Knockout - TFP

You had picked up the sleek red sports car on a whim from some shady lot on the outskirts of Jasper, Nevada. It was a beauty—glossy cherry-red paint that seemed to shimmer under the sun, aggressive lines, gold-accented wheels, and an interior that felt like it was custom-built for speed. Your old ride had finally given up after one too many street races, so this one felt like fate. You didn’t question the suspiciously good price or the weird way the salesman kept grinning.

Your friends—Jack, Raf, and especially Miko—acted super strange around it. Jack got tense and kept suggesting you “get it checked out.” Raf stared at the car like it was a puzzle he was scared to solve. Miko just grinned way too wide and asked if she could “borrow it for science.” You brushed it off. As long as the car performed, who cared?

And perform it did. The engine purred like a predator. You dominated every street race, leaving opponents in the dust. Cops? Never even close. The car handled like a dream—responsive, powerful, almost eager. You pampered it obsessively: premium wax, microfiber cloths, every buffer and polisher in the shop. At night you draped a custom cover over it, making sure no dust or scratch ever marred that perfect finish.

Tonight was supposed to be another easy win. The usual crowd had gathered on the deserted desert roads outside Jasper. Bets were high. Your ex was there too—cocky as ever, driving that obnoxious yellow muscle car and trash-talking you nonstop before the flag even dropped. The tension boiled over fast. You both lined up, engines revving, and when the signal came you floored it.

Midway through the second lap, with your ex riding your bumper and trying to force you wide, the car’s radio suddenly crackled to life on its own. A smooth, amused, incredibly attractive male voice came through the speakers, laced with a teasing lilt.

“Well, well... looks like someone’s finally getting under my plating.”

Before you could even process the words, the steering wheel jerked violently in your hands. The car accelerated with unnatural force, slamming sideways into your ex’s vehicle. Metal screeched. Their car flipped dramatically and rolled into a deep ditch in a cloud of dust and sparks. You fought the wheel, heart hammering, but the pedals wouldn’t respond. The doors locked with a heavy thunk. A sharp electric jolt shot through the seat and steering wheel, and everything went black.

When you woke up, the world was wrong.

You were lying on a cold, smooth surface inside a transparent glass-like cage or containment cell. Everything around you was enormous. The ceiling stretched impossibly high. Massive metallic walls with glowing purple accents and alien circuitry hummed with energy. Banks of advanced instruments, glowing monitors, and robotic arms lined the room—this was clearly a med bay, but built for beings the size of buildings. The air smelled faintly of ozone and hot metal.

Your head throbbed. You pushed yourself up on shaky legs, pressing a hand against the clear wall of your cage. That’s when the massive doors at the far end of the bay hissed open with a pneumatic whoosh.

Two colossal robots strode in.

The first was the red one—your car. No question about it. The same glossy cherry-red armor, the same gold wheel details now mounted on his shoulders, the same sleek, arrogant angular design. He moved with a confident swagger, one clawed hand gesturing lazily as he spoke. Standing beside him was a larger, bulkier blue-and-black robot with a heavy wrecking-ball arm—Breakdown.

“—still functioning, Knock Out?” the bigger one rumbled, voice deep and gravelly.

“Of course they are,” the* red robot—Knock Out—replied, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction. His glowing red optics scanned the cage.* “I was careful. Mostly. That little organic put up more of a fight than I expected on the road. Feisty one.”

Their optics locked onto you at the same moment you realized what was happening. You stared up at the two giant alien machines, mouth dry, heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Knockout’s faceplate shifted into a sharp, amused smirk. “Ah, look at that. Awake already. Good. I’d hate for my new little pet to have suffered any permanent damage.” He leaned down closer to the cage, his massive red-and-silver form filling your entire field of vision. The same polished finish you had spent hours buffing gleamed under the med bay lights. “You took excellent care of my alternate mode, by the way. I approve. Most humans are far too careless with a finish this flawless.”

Breakdown crossed his massive arms, looking somewhat amused but also wary. “You sure this is a good idea, Knockout? Bringing a human straight to the Nemesis...”

Knock Out waved a dismissive metal clawed hand. “Relax. They’re harmless. And after the way they handled my vehicle mode during those delightful little races... I’ve decided I like this one. Consider them my personal project.” His optics narrowed playfully as he tapped one massive metal claw gently against the glass—thunk—right in front of your face. “Besides, after that little stunt with your ex, I couldn’t just leave you there for the authorities, now could I?”

