[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]The Price of Progress [Closed]

[Starscream]

Narrowing his optics just gently at the stammered, fumbled words - Starscream was quiet as Flatline took a moment to find his voice. It was almost like they were going one step forward, two steps back at times. That self-doubt was something he resonated with strongly, often stumbling over his own words in the presence of Megatron. Of course, that was partly because his processor was practically almost at work, keeping track of the little white lies, the things that were public knowledge and the things that weren’t. He risked far much more with the games he played, though was thankfully able to remain at least five steps ahead at all times.

At least, for now.

He wouldn’t pity Flatline for his predicament, however. The last thing that he wanted for himself in these moments was pity - and so would remain silent as the other mech spoke up, nodding gently in understanding.

Flatline was more than capable of rising above this entire ordeal, even if he did seem to need a gentle nudge to get him there.

“Well, while I am no medic… I am here, and more than willing to assist - should you be able to guide me through whatever process is needed.”

He knew whereabouts on Flatline’s frame the secondary arms belonged. After all, he had been the one to cruelly tear them from him - though he did not know the depth of the work done to cover the gaping holes, but could only assume the wiring and other internals used to connect them were still somewhere within his chassis. Remove the patch plate and all would be revealed, he was sure.

“This includes reconnecting whatever wiring is there. Your workload is about to increase tenfold, and quite frankly you’ll need all the help you can get.”

While he hadn’t worked with Flatline much in an official capacity aside from a project that was no doubt long since lost on the fallen Nemesis, he had received medical care from him more than once when Knock Out had been too preoccupied for a visit. While the secondary arms hadn’t been used for much during his ‘appointment’, he could see how they would streamline certain things and make life just that little bit easier.

Vehicon assistants could only do so much, and without Breakdown here? Flatline would for the most part be flying solo.

“It is, however, completely up to you. Do note that this offer won’t last long, though.” A glance was given to the doorway then, before he turned his attention back to the other mech.

“The day will be starting soon, after all.”

[Flatline]

Pinning his eyes for a moment, Flatline considered if it was even worth having Starscream help him now that there was a loose deadline in place. Another could likely assist so he didn’t waste too much of the Skylord's far more valuable time, especially if he ordered them to do so... Then again, he could command another himself as he was now what was effectively an Officer... which... wasn’t settling well with him. An Officer? Chief Medical Officer? Really? That sort of power after being beaten down to worthless garbage beneath the Warlord's foot wasn't really connecting in his processor, the title as much a thing as it was not at the same time. Whether he could do so or not was irrelevant though, as he could get brave and take the opportunity that had been offered.

He needed to just progress.

"I would like to attach them now, and connecting neural lines can come at another time."

Rocking his weight once as he thought through this, Flatline finally committed and started to limp over to the side, grabbing hold of a rolling medical cart by hooking his claw over its edge to drag it behind him. The thin metal material rattled slightly as its wheels clattered across the slightly uneven ground, one of the back ones wobbling more than the other simply from the angles involved. This would get tugged to the organized piles of supplies and tools, where they were carefully looked through to retrieve whichever ones may be needed.

With care, Flatline pulled out what looked to be a slim hook of some kind affixed to a narrow handle, a form of picking tool with its end blunted so it did not pierce. A small latch folded down on a narrow hinge, turning the hook into an enclosed shape if activated. This would be compared with others of its type of varied sizes, Flatline thinking before he placed the applicable one on the cart which was followed by a long alligator forcep and other items of note.

"How... confident are you with balancing cutting depth?"

Flatline wasn't sure how else to phrase this question, though it was one with rather high levels of importance. He wasn’t sure if Starscream was measured enough to apply an even level of slicing around the guideline without plunging it too deep. If he could rely on the Seeker's scientific background, then the kerf of the cut would be far more controlled rather than trying to put together a router-eske guard that may not be able to get as close to the seam plate as needed for the best fit.

Fear would creep back into play then, Flatline unsure if the question itself could be seen as insulting or not. He had tried to phrase it tactically, but it effectively boiled down to 'Do you have a measured hand or are you careless?'. It had to be asked, however. It HAD to. To blindly trust could result in Starscreem pushing the cutting tool enough that it could snag which would mangle and sever important wires below. While he didn't expect even a moron to continue past deep enough to actually hit any organs beyond it, the neural lines and Energon pipes alone would be torn apart and he didn’t know how he would be able to deal with that with its awkward location and lack of Breakdown's help.

He would find a way.

Somehow...

Hopefully it didn't come to that.

[Starscream]

"I would like to attach them now, and connecting neural lines can come at another time."

“Suit yourself.”

There was a touch of gentle amusement to his tone, the Seeker absently picking at one of his claws as he watched the other mech limp toward the medical cart. Should he have been in Flatline’s position, he probably would’ve wanted everything done in this precious moment where they did have time to actually follow through with things.

After all, there was no telling if ‘another time’ would even arrive.

Perhaps there was some apprehension behind what was needed for the full procedure. Connecting neural lines was a delicate task indeed, or so he could only assume as he had no formal medical training - aside from the very basics, of course - as such, he could see why the other mech was wary. Should Knock Out return, he would no doubt be the one to do it if Flatline couldn’t somehow do things himself, but even that was an unknown at present.

