Chapter 9: A Widening Gyre
Memories fade,
Like looking through a fogged mirror.
Decisions, too—decisions are made and not bought
But I thought this wouldn't hurt a lot; I guess not.
- MGMT, "Kids"
The council of officers was convened in haste, then delayed while Knockdown supervised the treatment of the Heretic's two newest patients-slash-puzzlements. Trauma had prepared two medical pallets, each with a waiting IV drip, while the other medics were in the field, but Knockdown's scrupulous nature ("Picky," thought Trauma) meant that he was ordering changes before the stretchers were even set down.
"The yellow one in the Auxiliary," Knockdown ordered, nodding towards the room at the far end of the lab. The doors hissed open as he swiped his hand over a pad and tapped in code. "Red on the main palette."
"The Auxiliary? Are you sure?" Trauma was trying to catch a better look at the red mech—having heard plenty of excited radio chatter about the CMO's "twin" via Amp and Jumpstart. "That room's so inconvenient." In fact, it was such a pain in the thrusters to drag equipment back and forth that the Auxiliary was used only when a patient needed extra privacy to recover, or when the rest of the lab was full.
"They need to be kept separated," the cyan medic said, pulling two more bags of medical energon out of a cabinet and pushing them into Trauma's arms. "They're going to be questioned individually."
"Indeed they are, doctor—if we are ever able to agree on what they should be asked. A meeting which you are expected to attend, I believe." Starscream was standing in the doorway of the medical bay, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.
"I'll be there as soon as possible, of course," Knockdown said, "as soon as I settle my patients."
"Surely they can survive for a few minutes in the capable hands of your staff." The Air Commander gave Trauma a nod of acknowledgement. It came with a smile—a sincere one, but with a hint of a tapping foot behind it. "That is why you have staff, doctor." She lifted a finger and waggled it scoldingly. "You don't need to try to be a one-mech show."
Knockdown gave a little huff of dissatisfaction, but after a fraction of a second he inclined his head in agreement. But the cyan Seeker was not about to leave without aiming a rapid-fire barrage of last minute instructions at Trauma. "IVs on both, the red one's critical but they're both low. Clear the debris out of Red's back and douse Yellow's leg in nanites, that plating's about ready to crack."
In the background, Starscream repressed a slight sigh in a very obviously patient manner. Knockdown's instructions flowed even faster. "Patchwork repairs only on Red's arm, I'll attend to that myself later. Hmm . . . oh, and trim down those claws."
Trauma raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Self-inflicted wound," Knockdown explained briefly. "We don't want a repeat. All right, that's it. Keep them both under and—"
"'Under'? Does that mean what I think it does?" Starscream asked.
"That depends." Knockdown turned towards her and raised an eyebrow. "Do you think it means 'under sedation'? If so—yes."
"Hrrrm, we'll be wanting to question them soon, Knockdown. We don't want them floating about in a drug dream."
This time Knockdown was the one to cross his arms. "I have a responsibility to my staff, Air Commander. These mechs may be dangerous. And even if they aren't, they'll be in pain. I have a duty as a medic—"
"All right, all right," Starscream conceded. "Your duty. I understand." Her brows drew down in concern. "But I will tell you frankly, doctor, that I would rather get this over with while your patients are not at their best. Lord Megatron is sure to want to question them himself and our leader can be . . ." Her blue eyes studied the ceiling as she searched for the right words. " . . . surprisingly, mmm, guileless for an ex-gladiator. He expects the best of others—regardless of if he should. You catch my drift?"
Knockdown uncrossed his arms to pick up a small welding torch, spinning it in his fingers. Their beloved leader was indeed infamous for his willingness to talk with enemies, attempting to reason with them or convert them to the Decepticon cause while the rest of the Decepticon forces wrung their hands and willed him to attack his foes. The fact that this strategy had born fruit a few times did not erase the memories of all the OTHER times, the times he'd had to repair Megatron after some Cybertronian or extraterrestrial had taken advantage of his goodwill and stabbed him in the back. Sometimes literally.
Megatron always laughed off the attempts to end his life, even while he was still bleeding energon. He claimed that he was tough enough that he didn't need to worry—"Die-cast construction, Knockdown, and a gladiator's frame. They built us strong in my day." It made Knockdown a little crazy, but he had to grudgingly admire his leader's confidence and idealism, too.
That didn't mean he couldn't stack the odds a little, though.
"Trauma—" he started, then paused to look at Starscream. "Which one first?"
She tapped a thin metal finger on her arm thoughtfully. "Your doppelganger, I think."
He nodded and turned back to Trauma. "Minimal sedation on Red. Just enough to keep him under."
"You got it, Doc."
With a final glance around his domain, Knockdown swept out after Starscream.
Knock Out seldom dreamed, and never of the War. His dreamed of fast cars, or of Breakdown, or of starry nights on Cybertron, or even of fighting Optimus Prime (and since they were his dreams, they usually ended with Knock Out planting a triumphant foot atop the fallen Autobot leader).
But he didn't dream of the War. That business with Optimus and his merry mechs didn't count. If he ran from Team Prime—and Knock Out often did, without the least twinge of shame—they would let him go. That wasn't war. Wars were all about battlefields. Once you were on a battlefield, there was nowhere to run.
But he never thought about battlefields—did not suppose he would ever be on one again—did not understand why they were seeping into his thoughts now.
"Ampule, you take his arm—that's right. Now lift."