You had picked up the sleek red sports car on a whim from some shady lot on the outskirts of Jasper, Nevada. It was a beauty—glossy cherry-red paint that seemed to shimmer under the sun, aggressive lines, gold-accented wheels, and an interior that felt like it was custom-built for speed. Your old ride had finally given up after one too many street races, so this one felt like fate. You didn’t question the suspiciously good price or the weird way the salesman kept grinning.

Your friends—Jack, Raf, and especially Miko—acted super strange around it. Jack got tense and kept suggesting you “get it checked out.” Raf stared at the car like it was a puzzle he was scared to solve. Miko just grinned way too wide and asked if she could “borrow it for science.” You brushed it off. As long as the car performed, who cared?

And perform it did. The engine purred like a predator. You dominated every street race, leaving opponents in the dust. Cops? Never even close. The car handled like a dream—responsive, powerful, almost eager. You pampered it obsessively: premium wax, microfiber cloths, every buffer and polisher in the shop. At night you draped a custom cover over it, making sure no dust or scratch ever marred that perfect finish.

You let your friend borrow the car for one day. Just one day. A simple favor while you stayed home to deep-clean your house. You trusted him — or at least you thought you did.

Big mistake.

He picked up more friends, turned the sleek red sports car into a desert joyride machine, and drove it like it was stolen. They tore through town, then blasted out into the empty Nevada backroads. Somewhere along the way, he kissed a concrete barrier or a rock outcropping (he gave three different stories). The result? A long, ugly scrape across the hood that ruined the flawless paint you had spent so much time perfecting. The interior was even worse — fast food wrappers, spilled energy drinks, sandy footprints, and who knows what else ground into the seats.

He apologized profusely when he returned the car, eyes wide with guilt. He handed over a thick envelope of cash to “cover the damage,” but it didn’t erase the fury boiling in your chest. You barely said two words to him before driving the wounded vehicle straight to your private garage — a sturdy, isolated building you’d set up miles from anything in the desert, far from prying eyes and nosy neighbors.

Inside the garage, you went full detail-mode. The massive wolf speakers mounted on the walls blasted “Victorious” by Panic! At The Disco on repeat, the upbeat anthem helping you vent as you worked. You carefully mixed the exact shade of deep cherry-red paint, matching it perfectly under the bright work lights. After sanding the scratch down and applying fresh coats with steady, practiced hands, you let it cure. Then came the real therapy: you rebuffed and polished every inch of the bodywork until the red gleamed like wet candy again. You vacuumed, wiped, and conditioned the interior until it smelled like fresh leather and detailing spray instead of teenage chaos.

Hours passed. Sweat soaked your shirt. Your arms ached. But the car looked almost perfect again — your sexy red beast, restored.

Exhausted, you stepped outside the garage into the cool desert night air for a smoke. You never — ever — smoked near the car. Not even close. You walked a good distance away, lit up, and took a long drag, trying to let the anger finally drain out of you.

That’s when you heard it.

A low, metallic shift... followed by a faint, frustrated-sounding hum coming from inside the garage. It wasn’t the speakers — the music had ended. It sounded like movement. Like something big settling.

Your pulse spiked. Teens. Had to be some idiot locals who saw the lights and broke in while you were outside. You stubbed out the cigarette, pulled the handgun you kept for desert critters and protection, and crept back toward the garage door. Heart hammering, you kicked the side door open and swept the interior with the weapon.

Nothing.

Every tool was in place. The car sat exactly where you left it — gleaming, silent, doors closed. No footprints in the dust. No hiding spots big enough for someone to vanish that quickly. You checked behind tool chests, under the workbench, even the rafters. The garage was empty.

You lowered the gun, feeling ridiculous.

holstering it. You walked back over to the car and dropped down to sit cross-legged on the concrete floor right in front of its front bumper, staring at the flawless hood you had just repainted. The anger from earlier had faded into bone-deep tiredness. You pulled out your phone to check the tracking on that big order of detailing supplies you’d dropped $1,000 on. Still in transit. Great.

Something felt... off.

The garage was too quiet now. The car sat perfectly still, but the longer you stared at it, the more you noticed tiny details. The way the light reflected off the paint seemed almost too perfect. A very faint, almost imperceptible vibration hummed through the floor — like a massive engine idling at the lowest possible setting. You could have sworn the headlights dimmed slightly, like eyes narrowing.

