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

[Ren]

Just as quickly as the pain shot into his neck, did it dissipate as Flatline pulled away. He assumed it was some sort of painkiller, or even something to put him into stasis. A kindness, maybe? Given his injuries, which he could only assume were pretty dire, maybe the best thing was to just knock him out until everything was over and done with.

At least then he’d offline in his sleep if he couldn’t be saved.

He’d tuned out again momentarily, though his visor turned to blearily look at Flatline as he spoke. Three orders were given, each met with confusion. Don’t look down? Probably so he didn’t go into shock anymore than he already had. He was aware he was hurt, he didn’t really want to look at the wound - touching it had been bad enough - but seeing it would probably make things a thousand times worse.

Stay conscious? Okay, well that meant the ouchy injection wasn’t a stasis-inducing one. And here he was creeping ever closer to the pull of sleep…

Count?

“Forwards or backwards?” his voice still strained. “Counting, I mean- I uh, you know what… it probably d-doesn’t matter, huh.”

Distracted by talking, it took him a second to realize just what Flatline had begun to do. The painkiller was not instant, and so there was a pain, an uncomfortable throb like stab - his systems screaming at him as the medic plunged his servo into the gaping wound.

“One- AAAaaaaahh-okay that’s… ow.” he squeaked, “Give a dude a little warning, buddy!” normally he would’ve laughed there, but he simply didn’t have the energy to do so - further evident in the fact his body didn’t tense or even shift at the new surge of pain.

Though maybe that was because the painkiller had started to do its thing. While it was not instantaneous, it worked quickly. Where there had been pain that was an eleven on the pain scale, it’d softened considerably to something manageable - even with his baby bitch pain tolerance. He could feel a sort of pulling as Flatline used his servo to get a better look at what he was working with, but it wasn’t screaming, burning agony levels of pain.

“Two… three… fffour… I don’t feel pain anymore, by the way. That’s uh- that’s... good, right?”

He’d seen Flatline work an absolute miracle on Patch the Autobot Medic, and that had been in a place far smaller than this - and with far less to work with. While the femme hadn’t been sliced straight through, her injuries had been pretty bad as well. He wondered what she was doing right now, and if she was okay. It sure was lonely down in that cell, and he was almost positive the other Vehicon guards wouldn’t humor her with conversation like he did. Maybe if he survived this he could tell her all about it, though, which gave him more reason to just hang in there.

Part of him wanted to look at Flatline, to try and gauge from his expression just how screwed he was, but there was a sort of comfort in the unknown. He was in good hands, or at least he thought he was, and he just had to trust in the medic and his skills.

“Where even was I… six? Let’s go with that, yeah. Seven…”

Blissfully unaware of what was going on, he could only listen to the various unfamiliar noises of the tools - and skills behind them - that were saving his life.

-

RND-461 had been watching in silence, quietly thankful that the real lack of face could hide any sort of obvious horror regarding what was going on before him. Q was known among the Vehicons as being a bit of an idiot at times. He meant well, but it was a miracle he had somehow survived as long as he had. Did this mean that what’d just happened to him was warranted or even needed? No. But it was not his place to judge or question Megatron’s will.

Just as Q had been unaware as to his role here, so too had he. Though, unlike Q, his processor hadn’t filled with fanciful ideas about playing the role of bodyguard. Megatron did not need such a thing, especially here at Blackridge Hold.

He waited quietly for the order he was sure to come, and was quick to move once it had. Assistant? Fair enough. He had basic medical knowledge, as did the majority of the drones. While this was far, far out of his expertise, however, he would be able to aid Flatline with simple tasks like holding lines, gathering various tools, or moving QLC-972 as needed.

Stepping forward, he would remain silent. Maybe he would not be needed at all, though he was ready to act and obey anything that Flatline ordered him to do.

[Flatline]

Everyone acted in different ways when injured. Some went into shock and go quiet. Others fought tooth and nail as if screaming and lashing out was a way to win a war against a wound. Another type may reflect about their lives and try to get final words out to pass on to whoever they were meant for... and then there was those like this. Laughy humor that was entirely on point for this Vehicon's character from what Flatline knew of it. If this hadn’t been the situation it was now... if it were any other injury and he was seeking medical care... Flatline would have likely thrown words back or told him to count and do nothing else.

This wasn’t that situation.

Any noise, even if it was the stupid babblings of a wounded fuel starved moron, was a sound of life, and that sound of life meant he would continue being alive as well.

So, there was no beratement, and instead Flatline let the Vehicon speak freely with no interruptions, grimacing only when he cried out in pain while the injury was being mapped out and explored. It was all moving fast... too fast for anything to really settle and the medications to have hit hard enough, but that was the nature of the moment. To wait for the painkiller... to try to be delicate and ask questions... and QLC-972 would be dead before Flatline realized how many internals were shredded half way across the room.

"I don’t feel pain anymore, by the way. That’s uh- that’s... good, right?"

"S-so long as you are able to talk and understand me, you are correct."

His voice. He hated hearing it. The faint stumble was still there, fear weaving between the words in ways he had trained himself out of so very long ago. He had that down to an art! The ability to not panic to cause a patient to panic from knowing their medic was worried! Only, now it wasn’t just dealing with the worry of another's life and his reputation, it was now a pit of self-preservation while looking upon an injury that this Vehicon would have no right surviving.

Then Megatron spoke.

Flatline dipped hard when the Warlord's voice cut into the room, almost as if his words were a gunshot that had soared right over his helm. It instantly disabled any modicum of courage he had started to gain, tearing it to shreds to set him back at step one when he could barely move. This meant that his right hand started to tremble once more, the small tool in its grip clutched firmly as if he was scared that he would drop it.

Red optics turned to look over at Megatron, a sort of frenzied terror within as his gaze flicked across his features to try to read his expressions. He didn't blink. He didn’t dare miss anything. Trying to absorb every word said even if they all sounded like a muddled mess beneath the constant scream of his own fuel pumps. Within this howl, he barely could comprehend that the words that were being spoken were those of an offered hand, his attention whipping over to the second Vehicon who stepped forth.

Primus. Was the second soldier being put onto the gameboard!?

Because 'Any doctor should be able to multitask!'

Shaking, Flatline looked back to Megatron, now worried he was going to pull his weapon again, before he focused upon the Vehicon and came to terms with the fact that perhaps there was some miniscule amount of mercy to be found in these moments. He didn’t expect it, so he was still guarded, but if it was real? He had to take it. And he had to take it sooner rather than later. As such, Flatline straightened back up some, having not realized that he curled in on himself in terror before he reached out, pointing at the soldier to indicate who he... of course... was speaking to, only to then point over at a storage compartment that was nearby.

