadn’t worked it out. Not even when Flatline started talking, pleading, almost, with Megatron to wait. So focused on the medic’s voice that he didn’t notice Megatron move behind him. He had nothing to be worried about, and so paid it no real mind.

Even Megatron’s reply hadn’t clued him into what was going on.

“Aw Flatline, it’s okay! Between you and I, we- Ack!” his voice chipper as always, cut off in an instant with a garbled squawk of alarm. Glancing down, it took him a second. A blade? But-

But why?

Was this the test? Was this who Flatline was supposed to save? Him? But Flatline hated him!

Slowly, both arms would raise, instinctively moving as if to try and remove the thing that was causing so much pain, only for a pressure on his back to push him forwards as he crumpled to the floor.

Obviously, the large blade had gone clean straight through the Vehicon’s frame - and once it had been removed did the energon start to gush freely from the dangerously open wound.

The other Vehicon stood silent, watching. The faintest flinch as the blade met its mark, though there were no words of question nor protest. This was Megatron’s will, and therefore it was not his place to doubt or challenge.

[Flatline]

"N-!"

Flatline had seen numerous injuries in his line of work. From mundane and minor, to the truly horrific... he couldn't imagine something he didn’t have first-hand experience with in some form or another. This experience helped him keep a calm façade when helping his patient, not showing alarm or fear no matter how lethal something may be so that they didn't panic and make things ten times worse. It was a neutrality that he had perfected over the years, tarnished only by irritability should the situation call for it.

Yet this was different.

No. Flatline had seen impalement before. More than a few times in fact when so many individuals chose blade over gun in this war. The injury itself was not new, however, in this moment it felt a thousand times more grotesque. It was as though he were shown a scene of brutality too far for him to even comprehend. An anomaly that broke through every known level of medicine and grievous injury into something new. As such, as the blade slipped through the soldier... watching the Vehicon as they scrabbled at the knife a moment to try to get it out... Flatline's expression twisted to aghast shock, his eyes widened as cold steel pulled back to reveal splattered blue and silver mechanics.

Why was this happening!? What was going through Megatron's helm!? For a fleeting moment as the soldier fell, Flatline simply stared up at him, mouth agape into a horrified grimace that this was real and wasn’t some atrocious illusion or dream.

Life seemed to stand still in those seconds, looking upon the unflinching face of their Warlord who showed no remorse or concern for what he had just done. Fear staring into a fierce pointed look... The clock had suddenly started, the metaphorical bell rung, and he now had to act promptly to tend to an injury that had taken so many lives before.

All with his own handicaps.

Flatline acted quickly then, instantly tossing his cane aside towards the medical berth with careless disregard as if he never needed it to begin with, starting to lurch forward with a sharp kick to get into motion at the same time. The metal pipe barely had a chance to rattle across the stone floor, before Flatline's injured leg buckled beneath him into a crashing fall that was only halted as his forearms struck the ground in tandem with the cane coming to rest. Yet, he did not stop, pushing off again to get to the soldier's side.

There was so much Energon. So much. Every second that passed, more was draining upon the floor, and he still had to move them to the medical table. It was this necessity that led him to grabbing QLC-972's arm, throwing it up over his shoulders in an almost ironic turn of events so that he could heave them upright with all his strength. Flatline was not a small mech, taller than the Vehicon, yet he was weak... The inspiration of survival was a powerful motivator however, and he would forcibly drag him up to his feet, his own peds wobbling fiercely as he clunked awkwardly towards the nearest slab.

Energon was running down his side... how could it not? Blue smearing over black in long lines... He couldn’t work well with him grounded however, and because of this, Flatline pushed the Vehicon up and onto the berth, his leg trembling as the joint creaked audibly beneath his own strangled cry.

QLC-972 was not all the way onto the slab, his left leg hanging over the edge, but that was a minor concern at present times. He wouldn’t slip off, even with the metal coated in fuel, and so it was cast aside as a non issue, Flatline scrabbling at the available tools to grasp hold of an injector gun and a noxious yellow-orange cylinder. His own left leg was crooked poorly beneath him, but he persisted out of desperation.

Trembling.

Shaking.

Flatline struggled with the most mundane of tasks as a medical professional in his fear, the cylinder clicking against the mechanism wrong a few times as he couldn’t figure out how to get it to lock in place. It made a rattling of glass against metal, his frame breathing raggedly before he finally got it inside with a clicked hiss of pressurization. The very second that this occurred, he was already tuning in the dial on its side, already knowing the dosage needed to take the pain away from their soldiers.

However, it was not that dose he was keying into.