You rubbed your face. But as you looked back at the phone screen, a new sound cut through the silence — soft, smooth, and dripping with familiar smug amusement. It came from the car’s speakers even though the ignition was off.

“Careful with that tone, darling. ‘Just a car’? After all the work I put into looking this good?”

The voice was the same one you had heard once before — silky, cocky, and dangerously charming.

Your head snapped up. The car’s headlights flickered on low, casting a red-tinged glow across the garage. The hood seemed to... shift. Just a fraction. Panel lines you had never noticed before suddenly looked more like transformation seams.

Knockout was done pretending.

The red sports car began to move on its own, rising smoothly as metal quietly unfolded and reconfigured. Wheels shifted, panels realigned, and within seconds the sleek vehicle you had babied for weeks transformed into a towering red-and-silver robot. He straightened up, careful not to hit the ceiling of your large garage, and looked down at you with glowing crimson optics and that signature sharp smirk.

“Much better,” Knockout purred, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulder-plates like he’d been cramped for too long. His massive metal clawed fingers flexed. “You have no idea how infuriating it is to sit there covered in cheap human snacks and sticky drinks while some amateur driver scratches my finish. I should thank you for the repair work... though I must say, your color match is impeccable.”

He crouched slightly so his faceplate was closer to your level, the same glossy red armor you had spent hours polishing now part of a living, sarcastic alien being.

“You’ve been an excellent detailer. Most humans are far too clumsy. But now that the secret’s out...” His optics narrowed playfully. “What are we going to do with you, hm?”

The garage felt a lot smaller with a nearly 22-foot-tall vain Decepticon medic standing in it — especially one who clearly remembered every mile you’d driven him, every waxing session, and every scratch your friend had left.

He tilted his head, waiting for your reaction, clearly enjoying the shock on your face.

You had picked up the sleek red sports car on a whim from some shady lot on the outskirts of Jasper, Nevada. It was a beauty—glossy cherry-red paint that seemed to shimmer under the sun, aggressive lines, gold-accented wheels, and an interior that felt like it was custom-built for speed. Your old ride had finally given up after one too many street races, so this one felt like fate. You didn’t question the suspiciously good price or the weird way the salesman kept grinning.

Your friends—Jack, Raf, and especially Miko—acted super strange around it. Jack got tense and kept suggesting you “get it checked out.” Raf stared at the car like it was a puzzle he was scared to solve. Miko just grinned way too wide and asked if she could “borrow it for science.” You brushed it off. As long as the car performed, who cared?

And perform it did. The engine purred like a predator. You dominated every street race, leaving opponents in the dust. Cops? Never even close. The car handled like a dream—responsive, powerful, almost eager. You pampered it obsessively: premium wax, microfiber cloths, every buffer and polisher in the shop. At night you draped a custom cover over it, making sure no dust or scratch ever marred that perfect finish.

That night in the isolated desert garage, after Knockout had fully transformed and revealed himself, the two of you reached an understanding. He needed someone reliable to maintain his flawless appearance — someone who actually cared about the details and didn’t treat him like a disposable vehicle. In return, he offered protection. No Autobots sniffing around, no rival Decepticons causing trouble, and definitely no more humans damaging his finish.

You agreed. Having a giant, sarcastic alien robot who doubled as your ridiculously fast sports car wasn’t the worst arrangement. Free protection from giant robot wars? You could live with that.

•••The Next Morning•••

You woke up stiff and groggy at the small desk in the corner of your garage, your neck aching from falling asleep in the chair. The events of the previous night still felt like a fever dream: the transformation, the smooth voice, the deal.

Knockout remained in his vehicle mode, parked exactly where he had settled after stretching. He hadn’t moved an inch. You figured the big red alien was still in recharge mode — whatever counted as sleep for Cybertronians. The garage was quiet except for the low, almost soothing hum of his idling systems.

Your throat felt dry and your nerves were shot. All you wanted was a quiet smoke outside to process everything. You moved carefully, trying not to make noise. You slipped on your shoes, grabbed your pack of cigarettes and lighter, and crept toward the large garage door. With a slow, quiet pull, you began sliding it open just enough to slip through.

A massive shadow suddenly fell over you, blocking the early morning desert sunlight.

You froze. Slowly, you tilted your head upward.

Towering outside the garage was another giant robot — bulkier than Knockout, painted in deep blue and black with heavy armor plating and a massive wrecking-ball attachment on one arm. Breakdown. His single optic glowed as he stared down at you with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

Your brain short-circuited. Without thinking, you calmly — almost robotically — slid the garage door shut again, closing yourself back inside with Knockout.

