Breakdown woke again. This time it was natural, not the result of some mad doctor prying off bits of his body or using him as a springboard.

He was dearly, dearly hoping that was just some sort of near death hallucination. Maybe a quick glimpse into the Inferno before some medic with a spark defibrillator dragged him back out. Still, if that was hell, maybe it'd be a good time to start showing up at those little Spectralist sermons the local temple put on outside his apartment.

Hell, if he still had an apartment. Breakdown tried to raise his head and found he was too exhausted to do even that. He onlined his optics.

He was lying in what was clearly a medbay—probably the one under the coliseum, if the lack of natural light and ambient stink of dying metal meant anything. There were a few empty slabs to his right, and a maybe napping, maybe dead mech on his left. Other than his morbid roommate, the bay was empty. He heard vague, far off voices, but they were too muddled and distant to make out.

Whatever.

Breakdown shifted again. He was still too weak to do anything more than look around, and the octane—or the painkiller, if someone paid for it—was beginning to wear off. Pain, sharp and aching, introduced itself to a good three quarters of his body. What wasn't in pain was too numb to feel.

He wiggled his fingers. They hurt too, but at least they still worked.

Movement came back, little by little, as the pervasive weakness drained out of his body. Maybe it was painkillers, or at the very least a sedative? Regular old exhaustion didn't feel like this. It gave him all the more reason to leave before whoever paid for him to get fixed came back. You didn't make an investment like that without expecting a huge return, and getting beaten half to death once was more than enough for him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he shuffled his feet over the side of the slab. The rest of his body quickly followed.

"Slag," he grunted into the floor, and got a mouth full of dust for his efforts. Breakdown pushed himself to his feet with great effort. His arms threatened to buckle for a second, but he managed to get his legs under himself before he collapsed. Again.

The medbay was still deserted, except for him and the mech on the slab. Good; it could stay that way. He used the slab to haul himself upright, vents gasping with even that minor exertion. Breakdown rested his weight on the slab and pushed himself along it, until he reached the counter along the wall. He quickly pushed himself over to it, sagging against it once his hands hit. Breakdown pressed his head against a plastisteel fronted cabinet. The plastisteel was scratched, and it made the contents blurry, but Breakdown thought he could see a bin of single use painkiller code chips. The cabinet was locked, otherwise he would have grabbed as many as he could subspace.

Even if he didn't like using them, they'd sell well, especially if he could convince Bulkhead to let him back into the construction site. Primus knew he'd need the money now.

The room stopped spinning, and his feet felt a little more solid, and a little less like they were half melted. Breakdown steeled himself and walked towards the door, touching the counter every so often to ensure he didn't collapse. The voices from the side room became clearer.

"—now, hand me the size four bracket. No, the other one!"

"There isn't any difference; they're identical!"

"They look nothing alike!"

Breakdown rubbed his head. He recognized the first voice, and had the vague impression that it was a bad thing. He took another step, and dizziness overcame him. He fell to his knees.

"What was that noise?"

"What makes you think I know?"

"Well, as you said, this is your medbay. I'd expect that you'd have some understanding of whatever noises it decides to produce."

"I said nothing like that!"

"You—"

"Shut up." That was a different voice, neither the one he recognized, or the other half of the argument. "Scrapper, see what it is. Knock Out, finish the—" The voice faltered.

"The compressor replacement, yes," the first voice, this Knock Out, sounded smug, "I can handle the rest on my own, thanks for your consideration. Just a few switch adjustments and another screen, and we'll be finished. I will need you back to get him into recovery."

"I didn't ask."

Scrapper—the other voice—snorted. He sounded like he was coming closer. Breakdown renewed his efforts to push himself to his feet.

"Hook, it looks like it's just a—woah!"

Heavy footsteps pounded the floor, and a hand dropped into Breakdown's shoulder.

"How in the Pit are you up?" Scrapper turned him over, and rested him against the counter. He was big, and painted bright green. The treads in his legs and the shovel on his back suggested some sort of construction alt, maybe a payloader. "Hook, you need to come here!"

"What?"

"That big guy, the blue one! He's awake!"

"How badly did you screw up his anesthesia? Is our dear patient about to start jumping around too?"

"Ah, idle it!" Scrapper grunted and heaved Breakdown upright. Damn. Not only had he not managed to skedaddle before anyone noticed he was here, he had managed to piss off the medical staff. He'd heard what they did to mechs down here. After all, spare parts had to come from somewhere.

"Seriously, Hook, I need a hand here!"

"Coming." A big mech in the same searing shade of green came out of the back room. He leaned down and helped Scrapper haul Breakdown to his feet, and then back to the slab. Breakdown tried, feebly, to struggle, but the exhaustion made his spark sluggish, and he only managed to curl his fingers in protest.

"Are you two done?" Knock Out called. "I need a little assistance here, you know, with the patient—the one with his head split open, might I add. But if you two are too busy, then I understand perfectly. I'll just handle this myself. Alone. All the blame for this sad mech's inevitable death, placed on my poor overburdened shoulders. I—"

"Primus, do you ever shut up!?" Scrapper dropped Breakdown on the slab, leaving Hook to position him correctly.