Wrenching his hand down, Flatline slammed the opening of the tool into the plating on the side of his knee, directly above the warped hinge and torn padding. The strike was so forceful it made a bang, the mechanism triggering the second said impact hit. It punched the reinforced needle through his armor with a snap, its end coring into the protoform mass beneath it as the small portion of painkiller that would be left over after a Vehicon's full dose was expelled.

It would help. It would certainly help. Yet, there was a frantic brutality to the motion to get it DONE as fast as possible, rather than take the time to find the best angle to inject to cause less pain. It was simply a desperate measure, and in its desperation, it felt like a hot blade had wrenched into his knee, pain lancing up his thigh with enough violence that he couldn’t help but yell in agony, this time not throttled between clenched teeth.

A barked scream.

Flatline's upper body slumped against the medical slab with a heavy thud after this, his forearms curled up and over his helm a moment, almost caging it beneath the elongated limbs. Whether it was a motion to put pressure on his head to help try to bear through the moment, or whether it was a motion made to try to stifle down more acts of pitiful weakness since Megatron’s glare was undoubtedly locked upon him, was not apparent. What was apparent was the way his right hand still trembled, the injection gun rattling as he pushed a button on its side to eject the used needle.

The expelled cartridge clinked down to the ground beneath him, forgotten about the second that it was no longer attached to the mechanism. It was only then Flatline pulled his arms down, his breathing rasped as he grappled for a replacement with a fumbled motion. Once he had it in hand, he would lodge it into the gun fiercely with a twist to make it stick, before violently slamming it into the Vehicon's neck with the same sort of frantic drive he had against his own knee.

While it would hurt. Undoubtedly so. It would pale in comparison to the other injuries, and would ensure the pain killer would spread through his frame the instant it traveled the short distance to his major pumps. QLC-972 would receive every drop that the tool could push out, a full dosage appropriate for his frame size and type. It was evidence of how well Flatline had calculated his own dose in the prior act, to make use of the entire cylinder.

Trying to help them both survive.

[Ren]

((Skipping Megatron as per request.))

Focus.

Stay focused. Focus on what, though? How much it hurt? Yeah, okay…

What was that thing that people said in movies when someone was dying? Stay with me? Stay awake? Wait- well, Flatline wasn’t saying that, though to be fair he wasn’t saying much of anything. At least not that Q could hear.

Was he dead? Surely not. If Megatron had wanted him dead, he would’ve killed him then and there. That blade could’ve cut him in half in an instant and without second thought should their leader have chosen to do so. The thought, which offered very little comfort in the here and now, was met with another reflection - of at least there was a here and now to ponder such silly things.

Aah, but this felt like dying. There was a heck of a lot of pain, a sort of sickly wet warmth that was quickly being overtaken by cold - and a fuzziness that’d started to creep into his vision.

Stay awake.

Even if he was dying, he would do his best to at least stay conscious for as long as he was able. He’d never really been hurt like this before. Having been in many a gunfight, he’d taken the occasional blast to the shoulder, and maybe bumped his helm more times than he’d care to admit - but nothing like this. This was a new pain, and he was handling it like a champ.

Or so he thought.

Lost in his thoughts and putting almost everything he had into staying awake, he was unaware of the panicked whimpers that were now a constant. The quiet oh no oh no oh no’s that strained and tapered off, only to come back in full as one servo moved to gingerly touch at the hole in his torso. The reality setting in then of just how bad this was the moment he felt the void where part of his body should be. A yelped cry, another whimper. He didn’t want to die! He was supposed to be the assistant here, not the patient!

There was a clatter of something falling, though he couldn’t quite focus on just what the noise was. Probably a good thing, as comments about Flatline’s ‘stick thingy’ probably weren’t needed in this moment.

Then, he was moved.

“H-Hey buddy!” a gasped rasp, still trying to be his cheery, peppy self, though his voice was severely strained. With every pulse of his spark, new Energon drained from the lines that’d been cut through. While he was not dead, he certainly would be if Flatline did not act fast - Megatron certainly knew where to aim, and the prognosis was not good.

Helping as best he could so he wasn’t entirely dead weight, he clung to Flatline and made a meek attempt at pulling himself up with the other mech’s aid. Pedes slipping some on the now-slick floor, paired with the wooziness and the fact the other mech was also struggling? It was a miracle they made it anywhere at all.

But they made it to the berth, and again his focus drifted. He could sense Flatline moving nearby, though couldn’t pay attention long enough to watch what he was doing.

Though the sudden, barked scream certainly pulled him from his thoughts, even if he didn’t have the energy to look in that direction. Had Megatron killed Flatline now? Had he failed already?

Was he dead?

A sharp, agonizing pain a moment later confirmed that he was still (fortunately) very much alive - whatever it was made Q cry out, though he did not turn away from the pain itself - he had enough of that already, what was one more thing?

