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

[Flatline]

As the last line was capped off, and all ripped into electrical was contained so it didn't spark and cause further issues, Flatline's gaze danced across the mangled frame of the bisected soldier frantically, worried that he would miss something that would cause more problems down the line. He had to make it to the next steps before he concerned himself too much with what may come however, as the way things were going he was lucky to make any sort of forward progress at all. Each metaphorical step in this ragged road was as stable as his own legs, which is why RND-461 was so incredibly valuable even if his role seemed ridiculously frivolous and a waste of a soldier.

Ok.

Time for the next stage.

Setting the resin gun aside by the other deposited devices, Flatline reached back to his upper arm, a new red panel ejecting that he grasped onto firmly. It was a very simple transformation that took place after it cleared his frame, the inbuilt cartridge unfolding into a laser cutter that crackled a second as it activated and was ready to be used. With this now available, Flatline's other hand reached over to grab the seemingly forgotten drawer, plunking it down in front of him so that he could carefully use the tool against the opposite side. The cutter could work with Cybertronian metals with ease, so the thin drawer was no match as its corner was clipped cleanly off.

Setting the red laser cutter aside, Flatline would then grab the modest amount of supplied packing gauze down into the inside above the new small hole, using his knuckles to really punch it down in and compact it. With this completed, he would then reach over and grab the painkiller injector vial that he had twisted the lid off earlier, looking down at it a second as his hand trembled.

It was then he addressed RND-461.

"I n-need you to lift the table. We are making a funnel."

Flatline pointed down at the small table that had been flipped previously to further clarify, a good amount of the soldier's Energon having pooled within its inner brackets. The limb itself was essentially dry of all its fuel at this point, the sliced line only resulting in a drop every now and again that wasn't worth salvaging. It was with this goal articulated, Flatline would pull away from the Vehicon's grasp, his frame dipping down towards the ground with the two tools he needed to help in the process.

This action was rough, Flatline almost falling as he did so, the drawer slamming against the floor a second to brace himself and prevent the collapse. Once he had dipped and caught himself however, the gyroscopes on his shoulders seemed to engage enough that he balanced on his good leg, his mass sitting directly atop the hock. His injured leg however was canted awkwardly to the side, Flatline almost 'forgetting' it as it splayed out horizontally, thankful for the painkiller that made it dead weight at the moment.

With a clink, the glass container was planted and held down against the ground mouth side up, while Flatline then placed the cut corner of the drawer down into its opening. This made it so that the messy pour from the table would be condensed down into a clean stream as a funnel, and the gauze that had been packed within it would filter out any larger shavings of metal or debris that had fallen from the mech's ped as it drained. Due to the fact the drawer was a decent size to it, RND-461 would likely find his task rather simple, so long as he didn’t dump it in too fast and cause the container to overflow.

"K-keep steady, I will tell you when to stop."

Flatline's red optics latched onto the glass container, too scared to watch RND-461 and see if the soldier was about to completely mess up his plan and drop the table, or simply spill it all in an instant so it splattered all over him and the floor. Once the pour started, should it start, Flatline would quickly articulate when to stop before the container would overflow. With how much had been collected, there was a chance he could get one, MAYBE one and a half transfusions recycled. If he needed more, he did still have the other leg however... only time would tell.

[Megatron]

Ah, of course, the drawer.

At first, Megatron had assumed it was simply a means of collecting run-off, but utilizing it in such a way showed a knack for resourcefulness that continued to surprise the old Warlord. Flatline may not have been aware of the fact, but he was now performing better than expected. For an old Cybertronian like Megatron, it mattered significantly that one could rise above this near-death experience. It showed that despite his exhausted and beaten state, Flatline had the qualities he was looking for in a doctor.

By the time the medic ordered the Vehicon in his service to perform another task, Megatron's features maintained an air of stern confidence, as if the storm had been weathered. There was still a chance that the soldier would not perform as instructed, but Megatron entrusted Flatline with a competent and even-tempered individual for much the same reason he had saddled him with a most bothersome patient.

