Chapter 17: Professional Courtesies
Crooked was the path and brazen was the walk.
A cocky swagger, up the ladder,
And could he ever talk.
- Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "The Rascal King"
Starscream always thought Knockdown's office, situated one deck above the medical bay and one deck below his personal quarters, hit just the right note. Minimal but tasteful decor. The usual shelves full of datapads, mostly medical tracts. A few sculptures—nothing gaudy. A comfortable chair behind his desk and chairs which were almost-but-not-quite comfortable for guests.
The only jarring note was an Earth plant—a cactus—roosting in the corner under some kind of specialized lamp. Knock Out, seated in one of the not-quite-comfortable chairs in front of Knockdown's desk, kept glancing over at it with curious optics, but once Starscream and Knockdown started talking, he focused wholly on the two of them.
Starscream had barely started hinting at the subject at hand before red grounder shrugged.
"Naturally, being cloned from, er, 'Doc Knock'—can I call you that?—I assumed I'd be working in the medical bay."
Well, that made things easier. Knockdown leaned forward in his chair. "You understand it's not just that? I think you may have been created with some kind of natural ability in this area, or—were you trained at a medic at some point?"
"Don't remember," Knock Out said with a vague look. "Sorry."
"What Knockdown means," Starscream cut in, "is that we think you'll enjoy this work—if you choose to pursue it, which is of course entirely up to you. It won't be easy, but you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you're a valuable asset to this ship and the Decepticon cause—"
Knock Out laughed, a deep, rich sound, and leaned back in his chair. For a moment Starscream thought he was actually going to plant his feet on the desk, but he just crossed his legs.
"Relax, Herr—pardon me, Dame Kommandantin. I understand. You saved my life, you'll be providing room and board," he cocked his head as though half expecting a contradiction and looked pleased when none came, "and naturally you want a return on your investment."
"Well, I don't know if I'd describe it in such . . . mercenary terms," Starscream said, taken aback.
"I can assure you, we saved you because it was the ethical thing to do," Knockdown said, frowning at this besmirching of his professional integrity, "not because we considered you an 'investment'."
"Still, the fact that I'm able to provide something in return makes for good feelings all around, doesn't it?" Knock Out asked, lofting an optic ridge. He leaned both chair and body forward, resting his forearms on the desk as he gave a knowing smirk. "And I am perfectly willing to be a team player. You scratch my back, I scratch yours."
Starscream stared at him. Knockdown's fixed expression became even more fixed.
After a few seconds Knock Out uncrossed his arms and pushed his chair back a little. He was still smiling, but the smile was beginning to tense up. "Something wrong?"
"Ah. No, my dear, not at all." Starscream exchanged a glance with Knockdown. Uncanny.
"I think, for now, we'll assume your talents are somehow inborn or pre-programmed or . . ." Knockdown gave him one last searching look before shrugging. "It doesn't matter. Knock Out, you do understand . . . we're at war. You will see injuries. You will see spilled energon. And sooner or later, you will see fatalities. You understand?"
Knock Out made a noise in his throat, like he was swallowing a cough or a chuckle. "Nothing I can't handle."
"Yes, well. I hope you feel the same way six months in. If anything gets to be too much, let me know immediately. Meanwhile, you'll be having bi-weekly sessions with Trauma—"
"Trauma." The response was instantaneous and there was a razor-thin sharpness embedded in his genteel tone. " . . . what kind of sessions?"
"Psychotherapy." Knockdown said, watching him. This was the part where some bots became tiresome, angrily declaring that they weren't crazy, that therapy was for weaklings, and so on. But Knock Out just sat there, feet tucked under his chair, drumming his fingers on his arm, the one with the missing door. His lowered helm obscured an already unreadable expression.
Starscream cleared her throat. "You understand, don't you, that this is simply a means of helping you . . . keep an even keel. Considering your past . . ."
Knock Out's mouth tightened for just an instant before relaxing into a smile. He raised his helm. "Yes, I suppose it is a good idea. Yes, of course it is. Forgive my reluctance. Living with the Autobots has made me overly wary of . . . certain types of situations."
"You have nothing to worry about here," said Starscream. Poor little thing.
"I can assure you that everything will be completely above board and painless. And completely private," Knockdown said with brisk, professional firmness. "Trauma is a good bot."
"Oh yes, he seems very . . ." Knock Out's fingers tapped on his arm again. "Very pleasant. Well, I think you've addressed all my concerns."
