Landing Softly

I didn't anticipate Arcee being here.

Humph, I didn't think Knock Out would still be here.

But here they are, speaking to each other in hushed tones. They've yet to notice I've even walked in. Mm, I can only speculate on what they're talking about as I'm too far to hear, but whatever it is they're discussing, it must be humorous; Knock Out looks rather jovial. I can't tell if Arcee is or not; her back's to me, but I have an unobstructed view of him. He's knelt down in front of her in somewhat of a disarming fashion. Given his particular background, it's surprising how . . . good-natured Knock Out can be when he wants to. It never ceases to amaze me. However, from what I've heard, he also has a reputation with difficult patients. His official statement on the matter is, and I quote:

"You try treating someone as impossible as Starscream, mm. Then you can lecture me on my bedside manner."

If only he knew. Perhaps, I should share with him my own experiences doctoring the infamous Decepticon commander sometime.

Hmm, speaking of difficult patients, I see Arcee took off her brace. After Bulkhead, she's the most resistant to medical care. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help but notice the cooling balm and wrapping foil on the worktable. She's allowing Knock Out to retreat her wrist; interesting. Makes me wonder if Bumblebee is on to something there. Well, my curiosity about that situation is going to have to wait. I've got a lot of things to accomplish and little time to do so; some of which involves speaking with Knock Out about his welfare.

I lightly cue my vocalizer to grab their attention, but, the way these two jump up, you'd of thought I fired a shot. Neither of them says anything, which I find rather odd and a little awkward. If I didn't know any better, it would appear these two were embarrassed. But Arcee is rather composed in manner and, Primus knows, Knock Out's shameless. Still, they're downright speechless, so I decide to guide the conversation instead.

"Hello, Arcee. Knock Out. Good to see you're both feeling better," I greet walking further into the infirmary.

"Hello, Ratchet," Arcee finally responds casually.

"Good morning, doctor," Knock Out says with a smirk. He knows I'm not keen on title salutations, but I let that slide as there is a more glaring problem with his statement.

"It's afternoon, Knock Out," I say simply, giving him a slightly confused look, I'm sure. Arcee nearly laughs while his confident demeanor falters for a moment. He mumbles something about scratches and windows before crossing his arms.

"Noted."

"Well, I can see you two were in the middle of something. You may finish up with what you were doing but, Knock Out, I need to see you about supervision afterward. I'll be in the auxiliary office; still need to finish entering in those OMI reports," I say as I begin to cross the room. My colleague nods before unfolding his arms and gesturing towards the buffer in Arcee's servo. That, too, is interesting.

"Take it with you, but, please, bring it back," he states discreetly all the while trying to obscure a jar on the table from my sight. Some kind of prohibited finish care product no doubt. Mm, he's grown more conscientious since my last visit. I keep on walking, pretending not to notice for now. After all, I already know about the stockpile underneath berth number one and I haven't informed Ultra Magnus yet. It's not very high on my priority list. I've got hundreds of things to consider at present and this past week's findings were chief among them.

Combined with what I've been hearing lately from the others and the medical readings I acquired last night, I gather Knock Out's not doing as well as he appears to be. No one has directly spoken to him about it, but plenty of bots are willing to speculate and that includes leadership.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't bother with this sort of thing. I never liked the idea of Knock Out joining us in the first place. It just always seems to create unnecessary tension within the team. Besides, it's nearly impossible to collect any information from my counterpart which isn't entirely surprising, considering his past station in life. If I understand correctly, Decepicons didn't particularly like trusting others and that went double for their medic. That's evident in Knock Out's vastly different ideology towards medicine, though, I must admit, I respect his adaptability and willingness to challenge "conventional" wisdom. Still, I don't agree with everything Knock Out believes and I'll taper any praise I give him until I see progress in these areas.

Then again, he has shown considerable improvement since working with us. I haven't heard any significant qualms about him from the rest of the team and he's diligent in his work. However, the fact he's been so cooperative only serves to make the relationship between us more complicated. I don't like him, but I don't hate him either. He's a Decepticon turned Autobot and we've benefited greatly from it thus far. So, with all things considered, it's why I'm willing to make an exception and get involved, though I'm not looking forward to it.

