It had all happened rather quickly -- at the time it had seemed like a blur, but now, Knock Out finds he has no trouble remembering it with startling clarity.

The Decepticons in the brig had broken loose, somehow. Whoever had been on shift in the brig is sure to land some time there themselves, although if it were up to him, he'd settle for something significantly less pleasant, but unfortunately, odds are they're already dead. The Decepticons had managed to carve a grisly path through the ship before Knock Out had come across them, and they'd given him that look.

We know what you're doing here, but some things might be forgiven -- if you play things right...

Another time, another life, Knock Out might have been tempted. He's always preferred to bat for the winning team. But he'd decided a long time ago to walk away -- he and Breakdown both.

And then he'd caught a glimpse of the limp form sprawled across the floor behind them, the back of the helm that one of the Decepticons was grabbing hold of to drag towards the front, leaving a grotesquely wide swath of spilled energon along the floor. Knock Out's optics had gone sharp and bright with new focus, and the Decepticons grinned knowingly at him. And as he'd cycled out his circular saw with a series of sharp clinks, he'd smiled back.

This was not like the Autobots in the loading dock. To call it a fair fight would have been laughable all the same, but this time, Knock Out was ready for them. He'd managed to catch them off guard with the first strike, feinting as though to make for the unconscious medic in their custody, but after that everything had gone to hell. With only the surgical precision and grace that a trained medic could have managed, he'd disposed of them, one by one, until the corridor was thick with wasted energon. Six Decepticon bodies lay in scattered heaps all around him as he transformed his saw away, bent down, and slung Ratchet's arm over his shoulder.

It wasn't as though he'd come away unscathed -- far from it. But he'd endured worse, and more pointedly, so had Ratchet. By the time he'd dragged Ratchet to the medibay, his chassis was so generously splattered in energon it was impossible to tell whose it was. First Aid, already attending to other Autobot casualties from the breakout, had nearly dropped his scalpel when Knock Out hauled Ratchet onto a medical berth with a strained grunt. First Aid had come over, all concern and good intentions, reaching out to lend a hand -- until Knock Out all but pushed him back, snapping, "I'll handle this."

Maybe it was the ragged edge to his voice, or the keen brightness of his optics, or just the fact that there were enough patients as it was, but First Aid left him be after that. And then Knock Out, his focus crisp and full of purpose, had set to work.

By the time Ratchet comes to, hours later, Knock Out's hardly had time to clean himself, only to close up the few open wounds he'd sustained, his plating a scuffed mess, smeared in spilled energon. He doesn't look up from the joint he's welding back together, his face intent, but rather than set himself up on another berth, he's standing close by, turning his arm over to cauterize the nicked line.