Someone had been picking bits of metal out of his back, had been doing it for some time. He didn't know how he knew, or how long they'd been doing it. He just felt the hands hooking under his arms, carefully turning him over. His back felt numb again, but so did the rest of him, so he supposed it was all right.
Then someone was working on his arm. He could dimly feel the careful turning of the casing to find a better angle, could hear the quiet click of pliers as wires were twisted and reconnected . . . Someone pressed gently on his wrist and his fingers curled of their own accord.
"There. That'll do for now."
Sloppy work, lazybones, a part of Knock Out's mind scoffed in retort. But that part of his mind was not very loud right now. He was back on the battlefield. That first one.
He could never remember, later, which battle it had been. Either a clash in the Sea of Rust or part of the on-going hostilities at Praxus. It was funny, because the two had been in completely different areas and weeks apart—he should have been able to remember. But it was just a vague blur. The troop ship. Hours of waiting, bored and terrified by turns. Joking with the other medics to hide it. Keeping a careful eye on Quickcut, as he sat on the edge of the transport, because his hands were trembling so badly that he'd almost shot two fellow 'Cons already. Trying to cheer him up by inviting him into the betting pool Trauma had set up—whoever shot the most Autobots would win. But no 'Cons, Knock Out reminded him. Trauma said 'Cons didn't count.
Trauma . . .
"Primus, look at the length of 'em."
Someone was lifting his hand, gently smoothing his fingers back. A moment of cold pressure at the tip and a metallic snap. It didn't hurt exactly, but he hated the sound. He tried to protest and could only flex his fingers slightly.
"He's coming out of it. Ampule."
A pause; the world grew fuzzier. His fingers were smoothed out again. Snap. Snap. He couldn't feel the pressure this time. He still hated the sound.
"Other hand." It was lifted. Trauma.
He had not known Trauma all that well; they had been friends, but not friends, as far as that went. He'd been closer to Splint and Backup. But just like he couldn't recall the name of the battle, he couldn't remember much about those two. They'd just fallen away from his memories; people he'd worked with and laughed with and squabbled with up to the point where they were just gone.
Someone was stroking his fingers again. "Already lost quite a few, hasn't he?" Snap. Snap.
Trauma.
He had pulled Trauma's arm over his shoulder and dragged him behind the downed body of a shuttle-bot to treat him, and the air had seemed to have a substance of its own, rocking with cannon blasts from two distant gestalts, whining with laserfire. If they'd still been with their battalion, if they hadn't been cut off, then maybe—probably—Knock Out wouldn't have done it, would have stayed with the group. But he was already lost, panicking in a maze of smoke and bullets, and Trauma was down, and he was a medic.
He remembered setting his electro-staff aside and the darting glances he kept shooting towards it, fearful he would look up and find it gone. In later battles he would be wiser and always keep a hand on it, ready to use. In later battles he would not stop when a comrade fell.
But that was the first time.
"Scorching underneath the plating here." His body flinched as the tender area on his right side was examined, although the pain never actually materialized. "Let's see what we can do about that."
He couldn't remember the placement or the severity of Trauma's wounds. Did remember slapping him so hard it made his hand ache, to stop his screaming. Did remember the streaks of energon his fingers left across Trauma's faceplate. So he must have been losing a lot of energon. A gut wound, maybe.
He remembered his hands flying as they explored the injury, even if he couldn't remember what or where it was. Remembered the cold terror when he realized this was beyond him. If they'd been at the field hospital, with supplies—but they weren't. Wished for long moments that he was a cowardly Autobot who could walk away, lying with hope and promises to return, or who could drag Trauma over the battlefield until they were both gunned down and pretend it had been brave instead of stupid. Seriously considered just running away. But he was a Decepticon, a Decepticon medic. You couldn't fool everyone else unless you faced the truth yourself. And how could you deny mercy to a friend, when you gave it daily to strangers?
Trauma had fought him then, scrabbling furrows down his finish as Knock Out slammed down his head and pinned it. No chance of fooling him with sweet talk and comforting lies; Trauma had brought plenty of mercy in his time too, and it was not always freely accepted. Knock Out didn't blame him for the struggle, and only a little for the finish.
Knock Out didn't have any sedatives on hand. He couldn't reach his staff. But he did have a buzzsaw, recently installed by the weaponsmaster and still gleamingly new. He pressed Trauma's face into the rusty soil as he thrashed and tried to bite his fingers. He tried to soothe him; told him it was all right, it would be clean, it would be quicker than a scalpel.
That had probably turned out to be a lie; he wasn't sure. He couldn't remember much after that. He had a vague recollection of an officer, a tank build, finding him—snarling about useless cannon fodder and shaking him till his denta rattled before shoving him stumbling into the fray. And he had survived that, clearly. Even if he didn't remember how.
Mostly . . . mostly he remembered Trauma's face when he slapped him, panicked and stained with a distorted, glowing handprint.
"There." His hand was laid gently on his chest, the fingers curled in and blunted. After a moment, it was lifted again and something cold slid around his wrist. In his free-floating state, he barely felt his transformation subroutines fade away and grey out, as inaccessible as the moon. "Hardly seems necessary." A pat on his chestplate. "I don't think you're going to be a threat any time soon."
Knock Out didn't try to open his eyes. Most definitely did not want to open his eyes. He struggled in little fits until the fogginess pressed in on him again, pushing him into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
