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2016-07-24 Who Doctors the Doctor?

From Transformers: Lost and Found

2016-07-24 Who Doctors the Doctor?
Date 2016/07/24
Location Knock Out's Office - Science & Medical
Participants Knock Out, Ratchet
Summary Ratchet finally goes back to the maker of his new hands for a tune-up.

Knock Out's office is way nicer than Ratchet's.


Administration is not actually Knock Out's favorite thing to do. (Surprise, surprise.) His favorite period of time was probably when he took over as Head Surgeon while Ratchet's hands were rebuilt and got to leave the administration end to the Autobot. Now that the two CMOs are basically splitting loads and working together, he sometimes ends up having to sit in his office and go through reports from the medical team trying to find new reasons to criticize them. It looks like today's reports aren't giving him enough fodder, though; because he has his head propped on his hand and is sighing down at his data pad.

After spending very little time sleeping the night before due to a ... ne roommate and the strangeness of someone in his space, not to mention the three cases he took care of yesterday, Ratchet's hands are not agreeing with him. He'd asked Knock Out shortly after he'd got them for some adjustments, but even those didn't seem to do much to alleviate the pain and lack of dexterity he still experienced. Finally, enough was enough. For once, the Medbay was blessedly silent and he made his way to the office of the 'other' Co-CMO. But instead of knocking, he walked in without a 'by-your-leave'. "Do you have a moment," rumbled the older medic.

Knock Out can hardly complain: he swans into other people's offices readily enough. He tosses the data pad in his hand aside onto his desk, clearly welcoming the interruption. "Please," he sighs dramatically. "I'm about to gouge my optics out reading these reports."

Ratchet gives a hint of a smirk at your response about reports. "Redundancy at its finest." Ratchet looks around the office. He avoids coming here if he can help it, just because it's so...clean, perhaps neat and tidy even, compared to his ... well, his messy establishment. Besides, age has its privileges. Age before beauty and all that. With a slow intake of breath, he fidgets slightly.

"My hands are bothering me," he says without much preamble. How does he get himself into things like this?

"Hn." Knock Out taps his fingertips idly against his desk, considering Ratchet, and then opens a draw to grab one of his smaller tools -- a precision multitool of sorts -- and stands without any preamble of his own. "Something's always bothering you," he says breezily like he's not just as much of a tetchy bot in his own right. "Let's see, then." He holds out a hand, palm up, for one of Ratchet's.

Looking at Knock Out, Ratchet almost seems hesitant to give him his hand. He grumbles, "Yeah, something's always bothering me..." He doesn't finish his sentence, about how if things had been done right the first time, perhaps they wouldn't bother him. With a slight huff, he puts his hand in Ratchets.

What has he been doing with his hands? There are joints out of alignment, plates that show wear and tear where they've been rubbing together against others, strains on circuits, gears and wires.

"Did you take a /hammer/ to these?" Knock Out says with immediate censure, frowning fiercely at the display. "Primus. Have some respect for yourself." If there's anything Knock Out has, it's respect for his appearance. He twists the multitool in his hand and starts to poke it carefully around Ratchet's digits to get a full and complete examination.

If his hands didn't hurt so much, he might have pulled it away and told Knock Out to go frag himself, but with both hands hurting, he wasn't able to hold one still long enough while trying to work on it with the other.

"No. I didn't hit it with a hammer, fragger! They just don't work as well as my old ones did. My processor tells them to move a certain way and they can't." He grits his teeth. "I do have respect for myself. Don't even go down that road."

"Temper, temper," Knock Out tuts, although he seems largely unbothered by the outburst. His own hands are remarkably delicate in their work, even gentle, as he begins the process of carefully repairing and realigning. "They're new limbs, Ratchet. New tools. You can't expect them to immediately perform like your favorite tools you had to millennia. It's not like we do /easy/ things with our hands that anyone else could do."

That causes Ratchet to snarl aloud, "I'll watch my temper when I'm finally before Primus. I was around long before the metal you're made of was ever dug up for refining." There's a bit of a snarl in there somewhere, "If they had been made to spec from the scans taken from my old ones, I wouldn't be having this issue." He hisses as one of the plates is loosened. Oh, there's so much more he wants to spout off to this insolent ....pup but he has to have someone fix these damned infernal knock-offs.

"For the millionth time," Knock Out says in a weary voice, "the hands were made to spec. They were made with expert care by /several/ members of his crew. The problem isn't the quality of the construction; it's that you just can't move on." He goes silent for a beat as he flips the multitool to a soldering iron to adjust some of the plating. "And you're hardly older than I am."

"Early," Knock Out says, his tone drying. "Stop fidgeting." He carefully repairs a bit of strained wire inside one of Ratchet's joints. Ratchet tries not to 'fidget' as a strained wire is released. He badly wants to show how much strain that takes off of him but he continues to scowl. "I was around a long time before Nova Prime brought about constructed cold mechs."

"Yes, yes, you are as old as Cybertron itself," Knock Out says, barely even paying attention. "Probably older. You probably built the hot spot that birthed Primus." Poke poke goes his tools. Fix fix. Ratchet winces again, getting a feeling that Knock Out isn't being too gentle. "No, just old enough to have been there to wipe his nose when he sneezed out the Primes." Was...was that a joke? Did Ratchet just say something blasphemous as a joke?

