"Not bad kid. I didn't expect to give a beast a makeover of all things." Knockout looked over the sedated predacon, tied up in the very same chains Jetfire had arrived in. Together they'd repaired the predacon above Shockwave's expectations - Jetfire had forged the beast an entire new set of scales, and despite use of a cheap alloy, the beast was a beautiful shimmering display - all thanks to Knockout - he'd painstakingly painted each scale in golden-nanites and dark lavender accents, giving the predacon armor befitting of a king.
It looked stunning.
"When's Shockwave going to collect it?" Knockout asked a bit too eagerly, already backed away into the furthest corner of the clinic. Jetfire rolled his optics, patting the recharging and chained predacon atop its head.
"No idea; but, didn't Megatron mention this guy was meant to hunt the Autobots? Why are we just leaving it here to fester? Shouldn't we let it out to go do its thing?" Jetfire looked down at the recharging beast with a ginger expression, an uncertain cold reluctance.
"Uh, one, too many questions! Two, aren't the Autobots your friends? And three, that's crazy talk. We're just medics and our job is to keep mechs repaired - not to send em' out to get broken again." Knockout lazily said the words, as if he didn't really believe what he was saying, as if he was reciting from a mentoring script for Jetfire's sake. He looked over at Jetfire, and the mechling was staring at him strangely, as if sizing him up somehow, liked he'd done with the predacon several times already.
Knockout rolled his eyes.
'The kid is probably just admiring my illustrious finish.' He paused, taking note of the kid ' s own peeling paintjob. 'Geez, he looks like a literal trash fire - Jetfire's white accents were dimming into a gross sooty brown - maybe in the morning I'll show him some buffering tips with the spare wax. I can't exactly have one of my own employees walking around looking like a disheveled slag-bucket.'
Knockout had a cup of hot energon in hand, and his optics fluctuated in their intensity, dimming and lighting at sporadic moments. "I'm going to get some recharge Jetfire. I really need it. And I recommend you do too. Let me know if you have trouble getting into your room." Knockout pointed to a keycard placed atop a counter, caged by Jetfire's twitchy clawed servos.
"Cool, thanks Knockout. Will do."
'Hrmmm, the kid's still missing his claws on one hand...where have I...?' Knockout shrugged his shoulders, too tired to follow his thought to completion, and he left the clinic, trusting the mechling alone.
For the first time, Jetfire had the place to himself. Absentmindedly his fiddled with his keycard between his servos, unsure what to do now that he was technically free to explore the premises.
'Better snoop around now that I have the chance, I guess.' Unlike a decacycle before, Jetfire wasn't adamant about escaping the Nemesis any longer - he'd finally found the medical training he desired - but his wings were still painfully pinched together. 'And to unpin my wings would be... logical. He snickered at his own private joke.
'The worst they could do would be to put the clamp back on.' He thought.
That, or Megatron would simply rip his wings off, if Starscream's stories hadn't been exaggeration.
He shuttered at the mere idea.
But Jetfire liked to lean towards the optimistic side of things. What use was entertaining depressing thoughts when he could just find out the hard way; and, be pleasantly surprised when he survived challenging the status quo?
He'd learned that lesson plenty of times in his life, and so without hesitation, he searched the clinic for the specialized pry-bar which would set his wings free without damage and minimal pain. He searched the now clean and organized vehicon-parts closet. He searched the upper selves hidden along the ceiling walls, finding vials of suspiciously marked fluids kept at freezing temperatures.
He searched the tools of his budding blacksmith's station, but found nothing.
'I guess I'm doing this the hard way, again.' He mused. It'd been far from the first time he'd been captured by enemy forces, nor would it be the first time he would be unbinding his wings.
The Autobots, and even the Decepticons might've viewed him as a mechling, but the rest of the cybertronian colonies out in the outer worlds knew exactly what kinda monster he was.
He didn't have a clean criminal record.
He'd been foolish many times before, running headlong into danger, without care of concealing his identity.
He'd been involved in many horrible matters.
He had a sizeable bounty on his head, along with a handful of his more impulsive brothers.
Along with Shockwave at the top of the list, there Jetfire's name proudly stood, by a ridiculous number of shanix.
Jetfire vented outwards, focusing as he grasped his clawless servo onto the middle of his wing clamp - the invention of painful engineering fizzled and cracked, burning - the clamp was on the cusp of exploding and detonating against his back - but his other servo, clawed and capable, shredded the molten pieces into harmless strips of slag, before a dangerous chemical reaction could occur when different types of batteries intermingled.
His kidnappers and bounty hunters sometimes failed to consider his ever useful, one-percenter fire power.
He wasn't complaining about it.
The tips of his wings fizzled and burned with a chewing melting sensation, like battery acid against an open wound - but countless past experiences allowed Jetfire to ride out the pain - the feeling would pass and heal without issue - it was just a paint scratch.
'Now where to?' he mused, tossing his keycard between his servos as he left the clinic, his wings smoldering with slag-residue, scorching hot red.
He toyed with the idea of bumping into Starscream. Logically, he knew Megatron's Second-In-Command - that the Decepticon Air Commander would be living somewhere up high - most likely recharging in a room alongside the main flight-deck.
But all Jetfire found as he wandered the empty halls of the Nemesis were mere depressing windowless hallways - more and more endless corridors he had to traverse, each countless and forgettable, which forced him to curtail his curiosity and to reevaluate his strategy.
