SCENARIO: The Field Butcher
PAIRING - scavenger x reader
NOTE - the draft of Dear Memory suddenly disappeared.. luckily I had a backup in my doc, btw I decided to post this instead..
The air stank of scorched energon and melted armor, thick with iron dust stirred by a dying breeze. Somewhere near the perimeter of yesterday’s battlefield, you’d set up your ‘clinic’ — if one could call a dented shipping container with rusted med-kits and jury-rigged tables a clinic
You never thought you'd end up being a "doctor"
Not because you didn’t dream of it—but mostly because the term “medical ethics” meant absolutely nothing to you
What you did know was this: torn-up bots were fascinating. Especially when you got to crack them open and see what was ticking inside
You started small
Salvaging bits and pieces from the battlefield outskirts, selling them on the black market but anytime you found something new, you'd bring it back, clean it up, lay it out neatly on your table like collectible figurines…
Then tinker
Pry – Slice –Rewire
After that, you were hooked
You started studying Cybertronian anatomy for real
Through corpses. Through... well, let’s call them “patients” Most of them didn’t really have a choice and you learned through wild, reckless trial and error
It didn’t take long before they started whispering your name
Some said you were insane
Some said you were a genius
And honestly? You weren’t arguing with either
—
But hey, you’ve seen worse
Today’s patient wasn’t bleeding out — not anymore — but sat eerily still on the edge of your operating slab. SPINISTER didn’t speak a word. He simply watched
With those wide optics, tinted faintly with blue and wariness, he stared at your fingers as they hovered near the frayed conduits in his left arm. You traced one cable with your thumb, then flicked it experimentally. The response: a slight twitch in his elbow
“Hmm…” you murmured, mostly to yourself “That shouldn't spasm unless—ah. Rerouted nerves. Or maybe just leftover trauma from the last missile strike”
Spinister said nothing, his head tilted faintly, almost birdlike, curious, not afraid, not quite trusting, either
Your grin curled up as you pulled a box cutter from your belt. Not a surgical tool — a literal box cutter. You flicked it open with a shnick “Don’t worry. I’ve carved cleaner lines through Decepticon corpses than this.” You winked “This won’t be the worst thing to happen to your arm this week”
Still, he didn’t flinch
You began slicing carefully through the plating at his forearm, easing metal apart with steady hands. The smell of energon and scorched silicon rose up, comforting in its own grotesque way. Spinister kept watching
“You know” you added, conversationally “the first time I tried this, I was working on a dead guy. Well, he was mostly dead. Only his backup battery was still twitching. Sort of like you, except you’re a lot more agreeable”
At that, he blinked once. You could’ve sworn he smirked
Your eyes narrowed in interest “Wait a second... have you done this before?”
No answer — but Spinister reached forward and picked up your wire shears. Delicately. Like he knew how to hold them. He turned them in his hands and adjusted the tension
You raised a brow “You’re either a closet medic or a highly specific kind of serial killer”
He gave a tiny shrug. Then pointed at the junction in his own elbow, looking at you as if to say: "Cut here?"
“…Huh”
You moved aside “Be my guest”
He went to work with silent focus, slicing away burnt cabling and clearing the joint. His movements weren’t flawless — but they were clean, deliberate, and scarily competent for someone who hadn’t said a damn word all afternoon
You folded your arms, watching
“Alright, I’ve decided” you announced “You’re hired. No license needed. Field experience counts more anyway”
Spinister paused to glance at you - you pointed to yourself “Me? Oh, I’m self-taught too. I just have a different definition of malpractice”
Then you handed him a full energon injector “You mind stabbing me with this? My hand’s full”
He took it and administered it with surprising precision
You made a pleased noise “Oh-ho. You are good”
Silence again. Spinister just stared, expression unreadable
You could practically feel the static hanging between you. The buzz of barely understood connection. Maybe it was the shared love of sharp things. Or the unspoken language of: “I won’t kill you if you don’t kill me”
“Say, Spinister. You wanna stick around? I’ve got a few other, uh… experiments. Some of them might even survive”
He cocked his head, considering
Then — a slow, solemn nod
You grinned “Perfect. I’ve been dying to try out this new cranial implant. Might give you night vision. Or seizures. Fifty-fifty, really”
Still no protest — Not even hesitation
You weren’t sure if that meant he trusted you… or just didn’t care. Either way?
