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lets-try-some-writing · 2 months ago

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Emergency Protocols: To Preserve A Legacy

Optimus Prime has fallen, and now everyone must deal with the after effects of his sudden and horrific death. Knockout, unlike the rest of the Decepticons, has taken grim inspiration from the loss.

Part 1 here.

(Warning for robogore)

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“This is an order! Every mech will travel in a group until further notice!” Megatron’s order rang out on the bridge, earning frantic nods of understanding from every single Vehicon present. Starscream in particular seemed keen to obey an order for once and almost instantly grabbed a few Vehicons to stay by his side.

Knockout watched quietly, his optics never once leaving the screen above Megatron’s helm.

“I don’t care what you are doing or what your orders are. If I catch anyone alone, there will be consequences.” Megatron all but growled as he glared down at every one of his soldiers. Knockout’s optics cycled in quiet interest at the sight, but he refused to look away from the screen and the beginnings of grotesque suffering playing on it.

“The Autobots have begun to fall. We cannot risk such a fate ourselves.” The warlord’s words were frighteningly shaky as a video played on screen. It was a recording obviously taken by Soundwave, or perhaps Laserbeak. Whatever the case, it projected a scene of true horror.

Optimus Prime wailed in agony, his frame tearing itself apart as buds began to form all over him. One on each limb, and two great ones on his chassis and jetpack. He tore himself to pieces, ripping off armor and frantically screeching as his frame cannibilized itself to produce six new lives. That was a new record, at least in modern documentation. The largest recorded budding only produced five newbuilds. How very Optimus of him.

“Prime succumbed, and if a mech as mighty as him fell, any one of us is just as likely to suffer a similar end.” The recording zoomed in on Optimus’s expression of sheer agony as he tried to crawl on mutilated limbs. If things were different, Knockout might have gagged as he watched the Prime convulse, wheeze, and then fall still while whatever remained of him was consumed by his unwanted offspring.

As it was, Knockout found himself more intrigued than afraid, especially as the recording showed the six that came from the fallen Prime. Five of them were flight frames, an incredible oddity considering Optimus was, up until his reforging, a grounder. The sixth was the one that really caught his attention. The newbuild had Optimus’s structure, tapered waist, and overall build. But they had an interesting series of differences, a few of which felt vaguely familiar.

“Be wary! And never find yourselves alone! Until we can confirm that none of our number are liable to succumb to this brutality, this ship is on lockdown.” With a final wave of his servo, Megatron marched off, likely to hound Soundwave about something or other. The Vehicons filed off eventually, most huddled in groups of five or more to limit their fear. A few attempted to gather around Knockout, but he waved them off.

He didn’t want companionship. He had other plans.

Making his way back to the medical bay, Knockout quietly shut the door behind him and locked it. He settled at his console, tapping the device thoughtfully as he pulled up the recording of Optimus Prime’s final moments all over again. He really should have been disgusted or upset with what he was going to be seeing, but after so much loss, it was more interesting than anything else. Eventually, the Decepticons would have someone end up budding. After all, one budding meant that the situation was dire. Dire circumstances induced panic, and panic tended to make budding happen in other subjects even if their numbers were acceptable.

Stress was bound to get to them. After all, activation of the protocols needed for budding only required a deep sense of loneliness and isolation. If the crew felt that they were alone, those who were capable of budding were likely going to begin expiring one after another. The Vehicons would be fine, largely since they were the result of budding and cold forging. Empurata victims were incapable of budding since the entire section of their processor devoted to registering emotional distress was deactivated, so Shockwave would be fine. Beastformers tended to take longer to start budding, meaning that Arachnid would be alright on her own for a while. The same went for the Insecticons and the Predacons.

That left high command of both the Autobots and the Decepticons. Optimus had already keeled over, and considering how traumatic and sudden it was, Knockout didn’t doubt that someone else would follow after him. Probably Ratchet or the Prime’s unofficial ward.

