"Fix it."
"W-what?! How?!"
"That. is. for. you. to. figure. out." A yellow eye looked down like a judgmental fire, accented by the hum of a burning, blazing cannon.
Bright like an ancient sun
"Fix. Him."
Oh, clipped words.
Shockwave.
Was pissed.
Actually angry.
He was madder than a scrap-lamb to slaughter.
Jetfire was speechless - it was a borderline not-possible accomplishment to achieve - to make Shockwave feel strongly, about anything .
Jetfire could only stare dumbly.
Plain terror swelled between his plating and protoform, giving him a scuffed, feathered and puffed up look.
"Y-yes. I'll em' fix him." Jetfire gulped, his shoulders and wings crunched impossibly close against his back-struts.
It burned.
His spine that is.
"Will you?" Shockwave all but did his version of screaming at him, the sound terrifying as it was low, monotone - as if some eldritch demon saw fit to scratch against his audials. The room shuddered as Shockwave spoke, or perhaps it'd just been folly of Jetfire's overactive imagination.
"Y-yes!" He squeaked out pathetically. "T-this guy, use-used to be Cliff-" His voice hitched, desperate to change the subject. Jetfire's teeth nervously clacked together - done in a manner only possible for a scared feral creature to do. "Cliffjumper! He'll be fine, promise!" Jetfire ducked underneath the medical berth as Shockwave took a step forward.
And another.
Then another.
And another.
"I saw your fight with Megatron. It was... not-acceptable."
And just like that, Shockwave changed the subject.
Crazy frag-slagger.
"Be sure, a repeat incident like that doesn't happen again." Shockwave paused, looming over Jetfire with a burning, scowling light. Jetfire looked more than willing to weld himself to the underside of the berth.
His new adult-frame worked against him, for the first notable time.
Jetfire scrambled around the pole keeping the berth upright and glued to the floor; his delicate wings stung as their sensitive tips repeatedly banged into berth-metal above, as he moved, squirmed, and panicked.
"Yes, sir." He said lamely, completely defeated.
The noise - the sight - his promise - his words - whatever it was - eventually satisfied Shockwave.
Without another sound or grumble of acknowledgement, the medbay clinic doors swished apart, and Shockwave stepped out into the open, gone.
Shockwave was never there.
Jetfire was almost convinced of the lie he told himself, but he wasn't a mech known for hallucinations, delusions of theater, nor nonsense.
"I promise." He whispered, blubbering to the welcoming stale air.
The medbay doors swished open again, and Jetfire almost had a spark-attack; he limply hugged the berth-pole he had coiled his person around, not expecting mercy a second time.
Knockout almost dropped his favorite mug.
"What the snap-frag am I interrupting here!?" Shouted Knockout. Without a word, Jetfire crawl forward and stood up, and brushed his plating off as if nothing had happened; he fixated on Knockout with optics-too-wide, hoping he was showing his earnest and most professional expression.
It wasn't working.
The professional look.
Knockout scoffed, swirling the contents of his mug.
"I saw Shockwave walk in here, then he just left." Knockout paused to take a sip of energon, the liquid pleasantly warm. He closed his eyes in silent appreciation for the sensation. It tasted like coconuts.
"Jetfire? Come on, talk to me scrapheap." He looked up at the "mechling" who still seemed to be quivering from his ordeal.
"What...uh, what did Shockwave do? Did he threaten you?" Knockout continued, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the mech who took over his clinic.
The idea was enough to ruin his appetite.
He placed his mug onto a counter, waiting with arms crossed for an answer.
Jetfire sighed. "Nothing." He paused, steepling his claws together, searching for the right words. "He just got angry. He was actually angry." Stepping over to the other side of the room, he pretended to be interested in the various colored vials organized across the clinic shelves.
"I didn't think it was possible." Jetfire said, his tone flat, monotone.
Knockout picked up his mug, draining the last of his breakfast. "Well, I'm glad I missed it. I wouldn't be able to recharge tonight, if I were you."
'Shockwave must be plotting some nasty revenge - for damaging his predacon.' Knockout thought, but he wasn't about to tell the mechling that - he looked scared enough.
"So..."
"So, what?" asked Knockout.
"Ever fix up a predacon?"
They had been procrastinating, from fixing the predacon.
Most of the work had already been done, to keep it from dying - a thick welding-stitch has encompassed its gashed-up leg; and despite the nasty appearance of the damage, the creature was healthy.
Shockwave had demanded superficial repairs - repair work that had yet to be started or completed.
But keeping a predacon in the medbay was not ideal, and neither Knockout or Jetfire felt comfortable dragging the beast back to its designated prison cell. They had to keep it constantly sedated, wasting precious hard-to-make drugs and increasing the beast's tolerance towards tranquilizers.
What an awesome situation.
"Ok, I admit Jetfire. You've cleaned up the closet nicely." Knockout had inspected every inch of his vehicon-parts closet. "This scrapheap of a place has no right to be so... shiny." He pulled out a few parts and bobbles - boxes of trinkets obviously not meant for vehicon-repairs what so ever.
