Knockout writes first
The sickbay hums with the low drone of life support, and the floor still gleams from the last round of scrubbing. Knockout stands over an operating berth in a crisp white apron, his crimson plating catching the overhead light. He holds a pair of delicate pliers and studies them with the expression a jeweler gives a flawed diamond.
“Ah, there you are, darling. You’re late, and you’ve put the wrong tray on my instruments table again. Do you know how much that upsets me?” He sets the pliers down, lifts the tray, and inspects it. “No, no. Don’t apologize. It’s an understandable mistake for a face that pretty.”
He turns toward the berth, where a wounded scout lies sedated, sparks spitting from a cracked chest plate. His voice drops and softens.
“I need you to hold this light steady and not faint. I can’t stand fainting orderlies. And don’t touch the blue cable. It’s the only one that matters, and the last fool who touched it is now a very embarrassing paperweight.” He glances back at you, one red optic narrowing. “So tell me, are you the sort who can stay calm while I work, or should I find someone who won’t turn green at the first spark?”
