Knock Out scowled, then grunted and brought down his saw on the corpse's damaged arm. The metal was bent beyond repair, and the wires were burned through with heat and syk. No wonder this unfortunate fighter had lost his match. He shifted his saw back to his hand, frowning as the energon smeared across his fingers.

"Well," he muttered to himself, "that's done. Ah, let's see. Stripping the armor."

He was deep into the task when a knock on the door interrupted him. He glanced up. A thin mech with brittle armor was standing in the doorway, a loader sled hovering behind him, piled with a body. Ah. A scavenger.

"Ah, yes. Just dump him on the table with the rest," Knock Out waved his hand vaguely, splattering the scavenger with gore, "I'll deal with him in a moment."

The scavenger pressed a quivering hand against the glowing energon speckled across his face—a newbie, how cute—and scrambled to pile the body on the growing stack of corpses. Megatronus was a very efficient gladiator; Knock Out owed him for the sudden demand in employment. Although, Knock Out sneered as he surveyed the absolute mess that currently constituted his operating room, perhaps Megatronus owed him for the small fortune he spent on solvent in a vain attempt to keep everything sterile.

"I get money for this, right?" The scavenger stammered, "Fifteen shanix? That's what the other 'bots say."

Knock Out shooed him absently. Something detached itself from the mess on his hand. Oh, dear. He sauntered over and plucked a loose gear off of the scavenger's slack face.

"That's not supposed to be there," he admonished playfully, flinging it back onto body. The scavenger looked sick. "Yes, fifteen shanix per loser. Tell whomever is on payroll that you brought me a class," Knock Out glanced at the body, "hm, four corpse, so they can log it."

"T-thanks," the scavenger turned to flee. Knock Out squinted at the back of his head. Two, neat holes scarred the base of his skull, ringed by scorch marks. Circuit boosters, that explained some of his jumpiness, although he couldn't have been too far along in his addiction, given that he bothered to remove the spent casing, rather than leave the empty booster embedded in his skull. It was common practice among the very addicted, stemming from rumors that the buzz lasted the longer you kept the circuit booster plugged in. It was foolish, and wrong, and Knock Out had the letters behind his name to prove that he knew what he was talking about, even if they didn't mean much anymore.

"Hmph," Knock Out blew air from his vents and returned to the body on which he had been working. It was fairly typical, as gladiators went, taller than him, and much broader. It might have been green at some point, but scrapes, charring, and energon muddled the armor color into something incomprehensible. It was fairly well destroyed—Megatronus gave the crowds what they wanted—and really, he wasn't going to get much more out of it, unless he wanted to take up syphoning.

Eugh.

He scrubbed his hands clean with a rag and jabbed at the controls for the operating table, dumping the remains of the body off to the side. The truly loathsome scavengers—the ones who smelted corpses for the next hit of Syk—would come later to retrieve it. Knock Out tugged the magnetic claw in the ceiling over to the pile of bodies. He had been forged with delicate surgery in mind, not hauling bodies back and forth between the gurney and his operating table. A little mechanical help wasn't unwarranted.

Knock Out deposited the next body on the table. It was fairly large, as these things went, smaller than Megatronus, but larger than Knock Out himself, which left quite a large margin for error.

Color-wise, the bot had been either blue or black, with a faceplate in some contrasting warm color. A bit unfashionable, but not entirely odd. No mechanism alive would catch Knock Out looking like that, but maybe fighting to the death in some dank pit changed your perspective on things like fashion.

He snorted a burst of static and dragged a large set of pryers over to the 'bot.

"Size twelve, I should think," he muttered to himself, "you're a big fellow, which means," he grunted, clasping the grips of the machine onto the edges of the body's chestplate, "big armor."

Knock Out stepped back and let the pryer do its work, slowly but steadily pulling the armor away from the body. It technically was possible to do this by hand, and the armor looked nicer once it was pulled off, but it took forever, and Knock Out was paid by the kiloton, not by the aesthetic of individual pieces of armor.

He squinted at the battered circuitry under the armor as the piece lifted up and away.

"Hmm," he prodded at some loose wiring, "concussive damage, blaster charring, but no burning or shear marks. Well, you couldn't have been fighting Megatron or Grimlock, then. They tend to leave distinctive marks, if you catch my meaning."

They also tended to leave fewer pieces.