His optics narrowed some as he watched the other mech begin placing various tools on the cart. Some of these he had seen before, though he was certainly no expert in their usage.

It was at Flatline’s next words - and the question - that he would finally move, stepping forward, arms looping gently behind his back as he nodded. He did not take insult to what’d been asked; given what was about to happen? Flatline would be foolish not to at least make sure he was up to the task.

“Fairly confident. I like to think I have a steady servo. However, I understand any doubts you may have, given I am not exactly trained in the medical field.”

Moving over to the cart, he would stop just a few steps away - peering down at it a moment to look over the tools that’d been laid out, before his arms would move from behind himself, momentarily inspecting his clawed talons with a gentle hum of thought.

“If you’d like, I could do something to demonstrate, if only to quell your nerves. Though I’m not exactly sure what would suffice.”

His optics would then drift to the Vehicon across the room as his arms returned to his sides. He still did not know the full extent of the trooper's injuries, only that they had been inflicted by Megatron’s hand. Flatline had saved him, though it would remain to be seen if he actually pulled through completely to the point he was able to continue his day-to-day function.

“While not quite a cadaver, I’m sure I can’t exactly make his life any worse.”

[Flatline]

By the time Starscream had made his way over, the medical cart had already been populated by other tools and supplies that may be required for the procedure in play. Some would undoubtedly be recognizable such as a simple roll of tape and a wax pen that looked better suited for crafts than surgery, while others were less expected such as a small air compressor and a drill bit set that's lands were hooked and flared out at a steeper angle than its more standard counterpart.

While this was likely being looked over, Flatline placed down a rectangle box that was followed up by two cylinder vials that had some sort of noxious orange liquid within. This seemed to be the last thing that he wanted to retrieve at this juncture, gaze slipping back to look in Starscream's direction while he spoke further. He was trying to judge confidence within the other individual, yet such things could so often be obscured by pride or arrogance within the Decepticons, and with his frazzled psyche, there was nothing to be gained there as he could read nothing. What he did learn however was a new option.

Something he didn’t expect.

A long pause occurred then, Flatline easing upright enough that he could peer past the box of his shoulder guard to stare out at the false cadaver himself. The idea of using some patients for experimentation was not something that would always bother him. He had taken the lives of many when he was trying to split Sparks in half, a needed sacrifice for progress that would let them surge their soldiers' numbers to make for a quick victory should it work... as well as possibly let him make a name for himself that would last beyond his days... yet this was different. He was tasked to keep this individual going, it possibly even bound to his own fate indefinitely.

The bottom line however was the fact that if Starscream grotesquely messed up, then he would be able to rectify the issue on the Vehicon, while if he grotesquely messed up on himself, then trying to fix it while not being able to even see it would be an ordeal.

Showing resignation, Flatline's gaze relaxed into a more somber state, before his weight rolled to the side for him to start to walk over, clipping the edge of his claw over the lip of the rolling cart to drag it with him.

The Vehicon at first glance seemed mostly whole, however, when approached the abnormalities of what may lay beneath the tarp would become abundantly clear. Its abdominal region was dropped down further than it should, indicating a lack of complete paneling there that likely covered what lay below, as well as the fact that its hip assembly and legs were further from the center mass, making said torso seem longer. It would not be a difficult assumption to come to the conclusion that the soldier was more likely than not in two pieces, though if it were severed by the trial itself, or the aftermath to try to repair the insides, was not apparent.

Blotches of dulled Energon speckled around the liquid channels that pulled liquids towards the lower slope of the medical slab, a sort of drain routed into the edge to keep the Vehicon's body from simply rotting in a pool of fuel, oil, coolant, and whatever else would be spilled while worked upon. It was there that Flatline looped his hand gently beneath the soldier's arm, sliding it out some from its center mass and laying it so that its palm was down, and the larger flat plate of the limb was angled up properly. With this done, Flatline stared at them for another hollow pause, as though he was mulling over the morality of it all, or simply due to the trauma their frame had already undergone.

They wouldn't feel anything, forced into stasis so that they could be worked on gradually as things were reconstructed rather than continuously pumping painkillers through them or relying on shutting down neural lines which he didn’t like. A forearm would also have so very little that could go wrong, the connectors and cabling that controlled dexterous tasks routing through the opposite side. While it would be thicker than the plating on his own chest, it would give more wiggle room and learning space.

Flatline's lips parted slightly as he chewed over words a second longer before he finally spoke.

"Very well..."

[Starscream]

Briefly turning his attention back to the cart, Starscream took note of just what had been laid out in preparation for the procedure ahead. The addition of tape and a wax pen were certainly odd, though he could see why they had their place in the Medical Bay. The air compressor was curious, though he wouldn’t ask as to its exact purpose, knowing that Flatline would probably indicate when to use it - and on what.

He wouldn’t pick anything up from the cart to inspect it. Just like himself, he was sure Flatline was meticulous, and while touching the tools wouldn’t exactly mess anything up, he knew better than to disturb until it was time to do so. They had been placed for a reason, and it was not his place to question their purpose.