As I walk into the secondary wing of the infirmary, I hear the two exchange more dialogue in soft voices before the door shuts behind me. Bumblebee's told me before, that out of all of us, it appears Arcee is the easiest for Knock Out to communicate with. I suppose it could be he sees her as less threatening than the others, but something tells me there's more to it than that, especially given their mannerisms. Arcee is such a fiercely dedicated and reserved kind of bot while Knock Out seems so flamboyant and unattached; I can't imagine the two of them getting along very well unless they had something in common. Ha, too bad she couldn't talk to him about all this. Well, I hope they finish up soon so I can get this colleague-to-colleague chat over and done with.

For now, let's focus on those OMIs until he gets in here.

I boot up the console at my disposal in the small office and begin moving data from the Nemesis' main archives to subsequent files designated for medical records. It's a slow, tedious procedure, but one which has to be done. Too bad Knock Out is only allowed to enter in data and not reallocate it or else he'd being doing this . . . too bad about a lot of things actually.

I sigh. I don't want to travel down this thought pattern long, but there were so many different outcomes I wished for and so many I hoped against. Cybertron was restored, but not without cost. Bittersweet seems to be an understatement, but no other sentiment applies. All those eons together, Optimus and I, fighting and surviving, finally witnessing Megatron's defeat and bringing back our home world only to lose my oldest and dearest friend to some cruel twist of fate; it still feels like a betrayal.

Logically, I know there was no other choice, no other way; a sacrifice that had to be made, but it still translates to abandonment to my spark. Thankfully, I'm no longer plagued by the guilt of 'what ifs', but the loss is still felt immeasurably. There are too many reminders of my grief, both here and on Earth. Take into account the council's insistence that Team Prime disband and it adds even greater strain on my existence. Hopefully, our plans work out and I can finally get the peace I'm in desperate need of, but, for now, I'll focus on logging these files instead.

About halfway through the process, I realize . . . I'm halfway through the process. For mercy's sake, Knock Out, how long does it take to treat a sprain?!

"Hmm, I don't know sometimes . . ." I mumble to myself as I head back through the door; half expecting the main room to be empty, but it's not. Knock Out's still there, standing quietly by the workstation and staring at the closed infirmary doors. He looks confused, stunned perhaps, but he quickly takes notice of me.

"My apologies for the wait. She just left . . ." he says with a certain element of distraction in his voice. Yes, there is definitely something going on between those two, but, before I have a chance to address that, his usual charisma returns.

"Well, let's get this party started, shall we?"

"It is not a party, Knock Out. It is supervision; something you appear to require a lot of," I say flatly. He frowns.

"Hilarious," he deadpans, taking a few steps closer before adding, "So, what have I done wrong this time?"

I want to sigh tiredly, but I don't. I need him to listen not argue. We also need some privacy. I motion for him to follow me into the auxiliary room and he does so. After closing the door behind us, I turn to see his bored expression and try to think of the best way to approach this. I've been told praising someone's work normally got you a more manageable conversation, so even though I know this is only going to inflate his ego; even though I want to taper any approval I give him; the gratitude is real and, for Knock Out, this should work.

"For starters . . ."

"Here we go," he grumbles, rolling his optics and crossing his arms. I continue without missing a beat.

"You haven't done anything wrong. In fact, it's quite the opposite. You've done an excellent job with the new residency program. The trainees are showing real potential and I'm recommending you continue overseeing the venture."

"Oh, well, ah . . . yes, . . . thank you."

His expression is priceless. Humility looks good on you, Knock Out. You should wear it more often. Of course, I keep that thought to myself.

"Uh-huh, and everything appears to be well structured. All the records are in order, the inventories are fully stocked and it's been a long while since I've seen a practice so well organized," I say in all honesty and, ah-ha, there it is. That smug, self-assured smirk of his. He's trying to remain casual, but it's easy to see he's genuinely pleased with himself.

"Well, what can I say? I'm keen on running a neat and clean operation. Quality doesn't happen all on its own, you know," he says while uncrossing his arms and practically purring with pride. Ordinarily, I'd be put off by such self-importance, but I know it's just a facet of his personality and it isn't like he receives this kind of praise very often.