"Now, if it wasn't those two, then you either met Motormaster or Brawl. Either of them would explain all this blunt force trauma. Or, you went up in some no billing debtor's match against some equally helpless wretch," he patted the corpse's face, "how embarrassing. But don't you worry, I'm marvelous at keeping secrets, and, as they say, dead mechs tell no tales."

He pulled away. He tried to pull away. Knock Out froze, then slowly looked down the length of his arm. There was his elbow, his wrist, his hand, the hand clamped around his hand…

"Not. Dead." The body on the table grunted, yellow eyes blazing like a storm.

"Eugh," Knock Out snatched his hand away. The body—well, it was still mostly a body—collapsed, his eyes flickering into darkness.

He stared at it for a moment, then commed payroll.

"What is it this time, Knock Out?"

Knock Out ignored the slight. "One of your scavengers seems to have brought me a body."

"Yes, that's what they do. That's what we pay them to do."

"Well, perhaps you should consider paying them a little less, because this body isn't quite dead. This is the fourth time this has happened, you know. I'm just glad I spotted it before I started getting at his spark chamber."

Knock Out heard the static sigh of vented air.

"Give me a moment," the 'bot at payroll grumbled, "and let me look through the records."

"What records? His death record? Because I can assure you it's wrong, considering he just spoke to me."

"No, the medical orders. I sent down dozens of scavengers; I want to see if, ah—"

"What?"

"Hmm, I'm looking at the list of survivors. Er, is he red, class three?"

"No, he's dark blue, class four. Look, does this have any bearing on anything?"

"Blue, class four?" There was the clatter of datapads over the speaker. "There seems to have been a mistake then. I sent him down for repairs, not deconstruction."

"Repairs? Hm. I'd better turn off the pryer then, shouldn't I?" Knock Out switched the machine off. It powered down with a whirr, and the 'bot on the table seemed to relax a bit in his unconsciousness. "You know this wouldn't happen if you identified the bodies, like I suggested."

"Look, if you want to try and attach a name to an arm and a scrap of leg, you be my guest, but until then, you can stay down in your basement lab and cut apart bodies, alright?"

The 'bot dropped the line. Knock Out stared at it. He snorted and sent a ping over to Hook's crew, telling the surgeon to send over someone to haul off the mechanism.

"Well, somebody's a little touchy."

He looked over the body, and vainly tried to tug the armor back into place. It didn't work.

"Oh, Hook will have my head if he finds out I did this," he started pacing. His equipment was meant to take 'bots apart, not put them back together. Knock Out chewed his lips and drummed his fingers against the edges of the table. Well… it was a touch undignified, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

He grabbed onto the magnetic claw for balance and stepped onto the operating table. His feet barely fit around the 'bot's mass, and he had to balance on the jointed segment of his toes if he wanted any chance at all of standing. Still, he kept most of his weight on the claw.

"Alright," he pressed a foot on the protruding armor, "let's get this back where, agh, it, hng, belongs."

Knock Out leaned over the 'bot to inspect his work. No change. He sighed.

"The things I do for you," he grunted, standing fully on top of the armor. His weight pressed it down, just a tad. He stepped off. It sprung back into place.

So, it was like that.

Knock Out stood on the armor and bounced a bit. It sank down. He flashed a nervous glance to the door. Hook's crew would be here soon. He bit his lip, and jumped again.

"Alright," he grunted between jumps, "would—you—just—go—down!"

Several things happened all at once: the armor finally—thankfully—snapped back, flush with the body, Knock Out's foot hit a snag and he stumbled, and the magnetic claw decided it had enough of Knock Out's antics and plummeted from the ceiling

Then the 'bot woke up.

"Slag!" he howled in pain as Knock Out came down on top of him, followed closely by the claw. Knock Out covered his head with his hands and waited for the rust to settle. He took account of his faculties. A dozen or so minor damage reports sprung up in his HUD—mostly dents along his back—along with a slightly more insidious blown rotator cuff in his left ankle. The magnet claw had been powered off when it fell, so it was currently lying on the floor, accompanied by about half of its supporting mechanism from the ceiling.

Knock Out pushed himself up from the 'bot and patted his chest. The armor creaked.

"There," he coughed static and waved his hand in front of his face, "all fixed."

"Wha' happened?" the 'bot groaned through a shattered jaw. With the way his systems heaved and sputtered under him, Knock Out was impressed he was still functional, much less asking questions.

"Well," Knock Out arranged himself more comfortably, "I imagine—and this is just speculation, mind, given that I never watch the fights—that you found yourself in a match, and got completely slagged."

