a/n: I will preface my posting of Drift's story to say that it is the one I had the most difficulty with. Not because Drift is a hard character to write, but because of the direction his story encouraged me to take. Drift has the pleasure of telling everyone the trials and tribulations of ensparking the hatchlings, wrapped up in that is the acknowledgment that he is in a relationship with Ratchet, something I've implied heavily but have tried to stay away from outright on-screen acknowledgment in an attempt to keep the fic mostly Gen.
Well, Drift's story puts that right out of the window.
I don't want to spoil too much but I will warn that Drift's story adjusts the rating from T to M. There will be attempts to enspark the hatchlings, including failed attempts, so this may be triggery for some. This is not mechpreg either. At least not by my definition of it. There will also be interfacing of the tactile persuasion, and some spark-play but not spark-merging.
Title: War Without End – Drift
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Drift, Ratchet, Thundercracker, Prowl, Dreadwing, Tracks, Wheeljack, Skywarp, Perceptor, Blurr, Springer, Smokescreen
Pairings: DriftxRatchet, DriftxBlurr (past)
Rating: M
Warnings: character death, angst/mourning, tactile interfacing, canon-typical violence, Drift's past
Desc: Drift is neither Decepticon nor Autobot. He is a survivor.
War Without End
Drift - Part One
Days pass. Weeks. Then months.
The Ark starts to take shape as a legitimate mode of transportation. It's less a hulk of mismatched wreckage and more a vessel with sleek lines, room to move, storage space. Bit by bit, so do the powerful engines that'll take them away from this organic rock and an increasingly dangerous Prime.
Little by little, things change.
Skywarp and Wheeljack wander around together, laughing and joking and teasing Ratchet. Sometimes, Tracks tags along.
Prowl and Thundercracker keep making googly optics at each other when they think no one's looking. Dreadwing watches them both with amusement and exasperation intermingled.
Astrotrain stays on the moon, and everyone's glad for it. He's a mood-killer, and he refuses to mesh with their cadre, and yes, that's what they're calling each other now. Not military unit or family but cadre. A collection of mechs with the same goals, an affinity for one another, and a driving temperament to protect that which they consider sacred.
The hatchlings.
That they are bigger doesn't mean Drift's any more inclined to hold one. He still doesn't trust himself. And they are definitely growing faster and faster. Most can't fit into the makeshift tanks anymore, having to be moved to containers the size of above-ground pools. There's hardly room to move around the medbarn now.
They are settling into their colors, more or less. Drift asked Ratchet once why they even have colors to begin with, and the medic had said that he doesn't really know. It's some kind of strange phenomena. Logically, they should all remain a protoform-grey, but they don't. Like the protoform itself begins to develop a personality even without a spark. Curious.
Drift spends a lot of time watching human television because he doesn't know a thing about engineering or medical repairs and because he can't take down Astrotrain without killing the triple-changer, which is counter-productive. Human programming is tedious and processor-numbing but necessary. Lennox's contact is sporadic, but the news networks can be relied on to inform them of incoming Cybertronians and their subsequent destruction by the Autobots.
It makes Drift tanks churn, but there's nothing they can do. They can't intercept the arrivals, and they can't risk revealing themselves by trying to contact them beforehand.
He also on occasion has a long range patrol. It's a huge circuit around the farm, looking for anything out of place that might indicate someone is watching them. While they have a sensor grid and cameras directly around the Lennox farm, it's a good idea to see threats coming, too.
Prowl has no issue in being overly cautious. There's a lot at stake.
What little time Drift has left after monitor duty and patrols, he spends in the medbarn. Assisting Ratchet and attempting to convince the medic to rest or recharge or refuel. Sometimes, he succeeds. Sometimes, he doesn't. But he tries.
All in all, there's a routine with the occasional hiccup thrown in to really make Prowl twitch. For the most part, however, they all know what they're supposed to be doing and act accordingly. They diligently work on the Ark, the engineers sometimes going without fuel and recharge, depressingly aware of the razor's edge of danger they walk.
Astrotrain is annoying and snide but tolerable. Drift is glad that he doesn't have to spend much time on the moon.
Not that endlessly circling the countryside is any more fun.