But even then, he would no dismiss the trial yet. Instead, he maintained a close vigil from his current post, and observed the improvised tools and environment with care. Until Q began his road to recovery, nothing was certain. The only indication of a shift in priorities would be a release of tension within the joints, hardly noticeable to the pair still hard at work, and a few spoken words.

"Once you stabilize the patient, we will conclude the examination," his voice boomed, warning of the coming finale. But a few more steps from the medic and his aide, and the two named individuals could discuss their common future. In respect of this, Megatron proffered a servo towards the shifting operating table, a gesture of willingness: "That is unless you would perform further surgery on one so close to the brink, doctor."

A harsh, jagged smile.

Was this a genuine suggestion? Perhaps Megatron tested Flatline's ambitions in one last, sick attempt at mind games. Surely, nothing more could be done that would benefit QLC-972 without putting his immediate well-being on the line. Did the Warlord know this? Was he simply trying to see whether the medic would overstep his boundaries? Or would he be failed for not showing incentive?

The pendulum could swing in either direction.

[Ren]

While RND-461 had no real facial features to speak of that could betray his current state of mind, he was definitely panicking. His own medical knowledge and skill did not go much past the very rudimentary - and even then it was a gamble if anything he did would even work.

This, though? This was beyond him. Everything Flatline had done thus far was completely out of his own skillset, and while his own life was currently not on the line - given this was Flatline’s trial - the stress he felt for the other mech was almost insurmountable. He’d already seen Megatron almost offline QLC-972 with a single shot, but to see him take out a medic as well? Even if he tried he wouldn’t even know where to begin in saving him - and that was even if he would be allowed to do so.

No. No time to think about things like that. He had to focus up. While he could not help with more of the in depth medical tasks without instruction, he was helping - more than he probably realized - in making sure Flatline remained upright. It was a little uncomfortable and awkward, but he would push aside the ache to his own frame if it meant that the medic could stand and work.

Only, they had more things to do. Things that needed him to move and assist - and while there was a moment there where he seemed to hesitate, almost as if he was going to ask if Flatline would be okay without him there to stabilize, the other mech pulled away, leaving him no choice in the matter.

“Right, got it!”

Scrambling into action, he would move to the directed table. He focused on what he was doing, rather than his concern for Flatline’s stability - even in that moment where he almost toppled. Once the container was in place, RND-461 would lift the table. Even despite own panic and sense of urgency, he was at least cautious with his movements - and kept things steady, even if everything in him told him to be as quick as possible.

Keeping his visor on the pooled Energon, he watched as it flowed downwards, carefully angling the table to adjust as the liquid moved. He couldn’t quite see the container from here, nor how full it was, but would listen for Flatline’s word.

The deep boom of Megatron’s voice made him flinch ever so slightly, if only because he was so utterly focused on what he was doing - though it did not hinder his work, even if he spared the Warlord a glance. There was a kindness in his words, though was it genuine? What if this was another test in itself? Should Flatline get Q stable and decide that was enough, would he fail for not pushing further with his recovery?

Time would tell.

-

QLC-972 wasn’t quite sure where - or when - he was, even with his vision starting to come back into some sort of focus. The lighting was strange and yet familiar all at the same time. It wasn’t the Nemesis, that much he knew, nor was it the Vehicon barracks at Blackridge Hold.

Wait, that’s right… the Medical Bay.

How much time had passed? He wasn’t sure. Hours? Or mere minutes. To those working on him, it no doubt felt like an eternity even if the scrambled urgency made everything go fast - but to him? Time stood still.

He was alive. That much he knew, though he was unaware that just moments earlier he had lost the fight and slipped into nothingness. Probably a good thing, for as weak as he was? He would’ve no doubt tried to sit up once more to get confirmation that he was in fact among the land of the living.