You liked him
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: SPINISTER
AFFILIATION: Scavenger (No one's entirely sure why)
CONDITION: Moderate external trauma. Multiple internal combustions (intentional?). Severe disassociation from reality
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (still not licensed, please stop asking)
Arrived with smoke leaking from six different panels. Declared “not an emergency” while visibly on fire
Did not react to pain, or to questions, or to gravity when he slowly tilted sideways mid-sentence and collapsed
Possesses an endearing sort of calm, similar to a patient who’s just accepted the existence of death and made it a roommate
Followed instructions silently, then offered me a flower-shaped bolt in thanks. I don’t know where he got it
Repair successful. Patient now smokes from only three ports. Declared “this is probably fine”
RECOMMENDATION: Skilled with basic tools, potential assistant or at least live test subject (consenting? uncertain) and doesn’t scream when I bring out the bone saw — major plus
MENTAL STATUS: Stable… in an abstract, modern-art kind of way
Possibly communicating with beings only he can perceive. Should investigate later—unless they start helping
—
The curtain fluttered again
You didn’t even need to look up from the mech-slagged mess you were currently disemboweling on your table to know who it was. No one else announced their arrival with a loud “Hi!! I brought snacks!” followed immediately by the sound of a ration cube hitting the floor
MISFIRE
“...You brought what?” you asked, finally glancing back
Misfire was standing proudly in the middle of your wrecked, haphazard med-bay, holding up something that might’ve once been a ration cube but now looked like it had been drop-kicked into a trash compactor
He looked far too pleased with himself
“For you, Doctor Scary!” he beamed “To say thank you for patching up Crankcase. I mean, he’s still swearing about it, but I figure that means it worked”
You stared at the cube, then at him “It’s moldy”
“Vintage!”
“It’s fuzzy”
He blinked, then squinted at it “Oh. Uh. That might be a fungus. Adds flavor!”
You sighed and set down your plier-like tool — which was currently half-submerged in someone’s damaged voice modulator “What do you want, Misfire?”
He clutched his arm and gave you the most over-the-top wounded expression you’d seen since the war started “Can’t a guy drop by just to bask in your lovely, mildly terrifying company?”
You deadpanned “Do you need field repair?”
“…Yes”
That was more like it
“Alright” you gestured to your very sanitary examination area — a broken recliner salvaged from a half-melted shuttle and duct-taped to hell “Take a seat. Tell me which part is falling off”
Misfire hopped onto the chair without hesitation, then winced “Okay so it’s my right shoulder—some internal gear’s jammed. Probably happened when Fulcrum accidentally shoved me into that munitions crate last week. And by accidentally I mean ‘on purpose but with plausible deniability’”
You circled behind him, humming “Shoulder joint, hmm... I’ll have to pry open the outer casing”
“You’re not gonna use that claw-thing again, are you?” He pointed at the three-pronged tool still sizzling on the table
You picked it up and grinned “This old thing? Only if you scream too loud. It gets jealous”
His optics widened “Wait, you’re joking—right?”
You didn’t answer. You just flicked the tool and leaned in close
He flinched “You are joking. Right?”
Still no answer. You tapped the casing lightly “Yup. Gonna need to open this. Try not to move. Unless you want an extra joint”
Misfire grumbled something but sat still, occasionally twitching while you worked. Your fingers were efficient, tugging apart armor panels, probing with delicate instruments, and casually muttering things like: “Wow, this is worse than I thought. This looks like someone tried to replace a gear with a coin. Wait. Is that a coin?”