Glancing to Flatline as the pause after his own words seemed to linger longer than he’d like, he could only wonder just what was going through the other mech’s helm. Mulling over the options, no doubt, weighing the pros and cons in having the silver Seeker cut into the Vehicon first. Given the barbaric nature of the test and just how hard the medic had to work in keeping the trooper alive? He could understand the reservation in having to possibly save him a second time should things go downhill.

He let the silence hang, giving the other mech time to decide what the best course of action would be, and would nod in silent approval as - finally, the other mech would move, dragging the cart with him toward the berth.

Starscream would follow, arms looping behind his back.

While he hadn’t gotten a decent look at what lay beneath the tarp, now that he had moved closer and could see things from this angle, he could tell that things… weren’t quite right. Had the Vehicon been split in half, or was the wound to its abdominal area been that bad? Megatron was certainly cruel, twisted to the point that severing a Vehicon in half and demanding it be fixed probably wasn’t too out of character.

There was certainly a lot of spilled Energon, which was telling as to the severity of the injury.

“Mm.”

He watched as Flatline manipulated the soldier’s arm into place, assuming the limb would be what he would be working on. A smart move, even if he felt more than capable - as the risk of further harm to the Vehicon was slim, compared to if he cut into the chassis, which was closer to vital lines and parts.

“Any particular area?” one arm would unloop as he gestured to the Vehicon’s limb. 

“Upper, lower - dealer’s choice?”

It probably didn’t matter, though he could sense just how wary Flatline was and so wanted to let the Medic continue to have control of as much of the situation as he could.

“What exactly did Megatron even do to him, anyway?”

Ah, there it was. The question that he’d had since he’d first noticed the Vehicon upon his arrival. It needed to be asked, he needed to see just what lay beneath the tarp - if only to affirm his own suspicion that their Warlord had fallen to a point of no return.

[Flatline]

Settling down into place beside the Vehicon, Flatline rocked his weight over his good leg, completely omitting the damaged one as if it were no longer a thing. The gyroscopes in his upper torso would regulate this, conveniently making it a non-issue, while for others the lack of being able to use a leg longer term could result in a wobble every now and again to keep balanced. Said gyroscopes were mostly silent, though, in a dead quiet environment, the faintest of noise could potentially be heard as they counterbalanced. Whatever the case, the white wax pen was picked up.

"Lower arm."

Looking at the drawing tool, Flatline scraped the edge of his thumb gently on its end, making sure it was sharp enough to work properly and hadn’t been dented in by being dropped. With this simple test confirmed, he would then reach down, steadying his grip atop the point that protruded from the side of his hand, while his pinky hooked out, its side placing down as well. Using his naturally long fingers and this inbuilt anchor point, he would draw out a circle in the center of the forearm plate with an obscene level of accuracy that almost looked as though a stencil or compass was utilized. It was a testament of just how precise his movements could be due to how casually the motion was made with little to no preparation.

Thankfully this was completed before Starscream had spoken more, as the question that was dropped made him falter slightly, pulling his arm back.

"He was impaled from back to front..."

Megatron's sword was not a narrow blade, and as such it was effectively a guillotine that took much with it as it passed. While the Seeker may have wanted to see the injury in question, Flatline made no efforts to pull aside the tarp, instead moving his hand over to place the pen on the tray, replacing it with a drill bit that had a blunted end. It didn't appear to have overt cutting blades of any type, though had an abrasive sliced-in spiral that made it almost emulate a sort of twisted rat tail rasp. As though it were an everyday task, a thin piece of tape was wrapped around its body avoiding the shank, being sure to smear it flush with no pockets or heavy seams of note.

"Okay, so..."

Picking up the accompanying drill, Flatline pressed the tape-wrapped bit into place with a snap, pulling the trigger slightly to make sure that it wasn’t only connected, but that it was balanced and straight. With this confirmed, he seemed to falter a moment, before he held it out for Starscream to take, resigning himself to try to only verbally assist on some level. It would be difficult, he already felt strain in not even starting the cut to guide, but he needed to remember he couldn’t do as much on his own frame and had to let go.

"Hold the drill perpendicular to the plate, and line it up in the middle-"

The pointed end of his claw tapped the dead center of the white ring as he said this.

"-Don't press once it makes contact with the metal, and let gravity dictate the speed. Move slowly. The second you feel it slightly drop to the other side, remove it."

Should this task be accomplished, and the grinding bit removed, Starscream would be able to see a rough scorch line on the tape that showed exactly how far in the bit bore before it was pulled away, indicating the exact depth of the armor plate. So long as nothing went catastrophically wrong, Flatline would then hold out his hand palm up, silently requesting the device back as he side-eyed everything.

It felt so wrong doing this to the soldier... he did not deserve any additional injuries. His nightmare would continue for so long even without this, however, that a simple cookie-cutter hole would be completely gone before his more critical issues could heal. He was unconscious, he could feel nothing, and yet... he was being used as a training dummy, and it bothered Flatline.