Trying to focus on what was going on, he was listening to the sounds of what was going on, trying to pull himself into the moment and make some sort of sense as to just what was going on around him.

Voices, then. One that was gravelly, yet wavering - almost like they were scared. One that sounded like one of his Vehicon brothers-in-arms. One unmistakable as Megatron, even if he couldn’t truly focus on what was being said.

It was then a thought hit him - wasn’t he supposed to be doing something important?

“Ghn…” a slow exhale of a vent escaped him following the uttered groan, though he made no more attempts at trying to move. Instead, he was trying to remember what it was he was told to do. A moment passed, then another.

Then, finally-

“S-sixteen…” his voice was strained, and quiet to the point it was probably barely heard at all over the movement nearby, but he’d said it - and that’s what mattered.

[Flatline]

Nothing else mattered.

All there was, and could be, was the tabletop, the funnel, the jar, and the Energon, which would spell out life or death in more ways than one. Either it was able to be processed enough to be usable to save the soldier's life, or it wasn't. There was no middle ground there. The only variable was just how much clean fuel they could possibly get out of it, assuming the soldier didn't just drop the table outright.

The Vehicon held two lives in his hands.

Flatline's gaze was locked upon the vial so intensely that nothing else was even processed in his immediate area. He couldn’t put himself through the mental trauma of watching RND-461 directly. He simply couldn’t. His battered psyche had gone through so much that his spark may just up and quit as it skipped three pulses at once with every action made. No. There weren't any of the other things... there was only the jar. Only waiting to see if it worked or not.

And it did.

Until it didn’t.

When Megatron's voice cut through the room, Flatline lurched severely in response, the glass letting out an angry scrape along the rocky ground, while the funnel was nearly dropped in response. This caused some of the Energon to miss the opening, draining down its side along an already coated wrist, before the funnels' end was roughly rammed back into place with a follow-up flinch of fear. Thankfully a great deal of the fuel hadn't been lost, the remaining steadily flowing as it sifted through the gauze meshing, yet the damage had been done.

Every time Megatron spoke, it effectively set Flatline back numerous steps. Whatever confidence he had started to gain back as he focused and blocked out the hauntingly terrifying presence, simply stripped away. It left him shaking again, his eyes wide with the perpetual fear he felt. It made his fuel pumps scream all the harder, or perhaps it was simply an illusion given his frame had been running full force since everything cascaded down around him. It made him second guess his capabilities. Reminded him he was being WATCHED and evaluated. Any wrong step could be his last, and it was a level of terror that was making him so nauseous his throat was tightening with a lightheaded feeling that was wanting to welcome involuntary shutdown.

Slender fingers that were more suited for delicate work, were now clutching the edge of the makeshift funnel so fiercely that the joints trembled. It was a lifeline grip that threatened to have him hurt himself in its intensity, the inner edge of his thumb's blade starting to shear and crimp into the drawer, cutting a groove from pressure force alone.

He had to reply. He had to address what was being asked. Yet, how could he? It was more mind games and he couldn't do the mental hurdles to even try to judge what was right and what was wrong. Was it a trick? Was it not? Who knows! Because Flatline sure didn't. It was nothingness. Megatron said nothing. The words were but the growl of a monster that was looking for an opportunity to tear into something and draw its life to an end.

Flatline's lips pulled back into a grimace, his gaze remaining locked upon the fuel that was close to the top of the jar's rim. There didn't appear to be any metal flakes, nothing floating or swirling within the container... It looked like clean Energon, a vibrant blue that took up his immediate vision. The last amount wanted seemed to take forever, before it hit the point and the black and red medic pulled away quickly, letting the drawer slam down to the ground as though it had burned him and he couldn't hold onto it any longer.

There was nothing articulated to his assistant, his mind too much of a haze now that he had the cartridge that he held onto like a lifeline, scrabbling up to stand against the table and grab hold of the connecting lid that went with it. It was as though he forgot entirely about the additional fuel that could remain, or perhaps he didn’t care. If anything was left it would be great if it could be saved, but he needed to do anything fast rather than being as greedy as possible with a life on the line.

