Knockout wordlessly rewelded Megatron's shoulder-plates together. The orange, ore-melted features of his distorted face left by Jetfire's burning-thrusters a decacycle ago had been repainted to match Knockout's original red and white colors; but the metal of his faceplate was noticeably altered - less shiny, less cared for, as if the alloy used for repairs had been secondhand scrap.
"That's enough, Knockout. You are dismissed." Megatron plainly said, pulling his arms away to roll his shoulders, before stepping away from the medical berth. He turned to address Jetfire, who had been chained to a corner of the clinic, but he remained standing, uncaged and untethered otherwise. Megatron eyed the chains laid across Jetfire's chassis and limbs, his wings were comically buried beneath the heavy restraints, but the mechling had yet to complain about his trappings; he merely fixated Megatron with a swiveling glare - who walked around him in a circle like a vulture, sizing up his prey.
Jetfire stood ridged like a statue, which the gladiator warlord was internally happy to see.
Despite being an Autobot and his garish orange and white coloration, Jetfire reminded Megatron of himself when he'd been young, taught to dutifully haul ore and minerals, to mindlessly fill ship after ship with little reward after. Jetfire's work-records showed him as a registered asteroid miner, and it was a skillset Megatron was bitterly familiar with, causing him to feel a reluctant kinship within his war-torn spark.
Though Jetfire's records also claimed extensive job experience that would've been impossible for the mechling to have, and he suspiciously eyed the Autobot from helm to talon.
He almost looked like a younger, orange Starscream.
Megatron snorted, silently amused by such a blasphemous comparison.
'If this mechling is anything like that menace, I might have to do away with him, eventually.' He odiously thought.
'Lying about his abilities...he would make a good Decepticon...but not for what I plan for him.'
Only the pathetic and weak dared to lie.
Patience for liars Megatron did not have.
A lesson his second-in-command had refused to learn, again and again.
"While your past claim as a miner is acceptable..." Megatron paused, internally scrolling through a datafile, Jetfire's resume.
"Jetfire, I don't believe you have extensive experience as a combat-medic." Megatron toothily smirked, eyeing Jetfire for any squirming of his body-plates, or surprise in his EM field to reveal his lie - but everything about the mechling remained unmoved and stiff, his optics dim - as if his systems had been partially dampened by an unscheduled stationary-recharge.
Megatron was about to shout, if only to jostle the mechling awake, but suddenly yellow-green optics eerily snapped to attention, roving over Megatron as if peeling back his plating with analytical intent.
Jetfire said dryly, "No, I do have medical training. I can't disclose my past mentors on such matters, but it's the truth."
Megatron shook his head, as if holding in a guffaw of disbelief. "Really, a medic, a mechling like you? I was under the impression you were a new recruit to the Autobot-cause."
"I am." He paused, looking away, as if remembering something unpleasant. "But before the Autobots, I worked as a medic on a neutral mining outpost."
Megatron leaned back against a wall, crossing his arms as he asked, "Have you been trained since your functioning for military-matters?"
It was a common question asked to mechs sparked and built during the war.
Jetfire sneered, Megatron's words felt weird against his audials, fully of static and foggy comprehension. Jetfire wasn't quite himself as he spoke. "I guess the answer is a mixed matter. For most of my functioning I have been a neutral, mostly nomadic, to learn skills in places I could."
He looked, seeing he held Megatron's attention, those eyebrows of the warlord tipped imperceptibly upwards in either curiosity or doubt, so Jetfire continued, undeterred. "I'm not an Autobot, not really, but I don't expect you to believe me. I came to Earth and became an Autobot in hopes of learning lost medical-knowledge from the medic designated as Ratchet."
"I see. And did you succeed?"
"No." He paused, his tone genuinely pained. "No. Ratchet did not believe I had combat-medic experience either - he refused to train me." Jetfire wanted to say more, to spill the entirety of his sob story upon the clinic floor, but Megatron stepped closure before he had the temptation to do so.
"This Autobot medic, this Ratchet, didn't give you a chance to prove yourself?"
"No."
Megatron glared into those creepily yellow-green optics as if searching for any signs of dishonestly - there within Megatron's own optics Jetfire saw a glint of purple against red, and a hint of distinct madness swirling across tarnished blackened faceplates.
Jetfire could certainly understand why Starscream would cower to serve this monster, Megatron - dear Ma-ker used stress and fear within his ancient, cryptic systems as a second fuel-source - it was the motivation Starscream needed to bring his most ridiculous schemes into reality...