He returns from a daily patrol, the sun setting on a damp spring day. Their ramshackle base looks even more derelict in the dying light. At least the dilapidation is a form of cover in itself. No one would expect the collection of run-down barns and a farmhouse to hide a small group of sentient, alien beings.
Points to Lennox for the brilliant idea.
Drift tries in vain to brush the road grit from his armor, but it's pointless. He'll need to run through the Jackhammer's washrack when Wheeljack and Skywarp get back. That's the only thing that will get all this Earth dust out of his gears.
He heads into the medbarn, surprised that no one's sitting at the monitors in the main area. Who's supposed to be on shift right now?
Drift consults the schedule that Prowl posts for their convenience. Ah, it's Prowl himself. He must have the images streaming directly to his processor then. With his kind of tactical processing, he can handle that data easily.
The rest of them? Not so much.
The medbay itself is very much occupied, however. Rarely is its owner not present, and only when Drift can convince him to take a step outside and ventilate fresh air. Well, fresher. With all the pollen and toxins and organic elements floating around in the atmosphere, they can hardly classify the air as clean or fresh. But it is better than the stuffiness in the barn.
A small crash echoes from behind the partition separating the medbay from the rest of the barn. Drift raises an orbital ridge as he approaches. It can't be Skywarp this time; he's up on the Ark.
"No! This one goes here, that one goes there. Pay attention!" Ratchet snaps, words carrying easily through the close quarters.
"Sorry, sorry," chirps a tinier voice, one Drift does not recognize and speaks with the cadence of machine-code.
Who...?
Drift pads to the opening, steps silent as always, and peers into Ratchet's domain. He sees the medic first, pointing at a row of crates with their lids peeled off. These crates are the extent of their medical supplies, meager though they are. Most important, however, is the mech scampering across the floor, hip-height to Ratchet and arms loaded down with cleaned spare parts.
"A hatchling?" Drift blurts out, his optics locked on the smaller figure.
The hatchling is not fully-formed. Otherwise, it would be taller, closer to Drift's height since the wheels and spoiler identify it as a grounder. Its protoform plating is a dark maroon with gray highlights, and its optics are Decepticon-red, like all the other hatchlings.
"How did you spark it?"
Ratchet's helm snaps up, his optics brightening. "I didn't," he growls and takes an aborted step forward before falling back a pace, sliding a palm down his face. "He's a drone. He's running a sophisticated AI, mind you, but he's not sparked."
"Done!" the little hatchling chirps, dumping the armful of parts into one of the crates. "Next?"
Drift finds himself without words as Ratchet lowers his hand and gives the hatchling-drone another series of instructions, this time pointing to a nearby plastic container of mismatched parts and assorted tools. They are all in need of sorting and a good scrubbing, something that is sure to keep the drone occupied for a while.
"I think that I'm going to need more of an explanation than that," Drift says as he watches the hatchling plop itself on the floor and start digging into the container.
Ratchet shakes his helm and redirects his attention to another hatchling that's lying on the medberth. This too is a grounder, protoform in garish shades of red, orange, and yellow.
"They're getting too big for the growth pools," Ratchet says as Drift steps up beside him, though he lowers his vocals as though preventing the hatchling from hearing him. "The Seekers have been ready to incept for a week now. They finish their maturation outside the tank, you know. I don't dare take them out of stasis. Even with an advanced AI, they'd malfunction."
Drift frowns, leaning his hip against the end of the berth as he watches Ratchet tend to the unconscious hatchling. "Are you going to online them all?"
"I don't know." Ratchet cycles a ventilation. "Red over there is a test, to see how his systems would integrate the AI I designed. I'm a medic, not a programmer. I all but crossed my fingers as I booted up his systems."
Drift turns his attention back to the hatchling. He watches as Red sorts the assorted parts into different carts.
"How sentient is he?"
"He's only been online for a couple of hours," Ratchet admits. "As you can see, he does talk, which indicates an element of comprehension that I attribute to the AI. He'll react to stimulus – pleasure and pain – but complicated thought patterns are beyond him, and he has no emotions."
"Is that better than stasis?"
It makes Drift wonder, what really is the line between themselves and machines. Is it the spark itself? Or are they all supremely complicated AIs?