One by one, the shock and horror would get to all of them, regardless of faction.

They were well and truly slagged. Sooner or later, all the big players in the war would combust into several smaller and inexperienced idiots who would, inevitably, end the war at some point. Be it through extinction or peace, it wasn’t really important. Knockout personally had no desire to live in a world or on a restored Cybertron with a bunch of framewalkers who looked far too similar to old friends and foes for his liking. It all seemed so pointless.

He was tired. That was the only way he had to describe the sheer apathy burning in his spark. Breakdown, his other half, was gone, taken by enemies who were now long dead and dispersed. There were no more victors to join, not when everyone would quickly be put on even ground once old grudges joined their holders in the grave. There was no point to all of it anymore. What did he have to gain from trudging ever onward? A restored homeworld? Sure, that might be nice for a grand total of five kliks, but it wouldn’t be the same without proper closure or Breakdown.

“If we’re all doomed anyway, we might as well make the most of it.” He grumbled, taking great care to not rub his face and ruin the polish, even though exhaustion weighed on him. They were all going down, so why not try and make it somewhat meaningful? Budding was a process that had not been properly studied since the Quintessons ruled. It either happened in private or it was so sudden that no real documentation could be made. Case point: Optimus’s spontaneous and gruesome death.

If he was going to die, he wanted to leave something behind and perhaps even secure his legacy with something important.

“Show me what you’ve got, sweet rims.” He pressed play on the video, leaning back in his chair as he sighed and observed Optimus’s final moments. He had to watch it three or four times before he became desensitized enough to actually start making note of things of interest, but he got there after a few sessions of wretching into his disposal unit.

Optimus’s early symptoms began with itching and, from the looks of it, twitchyness and emotional turmoil. That seemed about right overall. Then it seemed that as the budding began, tearing off armor was an instinctual response meant to allow the buds to grow without hindrance. The spine tearing out of the back appeared to just be a side effect of one of the buds developing in that location, as bones and other skeletal structures also tore free where buds developed on the Prime’s body.

The malformation didn’t appear to be a necessary part of the process, but one that Optimus unfortunately endured due to the sheer number of buds on him. The buds themselves sucked protomatter right out of their host by liquidizing the host’s internals. A lot was lost, as evidenced by Optimus quite literally being dismeboweled via his innards turning to goo and oozing out of him. Frankly, it seemed that the process was largely streamlined. Optimus was just an unfortunate victim of Primely fertility.

If he were back on Cybertron, he might have broken the record again by producing more due to his increased mass prior to their arrival on the mudball they currently called their battlefield.

“Noted. More buds equals more pain.” He tapped the console methodically, watching again and again as Optimus wailed and endured a fate far worse than most other forms of death. Knockout took notes meticulously, observing with silent interest as he watched the buds develop over and over again. The biggest of the lot caught his attention more than the others. That one was obviously a powerhouse in the making, having Optimus’s overall frame structure. But there was something about the new build—something unique.

Once he recorded everything he could from the video, Knockout turned to the database. His digits flew across the keys until he pulled up Optimus’s record. A few passwords later, and he was looking at sensitive data that was only tenuiously confirmed. The Prime’s history in the archives, embarrassing and noteworthy developmental milestones, but most importantly, his relationships.

Optimus only had one confirmed romantic partner. The depth of their relationship was not recorded, but there were enough indicators of a spark merge having been involved for Knockout to feel fairly confident calling them Conjunxes. With that in mind, he pulled up the video again on his second screen, zooming in on the largest of the newbuilds hovering around Optimus’s battered corpse.

He looked at Elita-One’s picture and then at the newbuild. The similarities were obvious. The frame shape, the kibble placement, even the newbuild’s optics. All of them were similar to Elita. Had the spark merged influenced the budding to produce a newbuild that possessed Optimus and Elita’s traits?