[Flatline]

Buddy... a word that irritated him SO much previously. The little piece of shit Vehicon that couldn’t act professionally to save his life... Now... now it was Flatline needing to act professionally to save HIS life, and it was an odd disjointed situation he could hardly process. The sheer chaos of this entire encounter had knotted up in his chest. Fear pulsing so high that he might as well keel over and make his namesake true.

You need to calm down.

You can't do anything worthwhile like this.

You have done this before.

Red eyes flicked over the soldier as he pulled the injector out, his hand rocking back with a tremble to let the device loosely fall from his fingers onto the table with a strike that caused everything near it to rattle. It was empty. It had no more use. He couldn’t even THINK about being gentle with it as his hand trembled, half clutched into the shape as if he was still holding it firmly in hand.

You know Vehicon's inside and out!

You are going to get a promotion!

I don't WANT a promotion like this!

"D-don't look down. Stay conscious."

An order, though there was a tremble to his words that he was appalled to hear as a doctor.

"Count so I know you are coherent."

With his right hand finally breaking its locked state to then grip onto the side of the Vehicon's chest, Flatline's left hand hovered over the bloodied abdomen a second, fingers trembling as he thought over what he was about to do. He had no time to think if his actions were too brutal or not, a new grimace forming before he plunged his hand into the slashed opening, pushing down at an angle matching the blade's direction until the pointed tips struck the medical table beyond it. He made certain not to hit anything with his claws as he did this, not planning to execute his patient. However, he needed to know EXACTLY what angle the blade had gone through.

He saw it. The image was burned into his processor. The soldier standing upright with a silver knife jutting out of his frame. Yet, he couldn’t seem to recognize the angle of the blade and see anything beyond the concept. Did it slice through his lower tank? Was it closer the outside edge and hit his T-Cog? Perhaps it was more towards the center and cut through his spinal strut entirely to disable his entire lower frame? That was what he needed to know, and he needed to know FAST so he could come up with a plan of attack.

Megatron's sword was not narrow in the slightest. It was broad and devastating, creating a horrendous opening that ran from hip to the makeshift ribcage mechanisms. Flatline flared his hand out as he learned this first hand, grimacing as he felt how destructive the injury was as he pushed his fingertips towards the outer points. This reach halted abruptly as the blunted outer hook of his claw tapped along the bottom edge of the fuel tank, the organ feeling as though it was sliced but didn’t seem to pierce into the inner chamber, or it was such a thin crack that it wouldn’t drain out. This was at least some good news, as whatever fuel remained in his digestive tract could help supplement the fuel lost in these pivotal moments, yet, as his reach continued, it also brought with it more concern, as a pump and the entire filtration system that tried to take impurities out of said fuel seemed to be completely shredded.

Flatline's hand twisted then, searching for two more things, his fingertips pushing into a spot they should NOT have been able to, his teeth grimacing as he could feel the small flares and pieces of the T-Cog crackling against one another. What was more concerning however was that he could actually feel part of the spinal strut channel, something that could be devastating longer term. If there even was a longer term. It was all of his predictions bundled together simply due to the size of the weapon used.

It would have been easier of Megatron just hacked him in half side to side, rather than trying to work within a sliced vertical hole.

With this now known, and the knowledge of how far in hell he was, Flatline whipped his hand out, its wrist down glowing blue as long streaks ran towards his elbow, the sharpened inner edge of his claws highlighted under the overhead lighting. His tremble seemed to be dissipating some, the long joints still flicking slightly, but growing more stable as he tried to put together a plan of attack. He was still horrified however... how could he not? He was fighting for his life.

The black and red mech leaned back then, equalizing his weight distribution as his helm rose and frame straightened further, his gaze focused hard upon the mess that was sprawled before him.

For the first time in months, Flatline's impaired leg would finally plant down onto the ground, the two hoof like prongs flaring as actual weight was put onto them. His knee joint made a crackled creak at this, a strained sound as the internal rings scraped against one another when his mass settled upon it. It was bad... He KNEW it was bad. He was damaging himself more and he had no idea how far it would go. Yet, he could no longer feel it, and that was what mattered while also being concerning.

Injury muddled beneath a heated pressure of numbness.

Gaining the use of his leg, Flatline moved fully over to grab hold of the thin table of tools that had been prepared, wrench pulling it even closer to his work area so violently that everything on top slid slightly. Once this was near, his left arm would swing up parallel with his torso, as the red patch of armor upon it would jut out suddenly. A minor transformation, if it could even be called that... Flatline's right hand swinging over to grasp hold of a gun like mechanism.