"Then I'm pleased to welcome you to the medical team."
Knock Out leaned back. "Pleased to be here. When do I start?"
"As soon as I finish reconstructing the circuitry in your arm—that's just a patch job—and replace that door of yours."
"Mmm." Knock Out rubbed his injured arm. "I certainly won't complain about being made, shall we say, a little more complete."
"Well, that sounds excellent. Your official job title will be General Assistant," Starscream said briskly.
"Oh, yes? Fine," said Knock Out.
Knockdown, on the other hand, turned towards the Air Commander, not actually narrowing his eyes, but coming close. The lowly Gen. Asst. categorization meant Knock Out would not be attached solely to the medical team, but could be "borrowed" by other officers as necessary. Later, Starscream intended to reassure the CMO that the job title was only for the sake of paperwork and that in practice Knock Out would be in the medical chain of command. Which was more or less true. At any rate, the CMO could hardly object in front of Knock Out.
A graceful solution to a tricky little problem, Starscream congratulated herself. What a pity he's a grounder, though. "So, that said . . . Do you have any questions, Knock Out?"
"Yes, actually. Where will my quarters be?"
That drew Knockdown's attention back to his newest staff member. "Well, we're a little short on space in this section, but I'm sure we can clear out one of the storage rooms and convert it into—"
Knock Out held up a hand. "With all due respect, Doctor, I'd rather be midship. Around the Library, if possible. I'm always looking for opportunities to further my education." His head, tilted upward, gave a clear view of his round, red optics.
"I have no objection." Knockdown looked at Starscream.
"Nor I." There were plenty of empty rooms midship—and, for that matter, in the bow and the aft as well. One of the dubious benefits of the increasingly deadly Autobot raids.
"Excellent. Port side for preference, but I'm not picky," Knock Out said. "Any . . . particular reason the med bay is in this rather, ah, confined part of the ship? Just out of curiosity."
"It's not the most convenient placement," Knockdown said, "but it's necessary for the emergency hangars. For injured aerials."
"Oh, I see." But Knock Out still wore a tiny frown.
"Here's a datapad outlining some basic medical procedures, first aid, and so on." Knockdown pushed it towards him. "Something to read up on when you get a chance."
Knock Out accepted it with a nod, standing up.
"Tell your friend Bumblebee to head up here, will you, dear?"
"Sure thing. Au revoir, Dame Kommandantin, Herr Doktor!" He gave a showy salute and was gone.
As soon as the door shut, Knockdown immediately turned to Starscream, his eyebrows raised. "A General Assistant?"
"It wouldn't be the first time you had one." As much as she was trying not to bring Brakeline into this, Knockdown still gave a slight flinch. Starscream hurried on, soothingly. "It's only for the paperwork, my dear doctor. He will be completely under your jurisdiction."
"Hrrrm." He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against the blue casing as he frowned at the table. His optics lifted to look at the Second-in-Command. "You promise?"
"One hundred percent yours. You decide when he works, where he works, days off, bonuses, et cetera, et cetera . . . No different from if he were a Junior Medic or whatnot."
"I'd like that in writing."
"Knockdown!"
"What?"
"I am . . . offended! Shocked! I mean every word I say!"
"Yes. So I'm sure you won't mind writing them down." He swept a blank datapad and stylus onto the desk.
Starscream huffed as she picked them up. "Honestly." She scribbled a moment and pushed the datapad towards him. His optics scanned over the text. He pushed it back.
"Signed and dated, please."
"Knockdown, I would like to make this clear . . . that I am only humoring you . . . because we're old friends," Starscream grumbled as she looped her signature onto the bottom of the document.
"Same." Knockdown glanced at the datapad again and this time, satisfied, filed it in a drawer. "Anyone else, I'd tell them to change the classification or get scorched."
Starscream put her hands on her hips. "If your medics could hear you now . . ."
He tilted his helm, and for an instant the origin of Knock Out's smile was clearly written on his face. "They'd never believe you."
Starscream was shaking her head, rueful and amused, when there was a knock at the door.
Knockdown's expression returned to its usual state of neutral calm. "Come in, Bumblebee."
Someone came in, but not Bumblebee. It was Jumpstart.
"Um, Trauma sent me up here," he said, looking from the CMO to the Air Commander. "Bumblebee's busy talking to Megatron."