"In that cabinet there are the large injectors and line Energon canisters! Retrieve one tool and three containers!"

While he had blocked off fuel loss from numerous points with one slice and application of the resin compound, Flatline knew there were many others that needed to be dealt with. Some of which he couldn’t even see due to the way the soldier was lying. Having that transfusion fuel on hand would be quite beneficial as a safety net should he not be able to find all of the dead ends in time.

[Ren]

((Skipping Megatron, as per request.))


“Eight.”

Even though he couldn’t feel much of the pain anymore, he knew he wasn’t exactly out of the woods yet - or anywhere even close to being so. He did not know which specific organs went where on a Vehicon frame, or any frame, really, but with a weapon as big as Megatron’s? Well, it couldn’t have been good news for anywhere that’d been hit.

Which felt like it’d been pretty much everywhere important.

Staring up at the ceiling, visor slightly dimmed, he could only think about what’d led him to this situation and this moment here and now. Why had Megatron picked him specifically for this? Was it because Flatline hated him? Was it because he had simply drawn the short straw, his designation randomly chosen in some sick coincidence? Maybe.

All he knew was that Flatline sounded scared. Admittedly not the best thing one wanted to hear from a medic when being saved from the brink of death, but as he lay here being unable to do anything but think, he realized - finally - what this all was about. It was no wonder the medic was terrified, if he died here on this table? Flatline would be dead, too.

What had Flatline even done to deserve this test with what felt like almost impossible odds? That was the part he couldn’t work out. Unaware as to what’d gone on aboard the Nemesis in its final moments, the general consensus had been that Soundwave had been the one to crash the ship. Maybe he was being deemed a traitor for saving Patch’s life? But Megatron hadn’t even been there when she’d been taken, and…

Wait, he was supposed to be counting.

“Nine. S-still here, promise. You doing o-okay, buddy?” it was then his helm slowly turned to look at Flatline directly. If he had the energy he’d move one servo to give a soft but inspirational pat to the medic’s arm or something, but he felt like he didn’t have the strength to do anything.

-

RND-461 nodded at the order given. He was not familiar with the layout of the medical bay itself, having only been here for scheduled maintenance and the occasional checkup, and while no words were spoken from him? He was thankful that Flatline was direct with not only with what he wanted retrieved, but the location of where said items were.

He wasted no time in moving. Time was of the essence here, quite literally - every second was against Flatline, and while he had no real investment or feelings toward either outcome of this trial, he would do what he could to make sure the medic did not fail because of something he did or did not do.

Swiftly pulling open the cabinet door, the Vehicon was all but ready to gather what was needed. One injector, three containers.

Only- there was nothing.

The shelves empty, a realization that hit him hard as panic briefly flooded into his field before a sense of professionalism took over once more. Wrong cabinet? It couldn’t have been. This was the one that Flatline had pointed at! Just in case, he quickly sidestepped, flinging open the adjacent cabinet. The doors rattled loudly as they moved, only to reveal that this one, too, was bare.

“There’s nothing here!” his voice firm, though held an underlaying of panic as he turned to look at Flatline, revealing the awful truth behind him should the medic look this way. Was this planned? Had he really been set up to fail?

[Flatline]

"A-as well as can be."

No? He wasn’t doing good? That would be what he WANTED to say, but as much as Flatline was letting his voice tremble, he still knew what words were off the menu. Fear wouldn’t suddenly make him cry out that he didn’t think he could do this, or... maybe it would. He was already at the edge of a breaking point, and there was no saying what direction he would ricochet off once he hit that wall. Either way, he could seem nervous in his voice, not making eye contact with the soldier, but his words had to be confident. He had to sound like he had a plan.

Until his plan was swiftly derailed.

"What!?"

Flatline's helm whipped over to look at the Vehicon, ready to see the soldier rummaging around a different area entirely. Instead, he was met with not only the requested door open, but all the ones around it, showing that there were indeed no canisters. No injectors. No centrifuge. No external fuel pumps. No compressor or the Cybertronian equivalent of a defibrillator... Everything in the surrounding storage areas seemed to be gone, which meant...

Red optics slid over all the other closed cabinets, realizing in an instant that they all must be empty for this sadistic trial. As if things were not already difficult enough, Megatron just had to add and add and add to the strain. Flatline should feel lucky however, as he still could have ended up with two patients instead of one, though, there was still a possibility that such a thing would still happen. He just needed to use the assistance while he still had it.

A falter.

A moment of thought.

Before he snapped.

"Look around for ANY container that can hold liquid. Rip a drawer out of Knock Out's desk! I don't care WHAT it is! If isn't medical? Wash it out!"

On the assumption the soldier would already be getting to work on the atypical scavenger hunt, Flatline grasped hold of the injector and the empty painkiller canister within it, fumbling a second as he tried to remember how to remove the metal and glass cartridge in his fear. Once it popped free, he roughly clutched at the opening end of it, twisting hard to crack the bound threading and wrench the top off. With their supplies as limited as they were, they had cleaned, sterilized, and reused many of the containers that were made specifically for their respective tools, since it was not a viable option to just toss everything and make them anew every time.

Looking at the now open jar, Flatline frantically stared at it a second before he slammed it down onto the medical slab beside QLC-972's shoulder with its lid in preparation instead of the small table. In fact, he started to scrape all of the now exceptionally valuable and limited tools he had been 'blessed' with off, transporting them to the void where the troopers still-hanging leg would have occupied. There was a minor gift in the fact that the platform was built for larger individuals as well, so there was a little more room to 'stretch' when dropping everything off.

Flatline didn't organize it however.

With a snarled growl, the black and red mech gripped the edge of the newly emptied work area, pulling up forcibly with a push of his good leg to cause the entire thing to wrench up before gravity and the torquing force caused it to slam down upon its top with a horrendous bang in the stone lined room.

Knock Out could easily call him excessive. Cleaning everywhere imaginable just to keep a professional environment to do surgery. Or more... professional environment in Flatline's perspective. Which was often over the top ten times over. Oh, why should you need to clean there... why are you wiping down the cabinet hinge... what will that change? Unused portions that a patient would never come in direct contact with, let alone any tools or machinery of any kind that would be used on said patient. Such as the underside of a table. Well, jokes on him motherfucker!

Grabbing the now toppled work desk, Flatline heave pushed it with a loud grating scrape underneath the Vehicon's hanging leg, lining it up properly for what he was planning to do.

Anger. Anger was a good motivator in his life. Frustrations at things going wrong... frustrations at being slighted or a patient messing with him... While Flatline was still stressed beyond conscious comprehension, there was an inkling of rage now that coursed through him. furious at the game he had been dealt with the deck already stacked against him. Megatron WANTED him to lose. He WANTED him to be killed. He was just doing some sort of demented experiment to try to make him think he had a chance of living. A mouse being smacked around by a cat.