“A spark merge affecting a newbuild... it’s certainly not impossible.” He tapped the console with more frequency as he considered the possibilities. If all of high command was going to keel over, Knockout most likely included, why shouldn’t he research the process? Why shouldn’t he make the most of it? For Optimus and Elita to have produced a bud that carried both their traits after what might have only been a single spark merge...

He stood up sharply, his optics widened as he glanced over at the single piece of Breakdown’s armor he’d taken from the corpse as a keepsake. It sat innocently on his shelf, a reminder of the loss and now a symbol of possible hope.

“One merge. It only took them one merge.” He reached out to collect the piece of armor, a dark plan forming in the back of his processor. He didn’t necessarily want to die, but it was going to happen anyway. Sooner or later, he’d drop dead and spawn something that was but an echo of himself. Why not die on his own terms? He could study the process of budding and, if things worked out, preserve Breakdown’s legacy as well.

He’d keep his reputation as Cybertron’s finest medic through his research, and he’d be able to honor his fallen partner before joining him. It saved him from having to go on endlessly without the mech he loved most, and it meant that all his loose ends would be neatly tied up. He wouldn’t have to live in a world not his own with mecha mimicking the dead.

It would be painful, but he could limit that to a certain extent.

"Well, Breakdown, it seems I’ll be seeing you soon enough.” A grin wormed its way onto Knockout’s features as he laughed and carried the piece of plating over to his workbench. There was much to do, and considering the panic amongst the crew, very little time.

“Lord Megatron, I’ll be performing a little analysis on some sensitive material over the course of the next deca-cycle or so. Don’t worry if I’m unavailable; my research will prove quite useful, I’m certain.” He sent his message to Megatron with quiet glee as he settled at his workbench. He had preparations to see to and he couldn’t afford an interruption. Not now.

“All alone now. It’s just us, Breakie.” Tapping the piece of plating, Knockout laughed again before gathering his determination to drop the piece into a vat. He placed the vat into one of his extractors and stepped back, looking over himself and his medical bay. While CNA was being extracted from Breakdown’s plating, Knockout could begin his real work.

He spent a whole cycle thinking through Optimus’s fate and preparing for every eventuality. He methodically, albeit with much chagrin, removed his outer armor. He would rather not endure the pain of ripping it all off in a frenzied madness and so opted to skip that step altogether. Once that was all removed, he began preparing various painkillers of different doses. Too much at one time might have a negative effect on himself or his spawn, so a gentle ramping up of the solution would be necessary. The finished solutions were left near the medical berth, ready to be used.

For good measure, he adjusted the straps on the medical berth to activate the moment he laid down and to deactivate once his vitals dropped beyond a certain threshold. He couldn’t risk the buds, not when they were going to be so vital to his goals.

“As much as I pride myself on my finish, I do think you’ll forgive me this once for not sporting the red you adored so much.” Knockout found himself laughing more and more in the quiet of his medical bay by just the second cycle of work. He had gone to great pains to continually keep himself from heading out for any reason, and so far it seemed to be working. He could feel a faint tingle underneath his plating.

He wasn’t quite sure if it was nerves getting to him or not, but as he handled a full vial of Breakdown’s CNA, he reassured himself of his goal. He was going to do this and document the whole affair.

This was fine. He was going to be fine. He wanted this. He’d get to see Breakdown again.

Right?

“Breakdown, I hope you aren’t going to be too upset. I’m doing this for both of us.” He spoke into the open air, quietly and with more than a little hesitance. It took all of his mental fortitude to keep it together when Megatron called him.

“Knockout, what in the Unmaker’s name are you doing?” The warlord’s glyphs were harsh and layered with over a dozen vaguely fearful undertones. Knockout would have grinned, but he couldn’t blame Megatron for being afraid. Optimus was dead. The Prime of Cybertron was not only gone, but the first to have perished. In a way, Knockout envied him. To be the first meant Optimus didn’t have to watch everyone crumble around him.