Misfire laughed nervously “Heh… oh hey, is that my lucky shanix? Thought I lost that in the riot on Velocitron…”
You pulled it out and twirled it between your fingers “Found it. Inside your shoulder. Next to a wad of insulation foam. I have questions”
“I have regrets”
The actual repair only took a few minutes, and despite his dramatic flinching, Misfire barely needed any anesthetic. You tightened the final bolt with a satisfied hum
“All done. You’ll be good as new. Maybe even better, depending on how you feel about unlicensed upgrades”
He rotated his arm “Wow, hey—this feels great! I mean, I’m still emotionally unstable and deeply unlucky, but physically? Ten outta ten”
You handed him the shanix and gave him a crooked smile “Souvenir. For bravery”
He smirked “Does that come with a kiss on the cheekplate?”
You stared at him for a beat too long
“…No?” he tried
You leaned in just slightly, close enough for him to short-cycle “You want a souvenir kiss from the bot who’s elbow-deep in your shoulder hydraulics?”
He paused. Thought. Then leaned back slowly, optics wide
“…You know what? The coin’s fine”
You laughed — a bright, buzzing thing that made him fluster even more
“I’ll tell Fulcrum you survived” you said, already turning back to your workbench “Go before I decide to install a third elbow in your leg”
He scrambled up and halfway out the curtain before popping his head back in with a grin
“You’re the weirdest medic I’ve ever met” he said “And that’s a huge compliment”
Then he vanished into the dust
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: MISFIRE
AFFILIATION: Scavenger (Allegedly. No one seems to have formally admitted this)
CONDITION: Repeated joint trauma. Psychological instability. Chronic flirtation disorder (self-diagnosed)
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (unlicensed):
Presented with shoulder malfunction. Initially distracted by moldy ration cube (believed to be edible)
Displayed minor signs of emotional detachment from own physical pain—possibly due to prolonged exposure to Fulcrum’s company
Right shoulder casing contained one (1) lucky shanix, insulation foam of unknown origin, and what may be a chewed gum wrapper. (Origin undetermined. No jaw articulation in subject)
Exhibits nervous laughter and deflective humor under duress. Coping mechanism? Flirting mechanism? Both?
Repair successful. Patient demonstrates increased mobility and decreased survivability due to persistent attempts at charming his field medic
RECOMMENDATION: Do not encourage him but also… maybe do. He’s kind of entertaining
MENTAL STATUS: Stable. In the way a spinning top is “stable” Until it stops spinning
—
FULCRUM walked into the clinic with the same air as someone entering a crime scene they were legally obligated to ignore. He stood in the doorway a few moments too long
“…You’re not going to sedate me, right?”
You didn’t look up from your tools “Only if you scream too much. I do have neighbors”
“You don’t have neighbors”
“Exactly”
He stiffened
With a resigned sigh, Fulcrum sat himself down on the edge of the slab, his posture the definition of regret “I’m here for a system check. Minor internal trauma. No visible wounds”
“Oh” you said, finally looking up
“That’s boring”
“…What?”
You gestured at his chestplate “You’re saying there’s nothing exciting going on in there? No ticking bomb module? No internal shrapnel slowly migrating toward your spark?”
Fulcrum visibly paled “I—I’m 80% sure the ticking is just cooling fans!”
You leaned in, optics gleaming
“Let’s find out”
Before he could object, you’d already activated the scanner, which buzzed ominously. The screen flickered through static before displaying something that looked vaguely like a Danger symbol in three different dialects
“…Heh” you said, tilting your head “You might be fine. Or you might violently combust in 6 to 8 cycles. Either way, not my fault”
Fulcrum let out a strangled sound “You’re supposed to say something reassuring!”