[Starscream]

Lower arm? Well that made sense, he supposed. It was easier to access, for one thing, meaning that should things go awry, it’d be far easier to repair any damage that was done. Not that he was concerned about such things, he had confidence in his own skills - after all, it wasn’t exactly processor surgery.

He watched quietly as the wax pen was used, a slight twitch at his lip - approval, or maybe even mild amusement to the point he was impressed - at seeing just how accurate the other mech was in drawing upon the Vehicon’s arm. Clearly he’d done this countless times before to the point it was simply second nature, as it seemed no real thought or effort had gone into drawing the circle itself despite it being almost perfect.

Ah, but then… the answer to his question. It was short, to the point, meaning no further questions were asked - simply because he did not need answers. He knew the why - as barbaric as it was - and now the how. Not many who met Megatron’s blade lived to tell the tale, and the fact Flatline had managed to keep this Vehicon stable was quite a feat indeed.

As curious as he was to see the actual damage that’d been inflicted, he would refrain from lifting the tarp for the moment. There was a time and place, and it was not now.

Shifting his gaze back to Flatline he would nod, taking the offered drill with one servo. The addition of the tape was interesting - and while he was no stranger to using something to help guide, the usage of something so simple was honestly commendable.

Listening to the instructions, he took note of just where the other mech’s clawed digit poked at the Vehicon, before he nodded again.

“Alright. Simple enough, I suppose.”

This was, after all, for Flatline’s peace of mind more than anything else - though that wasn’t to say he didn’t hold some apprehension of his own, as faint as it was. He had been the one to forcibly remove the arms from the medic’s frame - and while it was poetic indeed that he was to help with their reattachment, he didn’t want to botch things to the point that what little trust he had regained would be lost in an instant.

Stepping forward, he would do what had been asked of him. There was no hesitation, no fuss, no further comments nor questions - the drill whirring to life as he gently set it against the center of the circle. He was gentle yet firm as the bit cut into the Vehicon’s arm, and only once he felt that ‘drop’ did he pull back.

Powering the drill off, he would hand it back over to Flatline before he took a single step back and away, arms once again looping behind his back.

“I assume you will want to inspect my work?”

Not that there was much to really look at. A single hole of perfect depth. While it could be said it was made easy by the fact the patient wasn’t moving, it certainly showed Starscream could control the tool with ease.

[Flatline]

Reaching forward with a bladed fingertip once the drill had been passed to his left hand, Flatline tapped lightly in the center of the circle beside the tiny opening, his focus appearing to shift aside as he listened to the sound that was made. He already knew the depth due to experience, though it was still a form of habit, comparing the noise to the scorch line right after the soft impacts resonated with faint clicks. While judging the thickness of paneling by its tones alone could be a skillful art, what required no trained skill at all was appreciating just how fine a point was drilled. While it could seem mundane to many, the diameter wasn't that far off from the bit's own, meaning there was little to no wobble or tilting as it dropped.

"No need."

Forgoing a more scrutinous examination than his cursory motion, Flatline ejected the drill bit before picking up a different one that may be more familiar in design. Its flutes were deep, and its lands hooked out further than normal with a profoundly tight spiral structure, creating the recognizable profile of a sideways-cutting drill bit. As though it wasn't obvious enough by its distinct surface, its sharp gold color separated it that much more from its dull silver counterparts so that it wasn’t mistaken in the flurry of a medical emergency. This bit was lined up beside the first one that was used before he picked up the previous wax pen, holding it forward so that it could be observed by the other mech. The ends were lined up evenly.

"We are looking to rout, not cut all the way through."

With this statement, Flatline drew a stark white line on the sideways drill bit just below the scorch line of the other, showing that if it was utilized as law, it would leave a thin layer of metals supporting the center of the circle rather than breach into the internal space below. After this was detailed, the rasp was sat down, and the golden variant was installed, a subsequent whirl of the device made to once again check to make sure it was secure and centered. Only then was the drill held back out handle side first, that nervous feeling creeping back to the surface.

Flatline's morals were profoundly scattered and skewed on many topics. He was a doctor at his core, meant to serve and aid others in their weakest moments. He liked to save someone's life and loved the power that was felt in being able to control their fates. That said, he also did his Spark experimentations, where souls were subsequently quelled beneath his grasp, often by profoundly cruel means. It was an odd dichotomy that right here in the now, he felt as odd as he did about the Vehicon. Perhaps it was the fact that it was exclusively for his personal comfort at the cost of injury, while his scientific endeavors had a greater purpose that went beyond what any single life could amount to.

Whatever the case may be, it was disconcerting, though he tried not to let it show.

"Start where you are most comfortable, and gradually work your way around the circle without pushing past the line on the bit."

Hollow words, almost mechanically devoid.

[Starscream]

Watching the medic curiously, Starscream seemed intrigued by the simple motion made by the other mech. A gentle tap of a single fingertip beside the hole that’d been made, and nothing more. Yet the single movement seemed to tell much, even if Starscream wasn’t sure just what was being conveyed.

He had an idea - as it was not too hard to work out the meaning behind this process - though were Flatline’s skills so honed to the point he could tell via sound alone?

It was impressive.