"I don't know." Ratchet's tone is oddly soft, contemplative. "I suppose we will find out." He plugs a datapad into the hatchling on the berth, the screen filling with gibberish only a medic would understand.
"Do you plan to wake him, too?" Drift questions.
"Maybe. We'll see how Red handles it first." Ratchet dips his helm toward the sorting drone, who appears cheerful to Drift, even if he isn't truly emotive. "At least if they're operating AIs, they'll know enough to run should the situation call for it."
He has a point.
"Have you given up on sparking them?"
"I don't see any other choice. I don't have any answers or options." Ratchet huffs, fingers tapping over the datapad's screen. "Maybe if Perceptor were here, if I could see his research for myself. Maybe we'd have a chance. Without it or him, it's hopeless."
Drift turns away, optics scanning the ten other hatchlings, quietly recharging in their nutrient baths, helpless and patient. They are all that remains of Cybertron's future. Drift can't believe that the Allspark was their only avenue. It can't have always existed, can it?
"Didn't Skywarp have an idea about spark-splitting?" he ventures softly
"Ha!" Ratchet snorts. "Like a Seeker would know anything about spark mechanics. It's a fool's idea."
Drift looks at him skeptically. "But does it have merit?"
Ratchet's silence is all the answer Drift needs. He moves closer to the rescued hatchlings, most of their colors coming in now, bright and vibrant. There's a strange urge to see them online, a curiosity as to the kind of mechs they could become. They are Cybertron's future, a collective that could rebuild their kind and start anew without the burden of the past to color their judgment.
"I know that was the core of Perceptor's research," Drift continues, optics shifting from hatchling to hatchling, though he keeps his hands at his sides.
They are larger, more durable now, but he remembers what his hands are capable of. He'd rather not test Star Saber's reprogramming.
"There must be something."
"I need data," Ratchet says, and there's an edge to his vocals, a tightness that hadn't been present before. "I need facts. I need evidence. I need more than the smattering of mumbled theories that you barely remember!"
The idea comes to him so suddenly Drift wonders why he hadn't considered it before. He should have, considering the revelation they all had about Skywarp a few months ago.
"What if I'm not telling you all I remember?" Drift asks, and his internals quiver a little with apprehension. "What if there's something there that I don't know I remember?"
Ratchet turns toward him, faceplates pinched with confusion and none-too-little incredulity. "Now, you're talking nonsense."
"No, I'm not." He steps toward the medic, invading space because sometimes that's the only way to get him to listen. He looks up at Ratchet, meeting his gaze directly. "Look at my memories. Hear what I heard. Maybe there's something there."
Ratchet's optics spiral wide before his field clamps down tight. "No."
"Why not?"
"You're just like that idiot," Ratchet says with a loud ex-vent. He turns away, shaking his helm. "Asking for things you don't understand. Do you have any idea how intimate that kind of connection is?"
Drift shifts his weight, an uncomfortable sensation growing in his internals. He crosses his arm and frowns.
"I have some idea, yes. How do you think I became like this again?"
"I wouldn't know." Ratchet stops, shoulders hunching, expression closed and field depressingly mute. "You don't tell me, and I don't ask."
Drift winces. "It's not exactly a fun topic."
"Which is why I don't ask," Ratchet reiterates, a touch of irritation and bluster affecting his tone. "And for your information, allowing that sort of access means I won't even have to ask. I'll know."
Which, in Drift's opinion, might be the better route. He doesn't want to talk about it or relive it for himself. Maybe it would be easier if Ratchet just experienced it for himself.
Then again...
Drift fights back a sigh. Having been on the receiving end of Star Sabre's blunt and unapologetic approach, he isn't sure he would risk reliving that experience on anyone else. Much less a mech who he holds the greatest respect and affection for.
"I'm aware of that," he says and drags his optics back toward Ratchet's. "And I'm prepared for it. But if this is the final piece of the puzzle, don't you think we should take that risk?"
"In this case, you're the only one risking everything," Ratchet replies, and he turns away, one hand scrubbing his face. "And we don't even know if we'll find anything of value."
"It's worth trying," Drift comments, watching his partner move back toward the active hatchling, only to brace himself on the medberth's edge. "Skywarp trusted you. Why should I be any different?"