"I won't argue with you there," I say lightly. I'll allow him to bask in a job well done for now because, ultimately, the rest of our discussion is going to be tough to get through. Unfortunately, it appears he's seen through me. His expression becomes more suspicious.

"Aren't you being surprisingly gracious today? Any particular reason or did you just wake up on the sunny side of the street this morning?" he asks evenly. I can't help but vent in frustration at the antagonizing tone of his voice.

"Maybe, if I wasn't interrupted, mocked or accused every time I spoke with you I'd be a little gracious more often," I snap. His optics narrow.

"Just get to the point, already; end this little charade of a supervision."

So much for discretion. I should have let Bumblebee or Ultra Magnus handle this, but they don't have the medical aspect of this either. If only I had half the patience Optimus did . . . No, I certainly couldn't afford to go down that train of thought right now. Maybe Knock Out's correct; let's get straight down to business.

"You remember the main catalog project?" I say calmly.

"Yes. But I thought we still had a ways to go on it," he drawls with more intrigue than anger this go around. I nod.

"Well, thanks to you and Raf's on and off again help, I was able to finally access the rest of those encrypted files from the Nemesis' mainframe and Darkmount's databases, including the location of Decepticon storage sites on this and several other planets. That's not to mention the research data and subjective logs of Shockwave, Starscream and even Megatron himself."

"Good for you," he says snidely, but his expression is distant as if he's unsure what to make of this information; wary perhaps. I don't blame him. These days, information has the potential to be dangerous and, in this case, it is. I decide to choose my next words carefully.

"The council, of course, already had access to your own notes and partial records, but now it appears there'll be more information at their disposal."

I notice his optics shift focus from mine to various locations in the room, before quickly returning to me. His gaze is more calculating. I imagine, he's connecting the pieces together and he doesn't like what he sees. Again, I don't blame him, because I don't necessarily like it either; it messes with my views on the matter.

"They want to try my case," he states numbly, placing one servo to the side of his helm.

"No, they want to review your case in light of the new information. I doubt it will move to trial. I can't see them coming to any different conclusions than we did before, Knock Out," I say calmingly.

"Well, excuse me if I don't find that reassuring right now," he snaps, rapidly moving his arms up and outward in an irritated fashion. He seems to regret the outburst, however, as he looks away. In a much more subdued voice, he asks:

"When are they going to review it?"

"As soon as they finish reading through all the data, I'm sure," I state seriously. He shutters his optics.

"But I'm part of the team. You guys . . ."

"Are not fully in charge, anymore, I'm afraid."

"Scrap."

"Please, try and keep things in perspective. You're not the only one on their radar and you're certainly not the most grievous on their list . . ."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?! Gee, should I be grateful or insulted," he says irritably, proceeding to pace in a small circle. Hmm, he's already agitated and to think, this is only the beginning.

"Knock Out . . ."

"Here I was thinking this was going to be a lecture on self-care and instead you're telling me there's a chance I may be locked up," he exclaims anxiously.

"Knock Out, no one's going to . . .!"

"Why are they even doing this, anyway? Don't we have more important things to worry about like the reconstruction of society? Our planet?!"

"Knock Out, listen to me . . ."

"The war's over, isn't it? Am I wrong? I mean, yes, things happened but . . ."

"Knock Out!" I shout, growing anxious myself.

"It's not fair! Someone like Wheeljack gets to slaughter, literally, millions of Decepticons in ways outlawed by both sides and he's considered a war hero while I interrogate a few dozen Bots under posted guidelines and am deemed a war criminal. How is that fair?!" he rages. The comment infuriates me, but it's clear his underlying motivation is fear. I need to hold on to perspective myself . . .

"Will you stop it!?"

"What exactly is in those records, anyway?" he expresses, still pacing, but looking to me nervously. I sigh.

"Funny you should ask."

"Well, I'm not laughing," he retorts bitterly. I shake my helm. What he doesn't know is that I've yet to deliver his data to the council and it's not through a lack of diligence on my part. I purposely withheld Knock Out's detailed reports for a great number of reasons, but, the main one concerns his wellbeing.

"I haven't supplied the council with anything of yours yet."

He stops pacing and turns towards me. He seems astounded at first, but this quickly gives way to mistrust.