With two lives on the line.

If someone were to tell Flatline that he would one day be clutching an injector cartridge of Energon like it was the most precious element in this existence that meant more to him than anything else, he would call them crazy. He wouldn’t be able to comprehend putting that much pure raw fear and terror and hope into such a small object. Yet, here he was, shaking with a crushing grip, almost unable to get the lid on as he then flipped open the side latch to the injector gun that had once been used for the pain killer.

Struggling, trying so hard, ignoring everything and everyone around him.

Megatron's mused words were unprocessed.

The Vehicon's contributions were unregistered.

His patient's grasp at coherency a noise.

A snap rang out as the vial was forced into place with far more impact than was needed, before Flatline wrenched around and slammed the needle violently into one of the large exposed fuel lines on the Vehicon's upper torso. There was no use aiming for a standard arm line, nor a need to use the neck channel, for there were more conduits than desired exposed in the wound that Megatron had so kindly gifted the soldier. This would throw every drop of the filtered Energon into QLC-972, before Flatline threw in the towel.

With a heavy slam, the black and red mech collapsed onto the ground, his legs splaying out at awkward angles while his left arm swung loose at the socket to slap wrist down. His right arm in contrast remained hooked up onto the medical slab a brief moment, the elbow locked on in a way while clutching the injector gun with a trembled hold. This momentary snag, this second to retain some sort of grasp on the situation, unhooked as quickly as it had formed, and his frame went ragdoll as if he had been simply tossed, clattering as everything slumped. Flatline’s breathing was choked and heavy, the frantic rasps erratic with a wet pop behind them, paired with a single hard cough.

There was so much he needed to do still... He had his scanner he could use to look for things outside visuals and intuition... however the soldier's hemorrhaging was stopped, electrical was capped, and he got fuel... Yet, the fuel may not be enough! It may not work! But if it didn’t? It wasn't as though he could do anything about it now without needing to move on to plan... plan... whatever letter they were at now.

He was just so tired... so tired... and it was so easy to just choose to just do... nothing.

Flatline had done his best with what he had been given. There was no more that he was able to manage in his current state with current supplies, his frame physically depleted and burnt out. He could only handle such an adrenaline like surge for so long, his spark tired, his fuel pumps aching, his joints in pain and psych absolutely decimated to a ragged husk. He had held such a heightened level of pure raw terror for so incredibly long, that there was nothing more there. The exhausted mech was just a shell of what he was mere moments previously, Megatron's psychological challenge not even processed beyond a snarled sound.

Dulled eyes stared down at the Energon streaked ground in front of him, the raking breathing continuing as he just gave up.

There was nothing more to do other than to give up.

Which felt so incredibly...       good.

[Megatron]

The Warlord's words were met with no response. A pity. Answering them would perhaps go some distance toward securing his mercy. But instead, he was made to watch the ensuing struggle as closely as the operation itself. Yes. He watched the medic's legs buckle and break. He watched him struggle for a while, grasping at an intangible, non-existent second wind, and he watched him give in—to the exhaustion, the pressure. He watched his body, splayed out. Motionless.

No. Not motionless. A scraping noise. A sign of life yet remaining. Megatron moved closer then. He walked until he could go no further, blue liquid sticking to the sole of his sabaton. He cast Flatline in a tall shadow and just—stood still.

A few eyewinks. Three seconds. Longer. Longer still. Ten seconds. Then another ten. Completely silent. A monolith of cold, ruthless command. He towered, plain and simple, but gave no order, and made no further motions. Half a minute now. Still nothing and then—there. A stir in the optic. A glance at QLC. The patient was rendered stable, but he would not survive in the long term without adequate care. Care only Flatline could provide. Care only Megatron's "mercy" could provide.

Finally, he spoke. His voice rang clear and harsh and found its target in the sole conscious, mobile underling.