"Skywarp has more than a few glitches," Ratchet grumps. "He doesn't count."
It's time for a calculated risk.
Drift steps up beside the medic, all but holding his ventilations as he lays a hand over Ratchet's. When it comes to this cantankerous mech, affection can sometimes go either way, inspiring calm and resignation. Or provoking a tirade that sends everyone running for the hills.
"I believe this will work," Drift says softly. "And I trust you to do it."
Silence stretches between them, Ratchet as still as a statue next to him. It's a moment of truth, where Drift waits to see if his risk pays off, or if he has to flee the medbay for fear of his plating.
"We must all be glitched," Ratchet mutters, and Drift knows that is a concession. A victory. "And myself most of all."
"I think we have to be a little crazy to do what we're doing," Drift replies, and try as he might, he can't hold down his grin. "Which means we should do it now before sanity catches up to us."
"Or I stop and think about what I am going to do and change my mind," Ratchet retorts, but there's little heat in his words.
He shrugs back from Drift, reaching for the brightly-colored hatchling. "Let me return him to his tank. You get up on the berth."
"Have I ever turned down that invitation?" Drift inquires, watching as the larger mech easily scoops up the hatchling. It's a testament to how built for strength medics are.
"Brat," Ratchet tosses at him, field flaring with indignant affection. A mech of contradictions if Drift ever met one.
He grins and hauls himself on the berth, watching Ratchet tuck the hatchling back into his bath of nutrients and energon, checking and double-checking the readouts on the attached scanners. He then gives Red a few more orders, sure to keep the drone occupied, before he returns to Drift.
"Lay back," Ratchet orders, gesturing to the berth. "Should be easier that way." His words are light, but he's tense. His plating has clamped down, and his field is completely withdrawn.
Drift isn't any less nervous, but he hides it better. His processor is not a fun place for anyone, least of all himself, but if Ratchet can find the answers, it'll be worth it.
He removes his sword first, laying it to the side, before complying with Ratchet's request. His sheaths clank against his side, and it takes some maneuvering to get comfortable. Fortunately, looking up at Ratchet is nothing new to Drift. He's the shortest among their clade, the hatchlings notwithstanding, so he's gotten used to it.
"Will I need to be in stasis?"
The medic moves to the head of the berth. "No," he answers and leans forward, bracing his arms to either side of Drift's helm. "Unless you want to be."
Hm. Face his past with optics online or wake to possible repercussions? Each course of action had its own merits and consequences.
Drift fights back a sigh. "Whatever is easiest for you."
Ratchet shifts his weight, hand sliding and resting against the side of his helm. His thumb strokes Drift's audial.
"I would suggest stasis." His expression softens.
"Then that's what we'll do." Drift rests his hands at his sides, trying to force the tension from his frame and failing. He tilts his helm into Ratchet's touch because he wants the comfort, and he'll need to bare his occipital port anyway. "I trust you."
Ratchet cycles a ventilation. Drift can hear the telltale clicks of his panels cycling open in preparation for withdrawing his cables.
"Are you sure-"
"I'm sure," Drift replies, and offlines his optics, activating a handy little program that'll put him into stasis on his own. The countdown starts in the corner of his HUD. "And I apologize in advance for anything you might see."
He feels, more than sees, Ratchet flinch.
"Drift..." He sighs and then seems to change his mind. "Never mind. Initiating stasis."
Drift feels the moment when Ratchet connects, the familiar presence of his partner's mind, but his own program is already activating, powering down his peripheral systems and closing in on his proximal. His awareness draws inward, sensors shutting off and cutting him from all input.
There's something like an internal caress from Ratchet before stasis takes over. While Drift welcomes the pull of it, he knows it's not going to be fun for anyone.
Least of all himself.
iTap. Tap. Tap.
Drift turns his helm, tracking the noise to the other side of the refueling station, where Perceptor is sitting at the table. The scientist's stylus is tapping against the top in a steady beat, a datapad online in front of him but his gaze elsewhere. He's a mech obviously deep in thought.
Drift finishes filling his cube and heads over to the table. "Long night?" he asks, pulling out a chair.
Perceptor cycles his optics and draws in a noisy ventilation. "A productive one," he corrects, and offers Drift a smile. "Coming off shift?"