“Lord Megatron, as I stated in my previous message, I am working on something of incredible importance. Don’t worry your pretty little helm about it. The experiment shall conclude in a few cycles, just as planned.” He kept up his usual attitude of cockiness as he stared at scans he’d taken of his frame. According to what his machinery was gathering, his frame was starting to swell in places, small pockets of protomatter less than an inch in side, all forming one by one all over him like organic skin pores.

It was rather disgusting to think about it in that light.

“Do you have assistants with you? I will not risk this vessel’s only medical expert offlining.” Knockout fought back a scoff as he held the vial of Breakdown’s extracted CNA. He fiddled with the container, smiling as he replied.

“Of course. I have my most trusted assistant right by my side.” Megatron made a noise of agreement before shutting down the comm link. Knockout leaned against his console, fondling the vial a while longer as he looked up at his scans.

Soon. Very soon.

The cycles wore on, and as they did, Knockout dutifully documented the changes. His need for fuel had drastically decreased, a sign of his frame preparing for something or other. Additionally, he was recharging more and more often and for longer periods of time. A certain level of lethargy hung in his limbs, making it difficult for him to continually make note of his circumstances and not leave his medical bay despite how much base instinct tried to get him to move and go toward where he knew there were others.

Megatron bothered him every now and then, but Knockout was quite skilled at keeping his tone even. The warlord suspected nothing, just like Knockout wanted. This was meant to be special—just him and Breakdown. He didn’t want his boss to come kicking the door down in an attempt to stop what had already begun and ruin the significance of it all.

“Till all are one... you know, Breakdown, I never really believed in that lovely quote from the Primacy. But I think it makes more sense now that we’re going to make something beautiful together.” He was tired, so very tired. But looking into the faint blue glow of the vial containing all that was left of his other half, Knockout found something akin to peace settling in his spark. His frame ached, but soon everything would be better.

“I miss when you held me in your arms and complimented my features. I don’t think I ever told you that the reason I kept up the red was because you liked it so much.” Leaning back in his chair, Knockout held the vial to his chassis, closing his optics in order to pretend that somehow, through some miracle, Breakdown was with him. He imagined firm servos on his shoulders, massaging tense cables and helping him unwind after a long cycle.

Fond memories supplied him with a cheerful laugh filled with nothing but adoration as he and Breakdown playfully bantered, exchanging gossip like there wouldn’t be consequences if they were caught distracted. He recalled all their frantic couplings, never daring to risk taking too long to be one in mind and spark for fear of punishment. He wished he’d taken more time back then. He wished he’d savored the protective warmth of his companion’s spark brushing up against his own in the most intimate of kisses.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them from taking you.” Coolant gathered in his optics as his frame began to heat up in response to his unsettling emotional state. He felt the drops roll down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away. He merely held the chilled vial close, desperately longing for a spark signature that was long gone. It was clinical, so very clinical... and there was no warmth to be found.

“I’m sorry, I’m too weak to go on without you. I know… I know you’d want me to live life to the fullest in your absence, but I can’t.” His composure cracked as he looked up at the ceiling, trying not to gaze around his medical bay in the vain hope that his beloved might still be there, gathering supplies or sorting through datapads on his behalf.

He could hardly vent; it hurt so much.

“Not without you.” Primus was cruel to take a mech as good as Breakdown so soon.

The itching started around the fifth cycle of his isolation. It was faint at first, but then it grew more and more difficult to ignore. It felt like he was bloated, almost as if he had a series of microscopic tears in every single one of his fuel lines. He scratched without meaning to more often than not, and more than once he had to set his door to lock automatically to keep himself from running out.

Itching, itching, itching.

He wished Breakdown were there to caress his frame, chasing away the discomfort with loving touches and soothing words. For such a big mech, he was so very kind.

But Breakdown was gone. He’d been gone for months now. All Knockout had left was a vial of his CNA. His forever’s final gift and remnant.