"Have the premises restored to full functionality."

He looked around and noted the disrepair. So much chaos and gore. It reminded him of the warfront, or, reaching further back into ancient memory, a downtrodden chop shop in Kaon. But he did not let his mind wander. He was not the kind. Always in the now, always forward. This was Megatron. Reminiscence was an empty gesture he only indulged in occasionally. No time for it now. A second order formed in under a second, likewise directed at RND.

"And clean up this mess."

Only when the Vehicon showed signs of understanding did he turn back to Flatline. Briefly, he communicated something or another over comms, though the nature of it was not apparent. Perhaps more were being summoned to help RND in his new task. But it did not matter. It was not pertinent.

Not to what was yet to come.

Suddenly, Megatron bent over and knelt so that he could meet the slumped medic as close to his level as he could. Even when thus hunched, Megatron was still the taller figure of the two. At least he was no longer towering. Was this a sign of respect or a sign of the coming end? The death that would free Flatline of his obligations? It was, after all, so comforting to let go, was it not?

A kindness; mercy after a fashion.

What even was the truer mercy at this point?

The stay of execution would only extend Flatline's pitiable existence for times untold, and shedding all this burden like an old coat of paint could be...freeing. Indeed, non-existence may have seemed kinder at the moment, but it was still Megatron's decision in the end, the life in the palm of his hand. Few understood what he felt now. Snuffing it would come as easily as the act would be accepted.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice into a coarse whisper:

"Congratulations on your promotion, Flatline."

The name. For the first time, he was not simply "doctor." For the first time, he truly was Flatline. Whether he could hear this sign of recognition at this point, or whether he was too exhausted to notice, remained up to his senses. All the same, Megatron straightened his own monstrous form effortlessly and stepped back. Mere moments later, a set of footfalls tumbled down the distant corridor. One. Two...Three. A fourth.

An entire Vehicon entourage was due to enter.

[Ren]

Just as Flatline’s focus was so utterly on that vial, RND-461’s attention was seemingly locked on the table and the task at hand. His helm shifted, watching the Energon as it pooled and began to steadily flow into the vial he could not see, while making sure that he wasn’t tipping the table too quickly to the point it’d spill, all the while keeping an eye on the other mech. If they messed this up, if they didn’t get enough Energon into that vial and into the other Vehicon? It’d be the end of Flatline.

And who even knew who would be next.

Everything they did mattered in this moment, and while to an outsider the act of simply holding and angling a table seemed like the most basic job in the world, he was currently the only thing standing between life and death for both QLC-972 and the only Medic they had left.

So focused was he on making sure that they did this right, that when Flatline flinched at Megatron’s words, he made a point of angling the table toward himself just slightly - stopping the liquid from pouring, just in case the medic fumbled or dropped the vial. When this did not happen, he would resume.

The fact the other Vehicon had spoken with strained words was lost on him, to the point he didn’t even hear him at all. He knew he was still alive - barely - and could only hope that he could cling to what little life he had left in these precious few seconds. Even if he was stable, he still looked bad. Not many managed to take a hit from Megatron and live, even if the Warlord had been holding back in this case.

Venting out a slow intake, he realized that he’d not been breathing at all in the past few seconds. It was simply one less thing to focus on when all his attention was on what he needed to do, and therefore not necessary in the moment. He kept his frame rigid, making a point of tensing just slightly so that he did not tremble, even if he was at this point scared shitless. What if this didn’t work? What if Q passed away again somehow? They didn’t have another Medic.

All the more reason to get this right.

He hadn’t been expecting Flatline to pull away so suddenly, and due to being unable to see the vial well from this angle, did not realize just how full it was. The movement from the black and red mech caught him by surprise, and as the other mech shifted without warning, RND-461 would quickly lower the desk. There was still Energon trapped within the makeshift container, and the almost jolted movement would cause some to slosh over and onto the floor - though probably not enough to make much of a difference.