Jetfire's teeth clicked uneasily when Megatron finally looked away in thought, his servos shifted to clasp behind his back. On the other hand, with the time he had to observe Megatron, Jetfire tried to understand why Shockwave accepted orders from such a master - perhaps the warlord was smarter than he looked - or perhaps Shockwave was using his master as a means to an end, somehow...
As he silently observed, Jetfire began to smell the purple on Megatron - the wrong tasting energon...
Obviously, there was a mysterious chemical inoculation involved somehow, concerning the smell of Megatron's systems, and it was hard for Jetfire's sensitive olfactory-ventilations to ignore.
His curiosity, his hunger, was insatiable.
He really needed a spark-chamber at that very moment.
"Why is your energon purple?" he blurted out. There was a gasp of horror in the corner of the room and both Megatron and Jetfire turned to stare at Knockout mutely. The medic wasted no time in retreating into his vehicon spare-parts closet, trying his best to look busy as he began to sort cluttered shelves full of random, neglected pieces.
"Why is your energon black?" Megatron asked back, Jetfire's rude question almost forgotten from Knockout's personal mortification over the situation - about Jetfire's much too curious question.
Watching his medic hastily brush a servo across a T-cog that had grown heavily caked with dust, struck an epiphany within Megatron.
His ship's medbay had become severely understaffed - ever since Breakdown perished decacycles and decacycles ago - perhaps a whole Earth-year or two had already passed since such an incident.
Megatron didn't care to recall the exact span of time.
'What matters now is that a mech replaces Breakdown.' He looked over Jetfire again, his mind made up on the matter regardless of any protests.
"Knockout." Megatron said. He watched bemused as the medic froze in the shadows of his closet, side-eyeing his lord and master, in a manner not too much different from a petrolrabbit standing guard outside its burrow. "Knockout!" he repeated. And this time Knockout didn't hesitate to reply. "Yes, Lord Megatron?"
"I have a task for you. A task I recommend you take seriously." He pointed to Jetfire. "First, remove his bindings."
Knockout stepped past him, again eyeing them both strangely - his EM field was woven tight against his person, in what Megatron could imagine as an intense generation of anxiety and fear.
Strange, the medic never appeared to be afraid of him before.
Knockout wordlessly undid the bindings with a key hidden within a fingertip and the chains unceremoniously clattered to the floor. Throughout it all, Jetfire had been looking at his hands - the expression and emotion Knockout didn't care to place.
The mechling gave him the creeps; especially since that ungodly upgrade of his from Shockwave.
"Anything else Lord Megatron? The mechling is free, save for those wing-clamps."
"Yes, I can see that Knockout." He smirked. "He's your responsibility now. Train him, or fail, I don't care. But Jetfire is your new medbay assistant. Let this former Autobot prove himself."
Both Knockout and Jetfire said not a word, nor dared to move as Megatron stepped out of the room. Jetfire was the first to recover from Megatron's sudden proclamation.
"Alright, medbay assistant!" His wings fluttered painfully, tied together by wing-clamps, but he was still delighted by his situation. "That's a better job than the Autobots would ever give me." He admitted, honestly.
He hated being a mechling.
Knockout's EM field had bristled with anger, his door-wings had hitched upwards in disapproval.
"No."
Jetfire didn't acknowledge Knockout, as he moved to inspect the vehicon spare-parts closet.
"No, no."
'What better way to make myself accepted, then by cleaning up a mess no one else obviously wants to do.' Jetfire concluded, as he stepped into the closet.
"No, you're not allowed in there. Get out!" Knockout was openly shouting now, but Jetfire had long grown immune from any intimidating factors held by a mech's voice - Starscream had made sure of that - that he'd answer to no one - bow to no one.
He was always the master, never the slave, he'd like to think.
Jetfire left the closet with an armful of metal, depositing a pile of assorted shapes, each dusty half-welded lumps that could scarcely be called parts.
"No, put those back!"
'These parts are weird and handcrafted. Not the best I've seen.' He thought, holding up a thick lugnut up to the clinic lights, placed atop his fingertip like a ring. "This looks custom-made. It's not any vehicon part I've seen."
"Put that the frag back! Don't touch, don't even look!" Knockout was furious, his chassis metal had puffed outwards like a giant bird, overwhelmed with anger, and he didn't hesitate to place servos onto Jetfire's shoulders, pushing the mechling away from the workstation he'd so rudely overtaken.
"Go back to your corner, and stay there! Until I figure out what to do with you!"