"About to head to one. Springer seems to think I can learn how to fly this hunk of space junk."
Perceptor's smile widens. "There are so few of us. It's a skill worth pursuing." The tapping ceases as he draws his datapad closer. "Perhaps I'll ask him to teach me as well."
"You have more important things to do though." Drift tries and fails to look at the datapad. "What are you working on, by the way?"
The scientist tilts his pad just enough that Drift can see a screen full of incomprehensible equations. It's enough to make his processor ache.
"The Allspark," Perceptor replies. "Theories on its origin, its composition, its purpose."
Drift frowns. "We know its purpose."
"We think we do," Perceptor corrects, and his stylus taps the screen, highlighting a particular equation. "But now, I'm beginning to believe that we've missed something of vital importance. Something that could save Cybertron when the time comes."
Confusion makes Drift cycle his optics. "Time comes for what?"
Perceptor's smile melts away, replaced by a soft melancholy. "Never underestimate the repercussions of war, Drift. We never know what we might lose." His stylus slides across the screen, punctuating his-
-tanks are never empty. Mid-grade is a steady constant; high-grade a reward for the victorious. Light and fresh on his glossa when he's won. Dark and thick when he's managed to survive. Violent and barely-processed when he's towed off the track like so much scrap.
Not worthless. Never worthless because even scrap can be sold for parts, but he feels like it. When everything hurts and aches but the credits are still exchanged because some mechs like that. They like seeing the pain in his optics, the agony in his energy field.
He's only free when he's on the track, miles grinding away beneath him, wind whipping over his plating. When he flash-changes from alt-mode to root-mode and back again. When he slams against one of many opponents, taking them out with all the viciousness the crowd demands, and putting metal to the pedal all over again.
It's the only freedom he has, those breem-long races. He doesn't have to think about bafter/b, not yet. He only has to think about the mech nipping at his aft, the two crowding him on the sides, the taillights in front of him, and the finish line far ahead.
He's not a winner. Will never be a winner. But he's a survivor, and right now, that's all he has to his designation.
Not his frame, not the energon in his lines, and not his spark. None of it belongs to him save for the little niggle of something beneath the surface. The drive that tells him to get up, keep going, and maybe it'll change. Maybe things will be different.
Maybe Primus has a plan.
And maybe, one orn, he hears about the Decepticons. And Turmoil has a plan, which he mumbles to-
-an inattentive audience.
"It's simple if you consider the underlying construction of our frames," Perceptor continues.
"Nothing is simple when it comes to you, Percy," Blurr says, rolling his optics. There's a mischievous edge to his energy field. Needling Perceptor has become one of his favorite past times.
Drift huffs a laugh, pretending to ignore both of them. These orns, watching the two of them bicker is about the only entertainment to be found here on the /iDaedalusi.
"Only because you have little care for scientific theory, Blurr. You care not how your frame functions, only that it does," Perceptor retorts with an offended little huff.
Blurr cycles down his optics. "Is that an insult?"
"If you have to ask, you have your answer," Perceptor says dryly and peers at his calculations. "Energon powers our frames, yes? Yet, we can survive without it for orns. A dry frame can be revived so long as the spark itself is not compromised. Why?"
Blurr braces his chin on his palms. "So you can bore us into stasis?"
"Sparks give life as well," Perceptor snaps.
"Machines are the same way, Perceptor," Drift offers, trying to at least pretend he's paying attention. "If they run out of fuel and shut down, we only need to add in more and they start back up."
"Ah. But machines don't have sparks." Perceptor wags a finger at both of them. "Theoreticians have long claimed that our cores need energon, and yet, our sparks can survive without it."
Blurr waves a dismissing hand. "Because our frames cannibalize themselves. Everyone knows that."
"No." Perceptor sets down his datapad. "Our sparks are self-sustaining."
Drift frowns. Blurr does, too.
"What?"
Perceptor's hands make a circular motion. "The energy feeds itself in an endless loop," he responds, as if that's all the explanation they need.
Drift stares at him.
"It regenerates!" Perceptor exclaims, throwing his hands into the air where-
-scorch lines mar the walls, the floor. Pit, even the ceiling. Either someone is a really bad shot, or they'd gotten desperate. Probably both. Autobots tended to get that way when overrun by Decepticons.
