I love pain and Knock Out headcannons so…I wrote you this.
Cybertron’s death didn’t happen with a bang, it wasn’t like a dead taillight or faulty battery. It didn’t just all of a sudden decide not to work just because some grand mythical deity no longer resided at it’s center. It was slow. Like the death of most of it’s denizens. Knock Out remembered it all too well because he in fact he was a product of it.
Being one of the last truly Well forged meant his young burgeoning frame had little to nothing left to work with. Everything stolen from Cybertron’s metal to be put into predictability. Which why it wasn’t a surprise when he came out deformed and underdeveloped. Broken and sick. What could be considered a surprise was how he had managed to get away instead of being sent to get smelted right on the spot. He wished he had the courage enough to tell the tale but his processor had repressed it eons ago.
Remembering his life on the streets was hard enough.
The streets of Cybertron’s cities were not kind, especially in the ritzier ones where Knock Out had called “home”. Of course they were never really his home. Nothing could have been called that. Nothing could because absolutely nowhere wanted him, not even the Well, because he was good for nothing. Except perhaps a few hours of entertainment for some drunk rich brat and their friends. Knock Out still had nightmares of even the first few weeks of life. The beatings, the assaults for at least “his pretty face and hauntingly alluring optics”, the murder attempts by scavengers and siphoners just trying to make their own ways in life, and most memorable of all the attempted poisonings of the more “charitable” mechs.
And despite the pain and the sickness he still persevered. If one could call just surviving perseverance. His life meant nothing after all. Nothing he managed to learn, nothing he managed to be good at mattered. No one he had actually managed to help or befriend ever stayed or returned the favor. He learned quite quickly that it was because he was an eyesore. No one wanted you around if you weren’t at least pretty, easy, or sell-able. But deaf, mute, illiterate, and barely managing to online some cycles, that hadn’t exactly been an option.Until some lavender eyed missionary told him he could make him into something great…..for a price.
Knock Out wished he had remembered his old rules. Trust no one. Never speak. Stay hidden. He wished he hadn’t sold his spark for pretty frame and expensive forbidden words. The streets would have eventually killed him but at least he would have never learned what it was like to not be alone.