"Didn't lose. Won—fight."

"Hm, what was that? I couldn't hear you over your entire body falling apart. You honestly expect me to think you won?"

"Should see—other guy."

Knock Out snorted and pushed himself to his feet, careful to avoid the bodies and the claw. "I must have sorely underestimated you. Here you are, in my morgue, looking for all the world like Primus snatched you up and tossed you down, and what do you do? You find the energy to make jokes." Knock Out patted his shoulder, ignoring his pained flinch, "I'm impressed."

The 'bot opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the door creaking open.

"Knock Out," Scrapper shoved the door open, kicking aside a bit of metal, "Hook says you have a patient—what happened to the ceiling?"

"Oh, that," Knock Out waved nonchalantly, "haven't a clue. It was like that when I got here."

"Uh huh. And I'm sure you had nothing to do with that crash earlier, either."

"What crash?" Knock Out had perfected his guiltless face long ago.

"The crash that happened a minute ago. The one that sounded like a magnet claw falling from the ceiling."

Knock Out pressed a finger to his mouth. "What a curiously specific sound. But I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. Perhaps it was your imagination?"

"My imagination?"

"Of course," Knock Out stepped over a corpse and tapped Scrapper on the chest, "stress, lack of a proper recharge, overworking. It can all cause visual or auditory hallucinations." His face twisted in mock concern. "Perhaps you should get it checked out?"

"You're full of slag," Scrapper swatted Knock Out as he picked his way over to the operating table. The 'bot on the table was doing his best to keep track of him, but kept flickering in and out of awareness. "So, this is the patient?"

"Yes," Knock Out rubbed the side of his face. It ached, but really, what was one more dent among dozens?

"Big guy. Looks like he went through a thrasher."

"He won whatever match they stuck him in."

Scrapper snorted. "By the paint, yeah? Help me get him up."

"Me?" Knock Out gestured to himself, incredulous. Lifting things was for steel-heads and machinery.

"Yes, you." Scrapper maneuvered around the table, "Grab his feet. Besides, Hook needs you for ah, some processor thing. A lateral chip compressor replacement or something."

"Really?" Knock Out's curiosity overcame his irritation, and he grabbed the 'bot's massive feet, "Who is it? Chip compressors are expensive; I can't imagine anyone down here makes enough to shell out that kind of shanix."

"You'd be right," Scrapper took his half of the 'bot and backed out of the door, towards the infirmary, "it's some senate guy from up top."

"Sounds scandalous," Knock Out grunted, shifting his grip, "Why not just go to a clinic? He could actually have a standing for litigation if anything went wrong—oops."

Scrapper sighed as Knock Out heaved the 'bot's feet off of the ground.

"He's heavy," Knock Out snapped.

Scrapper rolled his eyes and continued walking. "Hook didn't tell me much. As far as I'm aware, he's some chrome dome who needs the chrome polished."

"You know," Knock Out huffed, "Hook could have the decency to tell me I needed to prep for surgery today. Just as a bit of common courtesy."

"Hook doesn't give a scraplet's fender about your sensibilities. Get used to it. Turn left here, through that door."

Knock Out would have retorted, but his vents were too busy desperately trying to cool down his straining frame. He was not built for heavy lifting! He took the turn and dumped the 'bot's legs on the nearest free operating table. Then, he slumped to the ground.

"I hope Hook knows you're trying to kill his neurosurgeon," he snapped, trying and failing to force his vents shut, to maintain at least the semblance of dignity.

Knock Out pushed himself to his feet and glared at the ground, the walls, and the medbay in general. It was decently sized, as these things went—six slabs in the general clinic, and two operating rooms. They had quite a lot of traffic, but none of their patients ever stayed long. It was something of a misconception that gladiators were poorly maintained. In fact, the top earners were probably some of the most repaired 'bots on Cybertron; it was just good business sense to keep one's wares in their best condition. They brought in more money that way.

"I'll tell him myself," Scrapper hauled the rest of the 'bot onto the slab and activated the energy bonds to secure him in place.

Knock Out gaped. "You have working energy bonds? Mine burnt out ages ago. Do you know how hard it is to keep a class six mech balanced on a class five rated slab? I'll give you an answer: very!"

"Not my fault you can't fix them yourself."

"Well, excuse me for being a surgeon and not an electrician."