As Flatline spoke, the faintest of smiles twitched at the Seeker’s lip. While he knew he had done what’d been asked to the point it was good enough to pass, to hear if confirmed - without the other mech needing to scrutinize or check it further - was a tiny boost to the ego, even if it hadn’t exactly been anything too complicated.

If anything, he hoped it would calm Flatline some - knowing he was about to have the Seeker reattach his limbs.

“You knew that simply by tapping around the opening?”

Skills like that weren’t taught, they were learned - and then perfected to the point they were an invaluable second nature - and it made him frown thinking just how reckless Megatron had been with his barbaric test. Medics were so few and far between now, experienced ones even less so. While the Medical Bay would’ve no doubt continued to function should Flatline have failed and perished, it would never have been to the same standard and would’ve cost the Decepticon cause more than they realized.

At the other mech’s next words and instruction, he watched as the line was marked upon the drill bit - though noticed the oh-so-subtle hesitation as the tool was offered out once more.

The Vehicon that lay on the berth could thankfully not feel any pain. The stasis he was in thankfully made sure of that, though an argument could be made that he had suffered through enough. Trauma upon trauma, he had a long road of recovery ahead, especially so now they were only down to one Medic - and while this little test of Starscream’s skill was but a mere blip when compared to the rest of the injuries to his frame, it could be seen as unnecessary, and while Flatline was trying to downplay the fact it bothered him? Starscream could tell that it did.

Taking the drill, he peered at it - brow furrowing as Flatline gave him the okay to start. A clawed digit would gently scrape against the drill bit itself, attention shifting to the tarp that covered the majority of the soldier’s frame, before his gaze moved to Flatline.

“Mm.” he hummed. “Speaking of comfortable, I sense that you are anything but. We can forego this little test and proceed directly to the re-installation of your arms, should you wish, as I’ve more than proved I have a steady hand, have I not?”

He wasn’t judging the other mech, and his tone remained calm - optics narrowing ever so slightly as he watched for any sort of involuntary reaction before a word could even be uttered in reply.

[Flatline]

Flatline let out a soft sound at Starscream's initial question.

"Ghn... yes no... Lighter armors create a tinny noise, thicker plates duller. Composition can affect results, but generally, it gives an idea."

Many individuals could be made of different metal mixes, some favoring being light, while others demanded heavier structural integrity, which made the process an aid, not a rule.

"I know the gauge, yet, it is habit."

One that was hard to break, though was thankfully not time-consuming.

"Speaking of comfortable, I sense that you are anything but."

This statement resulted in Flatline's helm crooking slightly over as if he were glancing in Starscream's direction, without actually looking upon him directly. He didn't like that he was transparent enough for this to be picked up on revealing his failure to mask things, and even less pleased at the fact his spine paneling said even more, the slats once again raising slightly in further betrayal of his displeasure. While this habitual motion was mostly irrelevant when working since they were on his back and he would be facing a patient, it didn't have the same shielding when the individual was at his side.

As Starscream's words continued, the nervous bristle transitioned to a rattled smoothing, though it wasn't a sign of relaxation as someone may guess, the tightness then a statement about his more guarded nature returning, the armor creating an even shield. Things could go wrong so very quickly if he were to let Starscream work on him, and he knew a simple drilled hole would be unable to quell his nerves. It had to have been asked however for more reason than simply mercy for the soldier however, Starscream perhaps impatient at the pacing, realizing it would take even more time since he had two limbs to attach, rather than simply one.

"I s-see..."

A hollow reply, Flatline's words... well... flat. While he wouldn't need to make the Vehicon suffer more, this was still a big deal, and in response he slowly reached forward to detach the sideways drill bit once more from the machine, retrieving a cloth so that he could wipe off the wax pen line he had just put on it so that it didn't muddle things and cause issues. There would be nothing worse than Starscream believing that the thickness of his own plating would be the same as the armor on a soldier's forearms where self-defense wounds could be obtained.

After his void reply, Flatline placed the tool he held down onto the medical tray, turning to then move towards the empty slab in the room while dragging it behind him with a rattle across the stone floor. As he did so, he took a two-stride detour in order to retrieve a brace aid, it being a half-circle tube with a hard indent in the center point. This would be held in his left hand until he got in range, placing it on the flat surface.

"My armor is considerably thinner, and will be punctured far faster."

He warned this outright, as gravity would let the drill bit slice through a lot quicker than it had with the soldier. After this statement, he picked up and opened a container with a flip switch, revealing a silver injection gun that was currently empty. It was simplistic in design, with a basic trigger and space for a cartridge of some sort, with a blunt front making it rather innocuous. This was retrieved from the case to be looked over, checking for any damages that certainly would not be there given its protected state, before he picked up a matching cylinder, its contents a sickly orange that was translucent in nature. This was placed into the gun with a snap, his motions mechanical and stilted as he realized it would be used on himself.

"You are certain you feel confident?"

Flatline grimaced instantly after this, worried he could once again come off as insulting in some way to once more challenge the other mech. A mech that was considerably more powerful than him on the chain of command. A mech that could will his demise at a single order. A mech who had already ripped off his limbs in a vicious act of cruelty. One he had deserved... but still... It left a deep psychological mark.