Deadlock grins, sloughing through pools of energon, dim and congealed. Bits and pieces of beaten bots are scattered across the floor. All in all, a good orn's work. This is one vessel that won't harry their supply lines anymore. And as a charming bonus, they can appropriate all the energon.
Megatron ought to be pleased.
Deadlock's grin stretches wider.
He ducks out of the airlock and back into his own ship, lackeys at his heels. An underling scurries up to him, ingratiating and annoying for it.
"Salvage should be done in two breem, sir," says Maul. "What should we do with the prisoners?"
"Prisoners?"
He turns down a hallway, sees the Autobot survivors lining the wall. Battered and bleeding ,and all six of them sneering contempt despite the fact they've been so thoroughly trounced.
One of them flares defiance though he's missing an arm, a leg, and a sizable chunk from his helm. His chin is tilted, reeking of privilege and bravery. Perish the thought.
Deadlock's upper lip curls. "You must be new." He turns his helm to address Maul. "The boss doesn't take prisoners." He pulls his blaster, shooting the arrogant mech in first the helm and then the spark. "Kill them all."
He holsters his blaster as the scent of charred metal and spent spark-energy permeates the corridor. The guards are regarding him with something like admiration. The cleaning drones are already scurrying to attend to the mess.
"We could've used them." Maul scrambles to follow after him as the sound of blasterfire litters the hallway behind them. "Bartered with the Autobots."
"No," Deadlock dismisses, and his tone brooks no argument. "Let Primus sort 'em out. He's the only one who gives a frag anymore, and the-"
"-math is correct, but I am still stuck with an impossibility!"
Perceptor's muttered commentary floats out of his laboratory, traveling to Drift's audials and giving him pause.
"There must be a variable I am missing. This is so frustrating!"
Drift leans through the open doorway. "Perceptor, are you all right?" He's built a fondness for the scientist over the vorns, although he isn't sure why. Perhaps because Perceptor is so earnest. About everything and anything. Earnest and honest and trusting.
"I'm well, Drift," the mech replies, though his swirling energies indicate otherwise. "Merely frustrated with myself and my data."
"Anything I can do?"
Perceptor's optics flick by him. "Is Blurr with you?"
Drift chuckles and shifts to lean against the doorway. "Not today." He knows better than to take offense. Blurr is often a mech one has to take in small doses.
"Then by all means." Perceptor gestures him inside. "You're a beta-class spark, right?"
Drift rolls his shoulders, Great Sword clanking against his back, and moves into the laboratory. "Yes...?"
"I am quite sure you are." Perceptor starts moving around now, an excitement in his motions. "Tell me, are you amenable to becoming my test subject?"
Drift watches him for a moment. His friend can't have realized the unfortunate implications in that. But in the end, this is Perceptor. Of all the bots he's ever met, including Blurr, he trusts this mech the most.
"Depends on the test."
Perceptor brightens when he isn't immediately put off. "Spark mechanics."
A stab of something unpleasant rocks through Drift. He automatically lurches back toward the doorway, hand instinctively pressing to the seam of his chestplate.
"Sorry, but no." His voice is hard enough that even he's surprised before he bites it back. "I have… an aversion."
Perceptor looks at him for a long time. Searching. Sad.
"I see." Perceptor turns away, carrying on like they discuss nothing more than energon flavors. "It's perfectly safe. I've done it to myself, but you're the only beta-class on board, and I fear yours is the only factor I'm missing."
Drift shutters his optics and forces himself to relax. Curiosity niggles at him despite everything.
"For what?"
Perceptor's optics light up with the air of someone truly pleased with himself. "Why, for spark-splitting of course!" He gestures broadly and-
-Drift rolls his optics at the steady stream of words. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Do you ever stop brooding?" Blurr laughs, shoving his hands at Drift's shoulders and sending him tipping backward.
He flounders like an upended transport, sheaths clanking and Great Sword a rigid line against his backstrut. "Blurr!"
Another laugh from the racer, and Blurr's hands are everywhere, his mischief growing with his grin.
