The breems after the cortical patch session were uneventful enough... Lord Megatron didn't even glance at the prone, unmoving seeker as he stood, his large frame eliciting a quiet groan from the medical berth. He sent a muttered, "I'll deal with you later," to Knock Out before exiting the med bay as quickly as possible, leaving the medic to fret over possible punishments that his lack of loyalty would entail.
Subsequently, the cherry-red sportscar retreated to the recesses of the ship's medical storage units, hoping that the lack of his presence would be enough of a hint for everyone to leave him alone… and an intentional excuse to stay of out Megatron's sight, should the large mech recall his transgressions.
Knock Out returned a joor later, servos laden with materials he had found. Most required a few repairs here and there but were otherwise fully functional, and who knew when he might need them next? He may be vain, but he prided himself in his skills. Working equipment, not shoddy, half-rate scrap, was thus a necessity.
"Alone at last…"
He chuckled to himself quietly, setting down his burden with care on a barren worktable.
Once, the quiet, the silence, the total lack of EM energy beside his own would have disturbed him. He had spent a cycle or two wandering the Nemesis in a futile attempt at being in another's company before at last holing up in the med bay, by himself in the stillness, to come to terms with the loss of his partner.
But he wasn't left to his own devices for long; casualties, relic hunts, Insecticon feuds, and constant fluctuations in the number of bots aboard the Nemesis had brought with them an oppressive amount of work. In this way, he had little time for more personal pleasures, and despite his lack of comfort with the ambiance of an empty room, he grew to appreciate the time away from others more than the constant hustle of failing schemes and pitted attentions, courtesy of Lord Megatron.
A brief scrape of metal on metal sounded softly, drawing him back to the present. He glanced up, surprise flickering across his faceplate as his optics caught the immobile form of Starscream. The winged mech hadn't shifted from the berth in all this time, and Knock Out had failed to notice… it was only now, once the silver seeker moved, did he see.
Instead of lying flat on his backplates, Starscream had curled up on his side, wings low and pressed against the flexible metal beneath him, knee joints tucked in close with helm held in splayed servos. His crimson optics were wide and shocked between the spacing of sharp claws, a look of complete trauma and defeat bringing a well of sympathy from the medic's spark. No doubt having one's memories picked through was not the most satisfying experience…
"Herr Kommandant…" he began, but the words fell on deaf audios.
The medic began to wonder why it had taken him so long to notice the seeker – Starscream was usually so vocal in his complaints that it was impossible to overlook him. The seeker's lack of noise thus far was so extremely atypical that it was alarming, enough so that the sportscar found himself being drawn to the other's side, almost as if by some gravitational force, something he couldn't possibly resist. A pale servo hesitantly reached out before crumbling down into a fist, the appendage falling limp just short of its target.
"… Starscream," he murmured softly, vocals unsure but unexpectedly gentle. He had never seen the seeker like this, unresponsive and passive. He looked so… broken, as if the invasion into his mind had shattered some vital piece of his personality. The silver mech had been laid low, stripped down to nothing by his one true tormentor, and before an audience… Before Knock Out, the one he had once deemed worthy of being his own second-in-command.
The medic hadn't even paused to consider the repercussions for using the cortical psychic patch – Lord Megatron and the obnoxious Autobot had not suffered any obvious ill affects. But he should have known, or at least he felt he should have, that this time would be different. This time, the intent was to harm, to destroy, to force submission. And when one's personal barriers were tossed aside as if made of plywood, one was certain to never be the same again.
The sound of the seeker's designation seemed to bring him back from some far-off place, and his optics focused blearily on Knock Out, although he remained unmoving. His vocals hissed with static, the result of a weighty vent. "What do you want?" he managed, his tone flat and lacking its usual sarcastic flare. The bleak look he was giving Knock Out only made the cherry-red mech want to… he didn't know. Reassure the seeker, maybe?
