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2015-03-10 Medical Whimsy

From Transformers: Lost and Found

Medical Whimsy
Date 2015/03/10
Location Lost Light - Science and Medical - Medibay
Participants Knock Out, Ultra Magnus
Summary Ultra Magnus can't find Ratchet and has to ask Knock Out for help. Very diplomatically.

Lost Light: Science and Medical -- Medibay

Red crosses on the door identify at a quick glance the medibay. Inside, the forward medical bay contains a half-dozen slabs lining the sides of the room where the medical staff can take care of patients. There is a central slab as well, but the winches and pulleys, carts of tools, and life support machinery is all designed to be easily reconfigured to support any number of patients at any of the seven beds.

At the back of the room, there is a large work station dominated by a large screen that includes two holoemitters. Two doors at the back of the room lead to cold storage, where patients in need of better care than the medibay can provide -- rare as that is -- can be put into stasis. Offices for the medical officers are on the other side.


It's been a comparatively quiet few days. Since launching from orbit around the planet of the purple fuzzballs, the Lost Light has been sailing through the great empty gap of space between systems, a small spot of color and life in the midst of an endless field of dark emptiness -- but with an actual goal in mind, at least, for this leg of the journey, based on the triangulations of Perceptor and the others immediately post-fuzzy.

This is the shakedown period of the cruise, ordinarily conducted closer to dock, where everyone gets used to their role and nobody gets too drunk to stand. Except for troublemakers who get too drunk to stand.

Now that Rodimus has been cleared for duty (again), Ultra Magnus now returns to the medibay and stands just inside the door with his massive arms crossed over his massive chest, watching the medical personnel like a particularly large blue vulture.

Knock Out has been doing the sorts of things that are tedious but necessary: patching up bots after a scuffle, fixing things up after too-enthusiastic visits to the training facilities. Bumps and bruises, to put it in human terms, and it's /terribly/ dull. So much so that when Ultra Magnus finds a vulture perch to watch them at, the little red Decepticon inevitably makes his way over to point blank ask him in a weirdly hopeful tone, "Are you injured?"

"No." Ultra Magnus considers Knock Out in a long sweep of his glance, the faint knit of his brow a pinched etching of his plated face. His last serious injury is all patched and cleaned, and his paint has been restored with a painstaking eye for detail, leaving a surface whose appearance is pristine enough to maybe even appease a Knock Out. He therefore presents mostly the image of a solid wall of bot. "I came to ask Ratchet about something."

Ratchet is demonstrably either not present or not available to deal with whatever trifling thing it is that Ultra Magnus wants, however, because here he is standing here looming in a corner and talking to the Decepticon medic instead. For an Autobot who measures his mistrust in the decepticons at a commensurate rate to their respective death tolls, he seems to find Knock Out a little baffling. Accomplice liability is virtually the same as direct liability from any legal standard of culpability, yet his suspicion of the little red con is more nebulous by nature. He watches him like he might watch a puzzling problem not solving itself, instead of watching him like he might watch a foregone conclusion.

Who knows what crimes are overlain on Ultra Magnus's views of Knock Out. Well, Ultra Magnus probably knows, given that it's his views. Certainly there's probably something there, but it's true that Knock Out's casualties are likely more in the medibay than the battlefield. (He has his boyfriend for the latter.) Knock Out's credits are more mad scientist than general.

f"/Ugh/," he says in distinct complaint. "Well, Ratchet's not here, and you take up a lot of space." He considers the big blue bot with narrows optics. "Would you like to submit to repairable injury for the sake of my sanity?"

Ultra Magnus's frown changes, aquiring considerably more prickle in the narrowing of his gaze. He refocuses more intently on the medic before him. "No," he says firmly, "I certainly would not. I /trust/ that you have not been going around applying damage to your crewmates recreationally."

Knock Out sighs wistfully and in a manner that does not seem to be respectful enough of Ultra Magnus's disapproval of this possibility. "No," he says. "Despite occasional temptation. Even Breakdown doesn't humor me /that/ much." What a bad boyfriend.

"Good," says Ultra Magnus, professional unsympathetic listener. In the face of this disregard for the weight of disapproval, he increases it, glaring down the considerable disparity in their heights to give Knock Out a serious eyeing, and not in the fun way.

"It's not like I'd injure them beyond my capacity to fix," Knock Out scoffs at Ultra Magnus's increasing disapproval. "I don't see what you're so worried about."

"Aside from the startling inefficiency of wasting your time and theirs on wholly unnecessary damage and repair?" Ultra Magnus demands in a particularly bland shade of indignation.

"Well, if I had no time to waste, clearly I wouldn't be bored enough to hope that someone falls over and severs a limb," Knock Out points out.

"And in the event that you are busy amusing yourself on the bodies of the rest of the crew when an actual emergency occurs?" Ultra Magnus inquires. "I believe that if you are truly suffering from an insufficiency of /work/ that I can certainly obtain some for you." (However, it won't involve repairing anybody and will probably consist largely of boring paperwork drudgery. Don't let Magnus invent work for you.)

