Chapter 26: Life on Repeat

Oh Lord, I have been told
That I must take the unforsaken road.
There's a fork in the road,
I'll do as I am told,
And I don't know, don't know
Who I want to be.

- "Mowgli's Road", Marina and the Diamonds

Two days later, Bumblebee was walking towards the Engineering level when . . .

"Goood morning, Autobug!"

Yeah. That.

"Go away, Knock Out."

"Oh dear, are you still upset? I can't imagine why. You asked for information on Vehicons, I gave you information on Vehicons."

"You told me you gave them a 'bounce test' by throwing them off the bridge of your ship."

"Ha ha, I did say that, didn't I?"

"And that instead of berths, 'we just stack them against the wall like cordwood'."

"Is it my fault that you're credulous?"

"And how you're allowed to use them as test subjects if you fill out a simple one-page form."

"Ah, now that's the simple truth."

"Go away."

"All right, fine," Knock Out chuckled. "I'm late for work as it is."

"Hmph. Why are you so cheerful anyway?"

"Almost done with my door. Won't have to put up with this much longer." He tapped the white replacement on his arm, his expression smug.

"Took you long enough," Bumblebee said, trying to get under the annoying red mech's plating. But Knock Out just laughed again.

"You try designing something on a machine where half—but only half—the controls are opposite from what you're used to."

Bumblebee thought of something. " So you haven't transformed the whole time we've been here? How are you still sane? Relatively speaking."

"Rude, Autobee. Just because I haven't transformed where people can gawk doesn't mean I haven't transformed at all. I do laps in vehicle mode, most nights."

"You do not, you liar. The arena's closed while we—Engineering—makes these big, uh . . . climby things."

"Big climby things. You have such a way with words. And I didn't say it was in the arena."

"Then where?"

"Whoops, I'm running late, must go. Have fun with your drones, Bug!"

"They're not drones!" Bumblebee shouted after the red mech as he disappeared around the corner. "And don't call me BUG!"

Knockdown was putting a set of sterile needles into his medical case when Trauma came in, carrying a large crate.

"Making house calls today?" the lavender jet asked.

"Tracking down Megatron. He's late on his vaccination schedule, and if he won't come to us . . ."

Trauma chuckled. "Get Starscream to help. She'll drag him in by his audial if she has to."

Knockdown's optics half-closed, giving a little smile at the mental image. "What about you? Sorting?"

"Mmhm. " Trauma set the crate down on the floor. It was full of spare parts—not from bots, but from machinery destroyed during the Heretic's crash landing. "Keeps the Twins out of trouble . . . and someone has to do it. I'm hoping to convince Knock Out to help, too."

Both medics cast a glance downward, towards the floor. Knock Out had taken to sequestering himself in a cramped room one level down, despite the fact that half of it was taken up with the replicator salvaged from the original medical bay. Whenever Knockdown or Trauma checked on him, he was intently studying a medical datapad, but happy enough to set it aside and talk about what he was reading about. He was a quick study. Learning fast. Seemed relaxed.

But he showed no signs of wanting to leave the room.

"I couldn't let him continue mutilating bodies," Knockdown frowned after a little pause.

"Of course you couldn't," Trauma said. "Honestly, we aren't Autobots . . . What did you ever tell the other Citizens, by the way?"

"I said there was an accident which made the bodies unsalvageable. A chemical fire in the medbay. They said they understood. I smelted the remains. Followed the proper protocols and all that."

"Oh dear . . . Well, probably for the best. More pleasant than hearing that your loved ones have been dissected," Trauma sighed. "No, you were right to correct him. But I wish he'd socialize a little more. You know, I think he's actually shy beneath that bluster of his. Sometimes I can barely get him to look at me . . ."

"Hmm. I'll talk to him on my way out."

Knockdown stopped in front of the modified storage closet that Knock Out liked to hole himself up in. He tapped on the door.

He wouldn't force the red grounder to join Trauma's little sorting party, he'd just . . . exert his influence as CMO.

No answer. He knocked again, then opened the door on the tiny room. Half of it was taken up by a looming mass of machinery—the replicator. Then there was a little chair at the end with some datapads stacked under it.

And the chair was empty. Knock Out was apparently running late. The cyan Seeker gave the tiniest shake of his head. Yes, he wanted his staff to be comfortable, but he also expected them to be timely. Still, it wasn't as though Knock Out had any specific tasks at the moment, besides studying medical datapads and the Decepticon Code.

And even if Knock Out wasn't punctual, at least he was tidy. That was why the mesh cloth tucked behind the replicator caught the CMO's eye. Raising an optic ridge, he reached back and drew out a flattish object wrapped in the smoothly textured silver cloth.

Knockdown pulled the cloth away. It slid from his hand and pooled on the floor as he stared at the object in his hand. Cherry red finish. Silver trim. A dark-tinted window reflecting his own pale face, expressionless apart from his widened optics.