He could do this. He COULD do it. He just had to look at things not as they were, but what they could be.

And this desk was about to serve a new purpose.

The bracing that kept the surface area from warping, now acting as the walls of a drip pan.

Grabbing hold of QLC-972's leg. A leg that was no longer attached to an active fuel line. Flatline slammed his right hand hard into the juncture between ped and ankle, mid-way towards the back underneath the hinge flares and calf assembly. He twisted his grip a moment beneath the armor to find what he needed, his upper lip flicking into a snarl, before wrenching back viciously with a slash, taking out the major lines that he could reach in the process.

Without the pressure of a fuel pump trying to circulate the Energon, it did not flow as much as it should, however gravity played a role, and as fast as he had torn open the pipes, Flatline let go of the leg, letting it swing to a stop hanging over the upturned table to start to drain. It was simply fuel that was doing nothing worthwhile by being trapped within the bulky limb for the Vehicon, for as far as his circulatory system was concerned? He was cleaved in half at the waist.

The lower leg alone was chunky in its design, holding a large portion of Energon by bulk alone. Each of them were now nothing more than awkwardly attached blood bags. The trick was simply getting the fuel from said legs up to the top half of his body without the use of the blocked over primary pipelines. This first step would have to work for now however, and he had little time to dwell on it as he turned back to QLC-972.

"What were you doing before being summoned here."

Conversation. Keep him talking. Keep him thinking, all while Flatline picked back up the resin gun.

"Continue counting as you talk."

[Megatron]

Despite what Flatline believed, the trial was not rigged for failure. Chances of success were suboptimal but nowhere close to zero. Megatron knew this. He worked with many medics throughout the war, and more importantly, he knew Knock Out's own skills and limitations. No, the trial was not rigged for failure, it was rigged to see whether Flatline could perform on the missing medic's level under pressure and with limited resources. Everything placed within the medical bay now, or anything missing, was also a small part of the evaluation, as much as the operation itself, and that was including the empty cabinets and a deliberate lack of Energon capsules.

After all, how time-sensitive would this test be if Flatline had infinite Energon to work with?

And so, when Flatline found a creative way to repurpose the drone's fuel, Megatron smiled briefly—he knew instantly what the plan was the moment Flatline picked up the resin gun. But was it a hollow gesture of base amusement at the sudden hesitation or a wordless admiration of the doctor's creativity? One could never know. In either case, it was also then that the old Warlord decided to approach closer, placing himself to the side of the table, so that he could better observe the subsequent progress, and to better hear whatever might be uttered under one's breath.

"I trust you are making timely progress," he briefly interrupted Q's and Flatline's conversation. His voice betrayed little of the intentions behind the statement, but considering that this was Megatron, he must have derived some small amount of joy from unbalancing the medic with such a claim and adding more pressure, as if his presence was not damning enough.

Perhaps Flatline was wrong about Megatron's desire to see him fail, but he could be certain about one truth of this sick and twisted trial. Megatron enjoyed it. He enjoyed watching other people hurt, especially people who had failed him and angered him so greatly. He enjoyed exposing Flatline to the twists and turns and unpredictability, and he would call it justice.

Now, all he waited for, was for the medic to inject the Energon...

[Ren]

As Flatline snapped the single word, RND-461 glanced quickly over his shoulder as if to double-check that there was in fact nothing in the cabinet. Again, he was met with bare shelves and a crushing reminder of the practically impossible odds at play.

Turning back to look at the black and red mech, he waited that split second that felt like an eternity for the next order, pushing off into a walk before further words were spoken, knowing that the likelihood of him needing to do something was high.

As Flatline told him what was needed, he looked around quickly for anything that could be considered a ‘container’. He’d never really paid too much attention when he’d stepped foot into the Medical Bay in the past, normally wanting to get in and out as quickly as possible and not dwell over the smaller details such as what was kept where, or what things could even be used for.

Right now, though? He couldn’t see anything obvious that could be used. The place had been practically stripped by the looks of things, and opening further cabinets in some hope of finding a suitable container would only waste precious time that Flatline probably did not have.

Knock Out’s desk drawer it was.

He was sure the cherry-red mech would understand, given the circumstances, and was quick to move over to the comparatively nicer looking of the two desks in the room, wrenching open the desk drawer with probably way more force than was needed. It clattered loudly, the whole desk moving a good few inches in the process. There was no need to empty the contents of said drawer out, as it was strangely devoid of any contents.

It was then he moved over to the sink, his movements purposeful - focused, every second counted here and he didn’t want to waste a single, precious one. Even if it looked clean by his own standards - which admittedly weren’t very high - there had to be a reason the order had been given to wash it.

And so wash it he did.

-

Q didn’t seem to register the reply given from Flatline. He’d heard the words, the tremble that betrayed the truth of the statement, but what he’d said had been lost on him. Instead, his focus had gone to the ceiling once more, staring up at the various grooves and shapes that’d formed in the rocks - both natural, and done via machine in the expansion of Blackridge Hold.

“Ten…”

He knew he had to keep counting, but it was a struggle to remember what number he was even on. There was so much going on around him, and while he wasn’t paying attention to what Flatline was actually doing, he couldn’t help but watch him through his peripheral vision.

“Eleven.” he rasped.

The other Vehicon was heard then, and Q found himself wishing that he’d been paying more attention to the almost-muffled (to him) words to keep up with what was going on.

The medic sounded scared as he replied, though after the snapped single word - a word that half caught more of Q’s attention, if only for a moment - an order was given. It sounded commanding, the tremble noticeably absent from his voice. There was no time to dwell on what this meant, though, as something was slammed down beside him before an even bigger bang was heard.

Was that a weapon going off? Maybe he should’ve introduced himself to that other Vehicon… Had Megatron just shot him too? Then again it wasn’t like he could do anything if that was what’d just happened.

Due to the fuel line being cut to his lower limbs, he was mostly unaware of what Flatline was doing. The fact the medic was moving around with such urgency clued him in that something was happening, though he had absolutely no idea what that something was. The drip-drip steady stream of Energon was a hint, though he didn’t have the capacity to work out both what that noise actually was, nor that it was coming from him.

Probably for the best that he didn’t know.

There were more words then, aimed at him. A question. What was he doing? Was he in trouble? Did Flatline know that he was supposed to be doing something that he probably wasn’t? Normally on the fly he was good at making up excuses, but now…

“I uh…”

Oh, right, keep counting.