"I think a little relaxation is in order," Blurr declares ,and his knees dig in at Drift's hips, pinning him in place, though he's half as heavy and barely the same height. "You're too tense." He plucks at the armor over Drift's chestplate, locked into place and immobile for it.
"You're too carefree," Drift counters and swipes at his mate, trying to dislodge the blue mech, but Blurr is fast and wily, squirming out of his grip.
"Someone has to be." Blurr grins.
Metal scrapes against metal, a fine symphony of sound that elicits a burst of pleasure. He fights back a groan, reaching for Blurr with the intention of flipping the racer onto his back.
There's a brief scuffle on the berth as there usually is. Blurr's laughter rings throughout the room, and Drift won't be surprised if Smokescreen starts banging on the wall again. He'll catch them later, smirking, talking about how he's lost another bet with Springer or some such, too.
"I think you have dominance issues, too," Blurr adds with that cheeky smirk of his, frame shifting to a sinuous roll that has won him no shortage of berth partners. "You always want to be on top."
"So says the mech who has never lost a race," Drift huffs and loses the battle to control himself when Blurr shoves fingers into a transformation seam.
His partner chuckles, only for it shift to a purr. "Mmm. How true. I never lose at anything. Allow me to show you why." He leans closer, intent on-
-his mouth falling open in surprise. "You want us to what?" Blurr asks, and he can't hide his shock any more than Drift can.
Perceptor, unruffled, repeats himself. "Merge."
Drift looks at Blurr, who meets his gaze and they don't even have to discuss it before Drift shakes his helm.
"You have to know how dangerous that is."
"Actually, I don't think it is," Perceptor counters. "Dangerous, I mean. My research indicates-"
"For once, Perceptor, I don't care," Blurr interrupts loudly, backing away toward the door and looking two paces from taking off down the hallway. "I like living, and that's a surefire way to offline."
The scientist's attention shifts back to Drift, but Drift holds up his hands and backs away as well.
"I want to see your research completed, too. That's why we're all here," Drift replies. "But I don't think you'll be able to convince any of us to take this risk."
Disappointment fills Perceptor's field before he draws it back in again. "What if I could prove that it is safe?"
"I don't care how safe you think it is, I'm not doing it," Blurr snaps. Then, he is gone, out the door, somehow managing to make it slam shut behind him.
Drift whuffs an ex-vent. "I'm sorry," he says, resting a hand on Perceptor's shoulder. "But I have to side with Blurr on this one. Maybe there's another way?"
"I'll keep looking." Perceptor manages another smile, though it's shaky compared to his earlier optimism, and-
-he's screaming. An endless wave of sound that should've shorted out his vocalizer orns ago but hasn't yet, and he isn't sure why.
The pain is unbearable. No, that's not true. Even as he screams, he's bearing it. He's twisting and writhing and tugging, and he can't break free. He's not supposed to want to break free, but he does because he's never felt pain like this.
He can't see, can't hear, can't tell if he still has a frame. There's only the pain, the hand wrapped around his spark, squeezing and squeezing and...
He's not the only one screaming anymore.
It's for his own good, they say with smiles and warm regard and cold, flat optics.
The mech he is must surrender to the mech he was to make room for the mech he'll become.
It's like fire in his lines, burning and burning. The scent of stale energon, scorched fluid, rust and rot and broken things. Purge splatters through, and his intake burns, and the whole universe tilts.
There's a hand on his spark, and it's not letting go. Deadlock counts the kliks until he disappears, until-
-the faceplate of their attacker appears on screen, Drift knows he has no one to blame for this event but himself.
"I only want the traitor," Turmoil says, his voice slithering into the limited confines of their bridge. "Though killing Autobots is a charming bonus. Give him over to me, and I'll make your deaths painless."
It feels like a suckerpunch to the chestplate. Drift's hands clench in and out of fists; the Great Sword rattles on his back. His spark contracts.
His worst fear, come to life, realized and threatening and pointing some very heavy artillery at their barely-shielded ship. Their last clash with a wandering battleship had only gone worse for the Decepticons by a slim margin.
Perceptor still doesn't know if Smokescreen is going to survive. But Drift supposes that doesn't matter anymore because none of them are prepared for this.
Drift steps forward, but Springer's hand slaps him in the chestplate, shoving him backward, and all without taking his optics from the screen. At the same time, Blurr grabs his arm, yanks him back, as though that's enough to prevent their deaths.