The device was different from the injector. Solid, no clear canister within it, nor a needle upon its end, however there was a longer blunted tip to it to allow for more precise work. Once this was produced, he then reached down to grasp one of the red canisters on the underside of his arm, wrenching it free before slamming it into the inbuilt tool.

It was a sort of resin gun, a compound that would swiftly solidify in a non conductive material that bloated and foamed to help fill gaps. It was vital in his work to temporarily clog leaking lines and severed cables that would spark with attempted commands, putting a full stop to them so that everything could be worked on one by one with the ticking clock slowed. It was a great boon with Cybertronian biology, the ability to let limbs and other non-vital components starve of Energon with no real side effect after re-animating the parts.

With this vital tool in hand, Flatline leaned over QLC-972, his left hand reaching forward to pull at the Vehicon's front torso paneling to almost force the wound larger so that he could see rather than simply feel. It was a good thing the soldier was numbed during this, for the pull on the chest armor would be unbelievably painful due to the force that was put into it. It was with this fleeting vantage point, that he hesitated a second, his teeth grinding against themselves once.

His chest burned with ghosted echoes of the arms he once had. He could FEEL them reaching out! Sense as one would try to grasp onto what he sought... but there simply was nothing there. This wasn’t something that could be medicated away like his knee... and he let out a huffed snort before he twisted his left hand at an angle to try to use the wrist to pull the plate back, to free his hand.

Looping his pointer beneath a major fuel line that ran from upper to lower torso.

A primary channel. Once that was rather vital for major function. It branched and spread out to many other parts below it, its length littered with connectors and breaking points that snapped and realigned during transformation to keep everything going. The issue was, QLC-972 had no real NEED for said things to be fueled. There was nothing to gain in letting his pumps force Energon down to make a leg work or simply throw the priceless fluid out of one of the countless other lines below that had been severed.

There was a flickered second of hesitation.

Before Flatline ripped his finger back, severing the artery with the sharp blade.

QLC-972 would bleed out in moments. There was no doubting that. If left to heave and pump, he would be truly unconscious in three seconds, if not already dead by eight. If he was lucky. Thankfully, he didn’t need to count to his reunion with the All-Spark, as the second Flatline severed this pipe, he rammed the resin gun firmly into the gaping channel, slamming the trigger down and holding it as it flooded the opening and plugged it off in full.

Every severed line. Every bleeding chunk of protoform below his makeshift ribcage... would suddenly have its Energon supply cut off abruptly, trapping what fuel remained up where it was needed most to keep him alive.

[Megatron]

Although many would be tempted to intervene in a situation like this, neither Megatron nor the Vehicon at his side did. He watched patiently as Flatline administered the medication and as he made the move to stem the bleeding. These were reasonable choices, however, they were not the last obstacle in the way of success. The Warlord knew the Cybertronian body better than some would think. He knew where to cut to make it hurt, where to cut to kill, and most importantly, where to cut to cripple.

Now the real challenge began, and it was that of sorting through the Vehicon's damaged internal organs. Which to keep? Which to repair? Which to discard? The blade of his sword struck deep and wide, creating a variable amount of damage. Some corners would have to be cut, some sacrifices made. Should the Vehicon survive, he could be restored to working order at a later point, but right now, survival was all that mattered.

However, to wit, Megatron would allow for one concession. Originally, he had planned the operation within this trial to be conducted with Knock Out's assistance following the initial treatment. Knock Out, however, was nowhere to be found. Not for a day now, and so they had to resort to an alternative.

That is where the second Vehicon came in.

"Good. He is not dead yet," Megatron said ever so calmly yet laced his words with a level of biting sarcasm. Then he continued, in a more commanding tone yet again: "From now on, this trooper will serve as your assistant. He will do nothing you do not command and he will not alter the outcome of this trial of his own volition."

QLC-972 was not the only soldier selected for this examination with due reason. Although he was to be a mere replacement for Knock Out today, RND-461 was known for his reserved nature, obedience and high tolerance. In short, he was one of the Vehicons with a better track record, allowing him to work aboard the warship's bridge before the incident.

He would threaten no issue nor miscommunication in assisting Flatline. A small kindness for the doctor's initial good work from Lord Megatron, no doubt.

The Warlord gestured briefly towards the soldier, urging him to join Flatline, even as he tried to keep Q conscious and alive in these bitter seconds. The Vehicon, of course, obeyed, although to what degree did Flatline pay attention to anything said or anything done remained to be seen. Perhaps even this was a small part of the test. After all, what good is a medic that cannot manage the surrounding noise, and what good is a CMO who cannot order others around an operating table?

Should Flatline make good use of the added assistance, it would be considered in the final evaluation. Should he not, he would only further damn himself in the eyes of his leader; those cold, unfeeling eyes that maintained their vigil.