“Twelve. I… Organizing a storage room, I t-think.” was it too early for that? He had no idea. Maybe sitting in the community barracks would’ve been a better answer, at least that was more believable, especially with Megatron standing right there. “Thirteen - that number is un-l-lucky you know. Or, t-the humans think so anyway. Some of them. Dunno why.”

As Q spoke, RND-461 would make his way over. The drawer had been cleaned, and he’d used a fancy sanitizer on it before rinsing it once more, and while he hadn’t dried it with a cloth - as that could probably contaminate things (that and he couldn’t see one anyway) - there was minimal water contained within the box itself. He held it out, though made no motions of rushing Flatline into taking it until it was needed. He paid Megatron no mind, not even when he spoke - attention fully on the medic and the task at hand.

[Flatline]

"Why do you think they believe it is unlucky?"

Flatline didn't honestly CARE what the human's believed such things. He also didn't care how this soldier even knew such a little 'fun fact' to begin with. Was it something gleamed from another Vehicon? Or was it experienced by snooping out and about or some kind of access to Earth media? Didn't matter. Didn't mean anything. All he wanted was the soldier to keep thinking, trying to juggle counting with a conversation so that his processor was always working, even when waiting for Flatline to reply with his part of the discussion. Focusing on the unlucky number’s origin was a topic that would hold more back and forth chatter than a mundane job of cleaning around Blackridge.

Though, the idea of THAT Vehicon in charge of organizing...

Not the time, not the place.

When RND-461 hurried back with the cleaned container, Flatline looked at it a second as if surprised that the soldier had actually got the desk drawer. Was there that little around the room that there wasn't even a jar or anything of the sort? This horrifying thought could only be permitted to last for a second, before he grasped onto the object quickly with a nod of thanks. That motion was all that was offered, before he turned away, twisting the drawer in his grip so that it was opening down, before he SLAMMED its surface hard against the medical slab once in an over forceful strike.

The hard impact caused residual collected liquid to splatter down onto the work area, jostling free the vast majority that lingered. Of course, there would be a film of moisture, that simply was how it worked, though substantially less would remain within than when initially obtained. After this motion, Flatline hooked its opening on the edge of the tabletop, letting it hang so that both sides of one end was suspended in the air to dry fully before it would be needed.

Then there was movement.

Hearing Megatron suddenly speak and cut in was bad enough the first time, shattering his focus in an instant.

Hearing Megatron suddenly speak and cut in, paired with an approach, was something else entirely.

Flatline tensed and locked up as the Warlord advanced, his heavy footfalls felt through the ground from the immense weight and power behind them. The surprise and fear that came with such a simple motion prompted the panels and quills on each side of his spine to bristle up, as well as each of his shoulder mounted weaponry. A pathetic kneejerk motion of self-defense that was absolutely worthless as the barrels made an angry ratcheting sound, trying to reel the nonexistent harpoons back into their launching mechanisms. Due to the fact the barbed posts were not in place, the inbuilt chain rattled and clunked noisily around the reel post before stopping abruptly.

Rumbled mocking words in addition caused Flatline's legs to tremble again like the start of this encounter, a sort of jitter flicking through the hocks as though they wanted to collapse. The fact he had numbed his knee was a blessing to be able to walk and maneuver without grimacing in agony or dipping down abruptly as his body tried to stop him from hurting himself, yet now? It was a hinderance. The lack of feeling and better senses of how much weight he was or wasn’t putting on it, meaning the tremble made the joint falter.

Why was Megatron doing this? Why couldn’t he stand to the side and let him work? Things were already bad enough; he didn’t want death to be hovering over him with a fierce gaze and lack of regard to his stability. Any ruse or excuse used to try to explain the motion away as the constant peril of a medic in crisis after a large incident, was just a flippant excuse to try to validate it. It had no innocent reason to happen. It was nothing but a torturous action for self-amusement on the monster's part. With the mech's height, he could have seen everything PLENTY clearly from where he had been!

Flatline's arms plunked down on the medical slab in front of him, pushing his weight upon his elbows as his hands were flared to try to gift any kind of grasp that they could among the Energon runoff. He needed this handhold even if it contributed nothing to saving QLC-972's life, and in fact was a motion that wasted precious seconds that were passing rapid fire beneath him. He had to though, his legs jittering as his bad limb rose a second before re-planting down at a new angle to help. Only, it didn't help much at all, changing nothing.

This was too much. This was TOO MUCH. Flatline took his job seriously as he could and would frantically work hard to save another's life no matter how bad the odds may seem. Each death was a personal affront to him, and would stick with him as an element to look back on and see how he could do better to help the next individual. He was always under the judgement of his own mind, and the added trauma of having his own life slapped into the mix was bad enough. Now... now Megatron was playing with him with a rigged game, and he didn't think he could handle it.

Tears peeled down from the corner of Flatline's eyes, running along the seams that etched across towards his mouth which was pulled back into a strained grimace, his jagged teeth on full display as he tried to cope. His jaw was clenched dangerously so in this process, the stress action of grinding the dental plates together pushed so hard that they couldn’t even move against one another, the hinge in his jaw bottoming out.

His forward facing gaze hopelessly danced across the Vehicon's cleaved frame, watching as Energon was draining out still from the numerous wounded channels. While the major fuel line had been plugged up, so many smaller ones were still leaking from the push of his primary fuel pump, a pump that was likely starting to carry scraped bits of metal from the decimated makeshift organs that could shred into the mechanisms there. He had to keep working, every second was a second to failure, but he couldn't move.

Too much.

He was being played with.

He couldn't think straight.

He couldn't do this.

Then he snapped.

"Stop looming! You are fucking freaking me out and this ordeal is stressful enough!"

Flatline screamed this, his voice holding raw frantic energy and fear that cracked through his vocal systems as they shrieked. His voice borderline echoed into the small room from its volume, striking along the cold stone walls, metal machinery, and storage. It was a pitch he didn't even think he was capable of doing, though he couldn’t even offer the smallest iota of processor power to question or even hear himself, reeling around then to face Megatron directly.

As he turned, Flatline's left arm would peel away from the medical slab, leaving the right to keep himself upright while his legs still trembled. With his arm now freed, the limb would swing out to roughly gesture to his side, the movement throwing splatters of Energon to the ground from the whipping motion and sharp edge to his fingers. Tears continued to streak from his eyes, which held raw terror behind them, Flatline screaming once more despite the fact he was looking at an absolute monster head on.

"Under any other circumstance you wouldn't be in here circling like a damn vulture! So, you can't put it under the charade of simulating a stressful medical bay environment!

His voice crackled still as he yelled, systems striking their absolute limit while his body then hit its.