"Why not? What do you want?" he asks in such a cold, dark tone it actually catches me off guard, but it's not enough to rattle my resolve.

"I don't want anything from you, except maybe some honest answers," I say firmly, turning to face him squarely. He sizes me up carefully. If he's planning on a physical confrontation he's sorely outmatched.

Placing one servo on his hip and the other to his chin, Knock Out's whole demeanor shifts to one of indifference.

"Is that all?" he states flatly, but his optics hold an edge. I've learned to trust the optics over the tone of voice through the millennia. He's still agitated.

"Please, just listen," I implore him with as much serenity as I can muster. He lets out a long, slow vent, allowing his arms to drop by his sides. He nods; a little less tense. Suddenly, I'm not so sure where to start.

"I don't want to get into an argument," I say simply, trying to bide my time as I put my thoughts together. He stares at me in annoyance but waits for me to continue. I decide to speak frankly; it's the only way I know how to communicate matters like this.

"I don't object to our new government making informed decisions nor do I disagree with their commitment to the ideals of justice and peace. However, I'm also fully aware those ideals rest very much in an Autobot's favor at present."

"But, I am an Autobot," he says defensively. I nod.

"Yes, you are and that's why I told them you'll be presenting the records with me once we go over them."

"Seriously?" he says with what I can only describe as uncertain relief.

"We'll take a look at it after we address my next concern . . ."

"There's another concern?! What could be more concerning than this?!" he blurts out. I give him a weary look and he offers an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, please, continue."

"I'd be lying if I said I was only interested in the . . . professional aspects of this problem, Knock Out."

"Professional aspects? What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm concerned for your personal wellbeing, too."

"Oh, that," he says with a cool smirk, his relaxed attitude returning, "I didn't know you cared, but I suppose I should have guessed you wouldn't have left that off. So, what did Arcee tell you?"

"Nothing," I say simply. He shutters his optics a few times as if in disbelief.

"Really?" he asks skeptically. I have to resist the urge to scowl.

"Should she of?" I question with equal suspicion. He sighs.

"Look, I take very good care of myself if you haven't noticed and yesterday was just a fluke. I had a particularly grueling schedule and must have underestimated how drained I was. That's all."

For an ex-Decepticon, he's certainly not very apt at the art of falsehoods. Then again, it works against him that I have this . . .

Reaching over to my left, I activate the computer terminal. After tapping in a few commands, his medical dossier appears. I hear his sharp, strangled intake and watch as his nonchalant appearance tightens back into apprehension.

"So, you performed some diagnostic work on me while I was down. Very forward of you," he says insinuatingly.

"It's standard procedure, Knock Out. You know that."

"Yes, and you know that I've requested to do my own examinations," he grinds out.

"Even while you're unconscious?" I scoff.

"Whatever. I don't see what you're worried about," he sneers before returning his gaze to the screen with a frown. I know he understands what he's looking at, so, I don't have to explain the findings or what they mean. All the evidence displayed points towards medical significance and I know he can see that. But I still need some answers.

"Rises in your system's baseline pressure levels, an indication that your recharge cycles are interrupted on a regular basis, signs of your pain receptors being repeatedly dampened; not to mention verbal reports of your unrelenting exhaustion and erratic refueling habits. I believe I have a reason to be concerned," I say sternly.

"Well, I disagree. I've just been under a lot of stress lately. After all, I'm normally the only senior medical officer here; it tends to get a bit chaotic around here and this new development certainly isn't helping things. Let's get back to the bigger problem and go over those records you uncovered," he says testily. I remain silent; the only sound filling our audiles being the hum of the ship's engines. He looks back to me with an unreadable expression. I surmise I'm giving him the same unresponsiveness. He wants to change the subject, but I'm not willing to let it go.

"You're aware I could subject you to a full evaluation," I finally say, settling on a quiet, composed tone. He narrows his optics as I shudder mine.

"And I'm sure you're aware it won't do any good. Why are you being so . . . difficult? I said I'm fine."

"If you're fine, you shouldn't object to any questions then."

"For Primus sake . . . you're not going drop this are you? You people are fanatically adamant about pushing the issue. What? Can't I even deal with stress privately around here? No, it has to become the subject of public debate, doesn't it? Well, doctor Ratchet, ask away," he says flippantly while crossing his arms.

