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Characters: @tarn, Knock Out Location: Nemesis Med Bay Content Warnings: Possible medical procedures, possible violence (depending on whether or not Knock Out's mouth gets him in trouble) Plot Summary: Knock Out manages to get Tarn into the med-bay for routine maintenance. Will his mouth get him in trouble, or get him praised?
Knock Out sighed heavily, removing his medical visor and transforming his finger back from a laser scalpel to his sharp clawed digit. "Time of death." He relayed to his datapad, before filing and hefting the frame of the dead vehicon into containment until it could be repurposed for new troops or weapons. He would then clean the medical berth with a sanitizing solution. No surgery in the world was going to save that mech anyway. He needed to stop saving lives and just maintain them.
Or maybe his paint job. His paint job sounded like a nice plan too. However, he'd grown a bit superstitious about trying to buff himself; every time he did, he would inevitably be interrupted by an emergency meeting, a patient, or the ill-timed wrath of Megatron. Instead, he chose to polish himself slightly to get the filth of spent energon off himself.
"Of all the days for Breakdown to be at the mines..." He muttered. "No doubt to be harangued about it later by our wrathful lord and master." He mused to himself. Now don't get him wrong, he had the utmost of respect for Lord Megatron! But sometimes a mech just had to vent what he felt to what he thought was an empty med-bay. To the ghosts of the deceased vehicons.
Hah, as if. He didn't believe in ghosts. He wasn't afraid of no ghosts! He just liked to think that there was someone there to listen to his grand mental revelations while he spoke to himself in the med-bay after a successful surgery, or after a tragic end. After all, no one was more grand than himself! Oh, and Lord Megatron.
If the ghosts listening to Knock-Out could make even the smallest of sounds, they would be screaming warnings at the overly polished medic. But the dead cannot speak. And, as the door to the medical bay hissed open quietly, admitting its new patient, the patient caught the tail bit of Knock-Out’s utterances.
“If someone has failed our master in any way, a mere lecture cannot even be considered a punishment,” Tarn said silkily, “Sometimes Lord Megatron is perhaps a bit too merciful.”
With his hands folded neatly behind his back, not dissimilar from the way his master carried himself, Tarn strolled up behind Knock-Out. He struggled to recall the medical. If Kaon were here, he could have him pull up Knock-Out’s file to peruse. He made a mental note to go through the Nemesis’s registry and familiarize himself with some of the less notable members of its crew. Those not on the List tended to escape his notice.
During however long his tenure would last and without his usual resources readily available to him, Tarn might have to make due with those aboard this vessel, if Megatron permitted. Of course, his pride would not stand for assistance from any but his own DJD in his mission to retrieve Dreadwing for Megatron.
“Here you are,” Tarn said, handling a datapad over to Knock-Out. He had filed the appropriate paperwork for this in advance. All it required was Knock-Out’s notes and signature for after it was completed. “I am here for a check-up.”
Knock Out's spinal strut clenched and his mouth suddenly opened, then closed. No, he knew better than to talk back so fast. He put some thought into his next words, drawing deep ventilations before he finally spoke. "Oh, the last time he failed, his punishment was to not replace his optic. Being harangued is reserved for our dear lord forgetting he assigned someone to a duty." He then paused thoughtfully. "And considering he has so many troops to lead, that happens a lot. He's a busy mech after all."
He saw the way that Tarn carried himself, not unlike Megatron himself: elegant, terrifying, and ultimately powerful. And that, Knock Out surmised, was why he was one of Megatron's handpicked mercenaries.
He would take the paperwork with a noise of surprise. So thorough, so precise. It was a medic's dream! Especially a medic who didn't want to do more unnecessary work than he had to. "Mm, a regular maintenance check-up, yes? Please, seat yourself on the berth. Also, might I suggest a polish while you're here?"
Tarn regarded the crimson medic from behind his mask, red optics gleaming inscrutably. Failing to replace an optic was hardly a punishment either, but Tarn did not bother to voice that argument. What Lord Megatron decided upon had reasons behind it, and Tarn was not one second guess something that his master had settled upon. At least, not until another incident arose…
“Ah yes, running a galactic empire is bound to cause bouts of minor forgetfulness,” Tarn murmured softly more to himself than Knock-Out. He wondered at that. Why did Megatron not delegate and chose instead to micromanage. Surely, it would alleviate some of the pressures upon him and allow him to better focus. “Ah-ha.” Of course. With Dreadwing’s utter betrayal, Megatron must be loath to trust any of those around him. Well, Tarn would set himself to resting his master’s worries while he was stationed here while hunting down his quarry.