Crashing down harshly, Flatline slammed onto his knees, unable to support himself any longer as his arms crossed in front of his torso, fearfully clutching at the wheeled bicep of either side as he cowered within himself. He was shaking, terrified beyond belief, but he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t handle it with this added weight that had been dropped onto his shoulders. His body could only hold this type of crisis for so long, and he had hit his limit the moment Megatron had walked into his direct line of sight to taunt him.

His voice then dropped to a softer plea.

"Just kill me now..."

[Megatron]

Megatron loomed. Loomed was the only word to describe it. He did not simply stand and look down. He did not simply tower above the tumbling medic. He did not simply glare at the display below. He loomed with all his terrible, cold presence, listening incredulously to every last word. It was an oppressively overwhelming position that he held over his groveling subject. The pressure broke the poor doctor, it seemed. In that moment, the Warlord was left with few options. The soldier had only fleeting, mortal instants to spare. He had to decide. He had to act.

And with all the resolution that he had, Megatron spoke as if his decision had been made eons ago, even though it arose in the moment. Such was the power of his certainty and conviction even in situations most dire. A stark opposite of the broken thing down below.

"No. This trial is not over until your patient is dead. Get up and finish the job, coward."

His words were stern, not furious, not even angry. He was beyond those emotions now. There were people and things and situations that could rock one so much that the person in question would skip past rage and all conceivable agitation into a new state. Rarely ever did Megatron face such situations. He could kill just as easily as he took another intake, but he did not.

Flatline would live for now. He would suffer before he failed, and Megatron would deny him the release...

...or perhaps it was another chance to repent. With his intentions so concealed, his voice so impartial, his demeanor could be confused for Soundwave's, and yet, a storm of emotions almost certainly raged within, a swelling tide threatening to burst open—but which way would the pendulum swing?

Nowhere yet. Surprisingly, Megatron stepped back, giving Flatline ample room to continue should he choose not to die by his own hand. There were enough tools to assist his own demise, should he choose this way out—but the Warlord would not be the one to strike the final blow, not until the Vehicon's brain fired off the final signal.

This was the punishment—living with the consequences.

[Ren]

“Why?”

He rasped this, weakly tilting his helm to look at the other mech, before seemingly deciding this position was uncomfortable and almost immediately shifting his gaze to look up at the rocky ceiling once more.

“No idea, I mean, surely they h-have a reason, right? It’s just a number.”

He hadn’t given it much thought before, he just knew that it was what some of the natives on the planet believed. On the opposite side of this, seven was apparently lucky, though some folks had their own personal preferences and strayed from the norm. He wasn’t sure what number he’d pick as ‘lucky’ if he had to pick one, maybe something obscure and high could be fun! Though would he even be able to remember it if asked more than once?

Maybe seventy two or something. That was kind of nice.

“Fourteen. Do you h-have a favorite or lucky number?”

His voice was quiet, visor dimming ever so slightly as he fully settled back into this original position, only to flicker into a state of normalcy at the sudden bang. His frame barely flinched, a feeble jolt with very little movement behind it that showed just how weak he actually was. Even loud, unexpected noises did little to get a reaction now.

He’d heard Megatron speak, though hadn’t registered his words. In fact, the only reason he knew it was the Warlord talking to begin with was his distinct baritone.

While the words had made little sense to him, they clearly had an effect on the medic - and while he could not see Flatline directly, he noticed how he’d stopped moving, except for using the medical slab as a sort of support, presumably to stop himself from falling.

Was he shaking? Q could feel a sort of resonation through the metal as Flatline leaned against it, though with everything going on with his own frame he wondered if something was going horribly wrong with himself, causing the table itself to gently vibrate.

It was a sort of calm before the storm, and a moment later? Flatline screamed. Words that Q desperately tried to focus on in an attempt to keep himself awake, but they had no meaning that he could understand. The fear behind the words though? That was loud and clear - unmistakable, even.

These were pretty terrible odds, after all.

Another crash, though this one came with the distinctive tell of it not being an item smacked against another object, but rather Flatline falling to his knees. This time, he did not flinch. There was no jolt, no movement.

“Fifteen…” his voice barely audible to the point he wasn’t even sure he’d said it to begin with. The seconds ticked, dragging on - and while it may have only been a matter of moments, it certainly felt like an eternity that he simply did not have.

His frame relaxed, and with it, his visor dimmed once more.

Something, somewhere, had gone wrong - and what little hold Q had on this life had seemingly ended.

-

RND-461 stood quiet, awaiting his next order. With his rudimentary knowledge of all things medical, he was trying - silently, of course - to work out just what the drawer would be used for. Flatline was already draining Energon into an upside down table, and he could only assume the drawer would serve a similar purpose.

He would not flinch as the water was slammed from the makeshift container, though did doubletake as Megatron began to move. A looming, ominous presence until now, the Warlord had finally decided to get a closer look at things, it seemed.

Something that Flatline apparently wasn’t ready to even begin dealing with. In an instant the almost steely confidence of the medic was gone, his frame tense and rigid as he moved to grab the table.

They didn’t have time for this - or, at least, QLC-972 and Flatline did not.

Should he have known what to do, he would’ve moved in an instant to start preparing for whatever was to come, be it finding more containers or items that could be used as some sort of tool.

Instead, he was silent, watching as Flatline snapped. Yelling and gesturing at Megatron in a way that was… oh, that was very unwise. His own gaze shifted to the Warlord, watching for his reaction, watching for any sign that he should move out the way.

Then, Flatline crumpled. Crashing down onto his knees, a soft plea following this utter pitiful defeat.

From where he stood, RND-461 could see the patient on the table, and how he’d suddenly gone unnaturally still. There was no time for wallowing, as awful as this situation was, it had to be solvable, right? Megatron was not so cruel as to throw Flatline against this for nothing.

Was he?

It did not matter. They had to act. Now.

As Megatron stepped backward, the Vehicon trooper would rush forward toward the fallen Medic. Every second had counted before, but now? Even more so. Being probably a little rougher than he needed to be, he would heft the black and red mech up and onto his pedes, one servo resting against him to make sure he did not topple once more.

“Tell me what to do.” the urgency in his voice hopefully portrayed everything, and if not? Well, Flatline only had to look.

[Flatline]

Time stopped in Flatline's existence.

A desperate plea...

A cry for everything to simply end...

It felt like an eternity of suffering as he knelt before the Warlord, bladed fingertips gripping the wheels that formed his upper arms so tightly that they started to cut into the surface layers of the rubber. They twitched, almost re-aligning themselves to pull across the material again, threatening to rip through to the aired interior. Yet, nothing came. No sudden flash of light as his very existence was cleaved away in an instant, nor an agonizing pain felt as the sword sliced through his center mass just as it had the Vehicon. Even if it hurt, even if it was a moment that raked his processor across hot coals, it meant that everything would simply STOP a second after.

