#breakdown reversed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

noodleblade · 2 years ago

Text

Flip It, Reverse It

Anonymous Commission for Role Reverse KOBD, featuring Medic!Breakdown and Scout!Knock Out:)

AO3 Link Next Part

Enjoy!!!<3

He doesn’t belong here . It was the first thought to cross Breakdown’s processor as he took in the mech before him.

In the quiet of Breakdown’s little, dingy clinic, the mech before him practically glowed. Sleek lines, thin plating, and flashy paint jump; too bright, too clean, too shiny. Clearly a racing frame, from the protoform to the absurd paint job. His glossy red refracting the dim lighting in an iridescent glean as he tapped his claws impatiently on the counter. White hot flames danced across his forearms and Breakdown could only assume the effect was just as obnoxious on the tracks in his alt. Sly red optics surveyed Breakdown’s modest clinic with cutting criticism, lip plates pressed together in disapproval.

‘Must be lost.

There wasn’t a chance for scrap the little speedster purposefully sought him and his shoddy clinic out. He was a long way away from the well-maintained and sleek tracks of Delta, very far from the typical bodywork shop that specializes in speedsters with their high premium upgrade stock. Here, everything was in disrepair: the roads, the buildings, the mechs.

The mech before him was too put together. Even with the nasty tear in his forearm plating, Breakdown could see his lines were sleek and clean. A mech built for a speed Breakdown could only dream of. A mech meant for the tracks and spotlight, somehow lost in a sector designated for heavy-duty maintenance mechs.

As Breakdown brought himself before the speedster, those vicious red optics snapped onto him.

“You're the medic?” the red speedster sneered; a teasing, condescending little smile on his faceplates. His optics scanned up and down Breakdown’s frame, darting over every scuff and imperfection he could find. When the optics landed on his large servos and thick digits, the speedster laughed . “With proper creds?”

Breakdown remained still and impassive. His clinic wasn’t exactly legal and he didn’t really have proper credentialing; Certainly no institutional training, like he’d ever get accepted if he applied. With a frame like his, there was only one type of work lined up for him. So while the mines became the center of his life, his want for more never ceased.

If he could not follow the conventional path of forged medics, he would drive the road less traveled and find alternative means. Everything Breakdown learnt had been self-taught. He had watched the medics with eager optics at the mines, scourged outdated data packs for anything he could learn, and had grown accustomed to patching up the other mechs in his mine shifts. Enough to a point where they stopped calling the one shift medic, a tired, old bot that barely did a diagnostic before slapping them with a reframe order. Like anyone on the crew could afford it.

Medics were expensive and much of their training was specialized in race frames. They’d look at the lopsided gait and want to immediately perform surgery to fix the bearings without bothering to look at a simple realignment. In race frames, a lopsided gait was typically the cause of overstrain from high speed transformations. In bigger frames with thicker armor, it was often a displacement of weight. Breakdown knew his frametype and that of his fellow bulkier mechs. He knew to look for things medics on Velocitron overlooked or wanted to simply fix with expensive reframing surgeries.

“If you want a place with proper creds you’re in the wrong neighborhood,” Breakdown grumbled, turning his back on the too-bright speedster.

He began sorting through his latest box of thrifted supplies. It was a gift from his last client in lieu of payment. Breakdown didn’t ask where the mech had gotten it or how, simply taking the crate without a word. Most of the equipment was outdated and defunct, but he could scavenge a few things and make use of them. It would certainly be a better use of his time than dealing with a misplaced speedster.

He pointedly didn’t look back, simply waiting for the telltale sound of a revving twin-turbocharger engine. But it never came. The tapping claws returned, louder and more pronounced. If they were impatient before, they were aggravated by the small snub.

“But you're…discrete,” the racer added, the slight teasing lilt in his voice seemed to be a permanent fixture. “I just want to make sure you don’t make a bigger mess than it already is.”

“If you don’t trust me-” Breakdown turned to see the racer had come closer, their chests nearly bumping as he turned.

“Oh,” the speedster’s smile had morphed, any faux-politeness was gone and it was all sharp edges and denta. “I don’t trust anyone.” Nimble, thin claws gripped one of his servos and raised to optic height to examine. For a lighter frame, there was a surprising amount of strength behind his grasp, as he moved Breakdown’s servo this way and that. He plucked one of Breakdown’s digits between two claws and manipulated it, bending and flexing it to evaluate its range of motion. Breakdown could only watch as the red racer pouted. “You aren’t going to scratch up my finish with these, are you?”

Breakdown removed his servo from the other’s grip, threw his helm back and laughed. Typical race frame: self-centered, vain and entitled. He couldn’t be more of a stereotype if he tried.