He shouldn't. He knew this. Megatron would have his helm for touching the seeker, whether it was a full-out frag or a simple, casual, unprofessional touch to silver plating. Not to mention Megatron's knowledge of Knock Out's previous transgression with the silver mech, and Starscream's ever-questionable loyalty…
But the way the seeker was just… laying there, defeated… Again, the medic's claws reached out, and his time he allowed himself to make careful contact with submissive, lowered wings. The appendages quivered under the touch for a small klik before surrendering to impulse and pushing back subtly, as if yearning for any kind of physical contact.
Crimson optics met, one set concerned and curious while the other flickered with astonishment and pain. The pair regarded each other in this way for several moments, white talons continuing their careful exploration of gray wings.
I want to help, Knock Out nearly confessed, but no doubt the seeker would take that badly. Starscream didn't need help; he didn't need anyone. He was perfectly fine on his own… He could almost hear the oily words spilling from deceptive lip components. Perhaps at a different time or place…
The medic resigned himself to saying, "You can't spend all day moping, Starscream. Think of the troops! What kind of message would that send them?"
A sharp intake hissed through the silence, and the wings were withdrawn from beneath his servo, leaving digits to fall back to the berth with a quiet scrape of metal. But the thin plates soon returned to their previous position, as if the seeker had given up on being upset any longer. "That Lord Megatron is in perfect control of his officers," came the hushed reply, and from Knock Out's vantage point he couldn't see the clenching of dark talons, the way dentae ground together in frustration. Only the wings nudging at his hand, encouraging the attention paid to them from before to resume.
Knock Out did not continue his ministrations, instead stepping back even as Starscream let out a few mewling chirps of seeker cant in need. The medic vented deeply, optics shuttering in exasperation. He had hoped that angering the seeker would be enough to get him out of this funk, let alone out of Knock Out's way. Yet the task seemed to require more effort than that… and he wasn't sure he could provide it.
Regardless, he could feel frustration beginning to coat his thoughts, thick and heavy and blinding, and it showed, his vocals snappish and annoyed. "Damn it, Starscream! I waited for orns after you left. We all did. We thought the Autobots had killed you, for Primus' sake!" Appendages arced through the air to emphasize his words, gesturing in wild forays. "What? Did you waltz back here expecting everything to be exactly the same? Well, guess what, it's not. Things have changed and moved on without you, and you'll just have to accept that!"
He stopped, intakes chugging out air heavily. Servos dropped to his sides, heavy and useless. His spark ached, and he shuttered his optics at the pain. Breakdown was gone. He had to admit that he blamed Starscream for his friend's termination, just a little. If the seeker had been here, he wouldn't have sent Breakdown on that mission. He would have known how dangerous Airachnid was, would have insisted that Megatron do it himself. Not send the useless and clearly incompetent Dreadwing on such a mission.Knock Out's partner would be alive….
He knew it was ridiculous. Knew that it wasn't Starscream's fault, that the jet would never have been able to change the warlord's mind. But he needed someone to blame, anyone but himself…. And Starscream was there, an easy target. He always was.
Intakes huffed quietly one last time before the medic onlined his optics once more, focusing on the silver mech's faceplate. The seeker looked surprised at the outburst, scarlet orbs examining the sportscar in uncertainty. He had sat up while Knock Out's attentions had wandered, the silver mech hunching forward as he rested his weight on a clasped servo.
But the desolation was gone, instead replaced by the light of determination – he had a new purpose, something that would help him continue onwards, to thrive, just as he always had. This time, though, it wasn't revolving around himself, not entirely…
"Yes… things have changed," Starscream said, his vocals trailing off to a faint hum, brow plates drawn forward and lip components pressed into a thin line. Knock Out could almost literally see the gears churning in his helm, mashing together with increasing speed.
Starscream was back. And the sight was enough to plant a seed of hope, one that would be sure to flourish, in the sportscar's ravaged spark.
"But we must change with them. Don't you agree, Doctor?"
The medic flashed gleaming dentae into the darkness of the med bay. "Of course, Herr Kommandant. Now, about that t-cog…"