Flatline didn't know what came after death. Religion was not a part of his life. Yet, in desperate moments such as this he would pray to whatever entity ruled this existence to call for something to help him. Whatever came next had to be better than what plagued him in the now. Returning to the well, where what he was became stripped away before his spark fizzled out, or if it truly was purged and then thrown back out. It didn't matter. He was suffering and he just wanted it to end. NEEDED it to end.

Which made Megatron's denial of such a request lance through him with newfound horror.

Red optics flicked up to look upon the Warlord, raw disbelief stretched across his features that his hand was stayed enough to simply let him rot. It was so surprising that Flatline didn't even know if he had heard him correctly or not, the sounds of words a low growl that drifted past him. In response, his mouth opened, choking on words, trying to articulate ANYTHING in response for him to reconsider. Maybe he could just remain downed and let time be his eventual reaper, every second being simply another flicker before he could be freed... though before this thought could even start to be considered, his horrified gaze locked up onto the monster that supposedly was going to lead them to victory so many eons ago...

He was grabbed onto.

Wrenched upright forcibly, Flatline's frame scrabbled a second, hands hooking down to try to grab onto RND-461's arms while his digitigrade limbs kicked out in a frantic attempt to gain any kind of traction that could get his legs under him. Paired with this he let out a frustrated yell, still reeling at the fact he was going to be made to suffer for however long was left in the mangled soldier's resolve to remain alive. It made everything so much worse... SO much worse... his chest smacking into the edge of the medical slab just as his hoof like peds finally clipped down enough to get a grip.

Flatline could have just waited... the Vehicon wouldn’t have much time left... it would be so easy to do so while he was plastered to the ground. Yet now? His 'assistant' simply added to his agony, his gaze locking down onto QLC-972 who's frame was horrifically still, visor dimmed. The black and red mech wondered then if his choice was then already made, if there truly was no way to even TRY for victory. The soldier's spark would dissipate soon, its energy dissolved gradually within the case. He could end it all so very easy, watching as the soldier passed.

As a doctor however, watching someone die before him was a new torture he couldn’t handle.

Another cry formed then, Flatline hating everything he was as he was pushed back into the nightmare that he had moments ago tried to flee. It spurred him back into the pathetic rush to try to do the impossible, an impossibility that was set in stone should he not do anything in the coming fractions of seconds. That’s all he had, maximum. That was all there could be if that was even the truth.

"Help me stand!"

A pathetic plea, something so incredibly basic, but he simply couldn’t get his legs to function at all this day, the numbed knee and pure terror making him struggle to support himself.

Flatline's right palm then split abruptly in half between middle and ring finger, his cleaved wrist twitching a second before the end of the limb swung down and back to vanish within the confines of his forearm. In its place a set of triangular plates jutted out, a series of clunks chattering as they lined up to form a violent circular saw. The second these locked together, the mechanics would roar active as its systems went from nothing to as hard as he could push them to get to speed fast.

Roughly, Flatline's arm would wrench back, his sharp elbow likely hooking past the soldier dangerously who was tasked to help him stay up, before it swung forward.

Into the mechanical lighting system above the fallen mech.

Above the table had been a twin adjustable medical light, one that could be grabbed onto and maneuvered at differing angels to highlight specific areas during surgeries. Some other tools would traditionally be mounted onto it's holders, using its supplied electrical source to power them without leaving cords running across the floor as a trip hazard. Unsurprisingly, the tools were not at Flatline's disposal given the cruel deck that had been played, yet the lights remained, since it was simply a requirement to even SEE in the stone lined room. Though, one would suddenly go dark.

The nearest lighting panel was cleaved off roughly, causing it to throw to the side in the process. It was a ghastly noise, violent and harsh, its disk clambering as the glass covers for some of the lights on the ring cracked and shattered. It was forgotten the moment it was evicted however, Flatline's forearm transitioning back to his hand that then grabbed onto the pipe that had just been cut into.

A harsh pull... a violent tear... the sheath that added structure to the cables and supported the assembly was ripped off, leaving the thick wires exposed that flickered and sparked in small amounts due to the low current that was going through them. It was useless. The voltage would nowhere be enough to do anything viable with... however, its ability to feed other machinery was the quintessential factor that decided everything this day. As such, Flatline would grasp the exposed cables above their raw edges, pulling the tangled mass down with such force the entire system up above creaked and crackled, causing the other attached lighting disk to wrench to the side, throwing jagged shadows on the far wall as the immediate work area, and where Flatline stood, was blackened.

Fierce optics locked down upon the gruesome sight before him, a haunting red glow emanating out as a sense of time dilation went into effect.

The lull before action...

Before everything jumped into full force once again.

In a vicious movement, Flatline slammed the red sheathed cable up into QLC-972's gaping wound, likely breaking in and damaging other objects that sat in the way to his goal with utter disregard. It drove towards his spark chamber with a crackled pop, the impact so hard that his halved frame would slide up on the table slightly in the process. The moment this collided, his left arm punched the black cable on the opposite side on the exterior plating. Once the internal conduit made contact and was lodged in place, Flatline's hand then whipped out with a new splatter of Energon castoff, pressing in the switch that would have activated one of the tools that could be mounted on the assembly.

Sending a violent charge of electricity from one cable, through the Vehicon’s spark chamber, to the one planted on the opposite side.

[Megatron]

The Vehicon lay motionless. Was it over? Megatron himself did not know, not until Flatline finished groveling and either confirmed death, and therefore sealed his own fate, or continued as he had been urged to.

He was ready to draw his blade, but he did not act.

What happened next surprised him. Impressing Megatron was not an easy feat, yet the sudden shift from hopeless sniveling to rapid action certainly took him off-guard to no small extent. It showed that, in spite of his insolence, Flatline did possess the qualities needed for Knock Out's position, whether the mech himself thought so or not.

Megatron maintained his vigil, now with growing focus, hands clenched into fists. As Flatline's actions revealed his intentions, so too did Megatron's expression reveal emotions. His shark-like features shifted into a crude grin, one jagged plate grinding against another. He did not approach closer this time. In fact, as the violent butchery of the medical bay's facilities commenced, he maintained his current position, not flinching nor intervening. After all, this was Flatline's trial, and not once did Megatron mention that he couldn't use everything at his disposal within the area. That he would rip asunder the very power lines above their heads? Well, it certainly made an impression.

More importantly, it showed dedication.

A bold strategy—but will it be enough? He mused to himself and himself alone. Then, the Warlord lifted one of his arms and supported it by another. The raised arm's hand reached for his chin, holding it betwixt his thumb and his index finger. He seemed equally curious, devious, and invested in the trial with this one simple gesture alone.