At Knock-Out’s leave, Tarn took his place on the medical berth, laying down with smoldering optics watching the medic with disinterest. “Indeed. I’d ask you to take particular care in examining my transformation cog. I’ve been feeling some slight discomfort when changing form.”
Tarn stroked his chin thoughtfully at Knock-Out’s suggestion of a polish. “Yes, a polish sounds quite refreshing.” A stray thought happened upon Tarn in the vein of refreshing recreations. “Do you mind terribly if I play some music while you work?”
Knock Out seemed to have his own disinterested look, as though it weren't his business to pry into the thoughts of others. Which frankly, it wasn't his unless he were called upon to use the Cortical Psychic Patch on someone. But that was neither here nor there.
"Too true, too true." Knock Out's natural inclination to speak when he heard speaking had come up in full force. He could clip his wings but deep in his natural behavior, preening and speaking, he was still very much like a seeker. He lifted his optical ridges but for a faint moment at the noise of revelations. Whatever Tarn had sparked in his processor was of no concern at this moment.
"Perhaps a case of burnout. Rather uncommon unless one finds themselves in consistent need of the change of form." Knock Out mused. "If push comes to shove, you are not diametrically opposed to the replacement of your cog, yes? I do have a freshly-deceased donor if need be." He was examining the seams as well, to see if it was more than cog burnout and cog damage, but actual damage to the frame.
Tender claws seemed to examine every fiber and fiber optic of Tarn's frame, marveling at the biolights and the various mech fluids that had become dried inside the seams. Being the great assassination force of the mighty Megatron himself was definitely no easy job, moreso not a clean job in the least and he could respect that.
He would finally reach the position of the transformation cog, marveling. "Hrm. I may have to replace it indeed. That you only experience discomfort is a minor miracle. Why, I'd almost expect this to do more than burn out and properly explode if you put more strain on it! Please, why don't I..." He paused to slide the freshly-deceased vehicon out of containment and opened up to the transformation cog. "Make use of our poor comrade's barely-used cog?"
He then lifted his optical ridges. "I don't mind at all! It has been some time since I heard the old songs of our people." Mentally, he added that he had grown far too used to the music of Earth. Oh well. Perhaps some classic Cybertronian music could be a welcome change of pace!
As the medic examined his frame, Tarn lay still merely watching him go at his work. He was reminded of Kaon, or maybe Vos. Two of the more scientific members of their team. They would often have a similar expression on their faceplates as they poured over whatever had caught their interest whether it be an encrypted communications or some new conundrum.
“I am not opposed at all. I’m quite accustomed to the procedure,” Tarn said agreeably.
One might find it odd, Tarn’s familiarity with the procedure, as a Cybertronian could go their whole life without burning their T-Cog out if used with moderation. Tarn was not a mech of moderation. Not in punishment. Not in indulgence. Not in hardly anything. His vices weren’t extremely costly for him, however, given the nature of his work. Spares tended to be in fair supply.
At the medic’s diagnosis, Tarn issued a small sigh. He had acquired this one some time ago from a medic on Delphi who they had arranged…an agreement. He was surprised that it had lasted as long as it had honestly.
“Please do,” Tarn implored, gesturing with a hand.
At the medic’s assent, Tarn settled back down and played one of his favorite pieces. The Empyrean Suite. A favorite of his for vorns upon vorns. It had sort of become the DJD’s theme, he supposed. It set him at ease, his crimson optics offlining contentedly as he allowed the medic to do his work.
Knock Out, of course, had learned to view sciences with a faint detachment, but he'd hardly been able to help himself. Medicine was his calling in ways that even racing and art were not. Mind you he enjoyed racing and art as hobbies, but medicine, medicine was his life. Even if he had not managed to finish medical school. An inconvenient thing called war had stopped that.
"Ah, then I'll likely only need to use a local neural block unlike a first-timer's full neural block." He mused. He then carefully input the coding to administer the local neural block in the area of the transformation cog, carefully removing the old one with a reverence that seemed almost out of place except to a medic. "Rust to rust." He murmured, closing his optics softly and placing it on the dead frame he was taking the fresh cog from. He would make sure there was still energon in place and carefully lifted it to implant it, hooking the energon lines in place with the utmost in care. There was still the cerulean glimmer of the energon on his fingers but he knew that was easily cleaned with a simple wipe of his hands. He would then carefully close up and remove the neural block with careful observation.