“What’s so funny?”

It was clear the speedster wasn’t used to being the one laughed at. It showed as his plating flared out in agitation, optics narrowing to antagonizing slits.

Breakdown almost felt bad; he knew how it felt to be the end of a joke. On Velocitron, that was basically his entire existence. He’d learned to wear ridicule and jabbing words as armor, letting them roll off his back like harsh wind.

“‘You want me to patch you up or not, Red?” Breakdown’s chronometer showed how late it was and he didn’t want to spend the rest of the night cycle going back and forth with this little vain speedster.

In lieu of an answer, the racer walked over to the single medberth and hopped on it. He held his arm out impatiently, red optics daring. Breakdown simply shrugged and grabbed the few things he needed to patch the mech up.

It was a nasty looking tear; the metal plating of his forearm peeled up and torn. Breakdown didn’t have the supplies to craft him a new one- the type of plating too expensive to even consider keeping stock of, even if it could be used on his normal clientele -but it wasn’t the first frame repair he ever made. If anything, it was his specialty. Almost all mining incidents resulted in ripped and crushed plating and Breakdown had become somewhat of a master at returning it back to shape without the cost of replacement.

“I’d recommend turning your sensor net down.”

“Aren’t you supposed to do that?” The speedster raised an optic ridge skeptically. Clearly not his first crash.

“Not a forged medic,” Breakdown said simply.

He didn’t have a diagnostic cable nor any of the system override programs medics used to monitor and adjust their patient’s internals. He certainly couldn't afford the reformatting to integrate those programs. He had a few numbing gels and creams but that stock was limited and reserved for his most extreme cases. Breakdown would be as gentle as he could but reshaping metal was not a clean and painless process.

“I guess you get what you pay for,” the racer muttered but after a klik he nodded his helm for Breakdown to continue.

He ignored the dig and got to work. As much as the racer irked him, he couldn’t afford to be picky. It was easier to just duck his helm and get to work, like he’s always done. Even if he could feel those sharp optics watching his every movement. So be it. Let him watch.

First, Breakdown worked on flattening out the plating, uncurling it from where it had peeled back. He used a small torch to heat the thin plating and thick tongs to bend the armor back to its original position. Once it was roughly where it was supposed to lay, he worked on welding the tear back. It was concentrated work.

As much as the speedster above him was obnoxious and annoying, Breakdown didn’t want to make a mess of his already fragged plating. There was a small part of him that wanted to perfect the job, to throw it in the speedster’s face that yes he knew what he was doing and yes his frame had nothing to do with his function and skill. He may be slow and bulky but he was also methodical and dedicated.

He let the welds set as he got up for his finer tools. While it wasn’t ideal to continue to manipulate the plating while the welds were still fresh, he knew there was no chance in Pits that the speedster would come back for a follow up for him to finish the job. He’d probably chalk it up to a shoddy job and Breakdown didn’t care for who the racer was but he couldn’t stand the idea of proving the smug crankcase right.

Red optics followed him as he collected what he needed from around the small clinic. The tools looked ridiculous in his servos, clearly meant for smaller, more delicate frames. Breakdown was used to them, had pilfered them long ago and while they were rusted and thin, they almost became an extension of his own servos when he was set to work.

By the time he returned with his next set of tools, the first welds he had laid had cooled enough that he could begin refitting the armor to its original shape. He used the other speedster’s arm as a reference, mimicking and reversing the plating’s lines and grooves to return it to its original structure. He was bent low, optics honed in on the heated red plating and nothing more. He almost forgot who the metal belonged to until the speedster spoke, voice silky and smoothing and a touch in awe.

“Most medics would just replace the whole thing. Takes less time. Cheaper.”

Breakdown didn’t respond immediately, not until he finished curling in the edge of the metal.

“‘Only cheaper if you can afford it in the first place and foot the bill to others.”

The speedster hummed in agreement, falling silent once more as Breakdown moved to the final section of plating.

Here was where the forearm met the wrist joint. The plating naturally thinned out and hugged the joint, only leaving enough room for the mech to rotate and twist but tight enough to act as a protective seal. The edging of the plating has to be rounded out to follow the natural curve of the joint and fit along the side seams so as not to leave too large a gap. In ten kilks, Breakdown was satisfied with the lay and set his tools aside.

The speedster’s red optics were bright as he moved his arm. Before he could futz with the still warm plating, Breakdown grabbed his elbow joint, holding the arm still. With his other servo, he grabbed the speedster’s smaller, clawed servo and used his grip to rotate the wrist joint, checking his work and making sure the alignments matched up.