By the sixth cycle, taking decent notes was all but impossible. He settled on setting up a camera just above the medical berth for when he inevitably met his end. He was fidgety, itching, and nervous in a way he’d never been before. Sometimes he found himself pacing, muttering nonsense that he only managed to stop through sheer force of will.

The itch never stopped.

Emotional codes became tangled and out of place. Priority calculations shifted and left him paranoid, leading Knockout to try and perform manual labor more than once before realizing he was out of his designated role. His protocols were blaring all the time, drowning out his vision with demands for him to find a group and to get to safety. He screamed at some point, clutching his helm and whimpering at how overwhelming it all was.

How had Prime dealt with it all before death all but snuck up on him?

On what he assumed was the seventh cycle, the itch turned to an infuriating burn. Clawing at his protoform and base armor wasn’t enough. It hurt, so much so that he could hardly see straight, much less make any logical decisions. All he had the strength to do was jab and IV with his painkillers into his arm and inject himself with Breakdown’s precious CNA before he collapsed onto his medical berth, the straps clamping down on his limbs.

The vial was discarded on the ground, empty, and used. Despite the fact that it no longer had anything of Breakdown left in it, Knockout wished he could hold it, if only to comfort himself as the pain increased.

Panic set in not long after the straps finished tightening. His venting hitched as the burn worsened. For a moment, he regretted every life decision he’d ever made, including his idiotic choice to go down in flames like he was taking one for the team. When had he ever been a team player? What the frag was wrong with him?

“Slag. This is going to hurt.” He winced, biting back a cry as he felt the first tears begin to form along his protoform. Optimus had skipped this part entirely, going straight for bone obliteration and internal shredding. Knockout almost wished he could do the same as cracks began running along his limbs, the angle of the medical berth letting him see how energon and protomatter started to swell in the wounds.

The painkillers were his salvation as he watched in grim fascination, observing as his very protoform bubbled as if an inflamed fuel line was growing and threatening to burst right beneath the surface layer of his very being. He bit his lower derma as his protoform continued to bulge, finally bursting in his legs and in his right arm. He didn’t dare cry out, instead forcefully silencing himself for as long as possible.

Screams would draw attention. Sound would ruin this precious moment between himself and what he was going to make. This was a family matter, his and Breakdown’s last gift to the world. It couldn’t be interrupted.

Cables burst, spurting energon that trickled down the medical berth and pooled on the ground beneath him. Wires and various connectivity tissues pulsed and all but slithered as the buds started to take shape. It hurt like slag, but it wasn’t as bad as it likely would have been without painkillers. The scene itself was still a work of horror, especially as the small mounds began to grow, their mass pushing aside everything else.

“Looks like at least one of these buds is going to turn out just like you, Breakdown! They’ve got your size already!” Knockout laughed, lost in medically induced mania as the bud on his left leg swelled and caused the entire limb to bloat. His pede shifted, deforming before snapping off entirely to allow the bud to consume the stump. Knockout did end up screaming as his bones snapped under the weight of the thing, every pain receptor in the limb activating in hot waves of agony.

The bone stuck out from his leg, jutting at an odd angle and glittering blue as if Primus himself had thrown some sort of polish on it. Knockout could see every single micro-connector within the broken skeletal structure, still pulsing with charge. The medic in him screamed, demanding he heal the wound. But he was well aware of his doom. The metal around his abdomen was already graying, a sign of severe energon loss.

There was no stopping it now.

The chorus of suffering was only added to as the two other buds performed similarly. The smaller one on his right leg bulged and crawled up his limb like mold, eating away at his plating with acidic effects that revealed delicate circitry that sizzled and popped as they were corroded. Knockout couldn’t have possibly predicted that outcome with how the bud on his left leg was acting. The one on his arm hurt the most, surprisingly. Knockout could hardly see through the coolant, causing his vision to become hazy, but he did note his digits doing the same thing that Optimus’s had before his death. They increased in size, the plating oozing with protomatter before cracking and all but exploding to make way for the bud.

