I've been writing a Transformers fanfic for a few years now and might actually have a chance to finish it maybe by the end of 2026? 🤞 Probably overambitious but I'm doing my best to try every time my brain picks up the hyperfixation on it again.
I thought I might share the opening scene from a setup chapter (Ch3) because I enjoyed writing it, it's the first time I've ever written a cybertronian POV, and I feel it's one of my better constructed scenes out of everything in the setup chapters. I'm trying to practice scene construction for scriptwriting one day so that's my focus when I do things now. Some scenes work out way better than others and this is one of them (in comparison) I think.
I know fandom is basically dead now because people just mindlessly consume (or talk about what they like in private for some reason instead of telling the author), but just in case there are any engagement-valuing stragglers left out there, if you do read and like this, let me know what you think? Just feeling out for some online engagement and interest to help me keep going. The scene should speak well enough for itself though I have taken some creative liberties creating my own ideas around the culture and practices combined with what I could glean from wikis and definitely influenced by fanon in some areas though I don't know from where specifically anymore (though if you recognise a fanon concept you coined, let me know and I'll credit you).
Scene below the cut.
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Freshly-wiped metallic surfaces gleamed dimly beneath the red glow of the diagnostic screens, tools neatly organised in immaculate rows on their allocated benches. The room was dark, lights lowered now they weren't in active use, and, despite the subtle noises of monitoring equipment on standby, the space was practically peaceful. Dim, mostly quiet and nearly clean; everything a medical bay should be… once unorthodox interrogations were over at least.
The change of pace had been fairly enjoyable while it lasted, and the results spoke for themselves. There was something to be said for a doctor's intimate understanding of anatomy and its thresholds when it came to extracting information from the more resilient types. Honestly, in his humble opinion, it should be considered an art form in its own right, up there alongside the ‘greats’ humans loved to bang on about so much. It would certainly make for a fascinating study at the scientific level, for those capable of appreciating the intricacies of how pain receptors and anticipation could be used to tug and warp the mind, until even the strongest of fortitudes melted away in his skilled hands.
Knockout straightened with a dramatic groan, tapping the tip of his pede lazily against the drawer panel interface. It gave an obedient little beep and Sideswipe’s salvageable bio-parts disappeared into the wall, the delicate click of perfectly aligned machinery sending a satisfied shiver down his backstrut. Now to jettison what remained.
A box of barely recognisable objects — seven misshapen fingers, a mangled optic, one completely mutilated cadulen and the shattered bottom half of the subject’s denta plates — sat ready on a berth to be disposed of, and he gave it a long, hard stare, as though it would get up and show itself out if he intimidated it enough. He'd been on his pedes all vorn and his berth called to him, reasoning he could always finish later and simply not make the journey halfway across the ship to drop them off in the designated scrap repository.
The hydraulic hiss from the door behind him announced a new arrival, sparking an idea in his mind which danced with unbridled glee at such a golden opportunity. His head whipped around, intake forming the words to pass this nuisance off on someone else.
They caught in his vocaliser, stuttering into startled static when he suddenly found himself face to face with Sideswipe. An inexplicably intact pair of sky blue optics were a mere handsbreadth from his own, glowering accusingly at him, while the solid fingers clenched into fists, whole denta plates bared in a vengeful snarl.
Knockout baulked backwards, but his short flight was arrested by the medical berth, and he gripped onto it for dear life to avoid falling completely. He couldn’t move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even online a weapon in the face of a… what would the humans call it? Ghoul? Ghast? Ghost? Grudge? Was this his guilty conscience summoning a spectre to haunt his waking moments? Had Sideswipe’s restless spirit returned to take its due? Would he be hunted down and torn to pieces for-
Wait a nanoklik! Guilty conscience? Ghosts? What am I thinking?
Maybe humans worked that way, but cybertronians demonstrably did not. Besides, he hadn't felt a single shred of guilt his entire life. And come to think of it, why wasn't it attacking?
The snarl wavered, glare losing its intensity as a flicker of ill-contained mirth began to destabilise the frightening visage. A snort broke their tableau entirely, and the sleek, red, dead Autobot descended into a bout of helpless cackling, clutching his torso as his other hand alternated between slapping his tibulen and pointing at Knockout mockingly, trying and failing several times to speak through the laughter.
“BAHAHAHAHA! You- HAHAHAHA! You should ha- hahahaHAHAHAhave seen your-HAHAHAHOHOHOHhhhhoooohoooohooooooooooo Solus… that was fragging pri- hehehehe- Priceless! HAHAHAHAAAAHAAAAHAAAAHAAAAAAAAAAA-”
Knockout clenched his mandible, seizing what was left of the real Sideswipe’s cadulen from the box and hurling it at his visitor with no small amount of force. It bounced off the ludicrous flared helm and clattered to the floor, its target staggering at the unexpected retaliation.