Everything happened so fast. Before he’d even let go of the edge of the table, or even had time to stand, Flatline had slammed the needle harshly into the other Vehicon. A victory, or so he hoped - in that they’d done it. This would buy Q more time, and hopefully keep him stable to the point he wasn’t lingering on death's door.

It was a victory that was short lived, as Flatline’s frame seemingly gave out on him a second later. Even if he wanted to rush over and somehow lessen the fall, the Energon soaked floor would’ve made it near impossible to close the distance safely. He could only watch, visor darting between both Medic and Warlord, his frame freezing as Megatron began to move.

Was this it? Had Flatline failed simply because he’d fallen? The next few seconds felt like an absolute eternity, dragging on to the point he didn’t dare move. He couldn’t look away, watching in absolute silence, waiting for what he could only assume was the inevitable.

But there was no transformation of a blade, nor gun. No other movement - just words. Words that were aimed at him.

It was then that he would move, breaking the stillness as he swiftly pushed himself up into a stand, a servo would raise into a salute as he stood up straight and proud.

“Right, yes! Of course Lord Megatron!”

Restoring the Medical Bay would be no issue, it would simply be a case of returning the items and equipment that’d been removed and putting them into their correct places. The mess, however, was a different story. The gore soaked scene truly was a sight to behold, and would take some time to sanitize and clean.

Lowering his arm, which was trembling more than he’d realized, he would take a moment to look around to try and gauge where to even begin here. There was no sense in returning things while the Medical Bay was in such a state, and so he would focus on cleaning, pushing into a walk toward the sink.

Or, would’ve, should he not heard the footfalls that approached. Even despite the terror that Flatline had just faced, life went on as normal for everyone else - maintenance schedules had to be kept, and it was business as usual, even despite the mess.

Pausing in his footing, he would look up at the imposing figure once more.

“Permission to assist Flatline with basic medical tasks in between stated duties?”

There was simply no time to collapse and give up, they couldn’t afford to. Not now, and Flatline would need all the help he could get.

-

After his uttered word, QLC-972 vented out a shuddered rasp. He still wasn’t quite sure what’d just happened to him just mere moments earlier, and hoped that the answer to this question would become apparent should he simply look for it.

Slowly, because that was about all he could manage, he turned his helm to try and focus on something that wasn’t the ceiling or strange broken light. His visor, while dim, was still illuminated enough to indicate life, even if his frame was practically motionless once his helm settled.

The first thing he saw was Megatron, and he noted how the Warlord seemed to be watching something, though his attention was not on Q. As much as he wanted to angle his helm further to seek out the answer to that question, he would lay still.

Even despite this stillness, he was awake. Not quite alert enough to perceive everything in detail, but things were slowly coming into enough focus that he could see. Movement, not of Megatron, but someone else drew his attention as they loomed over him - a snap that seemed to echo in his processor, followed by a sudden weight of something slamming into him that he could only assume should've been painful, but wasn't. 

Before the form vanished.

He heard the clatter of metal and stone, though did not move - could not move - to see just what’d happened to them. Even if he could not feel much of anything at all, his systems could, and the Energon that’d been injected would move through his lines quickly. While his visor had been dimmed, it would illuminate just that little bit more.

He was stable. He was alive.

He’d lost count of where he was, but he was alive.

[Flatline]

So much more that needed to be done...

Flatline heard the subtle sound of liquid vaguely on the table when he had been fumbling with the injector gun, knowing well that he could reload it and get even more fuel into the soldier in these critical moments! Yet, he simply couldn't hold out any longer. Reality took control, and no more willpower and fight could surpass the hurdles he had to overcome. It was up to the Warlord on what happened next, which was a horrifying premise as the ground started to tremble with an all too familiar impact.