Perhaps it was by design - to diminish his burgeoning anticipations.
"This ship is a fraggin' maze. A boring and ugly one too." He mumbled, unimpressed, and he figured it was in his best interests not to get lost; deciding to find the one room his keycard could actually open - a decisively lame, vehicon-recharge closet.
Without a hint of enthusiasm he walked at a snail's pace, half-heartedly hoping a Decepticon-soldier would decided to waste his time by picking a fight when they passed him by - but surprisingly, everyone kept a respectable distance from him.
'Perhaps Megatron made some kinda threatening announcement?' he thought, in regards to his person.
Or maybe he made a bigger impression with his New Kaon Arena fights than he'd initially thought.
It would explain everyone's strange behavior around him.
Eventually, he came to the place he would forcibly, sarcastically, call home.
Calling it a "room" was already too generous - what cruel prank had Knockout been playing?
The space he'd been given to recharge in wasn't even a closet - more an enclosed slot against the wall - barely high or wide enough to contain a stationary, standing vehicon, with wings or mudguards tucked tight against the back.
And now with his improved, expanded frame thanks to Shockwave's meddling - he was larger than a vehicon.
It would simply not do.
'I hope I can petition for something better soon. My prison cell had been more spacey then this.' He was on a warship - surely there was a better place to put him; especially since, he was now a medical assistant.
Megatron would see reason once he explained the situation, surely.
Against his better judgement, he crawled into the cramped, vertical hole.
And there he'd found the precious space cluttered with two brand-new roommates.
Fortunately, both vehicons lay unawakening on their berth-slabs, in recharge.
'Not for long.' And his mandible-jaws unhinged from their disguised positions along his armored sideburns - his clawed servo ripped their processors out - out through their faceplate visors.
Optic-glass exploded everywhere.
It was no longer possible for them to scream.
As he ripped out their sparks.
Delicious.
'What a thoughtful recruitment gift.' He choked, laughing.
"Hey Jetfire, I have something for you. I figured you'd want these back."
The mechling looked over, flinching when he saw Knockout, as if he was suffering some kind of ...irrational whiplash?
His optics were dim - too dim - as if he hadn't gotten any recharge last night.
"Uh, did you find your room alright? You didn't stay here all night did you?" Knockout asked, concerned.
His assistant's appearance was rapidly deteriorating, at an unprecedented pace.
'Time to fix that today.' He mused.
Jetfire's front and face was covered in a suspiciously generous amount of energon...colored a dried pink - processed energon from a mech's bleeding fuel-lines.
"Two vehicons came in last night." He said stiffly. "They died."
Knockout dropped whatever he'd been holding, and metal fragments scattered across the ground, then Jetfire looked at what fell and a seething unmasked fury came across his faceplates.
"My claws!" He bellowed. "I'd...thought you'd thrown them out..." His voice trailed off, his tone suddenly sounding very happy.
"Sorry." He said, with an apologetic nod to Knockout. He picked up his claws from the floor. "I'll get these back on, if you give me a sec."
"Urhh...sure kid." Knockout rubbed his optics with both his servos. 'It's too early for whatever the hell this is. I should've slept in!' Knockout lamented, and he noticed a small cup of mid-grade energon placed on the blood-covered desk Jetfire had been seated at seconds earlier.
"Hey! We don't waste energon on this ship!" Knockout pointed sternly at the undrunk glass. "That your breakfast? Better finish it! We have lots to do, today!" Knockout shouted, with all the authority he could muster.
The noise seemed to get through to Jetfire's dazzed processor and he tossed his newfound claws, forgotten into a tray.
He saluted.
"Yes sir! It will be done, sir!" Jetfire didn't wait a nanoclick to gulp down his forgotten mid-grade, a tiny shot glass of a thing, measured to about thirty drops - yet it tasted of the finest honeyed nectar.
But it still didn't compare to the sinful sugar of a spark-chamber.
"Breakfast, you said? That's a human-term." Jetfire said, his observation plain as he disposed of his empty glass. "I didn't think Decepticons took interest in the organics."
Knockout puffed out his chest proudly. "Well, this one does! I gotta keep my precious free-clicks occupied somehow. Breakdown and I... we ..." And as quickly as his enthusiasm came, it died.
"Ahhh, say no more." Jetfire waved a hand, doing his best to salvage the situation. As long as Knockout didn't question why he was covered in so much processed energon, he was happy.
"So what did you say earlier?" Jetfire was desperate to change the subject. "About how you found my claws?" Jetfire pointed to the tray, of the items in question, his servo twitchy, desperate to weld them back into their proper positions.
"Yes!" Knockout said a bit too loudly - suddenly, he, looked like the guilty one.
"Right..." He corrected his posture, trying to look like a mech incharge. "Firstly, we need to clean you up!" He pointed to the walking disaster that was Jetfire. "I won't ask how you got covered in so much blood! So much! But!" He raised a finger to the ceiling, looking down to see if Jetfire was paying attention - which he was, his servos wringing empty air with a scared, anxious expression.
"I'm going to give you a makeover!" Knockout declared.
Jetfire shrunk in onto himself - his half-melt wingtips trembled imperceptibly.
"A what...?" Jetfire muttered, in the hopes he'd misheard. "What's that? I don't want it...relax..." He said, more to himself as he began to tiptoe out of the room, only to feel Knockout's firm servo across his shoulder.
"We are going to the showers. Now!"