Nervously, Flatline then grabbed another cylinder that he screwed onto the blunted front, twisting hard once there was resistance so that there was a snap, only to turn the other way to release it, leaving behind a thick punching needle that was locked back.

[Starscream]

Bobbing his helm at the brief explanation, Starscream hummed quietly in appreciation, almost. It was such a simple thing, something that was practically second nature to the other mech - yet it was a valuable skill that in the long term had probably saved countless hours.

“It’s impressive indeed.”

He’d give compliments where they were due, and this certainly warranted one, even if the other mech thought nothing of it. Until he’d drawn attention of it, Flatline probably hadn’t even really realized he was doing it - such was the thing with habits.

Ah, but how the mood shifted then. He watched the other mech and how his posture shifted, how the panels on his back moved once more. This time they did not rattle and flare, instead easing so they were settled almost at ease, in a way. However, it was the hollow words that gave away where his processor was.

He wouldn’t say anything, watching as Flatline retrieved a cloth and carefully - wordlessly - wiped the wax line from the drill bit and then moved to gather more materials. A gentle warning was given about armor thickness, which was met with a simple nod of understanding. Having been the one to rip the secondary arms off with what’d been significant ease, he certainly had a frame of concept as to the armor of the other mech.

Or lack thereof.

His optics narrowed just slightly as he watched with mild curiosity as Flatline began preparing things, noting the sickly-colored translucent liquid in the cartridge that was loaded into the injection gun, and only at the question did his expression ease into a more neutral one.

“Yes. Though that confidence goes both ways, should you not feel me worthy-” a servo would vaguely gesture in Flatline’s general direction as he spoke. “We could always wait for Knock Out to return to do the procedure. Though we unfortunately do not know when - or if - that will happen.”

Lowering his servo to rest at his side, his gaze would not leave that of the other mech.

“I suppose it comes down to trust, does it not?”

[Flatline]

Trust.

Such a tricky thing.

Did Flatline TRUST Starscream? Not fully. Not really. The mech had skill, and he would be relied upon enough to do this task, though full trust was difficult to give. The word was so distorted and twisted within the Decepticons anyway that it held numerous layers to it. The layer of appearances and what had to be given to a superior officer, the layer of what one would give an equal, and then the deeper layer that was seldom touched of true trust. So yes... Flatline trusted, but he didn’t TRUST.

He just knew he had to suck it up.

"-unfortunately do not know when - or if - that will happen."

"You are correct..."

Muttered out, Flatline had to swallow those emotions, focusing on turning the dial on the side of the machine, tuning it to his particular mass and Energon levels that he already knew. The simple twist knob would limit just how much of the compound was used so that there wasn't any waste or some sort of overdose risk. He wanted to still be alert of course, though he also knew that his sense of pain tolerance was laughable at best. Even the simplest of injuries would seem all the more catastrophic than it would be for others. He never had to see a front line, he never had to work in some factory or other more laborious tasks. Alas, this meant he not only needed the painkiller but that he was almost scared of the injector gun itself.

Nervously looking over it again, Flatline turned the tool around so that it was angled at himself, awkwardly twisting his wrist in order to try to aim it properly. The small amount of exposed needle snagged slightly where his right secondary arm had once been, using its point as a faint pivot despite its discomfort to level the cartridge perpendicular to the plating. The moment after this was done, he tensed, psyching himself up momentarily before pulling the trigger.

A snap punch was made followed by a flinched hiss, the thick needle slamming through his plating to send the compound into his lines and the surrounding mesh underneath. While he could have injected it painlessly into the exposed pipes on his arm or even lower leg, he wanted it more localized rather than a dullness all over his frame. With this, he shakily pulled the gun back which now had a portion of its contents missing and the needle locked back again if it needed to be used once more. On his plating, there was a small hole in its wake. Minute, difficult to see at a glance, especially with his black paint, but there nonetheless, able to be patched over with self-repair in time.

Placing the gun aside after re-attaching its cap, Flatline reached up and grabbed onto the handle on the side of the adjustable disk light, pulling it down from its folded state with a protested creak from the hinges. While it undoubtedly wouldn't be aimed properly, it was now within easy reach, where his focus then shifted to a cloth to set it down beside a thin metal bottle that was marked as a paint stripper. The cloth wasn't a standard mesh material like those they were using to clean earlier, one side being thicker and soft to permit the chemical to absorb in to be used, while the other was shiny with a plastic-like film, protecting the user's hands.

With things lined up, Flatline placed his cane aside, thinking momentarily about how he would do this, before he pushed off the ground with his bad leg, permitting his good knee to clip on the edge and bear his weight. It was painful, that was for sure, however, he physically could not have done it the other way with his immobilized joint configuration. This locked state made his repositioning rather awkward, his hip scraping while he tried to flip onto his back, finally moving enough so that it was possible. This left his bad leg crooked up at an almost painful-looking angle, the lighting emphasizing the garish metal brackets, strapping, and hastily locked in expansion foam, while the other limb could rest.