Each step... each crushing footfall... it rattled through the downed medic's frame, Megatron’s form transitioning from an ominous presence off to the side, to a towering force that blotted out the already lackluster lighting array that was in place. It was within this shadow where Flatline was now forced to reside, his sense of time slipping into a form of void where he could no longer count each beat as it passed. Was it merely a handful of seconds? Minutes? Whatever it was within the bracket of reality, it felt like an eternity to the husk of a mech who continued to sit limp.

No movement was made to cower, nothing to shy away. His legs remained splayed at awkward angles to pull at his hip connectors and hydraulics, while his left arm was stuck with the back of his wrist down, the right slapped on its side across his thigh where it hung loosely off. There wasn't even the crook of a helm as though he even heard Megatron's approach, his gaze still settled ahead of him at the ground, eyes open, yet not seeing that blue streaked stone was replaced with gunmetal gray.

It is all going to stop... Please let it stop...

"Have the premises restored to full functionality."

A rattled breath slid out at this, Flatline's systems protesting as he felt like he had been so close to release from this caged hell. The exhale was more than just mental however, as he had physically stalled out and cycled nothing during the stretch of time in which the monster hung overhead. It threw Energon saturated stagnant air across overheating systems, a rattled shake claiming Flatline as his perpetually gaped vents finally had flowthrough. Trying to bleed out the burning in his chest... trying to amend the imbalance before it choked out internals that simply could not be replaced by his own hand... assuming they even had the right parts to swap out. Which, they likely didn't.

Then a voice clipped in, one that he hadn't expected to hear again once he took his fall. Well... no. A confirmation on the order that was given was mandatory, what he did not anticipate was an offering to help outside of this deranged trial. While Flatline gave no visual signs of having heard it, no twitch of a helm in his direction or even a flick of an eye, he had, and it made an impact. That glimmer of light assumed he would remain however, which Flatline still didn't believe, as Megatron was evidently not done torturing him this day.

Any form of deranged freedom that could be felt, whether death or mercy, was perpetually smothered to leave the black and red mech at a constant state of tension and instability. This could not be any more true than the second that the demon lowered towards his level, blotting out more of the overhead lighting and gifting a far more terrifying presence by being so close while speaking. The threats more personal. More singular. Not just killing to dispose, but lining them up to be killed after one last push to look for either further terror for amusement, or a fighting zeal to confront.

Makeshift tears started to flow once more in the new lull.

No cries, no sob, no sound of any sort escaped the paralyzed mech save for his ragged rasped breathing. His posture did not even change, no curl of his fingers or shift of weight... not even a lift of the helm to look upon Megatron. Flatline's unblinking gaze continued to simply stare ahead into nothingness, seeing, but not seeing... his world a buzzing haze where shadows crept in from the outer edges of his vision, narrowing his line of sight to the smallest of points ahead of him.

Was this where it would end? Primus please. He had been begging for it numerous times and was denied. Just make it stop... make it stop...

Then, the harrowing words whispered as a growl, the sound so much closer than he anticipated given he barely comprehended Megatron's approach to begin with. It almost seemed to be an illusion, a snarled growl that could be as real as much as it could be fabricated in his processor. As uncertain as he may be on the source and its legitimacy, he recognized what was being said.

Flatline knew what that entailed.

He didn't want this. He didn't WANT to receive this title through these series of events. He wanted to steal it through hard work and a recognition of his skills as a doctor. To be able to earn it through all his restless nights and efforts! Yet, here he was. A promotion birthed not from his own capabilities, but from a nauseating miasma of loss and grief at Knock Out's disappearance, solidified by a trial of sadistic torture by an absolute abomination of a soul. It took something Flatline had hungered for since the very second that he stepped foot within the Nemesis, and tainted it all into a bile laced brand that burned into his armor among a series of new scars.

He... he didn't want to be the CMO.

The title scared him now.

Flatline's following inhale held a dryness to it, almost a hoarse sound, his systems starting to transition into involuntarily power down in some feeble attempt to let everything just level out and stop the excessive overdrive. He had no doubt... NO doubt, that he had injured himself at some point during this ordeal that he was too high strung to even feel, and he knew he likely had internal issues forming from heat alone with how his systems were running. He recognized it in the back of his mind, yet his body recognized it that much more, dancing on that threshold's edge, inviting him to just lean and let gravity take care of the rest.