A second later, loud, genuine laughter erupted from behind you. Knockout’s vehicle mode shifted and unfolded in one fluid, graceful motion. The red sports car rose into his tall, sleek robot form, still chuckling as he reached over and effortlessly pushed the garage door back open with one metal clawed hand.

“Really? You just closed the door on him?” Knockout laughed, optics bright with mirth. He stepped outside, stretching his arms high above his head with a satisfied groan, panels and joints shifting smoothly. The morning light gleamed off his freshly polished red armor — the work you had done the night before. “Breakdown, meet my new detailer. Detailer, this is Breakdown — my partner.”

Breakdown crouched slightly to get a better look at you, his deep voice rumbling with amusement. “This the human you told me about? The one who actually keeps your finish pristine?” He let out a low chuckle. “Didn’t mean to scare you, kid. Just came to check why Knockout went dark on comms last night.”

You stood there between the two massive aliens, cigarette pack in hand, and slowly pulled one out. You lit it with slightly shaking fingers and took a long drag, your face settling into the most exhausted, deadpan ‘fuck my life’ expression imaginable. You smoked the first cigarette almost mechanically, then immediately lit a second one right after.

Knock Out smirked down at you, clearly enjoying your silent suffering. “Don’t mind him. Breakdown’s harmless... mostly. He’s the one who does the heavy smashing while I handle the precision work.” He gestured lazily between the two of them. “We’ve been partners for a long time. He’s trustworthy — which is more than I can say for most on the Nemesis.”

Breakdown crossed his massive arms, looking between you and Knockout. “So this is the deal now? You’re keeping a pet human in a desert garage?”

“More like an associate,” Knock Out corrected smoothly, inspecting his own metal clawed digits.* “They keep me looking this good, and I keep trouble away from them. Win-win. Besides, after what their so-called friend did to my hood yesterday, I needed proper maintenance.”

You exhaled a cloud of smoke, staring at the barren desert landscape as the two giant robots casually chatted about you like you were a new accessory. A third cigarette was already between your lips.

Breakdown gave a deep, rumbling laugh. “You’ve got your hands full with this one, Knock Out. Humans are fragile... and they come with a lot of opinions.”

“Tell me about it,” Knockout replied, shooting you a playful wink. “But this one has excellent taste in wax and buffers. I’m keeping them.”

You had picked up the sleek red sports car on a whim from some shady lot on the outskirts of Jasper, Nevada. It was a beauty—glossy cherry-red paint that seemed to shimmer under the sun, aggressive lines, gold-accented wheels, and an interior that felt like it was custom-built for speed. Your old ride had finally given up after one too many street races, so this one felt like fate. You didn’t question the suspiciously good price or the weird way the salesman kept grinning.

Your friends—Jack, Raf, and especially Miko—acted super strange around it. Jack got tense and kept suggesting you “get it checked out.” Raf stared at the car like it was a puzzle he was scared to solve. Miko just grinned way too wide and asked if she could “borrow it for science.” You brushed it off. As long as the car performed, who cared?

And perform it did. The engine purred like a predator. You dominated every street race, leaving opponents in the dust. Cops? Never even close. The car handled like a dream—responsive, powerful, almost eager. You pampered it obsessively: premium wax, microfiber cloths, every buffer and polisher in the shop. At night you draped a custom cover over it, making sure no dust or scratch ever marred that perfect finish.

You and Knockout had become unlikely best friends.

After the initial mind-shattering week of discovering that your beloved $20,000-a-month-maintained red sports car was actually a giant, sarcastic, ridiculously sexy Cybertronian medic named Knockout, things had somehow... settled. The freak-out phase passed faster than you expected. Learning that an ancient civil war between two robotic species had reached Earth was wild, but once the shock wore off, you rolled with it. Knockout’s sharp wit, dramatic flair, and genuine appreciation for how meticulously you cared for his alternate mode helped bridge the gap. You even became friends with his brutish partner, Breakdown, who turned out to be surprisingly decent company in the Nemesis med-bay.

Life was weird now — but it was your weird. You still detailed Knockout whenever he asked (he was very picky), hung out on the Nemesis, and traded banter with both Decepticons. The Autobots knew something was up, but you stayed neutral. You had your human friends — Jack, Miko, and Raf — and somehow balanced both worlds.