The Empyrean Suite seemed to lilt through him. Once upon a time it might have been something that the Winglord of Vos would have had lilting from the towers and aeries. But that was then, and this was now. And now was a time of war, a time of using the music as a call to warriors to take up their arms. If there was one thing he had to admit, it was that Tarn had an impeccable taste in music.
He would carefully start polishing, working out from the insignia upon Tarn. Protocol dictated that the insignia came first. From there came the chest, then arms and legs. Next would be the weary, worn treads that had likely seen many a battle. Next would be weapons, and Knock Out mused highly at the sight of the dual fusion cannon.
"Such a rare and interesting model, that. Custom made?" He seemed to polish the cannons reverently. He knew custom work when he saw it, and he respected it highly. After all, he had many custom weapons he had made in case his comrades came asking. "It almost feels like I'm defiling sacred ground to even touch these..."
As Knock-Out extracted his T-Cog, Tarn did not even so much as flinch. It was all quite routine at this point. How fortunate that a donor happened to be about. Tarn shuddered to think what might have happened without one. It might have impeded his duties to Lord Megatron. That would have been most assuredly unacceptable.
It was curious, Tarn thought, the reverence with which the medic treated his transformation cog. How strange. To him, it was merely a part that burned out with far too great an ease. It was useless to him and, for all intents and purposes, worthless.
The Empyrean Suite lilted through the air, enveloping the medical bay in its graceful, elegant tones. Tarn’s mind drifted as Knock-Out set about polishing. The place it most often drifted, to no real surprise, was to Megatron’s enrapturing manifest Towards Peace. Quotes from it floated through his mind, reigniting fervor within him with the simple memory of it.
“It was,” Tarn said in response to the medic’s query.
Lifting it slightly as the medic set about polishing it, Tarn partially charged it merely in order to admire it better. The violet bio-lights brightened as the cannons whirred lowly. He allowed this for a moment, admiring it. It was one of many symbols on his very frame that exemplified his absolute devotion to his master. This one, however, was oft the arbiter of lives so great was its power.
Or so one would think. In actuality, Tarn seldom used it to slay, these cycles in any case. Too quick. There was not the appropriate amount of terror or suffering involved. No, no, his voice was a far more elegant tool for that purpose. But, more often than not, Tarn was satisfied to let his team handle the physical while he broke their spirit.
The moment passed. Tarn set his arm back down and with it, the dual-fusion cannons powered down as well. “I’ll permit it, so fret not,” Tarn said. He examined the polish on his arm. “My, you do have an incredible attention to detail.”
Knock Out, of course, had never had to touch a transformation cog outside of his studies, so it was a strange reverence for him. It had, after all, been a natural, Primus-given gift and not the product of the Quintessons. He had, after all, read the reports so many times! Not everyone had been given such a privilege, of course so his reverence was probably in the minority.
His fine attention to detail would drive him to polish every seam with the same fervor with which Tarn himself served Megatron. While one would say that Knock Out was less devout, Knock Out himself would call himself a follower, not, what did those humans call it? Oh, why did he even care about silly organic terms for it anyway?
His touch was ever so careful, delicate while he carefully detailed the cannon. When it seemed to whir to life and bring the violet glow of biolights, he had a delight that made his tire-wings flutter like the typical Vosian's flight-wings fluttered. These were the most beautiful weapons he had ever seen in some time, and he'd delicately crafted a null-ray himself!
It was, by and far, a work of art he hadn't seen since the beginning of the war. Relics were works in their own right, but this, this was an artistry of its own.
"Why thank you. If only Lord Megatron would notice that a little more." The last was a bit of lament. "But he is a busy lord, our master. A busy lord whose own genius seems to outshine our own." Well, that was what he said but obviously he thought higher of his own intellect. His plans were brilliant, even if he was not a combat strategist, but a mere medic. And frankly, if asked, would say he was more devout to his sciences than Shockwave. At least, that was what he believed of himself.
A comment made by Knock-Out interrupted Tarn’s serenity. A comment whose tone seemed to imply something quite…irreverent of their lord and master. Burning with light anew, Tarn’s optics cast their gaze upon Knock-Out with the cold scrutiny of a justice. The shift in Tarn’s mood was accompanied by the stiffening of his body and the cessation of the Empyrean Suite.
“You may have noticed that the music has stopped, and you may be wondering if that’s significant.”
Sitting up from the berth slightly, Tarn leaned forward so that his masked face was mere inches away from Knock-Out’s own.
“Why, yes. Yes, it is.”