Hook sighed. Breakdown had never heard a gust of air sound so resigned.

"Who paid to fix me?" Might as well ask the question now, and get it over with. His voice was weak, and he could barely hear himself, but Hook seemed to manage.

"Another gladiator. One of the victors."

Breakdown let his head fall back against the slab. Damn. It had to be someone successful, very successful. It wasn't often that gladiators—real gladiators, not hapless idiot debtors like himself—had money. Anything they earned went to their sponsors—owners, if you wanted to be less coy about it—and if they were voluntarily in the Pit, well, they weren't inclined to acts of charity.

"Who?" he croaked.

Hook shrugged. "Don't know. Don't care."

Breakdown opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn't sure—and a crash from the operating room cut him off.

"I said lay him down! Not slam him into the concrete!"

"If you'd bother helping me at all—"

"I damaged my leg! Because you made me carry that blue oaf!"

"I'll damage a lot more if you don't—"

There was a sharp yelp, the crash of metal, and the third doctor—the one Breakdown hadn't seen yet, Knock Out—darted from the back room. He blanched. Yes, he recognized that pretty face and the bright red paint job. He glanced down at his chest. Ugh.

"Control your assistant!" He hissed, ducking behind Hook.

"Is the procedure done?"

"What? Yes! He's fine—a little dented, but it's an easy fix—everything connected perfectly, full recovery, yadda yadda."

"Knock Out."

"Whaaat? Honestly, genuinely, the patient is fine. He needs to stay offline for another cycle—I've set a timer for you—but the component integrated naturally. I'd even suspect," his voice lowered to something conspiratorial, "that he had it engineered."

Hook seemed to recognize the term, because he slapped at Knock Out before returning to the operating room. Knock Out prodded the dent and cringed, then removed a long cord connecting him to the operating room. It flung back with a snap, narrowly missing Hook's head.

Knock Out tsked.

"Engineered?" Breakdown grunted.

Knock Out looked down at him, face coloring in recognition. He nervously tapped at Breakdown's chest, and relaxed when it held.

"Well," he leaned his hip against the slab, "I really shouldn't tell you, but I'm weak for gossip. I never told you this," he wagged a finger in Breakdown's face. "Hn, where to start… You understand that you're made of parts, correct?"

Breakdown gave him a flat glare.

"Just checking!" Knock Out held his hands up defensively, "Well, ah, say you need a replacement, say a new energon pump. You can't just stick any old pump you find on the street in your chest; you need a compatible donor. If not, well…" Knock Out mimed something bursting, "it isn't pretty. You could get a new pump built by an engineer, maybe a CNC alt, but you can never be sure if they really work. Besides, it's expensive. Normal 'bots, like you or Scrapper over there, you'd do best to find something at a scrapyard, for cheap. It won't integrate to your systems very well, but it won't kill you. Rich 'bots though, well, they can buy anything. And honestly, some type matched leaker on the streets? That's nothing. Hell, we only pay five shanix for leakers."

Breakdown must have curled his lip, because Knock Out patted him gently on the cheek.

"Oh, come now. You just tore another 'bot to bits to pay off, what, a gambling debt? I'm sure you, of all mechanisms, would understand how worthless a life is." He coughed static. "Anyways, even the closest donor would only be a partial match—Primus make us special and all that slag—and the replacement won't mesh perfectly. Soooo, some 'bots say, that the rich mechs—the ones with more shanix than they know what to do with—they, hm, commission newsparks. Identical newsparks, right down to the CNA. Clones. Spares, if you will. How else would you explain such a perfect match?"

"I wasn't gambling."

Knock Out rolled his eyes. "I tell you the most scandalous bit of gossip I can dredge up and you focus on that? Some 'bots…"

Breakdown remained silent, mulling over what the doctor had told him. Farming newsparks for replacements… Even the idea was sickening.

"Why?"

Knock Out looked down at him, and chewed his lip. "I suppose they want to live forever. Can you blame them?"

"Who paid to fix me?"

"That was some segue," Knock Out shrugged. "No clue. Remember, I didn't even know you were meant to be repaired—a clerical error might I add. Not my fault."

Breakdown rolled his eyes. "Can you check?"

"Check what?"

He was starting to sympathize with Scrapper.

"Medical records, bills, something. Who do I owe?"

Knock Out snorted. "You think we keep records down here? I almost pulled you apart for scrap because they didn't bother to slap a name tag on you. But, ah, if you're worried about who you owe, well… I'm sure they'll find you soon enough."

Not reassuring.

"The doctor, Hook," Breakdown said, "he said it was a gladiator."

"Oh?" Knock Out leaned closer, drawn by the possibility of more dirty plating, "did he?"

Breakdown grunted in the affirmative, and Knock Out pushed himself away from the table.