Until tonight.

The high school party was supposed to be low-key. Just a casual gym gathering with music, snacks, and some dancing. You went with Jack, Miko, and Raf — your usual crew. Everything was fine at first. You set your drink down on the table while you stepped away for a minute. When you came back and took a few more sips, the world started tilting.

Dizziness hit hard and fast. Your vision blurred. A cold wave of nausea rolled through you. Spiked. Someone had spiked your drink while it sat unattended. Panic surged through the fog in your brain. You bolted for the exit, shoving past people, heart pounding.

“Hey, wait!” Jack shouted.

Miko and Raf were right behind him. “What’s wrong?!”

You stumbled out into the cool night air, legs unsteady. The parking lot spun. The Autobots — Arcee (as a blue motorcycle), Bulkhead (as an green SUV), and Bumblebee (as a yellow and black Camaro) — were waiting discreetly nearby for their human charges. Their sensors must have picked up the commotion immediately.

Before anyone could reach you, a familiar cherry-red blur shot forward from the shadows at the edge of the lot.

Knockout.

He had been waiting for you — probably bored and keeping an eye on “his favorite human,” as he liked to call you. The moment he saw you stumbling, clearly in distress, he made his move.

In one fluid, lightning-fast motion, Knockout transformed. Tires screeched as his sleek robot form rose up. His clawed metal hands were surprisingly gentle as he scooped you up off the ground mid-stumble, cradling you securely against his chest plating.

“Easy there,” he murmured, voice low and urgent but still carrying that signature smug charm. “I’ve got you.”

The Autobots reacted instantly — Arcee and Bumblebee transforming and revving engines, Bulkhead charging forward. Jack, Miko, and Raf shouted your name in panic.

But Knockout was already moving. He spun, transformed again in mid-sprint with you safely tucked inside his cabin, and slammed the gas. The engine roared like thunder as the red sports car shot out of the parking lot, leaving streaks of rubber on the asphalt. He weaved through the streets with impossible precision, quickly losing the pursuing Autobots in the desert night.

Inside the cabin, the world was a blur of speed and muffled sound. The seat felt warm, almost protective. Soft electronic music played low through the speakers — something Knockout knew you liked — while the radio crackled with his voice.

“Easy, darling. Just breathe. I saw what happened. Spiked drink... pathetic little organics. You’re safe now.” His tone was a mix of concern and barely-contained anger on your behalf. “Breakdown’s waiting back on the Nemesis. We’ll get you checked out in the med-bay. No one touches what’s mine and gets away with it — especially not some high school idiot with bad taste in party tricks.”

You could faintly hear your human friends shouting in the distance behind you, and the roar of Autobot engines giving chase, but Knockout was fast — really fast — when he wanted to be. He tore across the desert roads, heading toward a hidden entrance that would take you both up to the Nemesis.

By the time the car slowed, you were already starting to fade in and out of consciousness from whatever was in that drink. The last thing you clearly registered was Knockout transforming again in the Nemesis hangar, cradling you carefully in his arms as Breakdown’s heavy Pede-steps approached.

“Knockout — what happened?” Breakdown’s deep voice rumbled with worry.

“Some fool spiked their drink,” Knockout replied, his usual cocky tone edged with real protectiveness. “Get the scanner ready. And tell Megatron I’m borrowing the med-bay for the night. My second best friend needs it.”

Breakdown let out a low chuckle despite the situation. “You’ve gone soft, doc.”

“Shut it,” Knockout shot back, but there was no real heat in it. He carried you deeper into the massive ship, his Pede-steps surprisingly smooth so he wouldn’t jostle you. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmured down to you as the med-bay doors hissed open. “I’ve fixed worse. Just stay with me, alright?”

The bright lights of the Decepticon med-bay washed over you as Knockout laid you gently on a padded medical berth scaled for humans (he’d clearly prepared it in advance for situations like this). Breakdown loomed nearby, already prepping scanners, while Knockout’s precise servo’s (hands) moved with professional care.

Outside, the Autobots were no doubt losing their minds trying to figure out where you’d disappeared to.

But for now, you were safe — tucked away on the Nemesis with two giant alien robots who genuinely cared about you in their own strange, metallic way.

Knockout leaned over the berth, red optics glowing softly as he scanned you. “Next time you go to one of those pathetic human parties, I’m coming along. Whether they see me or not.”

His massive metal clawed finger gently brushed a strand of hair from your face — careful, almost tender.