He turned the door over slowly in his servos, taking in all the little details—the tiny handle, the even smaller control for the windows, the miniature lines of chrome framing the smooth red gloss. His fingers stroked gently, carefully across a surface so shiny it seemed almost liquid. The window caught the light, smokey glass interrupted with bars of brilliance, as he tilted it.

When he tilted it back, it reflected two pale white faces.

Knockdown turned. His clone was in the doorway, one hand gripping the doorframe. Knock Out's face, too, was expressionless, but his optics kept flitting from Knockdown's faceplate to the door in his hand.

The Seeker shook off his moment of—not exactly guilt, but surprise. He was the Chief Medical Officer. He had a right to be in any room attached to the medical bay.

"You made this?" Just a hint of amazement.

Knock Out's optics did that rise-fall sequence again. He nodded.

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

Knockdown looked down at the door again, then held it out to his clone. The red grounder swept it up and held it protectively to his chest as though he expected it to be snatched away.

"Why haven't you attached it? It seems to be done."

"Needs the side view mirror," Knock Out said, his optics wary.

"All right." Knockdown sat down in the chair and gestured towards the machine.

Knock Out stared at him for a moment before making his way over to the replicator, tapping the screen to summon the holographic display. Material type, density, dimensions . . . He typed them in slowly, making the occasional error and, once, giving a frustrated little hiss as he accidentally deleted all his data, forcing him to start over. The second time his claws moved a little faster. A final press of the button and the machine hummed quietly for a few minutes before ejecting the first component—the flat, vaguely rectangular mirror.

Knock Out turned it over in his hands, frowned, and dropped it in the trash bin in recycling chute on the machine to be reprocessed. He turned to the machine and began again.

The third mirror, he kept.

Knockdown watched in silence as Knock Out moved on to the other components he'd need-the side mount, the outer casing, the interior springs and washers, the electronic components that would hook into his circuitry . . . The red grounder consistently made little mistakes, doing things backwards, almost, but he never stopped until he produced something perfect.

Knock Out's shoulders lost some of their tension as he finished working with the machine and began assembling the mirror and attaching it to the door. Obviously this line of work was more familiar.

"Here." Knockdown held out his hand and Knock Out frowned, pulling the door to his chest again. "It will be impossible," the jet said patiently, "to install on your own."

"Not impossible," Knock Out objected. But he carefully set the completed door in Knockdown's servos and squeezed past him to sit in the chair. Knockdown settled on one knee as he began unscrewing the temporary white paneling.

"You could have come to us about this."

Knock Out shrugged. "I didn't want to seem ungrateful."

"Knock Out, we want you to be comfortable." Knockdown frowned as he began to connect the relays to the new door. "Who taught you how to use the replicator? Ratchet?"

Knock Out was silent. "They didn't have one as big as this," he said finally. "No, Ratchet didn't teach me."

The blue jet looked up at him. "Then who?"

Knock Out gave him a sad smile. "No one. I told you, didn't I, that the Prime ripped my door off once?"

"I see." Knockdown's optic ridges were drawn down as he went back to work. "So they . . . let you reconstruct it yourself."

"Let me." Knock Out chuckled mirthlessly. "Yes, they let me do it all myself. But you know . . ." He sounded thoughtful. "It wasn't as hard as I expected. I made a lot of mistakes, of course, but when I fired up the machine, it was like . . . like I was remembering how to do something I'd forgotten a long time ago."

Knockdown's hands stilled for an instant. "I see."

Knock Out didn't seem to notice. He was frowning into the distance. "You learn to do everything by yourself, when you're a . . . an Autobot. You can't rely on anyone."

"Well." The blue Seeker set the final relay and stood, dusting off his knees. "You're a Decepticon now."

"That's right." Knock Out smiled up at him. "I am."

"So then Starscream did this incredible roll, I mean she came this close to the canyon wall," Ampule said, holding her fingers an unlikely distance apart.

"And she came out of the dive and landed right in front of us," Jumpstart said. "And then she started yelling." He sighed heavily. "I still don't know how she knew we'd snuck off the ship."

"Well, I hope you have enough sense not to do it again," Trauma said, flipping a bolt into the appropriate container. "It's dangerous out there, you know. The Autobots . . . and then the humans."

"Why would humans hurt us?" Ampule was untangling a mass of thin wires.

"They'd be scared. Their transports are all lifeless."

"Not in my comics."

"Those are fiction," the therapist said patiently. "In real life—" He stopped as the main doors opened and Knockdown came in, followed by—

"Oh, hey Knock Out!" Ampule exclaimed.

"You got your door fixed? Cool!"

—followed by Knock Out, who was smiling, shining, and whole. It was startling, really, what a difference that made. Trauma realized his mouth was hanging open and hastily shut it.

"Knockdown, when did you find time to—? Knock Out, you look great."

