Flatline had been wandering the remains of the surface—the corpse of Cybertron after the Decepticons had torn themselves apart. It laid in ruins, rusting away and rotting as once standing structures had collapsed into demolished piles of rubble still trying to breathe useless life.

It was, admittedly, a little saddening to see this familiar planet in such depressing decay, but the conflict of the now eased war was of no concern to him. Rather than vengefully fight for a lost cause like the other Decepticons had attempted to do, he was here for scraps to use for his medical work, or bits of broken armor to use in future operations. So far, it proved to be a little hard given the state of said scraps.

He tapped his digits against the broad, scratched material of his chestplate, optics scanning the ground for anything of particular interest. It got quite boring pretty quick when walking along such quiet land—but something had caught his undivided attention. It didn't sound like the croaking of Cybertron in its absent decomposition—more like a groan of sorts, which he managed to recognize as another cybertronians voice. An injured cybertronian.

Flatline was tempted to brush past the obvious of it, since he never really prioritized the wellness of others like the Autobots did. But, he was bored, and an annoyed sigh escaped him as he turned from his current route, over to the presumed source.

You laid there, partially crushed by the fallen debris. Your frame was cut up and your plating dented in more than one place—pain surging through your circuits until the medic managed to lift the debris, pushing it over to the side and bending down to assess your condition further.

Fuzzy. It was all fairly fuzzy, your memory distorted as you struggled to find a grip on consciousness.

Eventually, you awoke from the dark of your processor—the blinding white of overhead lights making you wince as the world slowly came to you. An operating room, it seemed, as your vision adjusted to the drastic change. Everything seemed a little dirty, rarely that clean.

"Oh, wonderful,"

Flatline abruptly muttered at your awakening. He planted his servos to his hips, approaching your side on the berth.

"I didn't actually kill you performing all that."

He sarcastically huffed—tapping your own chestplate quite roughly. Upon following his digit, you realized your frame was all shiny and uncharacteristically different from when you had last remembered, before you crashed into darkness. It was no longer scuffed, but professionally and defensively refined to even the smallest detail.

How he did so was a secret. How you ended up here, in this room, was even more of a secret, too.