No further actions were taken. Not for the immediate moment. He would observe whether Flatline's gambit produced results—be they favorable, or ones worthy of the demise the medic so wistfully craved but moments prior.

[Ren]

RND-461 hadn’t even realized that he’d moved at first - one instant he’d been standing, watching quietly in horror, and the next? He was trying to wrench the medic back to his feet, almost as if he was on autopilot. Everything in him had sprung into action the instant that the other Vehicon seemed to go still - an urgency rushing through him knowing that if he didn’t do something then and there to make Flatline realize the severity of the situation that it’d be too late. The few seconds they had were already precious to begin with, but now they were even more so. QLC-972 had run out of time, which meant that within moments? Flatline would too.

Ignoring the frustrated yell, he did everything he could to heft the medic up, even if at first it seemed to be doomed for failure with the other mech almost fighting against him in a way. Hoof-like pedes scrabbled against the floor as they tried to find some sort of purchase, a heavy slam as things moved a little too quickly and chassis met medical slab.

But he wouldn’t give up. He had to get Flatline standing. That moment of utter defeat had already cost them too much time, and while he did not really know the medic on a personal basis? With Knock Out seemingly missing, he was literally all they had.

While that made Megatron’s ‘test’ all the more insane given there was a very real chance for failure, it had to have been done for a reason. He could only assume that Flatline was more than capable of handling the situation, he just had to set aside the sheer terror and focus.

A plea of an order was given, his grip tightening around the other mech, trying to shoulder some of the weight without being a hindrance as he continued to hold the medic up.

“I got you!”

He knew Flatline’s knee was an issue - the mech was quite often seen with a cane to support himself, and when without? A slight limp. The fact he’d slam-injected himself with some sort of painkiller or numbing agent at the start of this process indicated just how bad it must’ve been, and as such the Vehicon would do his best to keep him steady.

While he was probably unable to do much else in this current position, he was focused - watching, listening for ways he could assist further. While his grip was firm on the other mech, he angled himself just slightly the moment the saw shifted into place, leaning out the way as that arm wrenched back so as to not get hit by an elbow.

He wasn’t sure what Flatline had planned to do - or even could do. There wasn’t any sort of equipment that could help in this situation, or he could assume as such given the lack of most basic tools.

He flinched as one of the lights above was suddenly cleaved into, a loud clatter sounding as it was hastily thrown aside and onto the floor. The other mech was moving with such determination that he found himself struggling somewhat to keep hold - though he managed.

It quickly clicked what Flatline was going to try and do, and it was nothing short of genius. But would it work? It was basic enough in a pinch that it should do at least something, but he hadn’t heard - or ever seen - anything like this being done before.

A pause. One he could only assume was being used to quietly plead with Primus or whoever else was listening - or at least, that’s what he would be doing if he were Flatline. This had to work. It had to.

Then, movement.

As Flatline slammed the cable up and into the other Vehicon, he scrabbled to keep hold of the other mech, and as the charge was jolted his own visor dimmed, turning away. He couldn’t watch, he didn’t want to watch.

-

Everything was dark. Q wasn’t sure when his body had given out on him, only that it had - and he found himself accepting it. As his systems slowly shut down and faded, it was sort of peaceful, in a way. Even though Flatline had numbed the majority of his frame, there had been an uncomfortableness that he hadn’t quite been able to place or even really describe.

Slowly, that too had faded, until he felt nothing.

…

…

…

Suddenly, light.

The first charge of electricity had done nothing, but the second? Well, fate had seemingly smiled upon both he and Flatline this day, and it’d worked.

His frame jolted violently, back arching some as his visor flickered as it tried to refocus on his surroundings. Stone ceiling. Lighting, though it was around him and not directly above. That uncomfortable feeling had come back, as well as a strange new pain that he couldn’t quite place in this moment of confusion.

What’d just happened? Where even was he? Someone was standing over him, though he couldn’t quite tell just yet as to who it was - his vision blurry.

A tired, grumble escaped him. Unable to speak or form actual words while his systems violently rebooted, the grumble was all he could manage in the moment.

[Flatline]

RND-461 was essentially disregarded and forgotten. Which was a shame. While the Vehicon was acting as a means to keep Flatline up on his feet, in these critical few moments he was nothing but a brace or a modified cane that he was leaning into for support. It was not the most valuable use of a second pair of hands... the ability to tell the mech to instead steady QLC-972 and keep him from moving or sliding on the slickened metal surface, or to retrieve and prepare certain things would have been ideal! Yet Breakdown's careless decision to handle a dilemma in the most barbaric of means had doomed him to losing out on such aid in his most dire moments.

Breakdown. Such a useless piece of trash. Sure, he was Knock Out's significant other. Sure, he held strength that neither he or the CMO had to move patients. Sure, he did play the role of an assistant and had medical skills of his own right! Yet his incompetence of foresight was potentially a death sentence this day. Flatline could only hope that if he survived this ordeal... which was unlikely... that his issues could be resolved someday, where he could try to grasp onto a form of normality to be functional once more.

Oh well...

Electricity crackled noisily as the charge arked through the Vehicon, causing an involuntary pull of a shoulder and lurch of a back as torso mechanisms that were connected to them reacted to the surge. It was the only movement that followed however, one that would have occurred anyway should it be done on a corpse. Such tests were often performed on detached components, a little bit of Energon to coat the liners, while a pulse of energy was shifted through to act as a command from a processor. This jolt was far more violent than needed for such tests, causing a more erratically sharp movement, but a test of its mechanisms wasn’t on the roster of today's actions, for what mattered was the lack of movement that followed when the power cut off at the proper interval.

Flatline paused as the charge dissipated, unblinking red eyes latched down as he silently counted a couple pulses, before he flipped the switch again to do a follow-up jolt. He was ready to do this a couple times, attempting to restart the strained systems. It could work. Or it could be a time sink to keep repeating to a corpse, dragging out his own last moments of life. Yet, it appeared the second was all that was needed, and the involuntary reaction to the surge was amplified as a mix of processor recognition came into play. While the soldier may not register the feeling of the pain, such components did scream and cause its own involuntary pull.

It worked?...

It WORKED!?

Flatline was almost dumbstruck for a second. He had not known if the charge would be strong enough at all, having expected it to do next to nothing. A smaller blast would still help to an extent, but to have the soldier come back online with such zeal? It was borderline impressive. He wouldn't have any time to gloat at his resourcefulness however, as the timer was twisted back a few clicks rather than turned off in full with a stable patient.