Except, Jetfire didn't budge from his standing position, looking down at Knockout with a dangerous expression. The mechling was much taller and heavier than Knockout remembered him being.
"Say, Boss." Jetfire hissed, making every inch of metal along Knockout's arms crawl with apprehension and fear.
There was something seriously wrong with this mechling.
"How about you, go into that corner there." Jetfire craned his neck, pointing with a claw that was much too long. 'And be a good little mech, while I clean up here."
Every instinct within Knockout was screaming at him to run.
"I-I'm going on break." Knockout stuttered. " A-and filling a complaint with Soundwave!" he suddenly said.
Said mech melded outwards from the shadows, barely paying the present mechs any mind as he evaluated the room.
"Soundwave, please, get him out of here! This is my clinic, Megatron has no right-"
"Knockout: Has been assigned by Megatron as Jetfire's tutor. He has been assigned clearance to enter and exit the clinic only under your supervision."
Soundwave paused, his servos were clasped behind his back, but he was ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
"Whatever. Fine." Knockout's anger wavered some at Soundwave's presence. As he left he muttered, "I'm still going on break."
Jetfire watched him leave with a strangled ire, his servos had found a cleaning rag and the soft mesh-fabric was absentmindedly shredded into ribbons.
Knockout left.
He would not be eating a spark-chamber that cycle.
Jetfire's attention shifted towards Soundwave.
He would not be eating Soundwave's spark-chamber either.
Miserably he began cleaning the T-cogs he'd commandeered from Knockout, watching how Soundwave observed his work from the corner of his optics. He may have not been eating that day, but that didn't mean he didn't take his work seriously.
Jetfire decided to prove himself.
Earnestly, he began to clean and to sort into order the neglected closet. Whatever category system Knockout had devised was decisively scatterbrained - a method of organization Jetfire could get behind. He tried to keep everything as close to their original placement, just as Knockout had left it, albeit shinier and cleaner.
'Decepitcon Medbay Assistant.' The title rolled hollow within his head. 'I could live like this.' He thought, polishing a sharp prying instrument, possibly meant to peel back metal from protoform flesh.
'This place looks busier than Ratchet's clinic, at least.' When he'd been living with the Autobots he'd considered himself lucky if he saw Ratchet weld new knees onto Bulkhead's legs. The Autobot clinic had remained decisively empty, ever since Jetfire and his brother had joined their little warband of warriors.
Perhaps his luck would change.
Perhaps he'd actually learn something as a medical assistant for a shipful of Decepticons.
Jetfire couldn't help but to remain excited about the prospect.
His gaze locked onto the clinic door, wishing more than ever an unsuspecting vehicon would come in for repairs.
He was so devastatingly hungry.
Looking from the corner of his optics he spotted Soundwave, wishing more than ever to be alone.
Bulkhead was dead.
And Storm had been the one to find him.
He'd just been out to stretch his wings, since the Autobots had finally allowed him outside the base. The wing-clamps had been left on for so long that his wingtips had developed dents.
Storm would never take his flight privileges for granted ever again.
Then there was Bulkhead, laying against the side of an inconspicuous cliff - dead.
The story was - his delightful morning flight had been interrupted, when he had to call the dead mech in.
Logically, he comm-linked the doctor first - to report the deceased to base.
"What do you mean you just found him dead!?" Ratchet screamed - actually screamed - when he saw the body.
It genuinely surprised Jetstorm.
No one outside of the rare, naïve and oblivious citizen on New Vos showed such a visceral loud reaction at the sight of a dead mech anymore, since the Great War.
Storm didn't know what Ratchet's problem was. The medic was twitching as if he was having some sort of processor-malfunction - acting like he'd never seen a dead body before.
"Hey...uh, Ratchet? Swinging that wrench around isn't going to do anything." Storm said, eyeing Ratchet icily, impatiently. He itched to return to the clouds, and he had truly, stupidly believed he would've been allowed to fly off as soon as another Autobot arrived to take over the situation.
It wasn't like the Autobots treated him like a literal child, or anything.
Rather than the actual active military-professional he was.
For once Storm had hoped to leverage his "façade of mechling innocence" into his favor, to get out of having to hover over Ratchet's shoulder - but the medic had ordered Storm to "keep a look out," while he evaluated the crime scene.
"Come on, I can keep a look out better from the sky. I'll literally just hover over by that boulder." Storm said.