Exactly five hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty-two seconds had elapsed since Shockwave had sent Megatron the message. It was short and to the point:
"Contact reports Autobot project, start date approximately six months ago, details unknown. Involvement of Prime and Ratchet. Cloning possible. No further details. Unverified."
His contact had been either ignorant or deliberately unhelpful, but Shockwave had not included this in his report. First, because he did not know which was the case. Second, because it was irrelevant. Megatron had asked him for information on possible cloning projects, not on who knew what.
Five hours, twelve minutes, and six seconds ago, Shockwave had received a reply from Megatron.
"Thank you, Shockwave. You're help has once again proved vital." (Megatron was intelligent, but for all that his grammar was imperfect. In the gladiator pits of Kaon, one was less apt to wonder "now is this a case of 'you're axe hit me in the face' or 'your axe hit me in the face'?" and more likely to reflect, "I am bleeding profusely because an axe just hit me in the face.") "You are a vital member of the Decepticon cause and I hope you will see fit to return to us soon. With hope, Megatron."
Shockwave read this message through once, deemed that it did not contain any information of importance, and deleted it.
The next several hours he spent gathering energon crystals—a task some would call tedious, but which he found peaceful.
One hour, five minutes, and forty seconds ago, Shockwave had received another messages.
"QUERY: YOU WEREN'T AT THE MEETING? I FOUND A VIDEO FOR YOUR FILES. QUERY: YOU WILL BE AT THE NEXT MEETING?"
He opened the video attachment and discovered it to be a primitive piece of Human animation about "Charlie the Unicorn". (For an astrosecond he thought it was as misspelling of Unicron, but no, his cross-referencing revealed a unicorn to be "a mythical animal resembling a horse with a horn projecting from its forehead.")
The video was short, strange, and illogical in the extreme. Shockwave did not see any sense in either the plot (such as it was) nor the underlying message. How could the unicorns discover a magical liopleurodon when liopleurodons had been extinct for millions of Earth years? What was so significant about being "on a bridge"? It was clearly base nonsense.
Shockwave filed the message in his "Save" folder and went on gathering energon crystals. From time to time he read the message again and watched the video.
Bumblebee could not honestly say he was comfortable around Megatron. Yes, he seemed . . . benevolent . . . but there was still a physicality to him that Optimus Prime, even after his amazing upgrade, just didn't have. It was impossible to forget that he was a gladiator from Kaon who could (and, from what Bumblebee had experienced, WOULD) be ready for combat in the blink of an eye. Probably this would have been less unnerving to anyone who was not suffered at the hands of the not-so-benevolent version of Megatron.
But this Megatron was asking him how he felt and if he was hungry, and what could Bumblebee do except answer politely and shush the part of him that kept shouting "ATTACK!" or, alternately, "FLEE!" At least he'd managed to move the conversation into the main medical bay, where he didn't feel all cramped and trapped.
"I really feel fine, almost normal now," Bumblebee said, which was true—just some aches and a leg that was still unsteady, which didn't surprise him. "They've even given me the all clear to transform."
That was the first thing he'd done when Trauma took his stasis cuff off. There had hardly been room in the Auxiliary and Knock Out had drawn his feet up onto his chair and snapped at him, but he hadn't cared, it was just so satisfying. Especially after Trauma warned Knock Out that he was under no circumstances to do the same. ("I know, I know, my wretched back.")
"I am glad to hear that your recovery has been smooth. Due in great part to our fine medics, no doubt." Megatron's gaze swept over the three medics present—Trauma, Jumpstart, and Ampule—not quite smiling, but definitely looking sternly approving. Trauma nodded his head in acknowledgement, looking pleased. Ampule rubbed her arm in embarrassed pleasure and Jumpstart stared at Megatron as though he was Primus in person.
"Yes, they've been great." Okay, Knockdown still weirded him out by being so like/unlike Knock Out, but he'd forgiven Trauma for the "voice" remark—he seemed okay—and the twins had an exuberance that made him miss Smokescreen.
"But we're missing one," Megatron observed, looking around. "One medic and one clone."
"Ah, I think Knockdown and Starscream wanted a word with the patient, Megatron." Trauma put the slightest emphasis on "patient."
"Knockdown and Starscream?" Megatron asked sharply, and Bumblebee was swallowing his fear all over again. "My, my, I will be interested to hear what my Chief Medical Officer and my Second-in-Command had to say."