A simple push.

A single mental step...

Red optics flickered a second, a dullness coming into play, before they went dark, Flatline's entire frame going limp with a settling click of armor panels losing tension. He didn't collapse fully to splay on the floor, still teetering upright with settled armor, his long arms repurposed into props by snagging along his legs to hold his chest aloft. While his body did not fall, his helm did tilt forward, his features neutralizing into an idle exhausted state.

The fans in his center mass continued to snarl despite the obvious unconsciousness however, evidence of how desperately overclocked everything was, where even in power down he couldn't rest.

[Megatron]

Megatron raised a brow at the soldier's request. He thought on it for a moment and responded decisively: "Granted." It did not matter what the Vehicon did between assignments as long as he was available when needed, and quite frankly, Flatline would need the added assistance with Knock Out who-knows-where. There was no reason to dispute this request or discuss it any length, and so, the Warlord said no more to RND as if to suggest by the brevity of his response that other matters would be tended to now.

Other matters, indeed.

He set his optics upon the fallen medic no sooner than the other Vehicons arrived. They were of the service class, not warrior class like RND or QLC. They came with equipment of some kind, but their presence hardly garnered any attention from their Lord. Observing the final sputtering, the lack of consciousness in his medic, Megatron was quick to act. He turned to the drones who'd funneled through the Medbay door, six all told, and raised a pointed finger to the sable mech.

"You two at the front," he addressed them with a low snarl and without designation, "Carry him to a slab."

The Vehicons did not squabble nor deliberate amongst themselves, and the pair at the van simply darted towards Flatline. One knelt to the left of him in order to lift his body by the torso. He beckoned his companion over to do the same by Flatline's right. Having thus positioned themselves, they planted their feet firmly into the ground and began to slowly rise with the medic's unconscious, overclocked form. Should there be no resistance from the faded mech, they'd begin to drag him to the nearest free berth, carrying him just high enough for his feet to touch the ground, dragged limp behind the bulk of his form, scraping against the ground in an uncomfortable cacophony of rock and metal.

The remaining four scrambled to make themselves useful, flocking to RND with basic cleaning equipment. One looked quite nervous, and felt it necessary to reassure himself at the sight of the gore and chaos: "We've got the removed equipment, too. It's...in the crates outside, so things should be fine once we, uh, clean this up." He seemed to have been holding onto the bulk of their supplies, carrying five mops and two large buckets, which he struggled to carry. He set four of the mops against the table and held out the last to RND, inviting him to join in the cleaning process. The last three unpacked a small crate of industry-strength disinfectants. Its smell was chemical, invasive, and unpleasant, but perhaps not more so than QLC's inner fluids splattered around the room.

They set off to work soon, each taking a mop into their hand.

Meanwhile, Megatron briefly presided over the whole affair before concluding that his role here was done. He had played the brutal judge and sated his desire to see this matter concluded. The rest was up to the drones—and the medic once he came to. With heavy, deliberate steps, he moved towards the door where the Vehicons once stood.

Once there, he regarded the two attempting to manipulate Flatline one final time.

"You will be responsible for his recovery, and as soon as he comes to, ensure that he is made responsible for the recovery of the other patients," he explained at length, stressing the importance of getting Flatline back on his feet as soon as possible. Megatron would not let him die. Not now, not anymore. He had what he wanted and he would not let it go, no matter how the medic felt on the inside, no matter how much it hurt him. He did not care for such sentiments. Only efficiency and results mattered. In fact, had he known the full extent of the cruel irony of Flatline's current emotions, he would delight in it more than anything else.

All the same, the Warlord turned around and then he disappeared, leaving behind only his heavy footsteps, growing fainter and fainter—fading down the hallway.