"Tell me, how are you managing said stress?" I ask, folding my own arms across my chassis and looking to him expectantly. He rolls his optics.

"I have my ways of coping."

"So I've gathered, but pretty soon you won't have access to many of them anymore," I say coolly. He drops both servos to his waist.

"I don't know what you're talking about . . ."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I interrupt, stepping over to access the computer fully, "According to the accounts of your former compatriots, your favorite hobbies include illegal street racing with humans, experimenting with potentially dangerous projects in the lab and buffing your finish. With Cybertron growing and changing as rapidly as it is, I don't foresee you having access to the space bridge or any restricted labs or even your supply of Earth-based cosmetics for much longer. How will you cope then?"

He remains silent, but his optics are alight with what I can only describe as abhorrence. I proceed to bring up his records and he proceeds to lean in closer to get a good look at them, crossing his arms again.

There's actually an impressive amount of data on him. It seems the Decepticons had quite a bit to say about their previous CMO. It was all in the linguistics of a military document, but some of Knock Out's basic characteristics had shown up time and again. He had been viewed as opportunistic, dramatic and pleasure-seeking; intermittently reliable, relatively competent and fairly crucial to the Decepticon cause. Interestingly enough, he was often chastised for things I would consider commendable such as prudence and candor. Then again, these were Decepticon reports commissioned by a tyrannical leader near the brink of madness on the best of days.

In short, it appears Knock Out's conduct was hit or miss among his former comrades. One entry points to him abandoning duties for no apparent reason while another describes him deserting the Nemesis on at least three separate occasions. There's even evidence to suggest he conspired with Starscream to terminate Megatron. It's not what one would expect from a chief medical officer, but, then again, Megatron had bizarre views on what accounted for insubordination.

Nonetheless, this gave the impression Knock Out was impulsive if not immature at times. It would certainly explain his running off yesterday. No, what's truly surprising is that his records don't just stop with his time spent within the Decepticon ranks. Apparently, he has a speckled past concerning illicit wheeling and dealing with his main objective being caste jumping. Regardless of my own personal beliefs of our former way of governing, this does point to Knock Out being a very resourceful and determined mech; one who may still be trying to barter his way through life now.

I allow him a few more kliks to peruse the data for himself, taking note of his mixed reactions to it. Astonishment, anger, scandal, confusion. A year ago, I might have found satisfaction in his discomfort, but as I watch his grieved optics, I find no fulfillment in it now.

"All of this is straight from the mainframes of the Nemesis and Darkmount?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," I say simply.

There's something on the screen he seems to be gravitating to and I wonder if it's the same thing grabbing my attention. It appears Knock Out served as second in command for a little while—something which the council is definitely going to take notice of, unfortunately.

"I don't intend to hurt you with this information. I want to help," I say after a moment. He continues to stare at the screen, clicking the digits of his right servo along his left arm. Finally, he speaks in a controlled tone.

"And how can you help me?"

"Well, there are a few options . . ." I begin, but I don't get a chance to finish as he forcefully interrupts.

"Oh, really! And do any of those options involve turning back time, because this . . ." he exclaims while throwing a servo in the direction of the screen, ". . . pretty much seals my fate on both sides of the equation. Either I'm a criminal to the Autobots or a traitor to the Decepticons! Who cares at this point how I cope with it!?"

"Knock Out, I know how this can be . . ." I try to interject before this escalates into a confrontation. I can see the murderous intent in his optics—it's a look I'm all too familiar with. He cuts me off once more.

"My health," he scoffs with piercing bitterness, "You could give a scrap about my health. This was you guys' plan the whole time, wasn't it?! Lure me into some false sense of security and then make an example out of me!"

Now, I know I need to remain calm and stay in control here. I know I need to get through to him in the most sensible way possible. I know I need to take a path leading to peace instead of an altercation. But I feel my spark thunder in fury within me at the accusation and absurdity of it all. How dare he even insinuate such a thing after everything we've done! After everything we've been through!