The remnants of his digits were nothing more than thin skeletal bones connected only by tender ligaments, which had quickly begun to lose their strength.

He shrieked as the painkillers were overridden by the sheer amount of torment assaulting him. There was no comfort to be found as he started to flail, composure fleeing him as he cried out for anyone to help him. He was sure he screamed for Breakdown most, but at some point he must have cried for someone else as well, because he started to hear murmurs outside his medical bay. A Vehicon must have noted his wails.

“Breakdown-!” He sobbed against his restraints, hardly able to watch as more and more parts of his very frame tore themselves apart. The buds did not climb higher than their sectioned limbs, but they consumed, ripped, and tore. There was so much blue. So much blue...

Crack after crack, cry after cry. It blended into a meaningless babble.

At some point, the agony almost entirely ceased as weight dropped off Knockout like a heavy burden long forgotten. The straps holding him came undone, leaving him to lay there, bleeding out and struggling to keep his fans running. The relief he felt was palpable as he reveled in the lack of pain. Although the chill that crept into what remained of his frame did little to comfort him.

Once he’d cleared the coolant from his optics, he mustered the will to look toward the ground where the three buds floundered. The sticky mounds convulsed, thin stick-like limbs jutting out in almost spider-like fashion before more living metal could wreath the limb in musculature and mass. The things looked horrifying as faces tore themselves from the masses, gaping intakes and lightless optics appearing half melted before they convulsed a few more times and finally booted online.

Knockout’s venting slowed as energon loss began to set in. The painkillers were finally doing their slagging job, giving him a half-decent look at his spawn as they stood up one by one, looking over their frames with the innocence of the newly forged. The newbuilds were so very fascinating, so very... Breakdown, each in their own way.

“You are not supposed to be alive.” The biggest of the bunch, a heavy-set newbuild with a rounded helm structure and bright headlights already in formation, addressed Knockout quietly. There was no mockery, no insults, merely an observation. This was like him. Knockout could see it in the red optics that met his own. They were modeled just like Breakdown’s.

“Just had to make sure... that you lot carried Breakdown... in your CNA as well.” His voice came out as little more than a pitiful wheeze, but Knockout didn’t have the presence of mind of care as the other two stared at him. The smallest of the ground was also quite a bulky thing, another of Breakdown’s traits. They shone with gold optics, so reminiscent of his beloved.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, originator.” The smallest one looked him up and down, likely assessing the horror that was Knockout’s devastated frame. He managed a grim laugh at that, even as his senses started to dull.

“You look just like him.” Knockout coughed up energon, his spark flaring painfully in remembrance as the last of the newbuilds waved to him shyly. The newbuild was blue and orange, looking almost exactly like his other creator in all but accenting paint and digits. He had Knockout’s claws, a fact that brought him no small amount of pride.

“You’ve done well, originator. Return to your Conjunx. We will take over from here.” The biggest of the newbuilds touched Knockout’s helm, caressing his helm crest and audials in a fond manner. His venting hitched again, this time in loss as he looked over all three of his spawn.

Breakdown would have been thrilled to meet them.

“Your… designations?” His vision started to fail him as he stared at the three. They shared a look, and then all of them smiled.

“Flatline of Knockout and Breakdown.” The largest answered first, bringing more tears to Knockout’s optics as he heard both his and his beloved’s designation. They were both honored here.

“Quickmix.” The smallest replied curtly, but they were kind enough to touch Knockout’s shoulder in their form of a silent goodbye. They reminded Knockout of himself when he was young. At least this one would have siblings to help them along.

“Wildbreak... of Knockout and Breakdown.” The last of the bunch uttered their name quietly, but with a hint of awe. Knockout couldn’t help but smile as his vision failed him and the touches of his three creations lingered on his frame.

This... this had been worth it.

“We did it… Breakdown.” His voice was lost as his hearing started to putter out. The last thing he heard was his door crashing down and the booming voice of Megatron echoing in his medical bay.

“KNOCKOUT-!”

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