Paint cans, buffer tools, and custom-made metal shapes, which looked more like art projects, than of having any possible practical use.
"Yah, I wondered what all that was for. I didn't really...mess with it?" Said Jetfire, gesturing to the pile of junk Knockout had spilled out atop a counter.
"And, it's a good thing you left this stuff alone..." Knockout seemed to want to say more, but his vents hitched, his shoulders rolled as if he were simply stretching his mudguards, but Jetfire knew better. "I'll uh, let me drop this junk off into my room and I'll be back to supervise the repairs."
"Sound good, Jetfire?" he asked, turning around to look at his new "medbay assistant". The mechling wasn't even paying attention to him, fiddling with a piece of scrap within his servos - like a partridge distracted by something shiny.
Knockout rolled his optics.
The sudden promotion of a prisoner to Decepticon-rookie by Megatron's command had given Knockout emotional whiplash - and he still hadn't recovered from the incident. While forced conscription of prisoners to beef up Decepticon numbers wasn't anything new or taboo - it had still come off as an insane, merciful decision by Megatron.
Knockout couldn't accept the fact he had an assistant now.
He didn't like the idea one bit...of having to work with a mechling, a fraggin' useless child!
But perhaps it was better that way - Jetfire wouldn't remind him of Breakdown - he was bright orange, not blue.
Knockout exited the clinic, sending Soundwave a message to keep an eye on the clinic cameras while he stepped out of the room, and quickly received a confirmation ping in return. He wasn't expecting Jetfire to run or to try a second escape attempt; especially since he had clamps secured to his wings - but considering how aggressive and twitchy the kid had proven to be, he wasn't about to take any chances.
He entered and exited his room all within half a klik - dropping off his coveted junk into a respectable corner before spinning back out the door. Maybe he would have the good fortune later, of forgetting the mess was there - so he wouldn't be tempted to clean it up - to look at it - to be reminded of Breakdown.
Knockout returned to the clinic, silently relieved that Jetfire hadn't vacated the clinic. The mechling had parked himself on a stool, a stool Breakdown had built once-upon-a-time. Knockout felt the urge to take it back, and to put the stool in its rightful spot, protected within his room; but he wasn't about to act crazy and territorial over a piece of furniture.
He was a professional, the Chief Medical Officer of the Decepticons.
And yet.
Certainly, if Knockout had been given a day's notice in advance - to know Jetfire was going to move in...the entire clinic would've been devoid of anything remotely interesting.
Knockout wouldn't have hesitated in cluttering up his room with sentimental knickknacks - including vehicons parts crafted by Breakdown's very own servos.
'No need to let a mechling potentially destroy my valuables.' He thought.
Fortunately, all Jetfire had done so far was to clean up the clinic's neglected vehicon-parts closet.
Watching quietly from a corner with his arms crossed, Knockout observed Jetfire working the medbay's forge and anvil a comfortable distance away. Jetfire had ignited the medic's forge without issue - it was staple equipment in any cybertronian clinic or hospital, along with an anvil and hammer - required to shape new medical pieces into being, as need be.
Knockout vented a sigh of relief - his new medbay assistant appeared perfectly comfortable wielding Breakdown's old blacksmithing hammer - like the mechling had known the tool his entire functioning.
He wouldn't have to suffering supervising an imbecile.
Blacksmithing was the only ancient art form modern cybertronian-culture had kept a hold of - and ever since the Great War, very few mechs knew the craft professionally - thankfully, blacksmithing was still considered a crucial skill to know - a skill bots of all types still sought to know.
Knockout would know - it's how Breakdown had gotten a job as his medbay assistant, when that mech hadn't had a bit of medical background or know-how.
Smithing with an anvil and hammer was an invaluable skill in a warship's clinic.
Crafting parts for a patient from a forge was faster than computer printing - when considering the unpredictable time-sensitivities of surprise emergency surgeries.
Better to give a patient a slightly scuffed, melty patch job with a forge and hammer - than to have the very same patient die from having to wait too long for the perfect part to print from a ship's computer.
'Jetfire appears competent.' He admitted. 'Perhaps he wasn't lying about having medical experience.' Though how the kid had gotten the forge hot enough so quickly had been a mystery to Knockout.
'I barely was gone a klik, and now the forge is on, roaring at full-blast? How'd that happen?' It took bare minimum one hour for a forge of that size and caliber to heat up hot enough to work with - or so he'd heard Breakdown complain about - time and time again.
Before Knockout could reign in his curiosity, he was looming down Jetfire's shoulder, watching as the mechling had taken sheets of budget titanium, pounding out the metal into fist-sized teardrop scales - scales for the predacon.
Already a sizeable amount had dropped down onto the floor, clinking beneath Jetfire's talons like a hoard of silver coins.
Now all that was left was to staple the new decorative armor against the beast's neck and backside. How much the armor would serve as protection couldn't be said, but it would look beautiful - and that was enough to make Knockout happy.