“Makeshift, I swear to Primus, I will scrap your worthless husk and scatter the pieces across the solar system! You'd better have a damn good reason to be bothering me now, especially after this ridiculous little stunt.”
The ‘Autobot’ gave him a withering look, running a hand over his finial and pulling it back to examine it for paint flecks. Then, as though Knockout had imbibed a little too much medical grade energon, the image began to twist and warp before him: rounded red plating melted into purple-grey angles and spikes, distinct blue optics lost their detail and lengthened to narrow white teardrops, while blunt fingertips sharpened into the hands of a mech used to killing with anything available to him at a moment’s notice. Lastly, the sigil on his chestplate underwent its own changes, morphing to something which would have been comforting, had he been the type anyone felt remotely comfortable around.
“That Windblade ‘Bot got me good. She was faster than she looked,” Makeshift said, turning to show off an impressively deep gouge tracing the length of the chink between scapulplate and pauldron. “Got her back of course, but still. I've been out of the arena too long. Getting a little rusty.” He chuckled dryly, his harsh, true vocaliser sounding more than a little rusty itself as it scraped out the words.
Knockout had never quite grown used to these seemingly abrupt personality swings, yet he did his best to keep his pedes. He'd assessed the wound on sight and was already waving his patient toward the berth as Makeshift spoke and the medic retrieved what he needed to address the damage.
“You're telling me you waited an entire vorn to seek medical assistance for this?” he scolded, preparing to inject plateparter fluid into a fuel-line and finding he had to hunt for its location under the tightly overlapping armour. Windblade must have been a remarkably good combatant to land such a precise strike on this mech at speed. “What in Primus’ name were you thinking?”
“I've lived with worse. But since our erstwhile commander wants me back in the field today…” he trailed off with a shrug and Knockout pulled his hands away just in time to avoid nicking a partially shredded wire. He let out a soft curse, but resumed his work, watching closely for any further movements as he reattempted the injection and managed it, emptying the vial’s contents into the line without fuss.
“Trying the same thing twice so soon? Even I know that's a risky play. This is Optimus Prime's core team we're talking about.”
“We have to find them before we can take them out. Besides…” he paused for a klik, dipping his head and suppressing a noise as the plateparter kicked in rapidly, raising his internal temperature to activate his cooling system. A set of fans whirred quietly, and the near impenetrable fortress of his plating yielded, giving Knockout the space to begin his operation. “...my-” Makeshift reset his vocaliser and tried again, “My last expedition ended as nothing short of a masterpiece. Bunch of slabs were barely using a fraction of whatever security Prime's base has. I had their location within the joor, and the strike team did the rest. Best job I've ever pulled. Six confirmed.” He rasped out another laugh. “You should have seen Sunstreaker’s face when his own twin turned on him. He almost figured me out a few times, but like everyone else in that group of glitches, he was just too fragging slow. Not to mention stupid enough to talk to me alone. What a half-clock.”
Knockout hummed an acknowledgement, preoccupied homing in on a blade fragment he'd found lodged somewhere it very much didn't belong. To his credit, Makeshift sat still as he extracted it carefully, hissing at its removal, but otherwise making no other indication of it paining him. Surely it had caused some level of discomfort transforming, let alone shifting root modes for a disguise, yet he'd seemed unbothered over its presence and indifferent to its absence. Kaon gladiators were something else, even ‘rusty,’ apparently.
The shapeshifter had fallen into one of his sudden long silences, so Knockout took the opportunity to finish what repairs he could and close the gaping hole, cyberfoam shooting through the bottle’s nozzle breaking up the atmosphere as he lined the crevasse caused by Windblade’s sword. Makeshift's nanites would handle the rest, while the foam provided temporary protection and cushioning for the exposed internal components, until the nanites had a chance to consume and redistribute it into more natural healing protocols.
“Soundwave's sorting the particulars now. I’ll be heading out again once I'm debriefed,” his patient said abruptly in the middle of the sanding process, rising from the berth and doing a few experimental stretches.
“I'd warn you not to strain yourself, and to stay out of any direct altercation, but…” Knockout flicked a hand in the spy's direction exasperatedly. Makeshift tilted his helm, derma set in a musing line.
“Hmm. You're probably right. Prime’s group must be more cautious as a rule, given how difficult they are to even pinpoint.” He raised a hand and placed the other over his spark with a crooked smile. “I promise I'll wait for the strike team on this one. Less fun for me, but if I do it right, maybe we'll both get a nice big reward for the parts we played.”
“I could go for a few grand gestures of appreciation once in a while,” Knockout commented, packing the sander and other supplies in their own drawer.