His voice maintained its warmth and silk. The pleasantness that had been present in the room had vanished, going cold. “If our lord has not noticed your intellect, ah, Knock-Out, was it? Then perhaps it is because you have not earned his recognition. So I urge you. Do try harder, won’t you?”
Despite the genteel and refinement that generally Tarn carried himself with, his voice now was undercut with an edge of something hostile. However, in the next instant, it disappeared. Tarn laid back down, utterly relaxed once more, waving at Knock-Out dismissively.
The Empyrean Suite's cessation had not gone unnoticed. Something in Knock Out's intakes suddenly dried at the sudden cessation, the strange tension, the eerie silence. Seekers, even ground-choosing seekers, did not do well in silence and his wings had frozen in place, his spinal strut growing rigid.
His spark felt a strange tension at it all, a palpable tension that could have been cleaved by his saw if he'd chosen to try to cleave the tension of the air at all. Crimson optics pinned as the masked face drew near. He'd heard that there were extremely devout mecha in this world; Tarn, it appeared, was one of these, even more devout than he had heard.
Though the voice was warm, the room was like ice. The energon in his vein-lines were like ice. To say that now, there was lump forming in his intake, a seemingly mental and physical one, was an understatement. It felt like the lump extended down to his tanks, and the energon within his tanks was freezing and souring all at once was nothing.
Despite the relaxed state, Knock Out didn't feel very relaxed anymore. No, his frame still had an unnatural stiffness. He started going back to polishing the seams carefully, though with a less fluid motion. Oh yes, he was going to need an extra buffing from Breakdown later.
"So, uh..." His voice faltered, before he found it once more. "...Your seams seem much more fluid now after the fluids are cleaned from you."
Like the ripples in energon eventually do, Tarn’s mind had calmed, its former serenity returning. Though, he noted with some mild amusement that Knock-Out’s movements were much less fluid than they had been a moment before. Well, it seemed like his gentle reminder had gotten through to him at the very least.
At Knock-Out’s comment, Tarn tested his newfound fluidity and found, yes, that his servos and joints now moved a bit more seamlessly. Even that slight crick in his shoulder joint had been remedied. “Well done, doctor,” Tarn said, quite pleased, “You continue to impress me. I am relieved knowing that Lord Megatron is in such capable hands."
Crimson optics looked to the medic thoughtfully. “Is there anything else with my maintenance?” Tarn paused as a thought came to him. “Ah, I suppose I should test my new T-Cog under the doctor’s supervision, shouldn’t I?”
It had taken several moments before a mild fluidity finally returned to Knock Out's movements. That was a "gentle reminder"? That had curdled Knock Out's energon and put the fear of Megatron into his whole Rossum's Trinity--spark, brain module, and transformation cog. Gotten through to Knock Out was the understatement of the century.
To know that a good polishing did do the body good reassured Knock Out that it was indeed wise to actually maintain one's appearance as one would maintain their internals. "As I have placed my own life in his." That was a more reverent statement than he had made before. When you became a Decepticon, you were placing your life in your leader's hands, through thick and through thin.
His thin audial fins pricked up slightly for a moment, a nearly imperceptible movement unless one paid attention to his body language. "You should, yes. You should also find the transformation more seamless not just from a fresh cog, but the loosening of your seams with the polishing. If you do not, it is no shame except my own."
Smiling behind his mask, Tarn nodded approvingly at Knock-Out. That was much more like it. Pushing off from the examination slab, Tarn rolled his shoulders a bit more thoroughly, stretching, testing his additional flexibility. It was hardly notable, but an increase in performance by any margin would increase energy efficiency in battle, something Tarn valued.
“As have we all,” Tarn agreed affably.
To begin with his tests of his transformation sequence, Tarn transformed his hand first. Ah, that felt so good. Without the slightest discomfort as well. Delightful! Changing his hand back, Tarn began a more complex transformation sequence. No, he did not do it completely, swiftly. It was better savored piecewise. As well as being a more thorough, Tarn relished the experience.
His hand changed again. Then his arm. His other hand. His other arm. Shoulders. Legs. Torso. Head. Changing one way and then back again in a churning of metal that seemed almost like a dance. Of course, it was sequences like this that put incredible strain on a transformation cog.
At last, Tarn came to rest in his alternate mode, a tank whose turret were the dual-fusion cannons. “Ah, excellent,” Tarn remarked, changing back into robot mode with one fluid motion, “You were correct. I did find my transformations much smoother. Thank you, doctor. Is there anything else?”
Shoutbox
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altria : please dont be dead?
Jun 14, 2023 22:40:34 GMT
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Partia: Is this still alive?
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