“‘Didn’t think you’d be so thorough,” the speedster purred. He almost sounded impressed if his tone wasn’t just bordering on mocking. “Hope this dedicated care doesn’t cost extra.”

“You ever shut up?”

The speedster laughed, optics swimming in mirth. “No.”

Breakdown, satisfied with the movement, released the speedster’s limb. “Let the weldings heal completely before you attempt a buffing and repaint.” He knew a vain speedster when he saw one and this red mech before him had to be the vainest one yet. The flame motifs on his doors were not cheap decals, they were expertly painted to follow the planes of his frame. “Keep transformations to a minimum until everything is set and-”

“Yeah, yeah,” the speedster waved off, optics still admiring the work. “I’ll be real careful with it, doc. Say…” he gave a coy glance up, the effect slightly diminished by his sharp gaze “I don’t suppose you offer those services.”

Breakdown nearly laughed, but the noise caught in his intake at the rather demanding shift in his field. “Are you serious?” The speedster had nearly clawed Breakdown for being too rough on his already fragged plating and now he wanted Breakdown to buff and paint him.

The mech shrugged, puffing out his sleek chassis. “I’m not one to joke about something as serious about a medically necessary operation-”

Breakdown did actually laugh that time, the red mech’s faceplates shifting in annoyance. “ Medically necessary , my aft.”

If the speedster bothered to slow down and take one look down the defunct strip of pavement that his clinic resided on, he would see most mechs weren’t fortunate to be fast, sleek and always shined to perfection. Most were just lucky to have their frames intact.

“Doesn’t even matter,” Breakdown shook away those thoughts. Trying to explain any of that to a vain, pretentious speedster would get him nowhere but frustrated and angry. “I don’t have anything you’d approve of.” There was one buffer in the clinic and it only ran at half speed before its gears started whining and he didn’t even want to hear the speedster’s complaints about his paint stocks. He had three colors and none of them as sleek and vibrant as his current cherry red finish.

The speedster’s face shifted to that of a pout, almost cutely if it wasn’t so late and taking up Breakdown’s precious time.

“You should invest,” the speedster decided, climbing from the medberth. “It’s how you keep repeat customers.”

Breakdown rolled his optics. “Clinics don’t usually operate under the want of repeat customers.”

“A business is a business, darling. It’d be a shame if it were to fail due to lack of resources.” The speedster eyed Breakdown for a long moment. “Especially with such gentle, steady servos.” Whether it was a compliment or a jab, Breakdown didn’t know. He didn’t have time to ask as his HUD pinged and a deposit of credits rolled in. Far too many credits for the patch job he’d given.

Breakdown turned to tell the speedster he’d overpaid but all he caught was last flashes of red as he transformed and pelted down the road, uncaring of the new welds still fresh and tender.

It wasn’t until the roar of the engine quieted, leaving the alleyway still and silent as it always was that Breakdown finally looked away. He grumbled, turning back to his clinic. He still had to clean and close up. With how late it was, he was probably just going to pass out on the medberth and deal with the rest later.

He groaned as he sat down. His knee joints were happy for the relief and his back strut popped as he stretched up and back. He wasn’t used to working on smaller mechs with more intricate details, having to hunch over for long periods of time.

He looked at the payment again, well beyond what he would reasonably charge but paid with so flippantly that Breakdown could only assume it was nothing. However, Breakdown wasn’t going to take it as a hit to his pride or pitiance. A donation, a kind and generous one at that. It’d be enough to help fix up the leak in the roof and restock on medgrade energon. He’d probably have a little left over even. Maybe, he’d even upgrade the buffer. In honor of the donor of course.

Breakdown couldn’t stop his chuckle as he caught the designation at the end. Of course , the flashy speedster in the brightest, shiniest red paint would be called Knock Out.

He’d probably never see the mech again. There was a sobering reality to that. It wasn’t as if Breakdown necessarily wanted to see the speedster again, but the creds thrown his way were nothing for a speedster like Knock Out. He’d probably already forgotten about the decrypted clinic in the middle of nowhere. It was irritating and grating and Breakdown couldn’t put into words why but knowing that to Knock Out, he was nothing while Breakdown was forced to remember his superiority was irksome.

However, the irritation had melted by the next night cycle, wiped away when the dazzling red mech walked through his clinic. Knock Out smirked at Breakdown, optics bright and challenging as he gingerly pointed to the smallest scratch in his finish demanding that the good doctor tend to him.

#kobd #knock out #breakdown #tfp #maccadam #transformers #my fics #commissioned work #flip it reverse it

37 notes · View notes