Knock Out smiled, not quite meeting Trauma's eyes. Wordlessly, showily, he dropped into vehicle mode. His paneling slid and shifted and clicked into place until a red automobile was sitting there, looking like speed personified.

"He built it himself," Knockdown murmured to Trauma as the Twins crouched down to get a better look at Knock Out's vehicle mode.

"I see. From, ah . . . from memory?"

"Yes."

"I see . . ."

"We'll talk about it later. I've got to go see to Megatron. Keep an eye on him."

Trauma nodded as Knockdown left. Since Knock Out seemed perfectly happy talking to the Twins, he doubted there'd be any problems. The red mech was back in robot mode now, stretching his arm to better admire his new door as he answered the flurry of questions from the white jets.

"My alt mode's an Aston Martin, a DB9 to be exact. Top speed? Well, the Autobots never let me cut loose, but I would guess somewhere in the range of 200 miles per hour . . . Yes, I know it's slow compared to Mach 2, but it's fast for an automobile . . ."

He made his way over to the table as he spoke, looking at the buckets of various parts and the larger crate of mixed up components.

"Would you like to join us, Knock Out?" Trauma asked. "We're sorting everything by type."

"It's boring, but kind of fun," Jumpstart said, hopping onto his stool.

"Sure." Knock Out's began picking through the gears and screws scattered across the table. Trauma had to admit that he managed just fine with only one finger joint.

"Do you and Bumblebee ever race? Who's faster?" Ampule asked as she went back to untangling wires.

"Well, we really didn't socialize much before we escaped, but I imagine I'm faster."

"Why?"

"Because I just am."

"What kind of car is he?"

"Urbana 500. Could be worse."

"What was the worst thing about the Autobots?"

"Ampule," Trauma said sharply. The white and purple jet lapsed into silence. For a few minutes the only sound was the ting-ting of nuts and bolts being sorted into their respective containers.

"So the Autobots made you a grounder because they're all grounders, right?" Ampule said, breaking the silence. "Does that ever make you angry? That Knockdown's a jet and you aren't?"

"I really didn't know what he looked like until I got here. They kept me in the dark about the Decepticons as much as they could. But no, it doesn't upset me. I suppose that's hard to understand when you've never been around grounders—"

"Oh, we've been around plenty. Lots of the Citizens are grounders," Jumpstart assured him.

"Ah—yes." Knock Out looked taken aback for a second and cast a sideways glance at Trauma. "Of course they . . . count."

"And we used to work with one, too. Brakeline."

Knock Out lost his grip on the cog he was holding. He stared at the table a second before slowly picking it up again. "Used to."

"Yeah, he was the medical assistant. Like, not a full medic, but—"

"Hi Knockdown!" Ampule said suddenly, loudly, as the main doors hissed open. Jumpstart's mouth snapped shut in mid-sentence and all three of the jets leaped up to greet the CMO entering the med bay. Knock Out, remaining seated, simply looked.

"Knockdown! Hello!" Trauma said. "How'd it go with Megatron?"

"It didn't." The CMO looked annoyed. "He snuck off for a for a flight. Ah well. How are things going here?"

"Fine!" both Twins chirped together.

"Very well," Knock Out said.

"Fantastic," Trauma assured him.

Knockdown eyed them, perhaps feeling they were a little too exuberant. But all he said was, "Good. Carry on. I'll be in my office if you need me."

They watched him go, and the tension didn't sag out of their shoulders until his office door closed.

"We don't talk about Brakeline around him," Ampule whispered to Knock Out. "It upsets him."

"'Cause they were sparkmates," Jumpstart said. "Until . . ." He paused dramatically.

"Quiet, you two." Trauma cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the closed door. He turned back to Knock Out and spoke in a hushed voice. "Since you'll be working here, I suppose it's inevitable that you'll find out what happened. Brakeline—"

"No."

Trauma blinked. "Pardon?"

"No. I don't need to know. I don't want to know. Now or ever." Knock Out was focused on the nuts and bolts, calmly pushing them into little groups with the tips of his claws. His voice was light and the curve of his lips suggestive of a smile, but his brows were lowered. "I can already tell that it would only depress me. And why would I wish that on myself? So let me live in blissful ignorance, please." His smile slipped a little as he leaned over his work, and Trauma barely heard him mutter, "I have plenty of problems of my own."

"But don't you want to know—"

"Jumpstart," Trauma said. "He said he doesn't want to hear about it. Respect that."

After a few awkward minutes, Ampule started talking about glaciers, and the conversation shifted to new topics.

But Knock Out continued leaning over his work, his back tense. And the therapist wondered . . .

If the clone had recalled some of Knockdown's medical knowledge . . . what else might he remember?

A/N: Sorry for not updating in a while! I'm preparing for a move and things have been a little crazy. I'm going to try to get back to a more regular update schedule now.