"For the last time, no!" Ratchet shouted. "Bulkhead is dead, and Miko is missing!" His paused, as if to reset his vocal-cords. "I need you to watch my back." The mudguards across Ratchet's backside rattled angrily - the cliffside Bulkhead had died against was corralling towards their person's, a breath of hot wind and sand that was slowly stripping away the paint atop their plating.
The juvenile sandstorm was just at the right speed and velocity to become a hazard.
"Storm, when I give you an order, I expect you to follow it!" Ratchet continued, yelling over the growingly hostile wind, but Storm wasn't hearing it - aptly ignoring the obviously distraught doctor.
He was doing what was asked.
Keeping a lookout.
Within Storm's servos he held a blue-steel cybertronian axe - the handle was ancient, pilfered from Alpha Trion's museum collection when the old mech hadn't been looking - when Starscream had paid his rusty acquaintance a visit some couple million years ago.
When everything seemed more friendly and on agreeable terms.
The war had yet to chew Cybertron completely apart back then.
Storm was careful to always keep the blade adequately sharp - the axe was easily his most favorite possession.
'Damn Autobots keep thinking I'm a blasted child.' He gritted his teeth together, unable to keep his justifiably angry feelings at bay, and hot frustration festered beneath his soft sandblasted plating. At least with his back turned to Ratchet, he could let his darker impulses show outwardly onto his features. He felt his fangs lick against his mesh-metal gums, suddenly aware he could walk away from the Autobot-cause altogether.
There was no one around like Jetfire to stop him.
But then again, Storm had nothing to return to.
On Vox, it was an empty, lonely place for him.
Earth, was paradise, in comparison.
'If only I could tell the Autobots. Imagine. To tell them. That I'm a monster that eat sparks.'
But it would be too absurd a story to tell, for any Autobot to believe or to take seriously.
Not unless Storm wrestled their sparks right out in front of them - one by one.
'Maybe, the Autobots would still treat me like a child, even if they knew I was a monster.' Storm almost laughed aloud from his absurd fantasy, but considering he was standing only a few meters from a distraught Ratchet and a dead Bulkhead, he returned to guarding his expression like a professional guard-mech would.
By the time Storm looked back at Ratchet and Bulkhead, Optimus Prime and Arcee had arrived, along with Jack seated atop her shoulder.
The universal look across their expressions was a emotion Storm couldn't quite place - even Jack the human, didn't look out of place.
Smokescreen and Bumblebee appeared suddenly from a twisting green groundbridge - not too far from Storm's unofficial guard post. They stepped past him, not sparing him a glance. They both carried unidentifiable supplies towards Ratchet. All eyes were on Bulkhead.
Bulkhead, once considered the pinnacle of Autobot-strength and work ethic was...
His arms had been half torn from his body, the mesh-metal of the surrounding protoform had been chewed clean-off. The legs weren't in much better shape, but decisively less torn, as if whatever attacked him had realized he was already dead - the mech's throat had been lacerated and all of Bulkhead's muscle and strength had become useless once energon had puddled beneath him.
Ratchet had placed Bulkhead's glaringly empty head into a special mesh-metal cocoon, a cybertronian-style bodybag not often seen during wartimes - a method more suitable for civilian-use. It was meant to delicately transfer a stasis-locked mech into a medbay for later repairs - but there was nothing left for Ratchet to save, the spark-chamber had been detached and clawed apart.
It was the first time Storm had seen such a ceremony, how Ratchet silently, gingerly pieced the empty mech together, in front of everyone.
And Storm was left dumbfounded.
A dead mech on the battlefield wasn't wasted - its metal was smelted into ingots - its servos and peds detached - and all serviceable parts recycled with ease into a medbay's supplies.
But the Autobots didn't appear to have such an intention - instead of ripping Bulkhead apart further - they had put him back together.
Storm's entire-frame felt heavy from mounting dread.
The subspace within his chassis, coiled like expired oil.
Within his chest whistled Bulkhead's brain - wrestled free from that mangled green head.
His intension later, was to trade it for a favor from one of his brothers - perhaps from Seaspray, who didn't like him very much, if at all, but would help him anyway - for a processor.
An Autobot-processor, especially from the likes of an Elite like a Wrecker was worth on its lonesome, perhaps ten whole processors of the blandest of colony-mechs. Perhaps he'd request help to prank Quasar somehow - to avenge his precious rock collection...
Storm had no time to feel guilty, about collecting Bulkhead's processor...before he'd called the dead mech in...
A servo clasped his shoulder, and Storm jumped slightly, realizing it was neither Shockwave or Starscream touching him. Without thinking, he smacked the servo away, almost snarling as he stepped away - but he froze.