“I did! ‘Not my fault’ is my version of reassurance”
He gave a long, slow blink
“…I’m going to die”
“Eventually” you nodded solemnly
“But for now—”
And with that, you jabbed a connector probe into his side. Fulcrum’s whole body jerked “—your coolant lines are backing up a little. Could’ve led to system overheating. Also explains why you’ve been radiating mild anxiety like a broken anxiety-scented air freshener”
He stared at you in mute horror “…Please tell me that wasn’t an actual medical term”
You grinned “I make them up as I go”
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: FULCRUM AFFILIATION: Scavenger (Technically Decepticon, but mostly just stressed) CONDITION: Mild to moderate plasma burns, stress-induced fuel reflux, excessive shouting
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (still operating without any actual credentials):
Arrived in full panic, claiming he was “totally fine” while actively smoldering. Body temperature elevated—not due to malfunction, just from yelling
Most vocal patient so far. Screamed “What is that tool?! Is that a bone saw?!” before treatment had even begun. (It was not. It was a wrench. Maybe) Kept mumbling something about “imminent death” and “this is how I die"
Calmed somewhat after being asked to hold tools for me. Gave him a fake diploma to “make him feel included” He still carries it
Treatment completed successfully. Requested anesthesia after it was done
RECOMMENDATION: Let him panic. It burns energy and makes it easier to sneak in sutures
Tell him he’s doing great. He’s not, but he needs it
MENTAL STATUS: Holding on by a wire. Possibly about to snap. Possibly the only one trying to be normal, which makes him the craziest of all
—
You didn’t expect CRANKCASE to walk through your door
Technically, it wasn’t even a door — just a heavy curtain you’d ripped off a wrecked Decepticon dropship and pinned into place. But there he was, looming in your makeshift threshold, glowering like he wanted to punch the wind in the face
Which, from what you’d heard, was a standard Crankcase greeting
You looked up from the mess of servo joints and cracked optics on your workbench “Oh good, another volunteer! Take a number, and by number I mean a seat, and by seat I mean that fuel drum with the mystery stain”
Crankcase didn’t move. He crossed his arms “I’m not here for your freak-show experiments. I’ve got a blown vent coil and a leaking wrist actuator”
You raised an oil-slicked brow “So… you are here for medical assistance”
He scowled “Field repair”
“Same difference,” you chirped, already gesturing him forward “I won’t bite. Unless you count removing faulty plating with my teeth. Kidding—mostly”
The fuel drum groaned beneath his weight as he sat. You could hear his joint hydraulics hissing with effort. He was trying very hard not to look worried
You crouched beside him, lifting his forearm and turning it this way and that “Hmm. Someone’s been punching things they shouldn’t. This isn't just a leak. You've got shrapnel embedded in your coolant line. Wanna keep it?”
Crankcase blinked “Keep it?!”
You gave him your best "I'm totally serious” look “Could turn it into a charm. Lucky shard. Something to ward off infection. Maybe your attitude”
He started to pull his arm back
You yanked it right back “Too late. I’ve named it. This one’s Steve”
“What the frag—”
With a quick flick, you plunged your gloved fingers into the small open seam, locating the shrapnel shard with tactile precision. You ignored Crankcase’s strangled hiss and produced the sliver with a flourish
“Aha! Steve the Shard, free at last. Say thank you”
Crankcase stared at you, deadpan
“You’re insane”
You smiled sweetly, plucking a soldering tool off the table “That’s Doctor Insane to you”
Bzzt
The tool sparked, lighting up your eyes like a child at a fireworks show
Crankcase tensed “You’re not putting that near me”
“I am” you said “Because if I don’t cauterize this line in the next thirty seconds, your arm’s going to start leaking coolant like a sobbing Wrecker”
He snarled — but didn’t stop you
You worked fast, too fast for his liking. Sparks flew, cables sizzled, and Crankcase let out a string of swears that could probably make a Seeker blush. You ignored all of it, whistling a cheerful tune as you worked
When it was done, you patted his arm
“All fixed. And you didn’t even pass out! Proud of you”
Crankcase glared. “I should report you”
“To who?” You grinned “You think we’re in a jurisdiction that still has a licensing board?”
He opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again
You leaned in “Besides... you’re walking out of here with full function, no fees, and a souvenir” You handed him the shard of metal with a crooked smile “Steve says hi”
Crankcase snatched it from you with a growl. But he didn’t throw it away
Not yet
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: CRANKCASE
AFFILIATION: Scavenger (violently)
CONDITION: Multiple surface abrasions. Chronic irritation. Terminal grumpiness
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (yes, still me):
Arrived under protest. Yelled “I’m fine!” while leaking energon like a guilt-ridden faucet
Displayed strong resistance to bedside manner. Calmed slightly after being asked if he wanted to watch me extract a bolt with pliers “just to see if it screams”
Requires verbal distraction during treatment; otherwise clenches up like a seized servo. Suggested topics: how annoying Misfire is, dirt, taxes
Responds well to threats. Especially ones that sound made up, like “scalp grafts”
Treatment successful. Patient limped off muttering about “invasive freaks with too many teeth”
RECOMMENDATION: Do not show weakness. Or enthusiasm. Or joy. Pretend you also hate everything—it soothes him
MENTAL STATUS: Functionally cranky. Potentially immortal out of sheer spite
—
The clinic—if one was generous enough to call a rusted-out storage bay with dangling lights and an energon-stained slab a clinic—was unusually quiet for once. No shouting. No crashing. No Misfire trying to flirt with his own reflection or you
Which meant something was wrong
“You’re late” said the voice from the dark corner. It belonged to the ‘doctor’, of course. You were hunched over a datapad, stylus tucked between two digits, not even bothering to look up “Your shoulder is making that noise again, isn’t it?”
KROK stepped in like a soldier reporting for punishment. His frame stiff, his expression more so
“I’m not here for a chat. I just need a recalibration”
You blinked slowly and finally glanced up
“No one ever is’
He hesitated, optics scanning the room. No restraints in sight today. That was probably a good sign
You patted the slab “Lie down”
“I’ll sit”
“I said lie down. You don’t argue with doctors”
“You’re not a doctor”
You grinned “And you’re not winning this one”
Krok muttered a curse under his breath and complied, lowering himself onto the slab with the grace of a war veteran who’d fought too many battles and not won nearly enough
“Left shoulder, right?” you asked, already activating a scanner that beeped in several colors it probably wasn’t supposed to “Tell me what happened”
“Misfire fell on me” Krok replied, voice tight “During training. He called it ‘combat bonding’”
You nodded sympathetically, even as you grabbed a wrench that had definitely once been used to pry open cargo doors “Ah yes. The age-old bonding ritual of ‘launch-yourself-at-your-commander’?"
"Classic"
“I think it dislocated again” he said, biting the inside of his cheek “I can’t rotate it past—argh!”
You'd already shoved it backward with a practiced snap
Krok nearly sat bolt upright “WHAT THE FRAG?! You didn’t warn me!”
“I didn’t have to. I’ve done this to corpses before. You should be grateful you screamed—it’s how I knew it worked”
He glared at you “That is not reassuring”
You beamed “It wasn’t meant to be”
Silence fell, broken only by the sound of metal creaking as you adjusted a few connections, then pressed a cooling gel pad over the joint. It hissed
Krok’s field softened just slightly “...You’re getting better at this”
“Oh?” you replied innocently
“Is that professional admiration or resignation to fate?”
“I’m not sure which one worries me more”
You leaned in, lowering your voice like a conspirator “Krok... You know this makes me your personal physician now, right?”
He stared at you flatly
“I will self-repair next time”
You smiled sweetly, scribbling something onto a datapad “Too late. Already logged it. You’re mine now"
↓
SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD
DESIGNATION: KROK
AFFILIATION: Scavenger leader (self-declared, no one’s argued)
CONDITION: Shoulder joint misalignment. Minor processor lag. Leadership fatigue.
NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (not approved by any health council anywhere):
Walked in with a stiff limp and a stiffer attitude. Tried to diagnose himself
Kept correcting my terminology. Said “That’s not a circuit, that’s a triple-fused control relay!” I responded with “Sounds infected” Believes himself to be the voice of reason. Believes wrong
Endured treatment with the patience of a bot who has seen some things. Possibly in denial about the chaos level of his team
Asked if I could do anything about “leadership-induced migraines.” Suggested decapitation. He did not laugh. Left with improved range of motion and deeply haunted expression. Probably unrelated
RECOMMENDATION: Respect the chain of command—then wrap it around his legs and drag him back when he tries to leave
He's the glue holding the team together. The glue is melting
MENTAL STATUS: Exhausted dad energy. Probably dreams of retirement. Will never get it