Trauma looked uncomfortable. "I'll just . . . go check on them." He was almost into the corridor when he met up with Knock Out, returning. They leaned together, whispering—well, Trauma leaned down, that's what it amounted to—and Trauma gestured to Jumpstart and whispered something to him in turn.
Exit Jumpstart, enter Knock Out. With a flourish, of course. As always.
"Lord Megatron." Knock Out saluted showily, his right hand pressed over his left headlight. "A pleasure to see you again!"
"And the same to you, Knock Out." Megatron looked amused. "You're looking—"
"Perfectly terrible, my liege." Knock Out looked with distaste at the scars and burns still decorating his chassis. "You can say it. I won't mind."
"Don't say it," Bumblebee advised. "He'll sulk for hours."
"Did anyone ask you?" Knock Out waved a finger admonishingly. "But really—just wait a week, my lord, and then you'll see where I got my name."
"He got it because he can't take a punch."
"That is a foul lie," Knock Out crossed his arms, eyes half-shuttered, haughty. "And you're one to talk! At least I'm not named after a bug."
Megatron chuckled. "Everything has its origin, and none are to be ashamed of. But you, Knock Out, I'm curious—where exactly did you pick up this 'my lord' and 'my liege' business."
"Uh." Knock Out smiled, but it was a frozen sort of smile. Bumblebee suddenly noticed that, despite the jaunty attitude, Knock Out always stayed at least an arm's length from Megatron. How reassuring. "I don't know, my lo—I don't know."
"I was wondering if you got the habit from Starscream," Megatron said, raising an eyebrow. "I understand you were talking with her earlier."
"Indeed he was." In strode Starscream herself, with Knockdown dogging her heels. "I hope you don't mind, Lord Megatron, but I felt it would ease the minds of our new friends if they knew, as soon as possible, that they had a permanent home here."
"I commend you, Starscream. But wouldn't it have been better to tell both of them at once," he tilted his helm and up went the eyebrow again, "rather than spiriting one away to—where?"
"My office," Knockdown said shortly, unflappable as ever. "We thought we'd discuss career options while we were at it."
"Oh yes?" He turned towards Knock Out. "And did any particular field catch your interest?"
"Medic," Knock Out said without hesitation.
"Why am I not surprised?" Bumblebee said.
"Strangely, I find myself equally unsurprised," said Megatron.
"Well, I do have something of a natural flair for the profession. Isn't that right, Bumblebee?"
Bumblebee wanted to say something sarcastic, but . . . Knock Out had patched him up out there in the desert. "I've seen worse."
"You've seen worse? What in the Pit is that supposed to mean?" Suddenly an angry red mech was stalking towards him. "I saved your leg with nothing but electrical tape and hope, BUG!"
"Yeah—after using most of the bandages on yourself!"
Knock Out swirled around and pointed a finger at the blue CMO. "Doctor! In triage, all-things-being-equal, who gets medical attention first?"
Knockdown tilted his head slightly. "The medics themselves."
Knock Out swung back towards Bumblebee, one hand on his hip and the other flashing sideways in a 'you SEE?' gesture.
Starscream cleared her throat. "Were you about to say something, Lord Megatron, about Knock Out's decision?"
"No, Starscream, it appears . . . satisfactory. Although perhaps his interest would not have required a secretive meeting to develop. Merely a thought." He glanced at Bumblebee and smiled. (Bumblebee once again attempted to find the sharp teeth nonthreatening.) "Do not feel obligated to make any hasty decisions just because your friend has. This is something you may want to mull over."
"Thank you," Bumblebee said. He had no idea what anyone even did around here, aside from the medics and the air support team (which was out for obvious reasons).
Not that we're going to be around here long enough to actually "do" anything anyway, he reminded himself.
"Well! Now that you're both here," Megatron looked from Knock Out to Bumblebee, "I would like to officially offer you both a sanctuary and a home in the Decepticon army."
"Accepted, and gratefully, my liege." Knock Out made a show of sinking down on one knee, hand pressed to his chest again, helm bowed.
Megatron looked highly amused. "Someone has taught you the gladiatorial protocols, I see. But I do not think I'll be throwing you in a ring any time soon."
Knock Out let his hand drop to his knee and looked up. "Gladiatorial, eh? Well, it makes sense, I suppose."
"What makes sense?" Starscream asks.
"Oh, everything," he said vaguely.