"Well," he began pacing, tapping his chin with his index finger, "they wouldn't necessarily need to have that much money. You are awake after all, which means no immediate processor damage. From what I saw when I was, ahem, operating, your circuitry is slagged and will probably need to be replaced, but you're a class four, which is very common, especially in the Pit. That means finding replacements will be cheap and easy. No more than, hn, fifty shanix. Seventy if I have a bad day. Actually getting someone to fix you… Hook would do it for a hundred. Scrapper for a little less than that."

"What about you?"

"Me?" Knock Out pressed a hand to his chest, "I'm not some medic."

"So you're a mortician?"

"No!" Breakdown had heard actual mechs being murdered that didn't sound as offended as Knock Out. "I am a neurosurgeon! Processors, idiot!" he reached down and sharply tapped the side of Breakdown's head.

Breakdown flinched away from the sensation. "Why are you down here? Don't they keep the fancy doctors in Iacon?"

Knock Out frowned and drew into himself, then quickly changed the subject. Had he touched a nerve? "I suppose Grimlock could have paid for your repairs, but he was never very altruistic. Motormaster is still under contract. Hm. Brawn or Brawl, perhaps? They make decent billing, even if they aren't very famous."

Breakdown struggled to remember back through the pain-muddled haze that had been his mind when he'd first woken up. "You said another M-name earlier. Megaton? Magnanimous?"

"Megatronus?"

"Yeah. Did he do it?"

"I," Knock Out trailed off and glanced down, "I suppose it could have been him. He's still under contract, but his, ah, sponsor is generous. Lets him get away with speaking after his matches, real radical stuff. He might've managed to pull a few favors for you. I wouldn't count on it."

"Why not?"

"How do I put this delicately? The last time I had an opponent of Megatronus in the morgue, there was perhaps, oh, half a head and an arm. He really doesn't seem to care who lives and who dies. He's brutal, for all he likes to wax poetic. Keeps him popular, and keeps the crowds listening. Anyways, why do you care who wanted you fixed? If they haven't shown up yet, they probably won't show up at all."

Breakdown remained silent. Under the tension that someone was going to hold this over his head and demand he jump on command, there was an old, deep seated sense of honor and obligation. Favors needed to be repaid. It kept him honest as he cared to be.

Of course, that niggling tendency towards honesty had netted him a beatdown in the Pit, so what did he know?

"When I get repaired, take me to Megatronus."

Knock Out raised a brow. "Pardon?"

"I said, when I get repaired, take me—"

"I heard what you said! What I want to know, is why you think you can ask me to do anything?!"

"I wasn't asking," Breakdown fixed him with a stare.

Knock Out snorted. "I've never met someone so rude. What on Cybertron and the moons would ever compel me to help you?"

"Because I'll tell the doctor—Hook—you almost killed me if you don't."

Knock Out gaped. "That was not my fault! That was an identification error!" He hissed.

"I really don't think he'll care. He doesn't seem the type, and all things considered, you seem pretty desperate to keep your job."

Knock Out's face crumpled in rage. "You…" He forced the word through gritted teeth like it was an oath.

"Just let me talk to this Megatronus. Then, we're even."

Knock Out crossed his arms. "Why do you think I even know where Megatronus is? It's not like I mingle with those rusty barbarians."

"You said he was still under contract, so he must live at the Pits. And the medics should know where their patients are."

"Not a medic," Knock Out harrumphed, "but, yes. Technically. I could find out where he is. But that's it, and you never speak of my little… mishap, ever again."

"You take me to him, and we have a deal."

"You want me to guide you? Why?"

"Because I trust you about as far as you could throw me. I want to keep an eye on you."

Knock Out sneered, and held his hand out. "Fine."

Breakdown grabbed his fingers, squeezing just slightly too hard, and was rewarded with a wince. "Deal."

Knock Out snatched his hand away as soon as Breakdown let him go, and wiped his fingers off on a spare rag. Breakdown rolled his eyes.

"Hook will come back soon. I'll find Megatronus for you, and be here once you've been repaired."

Breakdown grunted.

Hook stepped out of the operating room, followed by a tall, handsome mech in ruddy purple. By the look of his clean, well-maintained armor, he was so absurdly rich, he probably could have bought the one of the moons and had shanix left over. This was someone raised with money. He nodded goodbye to Hook and rubbed an out of place dent on his shoulder.

"You're sure I had this before I came in? I can't seem to remember it…"

"Absolutely," Hook said, expression blank behind the barefaced lie, "no doubt about it."

"Hm."

The mech left after that. Knock Out frowned, then a conniving expression bloomed across his face and he slipped out of the medbay after him. Good riddance.

Hook crossed the room and grabbed a pile of armor and circuitry. He dumped it on a table next to the slab on which Breakdown was lying.

"Go offline," he said, transforming his hand into an arc welder.

Breakdown bit down the flash of fear that surged to him and offlined his optics. He initiated a shutdown, and tried to keep calm as the world went blank around him.

Titles are from the same place they were last chapter. Octane is meant to be comparable to adrenaline, if it wasn't obvious. I admit I don't know much about cars.

I meant to update this on Monday but I was busy graduating. Next update should be on 22 May 2017. See you then!