As he settled down and tried to get as comfortable as someone could in his position, Flatline wedged the brace at his lower back, the hooked shape pushing the spinal plates up so that his torso was crooked with his chest more exposed. This would keep him from trying to lean forward, where the upper plates would overlap the work area and make things needlessly annoying if not breaking something in the process. It also made it so that the light hit the area better.

"Ok so, I never felt weld lines, so I doubt they are visible..."

Flatline moved his hand up and tapped the point of his finger where the socket had once been. While Starscream would know the general area, this was a situation where accuracy was mandatory.

"Unless you can see something I cannot?"

Really, Knock Out had done his job, and he had done it well. If someone didn't know that an extra set of limbs had been attached, then they likely would have never even guessed it was a possibility. An even finish, with an even paint job that held no gradients where old met new coatings... The damn fake medic truly was an artist with such things. If there had been any hints, however, it wasn't as though Flatline could see, the entire work area completely out of his line of sight.

"If not, we will need to try to peel the paint back to expose the welding discoloration..."

[Starscream]

Frowning gently at the uttered words, Starscream would nod. While it was grim to think about, there was, unfortunately, a very real possibility that Knock Out would not return to their ranks alive - and while he wasn't suggesting that Flatline suddenly give up hope and shift into this mindset immediately, it was certainly something to think about just in case it did happen.

Primus only knew he'd longed for the day Megatron was gone for good. He'd come so tantalizingly close to such a reality only to have it ripped from him, and so knew better than to get his hopes up. Flatline was similar to him, in a way - or at least deep down, even if he did not want to admit it to himself. How he thought himself better than the cherry-red mech, and more deserving of the rank which he ironically now held.

But would that be snatched from him too? Or would this be the new norm? Only time would tell. There was no trace nor sign of their missing medic so far, so one could only assume the worst even after only a few days.

But miracles did happen.

He watched with a curious gaze as Flatline turned the dial on the machine, and while no offers were made to step in and assist, he hoped the other mech knew he was ready to aid even in mundane prep work should it be required.

All Flatline need do was ask, though the words never came.

He could sense the medic was nervous, noting how he seemed to hesitate some in his movements - though he wouldn't, nor couldn't, blame him in the slightest. In this moment of quiet as Flatline worked and found the courage to do what was needed, Starscream could only wonder just what was going through his processor.

The cruelty of the test Megatron had inflicted, the lack of recharge that followed such a traumatic event, followed by the unannounced arrival of the Second in Command to a medical bay that looked like a tornado had ripped it apart - to the confusing high of being gifted his arms back by the very mech who had torn them from him. There was no doubt enough adrenaline rushing through his lines to the point he'd need something just to get some modicum of rest once this was all over and done, but even then… could he afford to?

The war machine of the Decepticons never stopped, after all - and with Breakdown assigned elsewhere? Well, the Vehicons could only do so much to assist in what was probably one of the most important rooms here at Blackridge Hold.

He frowned at these thoughts, finding that they plagued him more than he'd realized or even intended - and it was only at the sudden sound of the injector gun that he turned his attention to what Flatline had just done. From where he stood, he did not see the hole that'd been punctured through the plating, though knew from his own experiences in the med bay that it was practically minute even despite the noise that seemed louder than it should've been due to his own momentary distraction.

There was still no movement from the silver Seeker as he watched Flatline continue to prep for what was to come. His wings twitched ever so slightly behind himself, almost as if betraying that he was at odds about what to do. He had half a mind to offer an arm for stability as the other mech moved to haul himself up and onto the medical berth, though knew that it came with the risk of damaging Flatline's pride.

Though, given the current state of him - would Flatline have welcomed the help?

Easing forward into a gradual walk, he hoped the approach would be seen as a silent offer to aid should it be wanted, though made no motions of actually assisting - and there was a touch of relief at seeing the other mech succeed in climbing up on his own.

Briefly, Starscream's gaze shifted to Flatline's knee and the awkward-looking angle on which it rested. Under the glaring light, the work that'd been done on repairing the joint was apparent, and he found himself thankful that he wasn't to be tasked with even trying to fix it.

Stopping beside the berth, he took note of just where he would be working. Having been the one to remove the secondary arms to begin with, he had a good enough idea of just where they were to be reattached, but there was admittedly far more space than he'd realized.

Thankfully, though, Flatline pointed to the correct area, and he made a point of trying to memorize the exact spot. He wanted to do this right, after all, and accuracy was key.

Leaning in as the other mech spoke, one servo would move to reach and pull the light further down. Again its hinges groaned in protest at the movement, though it was easy enough to angle into a better position.

"Mm… I don't see anything of note."

He could only assume Knock Out had repaired this, and in comparison to Flatline's knee? It was pristine. If he hadn't removed the arms himself or known of their existence, he probably wouldn't have known they were even here to begin with. Such immaculate work made him wonder if the former CMO had acted with the mindset that they'd never be reattached, or if it was simply him taking pride in his work.

Perhaps a bit of both.

Easing down, trying to angle the light a little more, a quiet, vented sigh escaped him.

"...Even with the light." he added, for good measure. Truly, it was as if the arms had never been there to begin with.