Megatron held out a hand. Knock Out accepted it and was pulled to his feet.
"I don't have to do that, do I?" Bumblebee made a swirly gesture with his hands, ending with him pointing at the floor.
Megatron chuckled. "No, Bumblebee. That was more about personal style, I believe. All I need is a simple yes or no."
"Oh, phew." Bumblebee pretended to wipe off his forehead, not that Cybertronians actually sweated. "In that case . . ." Doubt suddenly surged across his circuits. Saying yes to a Decepticon. Saying yes to a Decepticon? And not just any 'Con, but Megatron? Suddenly the room seemed to be filled with nothing but Decepticon symbols, on the walls, on Megatron's chest, stenciled clearly on the wings of all the medics and blurrily on most of the medical equipment. He was an Autobot, and . . .
. . . and he was a Scout, too. Slipping behind enemy lines, exploring the unknown, deceiving when he had to, and taking his allies where he found them.
"Scout" was just a polite term for "spy."
" . . . I am happy to accept the help and hospitality of the Decepticons."
"Excellent!" Starscream clapped her hands together. "Hmm, now we just have to do something about that—" She pointed at the metal Autobot insignia emblazoned at Bumblebee's waist. "—and those." She stabbed her finger at Knock Out twice.
"'Those'? What do you mean, 'those'?" Knock Out took a step back.
"Your optics, my dear."
"Wha—I'm not replacing my eyes!"
"Not the actual optics," Knockdown corrected. "You have the same style as I do. The optical light is white, but the front screen is dark blue. Well, dark blue for me, dark red for you. Basically, we'd only have to replace the screen."
"That's not the point! They're mine!"
"I'm not removing my Autobot symbol either," Bumblebee said, crossing his arms. "Like Knock Out said . . . it's mine."
Starscream's eye narrowed. "That does not seem to be a very . . . convincing show of loyalty to your new cause, considering your history."
Megatron said nothing. He just watched. Bumblebee could feel the weight of his eyes as he spoke.
"To you it's just the symbol of an enemy, but to me it's . . . where I started, where I came from." And where he was returning to, he hoped. "It's a part of me. I'm not going to be any more or any less of a threat to you because I'm wearing the Autobot symbol. It's not going to change who I am."
"But we can transcend our origins, can we not?" Starscream's voice was gentle now, persuasive. "And have you thought about how others will react to it? To you?"
Knock Out gave a snort of laughter. "How they'll react to us—please! I can tell you exactly what their reaction will be . . . 'Come one, come all, see the freakish clones. Gawk at the nefarious Yellowjacket, who eats sparklings for breakfast! Gape at the grounder abomination spliced from the venerable Knockdown's very CNA!' Do you seriously think a pair of red eyes or the ever-dour Autobot brand are what's going to catch their eye?"
"All right, you've made your point." Starscream leaned back, crossing her arms; she looked both annoyed and amused. "Although I sincerely hope you inform me if anyone actually treats you so rudely. Lord Megatron? Your opinion?"
"Let them keep their idiosyncrasies. Neither the Autobot symbol nor a pair of red eyes causes me any alarm," Megatron said easily.
I'll bet it helps that we're both half your size, thought Bumblebee. But out loud he simply said, "Thank you."
"Yes, thank you, Lord Megatron." Hand to the chest again, with practiced ease. But when Megatron turned to speak to his Second-in-Command, Knock Out leaned close to whisper to Bumblebee.
"Good job, Bug."
A/N: WOW, over 100 reviews. Wooow. I would like to thank everyone who reviewed, it really inspires me! (And sometimes helps me catch mistakes, too!) And really I'd like to thank all my readers in general. I'm having a great time writing this story and I hope you enjoy reading it!
You would not believe how much time I spent trying to figure out the proper female equivalent of "Herr Kommandant." I am fairly sure about "Dame" being more appropriate than "Frau/Fraulein", but not sure if there is some female equivalent to "kommandant" that I should be using. UPDATE: A reader advised "Dame Kommandantin", so that's what I went with.
So, here's how I see the SG Decepticons. The regular-universe Autobots are a friends, and also a family. The SG Decepticons are friends, and also responsible for the upkeep of a huge ship, and failing to keep it running is not an option because then EVERYONE WILL DIIIIE. And they all have their own ideas of what the best way to run the ship is, and these ideas mostly boil down to "more funding for my department." Incidentally, I am a civil servant in real life.