When he looked up, he saw Optimus Prime.
"O-oh, sorry." He paused, mortified. "I didn't realized it was you." Storm squeaked pathetically, his wings twitched as his inner T-cog whirled, willing him to transform and to fly away.
But he stayed put like a good little mech.
"At ease Jetstorm. I didn't mean to startle you."
"It's Storm, not-" He muttered angrily, looking side to side, before looking back up meekly to the Prime. "Right, whatever, just don't do it again." Instinctively, he felt an intense need to grovel at a perceived authority figure, some imagined threat - before they stepped a bit too close - and their spark would be gone ...simple as.
Storm paled at the idea.
He didn't want to kill Optimus Prime.
Or anyone.
Really.
"My apologizes, Storm. I can see this situation greatly upsets you...but we are in need of your skills."
"My skills?" Again, Storm was dumbfounded. The Autobots treated him like an untrained mechling - what could he offer a Prime? He eyed Optimus suspiciously. "Really, like what? I'm not exactly qualified to do much of anything."
Optimus looked at him strangely, as if his tone had been too hostile or combative to his liking. Quickly Storm corrected himself, trying to conduct himself as a professional. "I mean, whatever you need Prime." He smiled a bit too toothily. "Just tell me."
"You may call me Optimus, Storm." The prime's eyes held a hypnotic-sheen, almost like a sparkeater's, laughing at his own private joke. Storm couldn't help but to feel familiarity and kinship with Optimus's aggressively gentle EM field. He thought about the strangeness of the situation for a moment - it was the Matrix of Leadership, locked with that chassis, making Storm's guilt from taking Bulkhead's processor intensify, beneath a radiant light.
"And we need your skills as a flyer." Optimus's tone shifted, his stance became serious. "We need you to find Miko, or what remains of her."
"Don't say that! We will find her!" A small voice had wiggled into their conversation - Jack the human was standing atop Arcee's outstretched servo, both looking for all the world determined to find her. "Raff, he was working on a school project today. He's not here, so we don't have his laptop to track her cellphone. We need you..." Jack trailed off, Storm's expression had grown dangerous, almost unhinged.
Storm liked humans and small creatures - he really did - he tolerated Snapshot didn't he? But something about the Autobot humans had always rubbed him the wrong way.
They got in the way too often.
They weren't professionals.
"Yes, fine. I get it." He snapped, and Jack fell backwards, startled from the volume of his voice. If Arcee fixed Storm with a glare, he pretended not to notice. "I'll find that silly pink phone - and your friend." He said, as an afterthought.
He jumped into the air, activating his wings and transformation sequences. There were gasps of surprise at the speed of his movement, before Bumblebee and Smokescreen transformed into their sport car alt-forms, their tires roaring to a burn in which to follow him.
"Hey wait up!" Screamed Smokescreen. Bumblebee beeped his car horn hastily, as desert sand buffered his plating and wheels - both mechs struggled to keep up.
Storm didn't slow down for anyone.
He received a commlink message from Smokescreen.
He didn't pause to read it.
"Jetstorm, slow down you aft-head! We are trying to follow you!" Smokescreen shouted over the desert air, the sky a pristine blue dotted with pearl-white, perfected clouds.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Bumblebee spammed his car horn, and the noise jostled some sort of reaction out of Jetstorm.
Irritation.
He felt nothing but irritation as he landed, his beautiful flight cut sort.
Bumblebee and Smokescreen braked harshly, struggling to get their bearings as they burned rubber along desert rock and sand.
"I'm not meant for off-roading!" Smokescreen lamented, and Bumblebee punched him playfully against a shoulder, rolling his optics before glaring angrily at Storm's backside.
"What gives Storm? Why didn't you wait up?" asked Smokescreen.
Storm said not a word. He picked up something from the sand with both his servos. Neither Smokescreen and Bumblebee could see what it was.
Jumping into the air, Storm transformed again, noticeably slower than the first time.
He didn't zoom off either, hovering in place as if waiting for Smokescreen and Bumblebee to transform and to catch up. They did so and Storm had yet to pick up the pace, flying overhead low and slow, at a pitiful velocity that would've sent a larger mech cratering into the ground.
Storm landed, ignoring the curious glances of Optimus Prime and Arcee as he handed something red off to Ratchet.
The medic gasped, collapsing onto his knees.
There on Ratchet's servo was Miko, her spine severed.
Miko Nakadai, was dead.