Archive of Our Own ^beta

With a pleasant hum, Knock Out carried a tray of freshly sterilized tools through the open space of the med bay, heading to prepare the delivery room for another scheduled emergency.

On the Nemesis, miracles of life didn’t happen often — quite the opposite, actually — which was a shame, because aside from cosmetic procedures, emergencies brought Knock Out the most satisfaction. Every patient here was nice by default, and after a successful delivery or a faceplate reconstruction, Autobots tended to show their gratitude openly and generously. Being appreciated made Knock Out thrive, and he had finally remembered what it felt like to actually love his job — something that never would’ve even crossed his processor in his previous work environment.

He passed the ER, where Ratchet was hunched over an unmistakable yellow mech sitting on one of the berths.

“Well, well, if my optics don’t deceive me,” he called smugly, stepping closer. He noticed the other medic's audial fins flatten, but his desire to catch up with his friend outweighed any hesitation. Ratchet was usually irritated anyway.

A familiar face leaned out from behind Ratchet, who continued ignoring the commotion in favor of applying temporary welds to his patient’s left stabilizer.

“Knock Out! I’d stand up to greet you if I could.”

“You try that, and I’ll weld your aft to the berth frame,” Ratchet warned, deftly applying another weld.

Knock Out chuckled. “Good, at least we’ll finally have time to catch up.” He stole a glance at Bumblebee’s leg. “What happened to your stabilizer?”

“A minor accident. I tore my…” Bee snapped his fingers several times, searching for the term. “What are they called?”

“Cadulen cables. Torn out of their connectors, yes — mainly that, along with getting slashed by a giant sword.”

“A small miscalculation on my part… But hey, at least I get to visit.”

“Right. Thank the Stunticons for sending you to my operating table.”

Knock Out’s faceplates dropped. “The Stunticons?” he repeated, a familiar weight sinking in his chest. His thoughts immediately leapt to Wildbreak, and that ever-present worry about his son surged to the forefront of his processor.

“Yeah, we caught them stealing explosives from a military base,” Bumblebee explained. “It got messy fast. We had to stop them before they combined into their Menasor form and blew up the whole place.”

With every word, the dread deepened in Knock Out’s optics.

Bumblebee hesitated, suddenly unsure if Knock Out wanted to hear all this. It wasn’t a secret that Knock Out’s and Breakdown’s son had joined the Stunticons. Bee was acutely aware of that fact every time his team encountered the Con gestalt.

“Anyway,” he cleared his vox and softened his tone, “Motormaster had his sword, I misjudged the trajectory… and, well, here I am.”

Knock Out looked ill, the earlier cheer drained from his features. “And what about the rest?” The urgency in his tone made Ratchet turn around, shooting him an unimpressed look.

“Again, which team are you referring to?” Ratchet huffed tonelessly and returned to his work.

Knock Out stood frozen, the tray momentarily forgotten in his hands, his optics boring into the back of his co-medic’s helm. He didn’t know what to say. Of course, he wished the Autobots well — but forgive him if he was worried about his only son.

Bumblebee quickly spoke up, sensing the tension in the room. “They’re going to be fine. I got the worst blow.”

They who? The ones they couldn’t name aloud.

Bee gave Knock Out a small nod, just enough to smooth the worry from the red medic’s face. Still, it stung that he couldn’t even ask directly — had to tiptoe around it with vague phrases and sidelong glances, as if mentioning his son was taboo.

“That’s a relief. You’re in good servos, obviously,” Knock Out replied stiffly — an awkward, generic response where there would normally be a tease or a joke. He gripped the tray tighter and raised it slightly, a silent signal to excuse himself. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Sparklings won’t deliver themselves.” He tried for a light tone, but his vox betrayed him — tight and strained. He offered Bee an apologetic smile and turned toward the emergency room, bottling up his unease and silently hoping his shift would drag on long enough for Ratchet to leave. He didn’t feel like talking to his fellow staff anymore today.

He did worry. He always did.

One comforting thought kept him grounded: if Wildbreak’s injuries ever surpassed his own skills, he’d call. Knock Out had no doubt about that. He’d taught his son everything he could — far more than just the basics. With that training, Wildbreak might as well be the gestalt’s medic. In a Decepticon freelancer crew like the Stunticons, that kind of knowledge was priceless.

Knock Out’s thoughts snapped back to the present as a nurse walked in, escorting a heavily sparked femme and her partner. Fortunately, the smile came to him effortlessly — like it always did when meeting new creators, excited and terrified at the same time, just like he had been many years ago. He pushed the worry down, saving it for later. Maybe he’d try calling Wildbreak, just to ease his mind. Maybe he’d go to Breakdown for a quiet word, something grounding. But that was all he could do.

It was hard to shake the stigma. To the Autobots, Wildbreak was a Stunticon first and foremost. A label. And labels were easier to hate than individuals. So Knock Out was left with quiet worry, half-formed prayers to Primus, and the hope that his son was safe, protected by the gestalt.