"Do you really think you're the only one having difficulty with this?!" I roar, narrowing my optics and noting his step backward, "I was sickened by this task; having to read through chronicles of pointless bloodshed, utter cruelty and outright lies! My energon still boils remembering how we lost our home. The countless lives it took to get it back, the sacrifices we've had to make in order for it to even be possible. You can't actually believe we would just forsake all that cost, all that suffering, for something as petty as retribution against you!"

His growing look of shock and fear quickly collapses into a manifestation of confusion and rage.

"What am I supposed to think?! I'm disarmed, I'm prohibited from accessing resources and I can't even go for a drive without you people thinking I went AWOL! Now! . . . now, you're aware of more damaging information and I just can't see you or the council overlooking that! I didn't come this far just to lose. I'm telling you right now, I won't go quietly," he exclaims taking up a defensive position almost as if he were going to transform into vehicle mode. This was deteriorating quickly . . .

"Knock Out! Look around you! If we had wanted to get rid of you, wouldn't you think we'd have done it by now?!" I shout with a frustrated vent. His optics wildly dance between me and the door.

"I don't know! You didn't have this information before. Maybe you were waiting for a better opportunity!"

"You were unconscious last night! If that wasn't the most opportune time I don't know what is!"

"Well . . ." he pauses, uncertainty setting in as he glances to the floor. This may be my only chance to sway his opinion; to say what I really mean to.

"Listen. Megatron may have used execution as a means of solving his problems but that isn't how we resolve things here. Optimus never condoned revenge. He wanted peace. He died for peace. And I'm not allowing anyone to forget that, Decepticon or Autobot; not as long as I'm still around," I say solemnly. He raises his helm to look at me with saddened optics—was I actually getting through to him?

"I'll be honest, I never thought we should have granted you amnesty," I say bluntly, noticing the flicker of fear cross over him before I continue, "But Optimus did."

His reaction to those words genuinely surprises me. Unlike the snarky, arrogance I've come to know him for or the 'get out of my way','run for the hills' Decepticon I've learned so much about, he's solemn, he's humbled and he's lost for words. Staring right at me is a lifetime of shared regret and parallel remorse. I'm thunderstruck as the following realization leaves my vocalizer.

"And I can finally see why."

He looks to me in a way I can only describe as awe. He can't believe what I've just said and neither can I. The war, the destruction of our home, the loss . . . the peace, the rebuilding of our home and the gains. I've been angry and I've been patient. I've been bitter and I've been kind. I've been apathetic and caring; into the darkness and into the light. But, in all the personal struggles and private agony of raising Cybertron from the ashes, I forgot I've never been alone.

Till all are one, old friend.

The sound of Optimus' voice landing softly in my spark.

We stand in silence. It's neither awkward nor pleasant but needed because we stand together. I finally accept the challenge my dear friend asked of me.

"I can't speak for anyone else, but when I say that I want to help you it is because I do," I say sincerely. Knock Out nods, but I can see he's not satisfied. More accurately, he's not assured of his standing with us. Neither am I if I'm truthful. It will take a whole lot more than niceties to build this elusive trust we require.

If his life has been marked by the same pain as mine has, I know what I need to say.

"Knock Out, you're not just an ex-Con or a new Autobot. You're part of our family. And if that means protecting you from the council, so be it," I add firmly and decisively.

"Ratchet, I . . ." he sputters in disbelief. I don't know what he wants to express; gratitude? Apprehension? Maybe a combination of both, but, honestly, I don't care at this point. I just want reconciliation; for Optimus sake.

"Yip-ip-ip-ip. I mean every word. Now, let's focus on the remaining business of our supervision and discuss the plans of recourse afterward, shall we?"

He vents and with it I can see the tension leave him.

"Well, only because you asked so nicely," he says in his usual smug fashion, trying to lighten the mood, I'm sure. A return to normalcy. I decide to add to it for my own amusement.

"So, what did happen between you and Arcee last night?"

The look of pure surprise on his face; absolutely classic.

"Nothing," he says a bit too eagerly, before realizing it and going into some convoluted narrative about losing track of time and dropping off cliffs. As I listen, I smile. Despite the difficulty of the task before us, I can't help but smile.

After all, this is only the beginning.

"Finally, all of you be of one mind, having compassion for one another; love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous; not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary blessing, knowing that you were called to this, that you may inherit a blessing." 1 Peter 3:8-9