Scrabbling a moment, Flatline reached up and grabbed the remaining light disk, pulling it down so that it was no longer aimed at the far wall and could highlight the mess that was made while introducing the red cable to the innards of QLC-972. The added damage was certainly there, things even more dented than they had been previously, yet, he was pleased to see that the initial slash had been far enough towards the torso's inner cavity that the injury was a mere drop in the bucket. With the new situation evaluated, Flatline left the electrical line in place just incase it was needed once more.

Reaching over, a shaky grasp curled around the resin gun that he had been using previously, crooking its position to the side while his bloodied left hand snatched onto the red canister to twist it and disconnect. The container hissed with what minimal pressure remained within as it was cast aside, his free hand then pulling over to take gold of the second of a set of four from the underside of his forearms. This replacement would be promptly put back where the first had been a moment prior with a click and similar hiss, before he would lean forward and continue in his task of trying to seal the injuries. With the progress he had already made, nearly all of them were plugged up at this point, there a few left from the new damage.

Stop the leaking. Stop the drain. Stop the incoming DEATH. He couldn’t even think of his plan to try to restore Energon in the now, for it was so incredibly vital to deal with the holes first. If he did introduce more fuel somehow, it would be borderline useless since it would push right out the other side. As such, Flatline moved swiftly, trying to ignore Megatron. Trying to throw his presence as far from his mind as he could.

Which was impossible.

Flatline's hands trembled, and RND-461 would likely feel the jitters of fear and the overdose of makeshift adrenaline that still ran through him every now and again. The panels along his back would flick and flare, while the mechanisms in his harpoon launchers would click lightly as the chains were pulled in its systems to tap loosely at the interiors. He was terrified, his frame was barely functioning from the overload of raw horror. He wasn’t built to be able to sustain such levels for long, and his systems had already 'crashed' once from it. Another was on the horizon. No doubt. He just needed to try to get far enough before it did.

In just a couple more fleeting seconds, all of the shredded wires and clipped tubes would be blocked in full, so that he could move to the next steps.

[Megatron]

Megatron's imperious gaze lingered unfeelingly. When Flatline's desperate gambit began, there was no indication of a shift in demeanor. No, not since when the Warlord first realized the medic's intention. He was prepared to judge Flatline on the spot, should he fail, with the same tone of cold dismissal as before. It would take but a single ignition of the fusion cannon. That is how easily he could take another's life for debts incurred and mistakes made. But then...

It worked.

A desperate measure—but it worked. Borne of what? The Decepticon leader wondered. Was it fear that drove Flatline onward? Fear of his master? Fear of his death? Or...No. He willingly welcomed it but moments prior and Megatron denied him. It was only the command to action that spurred him so. He considered then if perhaps a spark of determination or dignity lit itself in the worm's heart. That sounded too noble of an assumption to the old Decepticon's mind. In the end, he could not fathom what motivated Flatline in his pursuit other than his orders, but the compulsion seemed to have been strong enough of a driving force to proceed with the trial.

Such were the Lord's thoughts and their focus, even as the medic's following steps unfolded before his optics. Megatron paid attention to them too, as much as he did now to the conduct with which they came. Truthfully, he has seen enough to conclude the examination if he so wanted to. The very worst was behind them—and yet he would not. Although Megatron was no medic, he was no fool either. His knowledge of the Cybertronian body afforded him one final assessment:

While the imminent danger of bleeding out no longer posed a threat, the Vehicon could still very much die of Energon deprivation. He bled so much and there was so little to go around in his body in the first place. This needed correcting lest the soldier withers away in the coming minutes. But where, oh, where, would Flatline find sufficient amounts of the lifeblood to stabilize his ailing patient?

Megatron hoped Flatline understood the selfsame reality just as well, and so he did not speak up or approach closer. If the medic found no solution, well, then even his little miracle wouldn't stay the Warlord's hand. The stopwatch may have ceased its ticking, but the clock was still very much counting down.

[Ren]

Keeping one arm bent around Flatline as best he could, RND-461 still couldn’t bring himself to watch as the electricity was turned on. It crackled loudly, and was far noisier than he had imagined it’d be - and lasted far longer than he thought it would, even if in reality it was nothing more than a few, fleeting seconds.

…

A pause.

Nothing. No noise, no movement - aside from the involuntary as the charge pushed through dead systems. Too many shocks and he was certain more harm than good would be done, but in this moment of desperation it seemed to be the only thing they could do.

That, and maybe pray to whoever was listening, or maybe work on an impromptu speech to plead for Flatline’s life in the whole two seconds they had before Megatron killed him should this not work. This entire thing was needlessly barbaric. They were down one Medic and the Warlord seemed more than willing to remove the remaining one in an instant - it just didn’t make any sense.

With that, came a feeling of guilt in that he couldn’t really do more to assist with anything, though keeping the other mech upright was probably far more important than anything else he could do in this moment.

Another electrical shock rocked through Q, and while he’d been expecting it, it still made him flinch. The noise so loud to the point it was uncomfortable, he could only imagine just how painful it was for the other Vehicon - if he could feel anything at all.

As the second charge dissipated and everything fell still, a noise sounded from Q that made RND-461 finally turn his gaze back to the medical slab. The sound was nothing more than a grumble, one that he wasn’t quite sure he even heard to begin with, but the sudden movement from Flatline meant that it had been heard, and that the impromptu effort had worked.

Q was alive.

He could feel Flatline trembling, and so an extra effort was made as he tightened his grip, his frame tensing to offer more support to the other mech. The last thing they needed now in this moment was for the medic’s frame to give out on him, as while fate had smiled upon them - it was unlikely to do so a second time, especially with the amount of Energon lost that simply could not be replaced.

Flatline had bought himself a few seconds, however time was still very much against him.

-

Another grumbled attempt at a noise escaped Q, almost as if he was trying to form some sort of words. His energy was probably better spent in doing nothing at all, however in this moment of confusion he simply did not realize what’d just happened.

Or, what was at risk of happening again should Flatline not work quickly.

There was still a strange sense of pain, however, though it was not bad due to the numbed lines. What was annoying was the odd pressure-like feeling that he couldn’t pinpoint, somewhere within his chassis as Flatline worked. A slight ozone-like twinge filled the air, too, which was probably a concern, though he was too tired to focus too much on it.

Exhausted systems were still settling after being literally jumpstarted to life, and Flatline working diligently to seal shredded lines was only adding to the sense of confusion.

“W-”

He definitely couldn’t feel his legs, that much he realized, and it was then that he would attempt to move. Weakly straining his spinal strut as best he could, he tried to look down at himself to work out just what had happened to him - but he did not get far. His helm fell back in an instant before it’d even really moved at all, his frame far too weak to even do such a simple thing.