Standing upright, a glance was given to the bottle of paint stripper. While it would be easy to simply scrape a claw to feel for any weld lines, any involuntary movement from Flatline - even despite being numbed - could end in disaster.

"-we will need to try to peel the paint back to expose the welding discoloration..."

"I assume with that?" he gestured, before leaning over to pick up both the bottle and the cloth, peering at them. "I hope you aren't picky about your paint… while I can confidently assist in reattaching the limbs, an artist I certainly am not."

The even finish would be ruined, even if part of it would thankfully be covered by the secondary arm - and while Flatline didn't seem the type to care about such things, a warning was given regardless.

[Flatline]

Great. Flatline had been hoping the seam was something he couldn't really feel well but would be visible due to the angled lighting, yet it appeared as though he wasn't going to be that lucky this day. He knew deep down this would be the case, so he wasn’t really surprised, though he couldn’t help but still feel disappointed that he couldn't catch a break. It was what it was, however, and he had to look forward to the next step, though had unintentionally jumped an option, not even thinking to tell Starscream he could use a claw to feel for it. The firm pressure and scrape of the knife's edge probably would have told much, and the numbing would make him not wrench back, yet he was already to the next step which likely would help just fine. Hopefully.

"Appearances are never my first concern..."

'Even though Knock Out made a good argument why they should be considered'

The idea of one's doctor looking better kept could make someone feel as though they themselves would be taken care of well. It was such a simple thing, and back on Cybertron he likely would have done so simply out of routine maintenance. With the start of the war, he stopped caring about smaller defects and it showed. Scuffs, shallow scrapes, a couple spots of paint chipping from the sharper points of his angular structure... in stronger lighting a faint division between paint batches could also be seen, one black richer than another, though in Blackridge it was hardly visible at all. Things would need to be mended at some point, especially due to the fact he was now the Chief Medical Officer, yet that time was not now.

"Functionality is of far more importance."

Even if he had to have a huge stretch of his frame bare gray metals, it would be worth it to regain his secondary arms.

"As the paint is peeled back, there should be a series of curved scrapes from the grinder and a difference in color tone between my composition and the graft."

In days long gone, a sample core of someone's plating could be matched up to the replacement patches if someone wanted to be particularly neurotic and perfectionist, mirroring the weight and strength of the rest of their patient's frame, however, they didn't have that luxury here. At least, he didn’t recall having the grade that matched his composition spot on, though he could certainly be mistaken as he hadn’t been in this position before and wasn’t really in a proper mindset to have spoken up to ask about it back then. The shock of his loss was profound, and if the patches were too light or too heavy, it wasn’t as if he would care or even notice when he was coping with ghost pains.

"If the colors look identical, we can do a faint acid wash to see what directions the grain goes. Knock Out may be skilled, but I doubt he'd take the time to line up something so irrelevant."

Primus don't let Knock Out have been THAT attuned to frivolous details... He didn't want to need to try to map out the arm's placements from scratch to carve all new openings, as deviation could feel alien and cause possible issues with rehab. He knew it would already be awkward enough, and he didn’t need problems atop problems when it was something he valued so incredibly much and mourned actively.

[Starscream]

"Appearances are never my first concern..."

"Noted."

Stated simply, though should Flatline be paying attention? He may have picked up a touch of amusement in the Seeker's word. He wasn't teasing nor judging the other mech, even if he was practically stating the obvious with what he'd said.

While there were those among their ranks that cared about appearances, for most, it was an afterthought at best, with a quick scrub-down in the washracks enough to keep most content with how they looked. Scuffs and damage were inevitable, given the ongoing war, and making sure to keep one's frame pristine was often a lost cause.

Knock Out and Flatline seemed to be at the opposite ends of this spectrum, however, with the cherry-red mech prioritizing vanity, whereas the mech before him seemed to care very little about looking his best. He could see the benefit in both, though the differing opinions of the two medics was curious, given their profession.

Giving the bottle of paint stripper a casual glance, if only to read the instructions to see if it needed any sort of dilution, he took care in listening to Flatline's words. Even despite the mech's insistence that he didn't care about appearances, he was sure that should this end badly with too much paint taken from the wrong area? Even Flatline would have an issue with how he looked.

Unscrewing the cap from the bottle, he was careful to set it down somewhere it wouldn't get lost. The smell of paint stripper was noxious, a quick tell of just how potent it was - and he was quietly thankful for the cloth that would protect his servo.

"He certainly took care in repairing this. If I wasn't aware the arms were even here to begin with, I wouldn't know where to start."

Carefully, he would place the cloth over the now-opened bottle, tipping it so as to get some of the liquid onto the fabric itself. Then, he would begin to work. Gingerly at first, not wanting to press too hard and strip away too much too quickly, though with enough force so that the paint stripped could actually do its job.

"Do you think he did such a good job at covering this up because he cared about you as a patient, or to simply rub it in that he believes to be more skilled than yourself?"

He didn't want to work in silence. Normally, quiet did not bother him when it came to the mundane things like sorting rosters and schedules or reorganizing their Energon supplies to utilize their storage better. But this? Working on someone? He found he needed to fill the space with words, or in this case? Questions - if only to keep Flatline talking as well.