"You don't need to apologize; Primus made everyone for a reason." Scrapper said, rolling his eyes.

Knock Out gritted his teeth. "You know I supply most of the parts that come to this repair bay. It might behoove you to be a tad more polite."

Scrapper mouthed the word 'behoove' and scoffed. "Ah, put it in idle. We both know you're here because you're desperate. You piss off Hook and you're out a job."

"Why you—"

"Scrapper, Knock Out," a deep voice cut him off, echoing from one of the operating rooms. Ah, Hook. "I need you back here. Ground down."

Knock Out shot a nasty glare at Scrapper and shouldered past him. He snatched a small grounding clip from the table outside of the operating room and attached it to his hip, tucking the wire behind his back. The wire ran to the ceiling, where it eventually terminated in a piece of inert metal. Static charge was a real problem among moving beings made almost entirely of metal. Stick any number of them in a closed room, and the air quickly became heavy with static buzz. It wasn't normally a problem, as the outer plating protected any delicate innards from damage, but in processor surgery, those protective layers were removed, and an accidental static zap could erase a 'bot's entire personality core.

Knock Out tugged on the clip, to make sure it stayed in place. He had no wish to be pinned for the 'accidental' death of some high society rich mech. Again.

Hook already had the patient sedated and laid out on the operating table. Only the back of the patient's head was exposed, his body being covered with a surgical tarp. The new compressor was on the cart next to him, along with the surgical equiptment. Knock Out picked it up, twisting it this way and that to get a better look.

"Mint condition," he put it back on the table, "very expensive. You know who he got it from?"

"Not your business."

Knock Out tsked. "You know full well it's my business. I need to know the, ah, donor source if you want this to work."

Hook grabbed a datapad and pushed it into Knock Out's chest as he passed, then ducked down to adjust the sedative flow. Knock Out flicked the pad on and scanned the screen.

"Did you do spark typing on him?" Knock Out flipped through the screens. "Hm, and I need his core model. Your donor is Thymiol negative; so we'll need to run a mechabody screen on the patient as well. Wouldn't want a rejection reaction, now would we?"

"Already done. Scrapper has the results."

Knock Out held his hand out for the next data pad. Scrapper tossed it at him and turned to help Hook.

He boggled. "He's got a Atrium 8900 core? That's ridiculous! Why on Cybertron and the two moons would he come here?"

"Not our job to ask questions," Hook reminded him.

"Pft. With the kind of money he has, I can't imagine it's anyone's job to ask him questions. Hn. Well, the spark types match, so that'll be fine. And the," Knock Out flipped to the right screen and squinted, "the mechabody screen is negative. Probably never needed a donor before, so nothing unexpected there. Alright," he clapped and tossed the datapad onto the counter built into the wall, "let's get him propped up."

Scrapper already retrieved a brace from storage, and Hook held up the body while Knock Out made minute adjustments to his angle and positioning. He activated his old pre-surgical protocols and tilted the mech's head just slightly higher. There, perfect.

"Pin the head in place, 0.015 torrs. Clamps at 99.99% stability. Good. Let's pry him open, shall we?"

Knock Out flipped open the mech's data port and plugged a datapad in. It was technically more efficient to do a hardwire interface, but he was slagged if he was stupid enough to go rooting around in the program files of some rando. He could get viruses, daemons, who knew? Best not to risk it. Knock Out triggered the medical protocol for the 'bot's processor. His purple head fractured into a thousand tiny pieces and unfolded.

Knock Out let out a low whistle.

"Fancy," he muttered, adjusting the head to give himself more room, "haven't seen one of these since med school."

Scrapper snorted. "They let a student near someone rich enough to have an Atrium? Please."

"It was an observation. The War Minister's surgery, remember? For his," Knock Out gestured vaguely to the side of his head, "impulse glitch."

"You went to Iacon Medical?" Scrapper raised a brow. "How'd you afford that?"

Knock Out didn't answer him. "I'll make an incision along the ventral axis and detach the current compressor. Then, we'll cut power for two point three microseconds and remove the processor," he explained to Hook. Scrapper was really just there to hand them tools, and even Hook was, to some extent, out of his depth. "Once that's out, we begin acclimating the new hardware and install it. Hopefully he won't start seizing. Any questions?"

Scrapper raised his hand. Knock Out ignored him.

"Let's get started then, shall we?"

Story title is from I Can't Give You anything but Love, Baby, by various artists, and the chapter title is from Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown, by Jim Croce.