Knock Out is very gentle!! He has wondrously dexterous hands, and they certainly don't cause any pain beyond the unavoidable minimum that even Ratchet's old hands wouldn't have been able to prevent. "Yes, well. I'm not a wartime newborn."

Ratchet inhales slowly, feeling something finally loosen that has been quite painful. "Never said you were. I wasn't either. But boy can I tell you some stories about Optimus before he ever became Prime. He was a bit of a ....," He stops to try and find the right word, "Well, let’s just say he was very different back when I met him at the Academy."

"Ugh, I can't even /think/ of something I care about less than your god puttering around doing Zeta's bidding." Knock Out smooths out a bit of plating with the iron, shaving off a ragged edge. "But let me know if you have any stories about Megatron during his early writing days." Ratchet shutters his optics and what looks like he might have eaten sour grapes, in human terms, is actually a look of relief. He onlines his optics, "My God? Which one? Primus?" He tries to figure out what Knock Out was talking about. He couldn't be talking about Optimus, could he?

He smirks though, "Oh, I saw Megatron back when he first started to make a name for himself. Boy those were the days. Optimus, then Orion Pax, was a cop in Rodion. They were hot and bothered to find that underground fighting ring..."

"/Ugh/, you don't even get my jokes right," Knock Out whines. He turns Ratchet's hand over in his so he can get a better angle on one of the issues. "Yes, I know the /history/. I found my way to the fold rather early, in fact. Bah, you're useless."

Ratchet seems confused suddenly. That was a joke of some kind? "Then perhaps you 'Cons have a different form of joke telling. Cause that sure didn't sound like a joke to me." He gritted his denta trying to keep himself from wanting to punch Knock Out for his 'useless' comment. Ratchet was already having a hard enough time dealing with things as they were. He's quiet for a while as he things a few things over.

With a very slight tilt of his lips, a thought comes to him. "You know Knock Out, the better you fine tune my hands, the sooner I can go to Rodimus and get him to reassign me as the Chief Medical Officer. Just think about it, no more reports to file, no more paperwork..."

"I'm not fine-tuning your hand; I'm repairing it from all the damage you've done to it," Knock Out points out blandly. "Besides, you /are/ Chief Medical Officer, you're just one of two. If you think I'm going to /ask/ Rodimus for a demotion--" Ratchet simply stands there with a snarky smirk on his faceplates. "Oh, you don't have to ask Rodimus. I'll do that for you." Ratchet knows he's pushing his luck but he honestly hasn't had much interaction yet with Knock Out, even though they've been shipmates for well over a year and then some.

"I'm sure that would be just wonderful for cross-faction relations," Knock Out replies. He finally finishes with Ratchet's hand and lets it fall away, holding his open for the other.

Ratchet takes his hand away, flexes it, looks it over carefully, and flexes it again before looking at Knock Out. "Sure it would be. You'd be free to spend more time with your friends and with Breakdown even. I'm sure you wouldn't hear any complaining from them especially if you had more time to make sure you were polished up so much you shown like a newly forged mech." He dropped his hand and then put the other mutilated hand into Knock Outs waiting servo. This one isn't as bad as the last one. Apparently he first one was his dominate hand.

"My, you're just awful at this, aren't you," Knock Out says with an actual laugh as he starts on the second hand. Like with the first, he takes a moment to carefully inventory the issues at hand (hah hah) before he even thinks about starting in on repairs.

Ratchet looks confused. "What am I awful at? I knew you were being snarky. I snarked you right back or gee, couldn't you tell?" Or was there something else he was missing. He tried to figure out why everything he said seemed to fall...flat? Of what he was aiming for. Maybe he was getting to old or losing his touch?

"The Cons aboard this ship care much more about me remaining in this position than they do about spending free time with me," Knock Out explains with patronizing patience. "And I see my conjunx plenty. Thank you for your concern, though."

Ratchet scowls. At this point he keeps his lip plates shut. He flexes his free hand again but says nothing while Knock Out works on his other. This conversation started off bad and only got worse and getting out of this office can't come soon enough. He watches Knock Out closely, seeing if there is anything to fault in the way he works.

There isn't. While Knock Out's conversation may leave much to be desired sometimes, his work remains impeccable. He at least shares Ratchet's silence while he sets his focus solely on the work of easing and repairing the hand back into tip-top shape.

Ratchet seems lost in thought as he watches Knock Out work. He goes back over the conversation they've had so far in his mind. Is he so far out of touch that he can't even 'argue' with someone without being taken literally or as a joke? Or was he just...he doesn't finish that thought. To be honest, the bot he needed to find to truly help him rebuild his original hands was Pharma but he hadn't heard or seen him in a long time.

With both of them being quiet, it probably all seems to go quicker: in another few minutes, Knock Out is able to fix up Ratchet's second hand just as he was the first, and eventually he's handing it back breezily. "/Try/ not to destroy yourself."

Ratchet pulls his other hand back. "Yeah," he grunts. He flexes his free hand several times. "I'll come back when they're hurting again." It's inevitable. It might take years yet before his processor manages to figure out how to instinctually work them properly to keep them warping as he tries to use them like he did his old hands. With a mumbled 'Thanks', he makes his way towards the door.

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