"Pft." Chromedome will be so jealous. "Now you're just making up ridiculous scenarios. I am /always/ prepared for an emergency. I'm a /professional/." Don't give him paperwork plz.

"Fascinating," rumbles Ultra Magnus. He takes a clanky step forward, looming more thoroughly over Knock Out's position with his arms again crossing over his massive chest; he frowns at him past the cross of his arms with a slight resettling of his weight. "You believe that a sudden medical emergency aboard this ship is a /ridiculous scenario/?"

"No -- an emergency while I am apparently /buried/ under /so many crew bodies/ because I am some sort of /madman/." Knock Out crosses his arms over his chest RIGHT BACK, refusing to be intimidated. Where is his boyfriend.

"I believe," Ultra Magnus informs him in a low voice, the glow of his frowning gaze intent, "that you are being deliberately obtuse. I have some experience with this as a defense mechanism," -- you bet your aft he does re: persons who shall remain nameless except possibly in nearby graffiti -- "and I am politely informing you that it does not work."

"I'm not obtuse," Knock Out, sounding indignant and insulted. "I happen to be exceptionally intelligent. /You're/ the one imagining me going around injuring dozens of crew members for my own entertainment."

"A single pointless injury would be sufficient to detract from your readiness to respond to an emergency," Ultra Magnus states with absolute certainty.

"A single pointless injury would get shoved in a corner," Knock Out scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"So you propose to injure your own crewmates for your own entertainment and then simply shove the wounded aside into a corner to handle anything more material," Ultra Magnus says with rising disbelief in his tone and expression, "and you believe this is evidence of your /professionalism/?"

"I feel like you're taking a passing whim to a highly illogical extreme," Knock Out complains. ILLOGICAL. YEAH HE WENT THERE. "Although, yes, triage dictates that the most pressing injuries take precedence."

"I feel," Ultra Magnus says, enunciating each syllable as though to give each its own individual weight, "that whimsy is best pursued when you are /not/ on duty."

"Yes, you've made that clear, haven't you." Knock Out taps his chin, considering Ultra Magnus. "Sorry, do you have an issue you'd like to broach regarding something I've /actually/ done? Or would you rather return to looming?"

Ultra Magnus considers this position for a moment and backs off verbally, if not physically; he says, "Provided you continue to contain yourself, no, I do not have an 'issue'." There's a particular rumble in his voice through these words. As it becomes increasingly apparent that Ratchet is not going to magically materialize anytime soon, he makes a low sort of grindy noise in the depths of his frame that bears some kinship to the clearing of his throat.

Knock Out looks at Ultra Magnus. Then he glances around as if he might locate Ultra Magnus's desire. Then he looks back at Ultra Magnus. Yes?

"The last time I was in here," Ultra Magnus begins, and stops, as if he is rethinking his question.

"Sounds fascinating." Knock Out continues to wait.

"Ratchet told me he could recommend a remedy for pain," Ultra Magnus says, and reaches up one massive hand to tap lightly against the side of his head, behind his narrowed eyes, as he looks down at Knock Out with particular grimness marking the line of his jaw.

"A remedy for pain," Knock Out echoes solemnly. "From your very subtle gesture, I imagine the pain is localized in your head. Yes?"

Ultra Magnus reviews a number of potential responses for this in a period of brief delay wherein he just kind of stands there, and then he finally settles on the simplest. "...Yes."

Knock Out smiles. It is a warm, reassuring smile. Or an unnerving one -- take your pick. "I think we can manage something to help with that," he tells him, turning to go putter about the supplies.

"Can we," Ultra Magnus says in a low mutter that may reveal him as less than reassured.

"I don't suppose I can prescribe less Rodimus," Knock Out wonders idly as he digs through cabinets. Surely there is Cybertronian advil.

Ultra Magnus exhales: a soft noise of breath that crackles behind closed teeth, not all the way to a laugh but a distinct impression of startled humor escaping his guard. All he says, though, is: "No."

Advil is easy to come by, and so mild painkillers for Cybertronians should be easy enough. Knock Out eventually finds the right bottle and swans back over to Ultra Magnus to offer it out. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you laughed," he says with a wide smile.

"I did no such thing," Ultra Magnus states with gruff assurance as he reaches for the bottle.

"I said I wasn't telling," Knock Out assures him solemnly. "Your secret is safe with me."

"There isn't any secret to keep," Ultra Magnus says with a particularly dour look. It is the look of a bot who certainly never laughs, and whose plating has developed a serious surface allergy to smiles.

Knock Out wiggles his fingers in a cheerful wave goodbye. He'll never tell, Magnus.

Looking sourly back at his cheerful wave, Ultra Magnus stomps off out of the medbay, not /actually/ going ararar.

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