"You can have our crewmate when you pry him from my fingers," Springer snarls and slams his fist on the console, ending the transmission.
"That was stupid-"
"You shut the frag up," Springer interrupts, whirling toward all of them, his energy field a maelstrom of intent. "Blurr, get Perceptor and tell him to get his research and get in the escape pod. Drift, you so much as think of becoming a martyr, and I'll kill you myself."
Blurr is already nodding, vibrating with a nervous energy. He squeezes Drift's arm, trades a glance, and then he's gone, off to warn Perceptor about the doom stalking them.
"You're with me," Springer orders, striding past Drift and certain that he'll follow. "We give Perceptor time to escape, and then, we give Turmoil a fight. I'm not going down without one. Got it?"
Drift's spark is cycling too hard for him to speak. The words are trapped on his vocalizer, and he can't seem to think beyond it.
"Drift!" Springer's hand whaps upside his helm, making his optics glitch. "Focus! Are you with me?"
"Yes," he says, as the first round slams into their shields and the entire ship lurches around them. He shakes his helm and drags out his resolve. "I'm with you."
He draws his swords, falls into step beside Springer, and tries not to think about how pointless it all really is…/i
Drift jerks online, sucking in desperate ventilations, hands grasping at empty air until he realizes that Ratchet had the foresight to tie them down. The restraints, however, are not the least bit comfortable, and the part of him that was deeply buried by Star Saber, panics. He jerks at the thick straps, harder and harder, dully hearing Ratchet curse from a distance.
"Hey." Ratchet's face comes into view, a welcome sight, but more than that is the feeling of the bonds being undone. "You're all right. I've got you. It's an echo. It's all an echo."
The sound he hears, Drift realizes, is the clattering of his own plating. He feels like he's going to shake right out of his exostructure.
An echo, he tells himself. An echo.
And now, Ratchet's got that look, that half-guilt, half-shame face he wears sometimes when he thinks no one is looking and the weight of the world crashes on his shoulders.
"I didn't realize," Ratchet begins as he pulls off the last strap and all but tosses it away, "I should have, but I didn't. I hadn't known what they did. Otherwise, I would've-"
"Hey," Drift interrupts, and dear Primus, is that raspy noise his voice? "It's okay. It happens."
"It does not happen," Ratchet snaps and throws his hands into the air. "Primus, I swear there's something wrong with you."
"Yeah, I get that a lot."
His lips pull into a wry grin. No point in arguing about it. It's that wrongness that keeps him putting one pede in front of the other.
Drift pulls himself upright, swaying a bit as his memories slot back where they belong. He holds a hand to his helm, cycling his optics slowly. His tanks are unsettled, but the thought of consuming energon holds little appeal to him.
"Did it work?" he asks because he can't be sure. He only remembers a disconnected mélange of images, audio-captures, and intense emotion. Only Primus knows what Ratchet might've gleaned from his memories.
The medic mumbles something, but Drift doesn't catch it. He turns his helm, staring at Ratchet's back.
"Ratchet?"
"It depends on your definition of work," Ratchet replies. Then, he moves, busy work really, hands poking at something Drift can't see. "I've learned a few things I didn't know before."
A thread of unease tries to wind through Drift's spark. He beats it down the same way he gathered the courage to open his optics all those vorns ago. He swings his legs over the edge of the medberth.
"Stay there," Ratchet snaps.
He wouldn't be himself if he obeyed. Drift slides down, wincing as he wobbles a bit, and fights to regain his balance. He feels like he just took down a combiner single-handed.
"Got too much to do," Drift retorts and stretches his arms, working out the kinks in his limbs. How long had he been under?
He checks his chronometer and boggles. A day? Prowl must be flipping his helm for all the shifts Drift has missed.
"Besides," he continues, "we've got hatchlings to spark. What did you learn?"
"Details. Data. I need to absorb it," Ratchet says, and Drift really doesn't like the way Ratchet won't look at him.
Granted, his processor isn't a fun place, and his memory core is no walk in the park either. He had considered the ramifications of his offer. He also hadn't thought it would matter.
He makes a non-committal noise, gaze sliding away and finding Red, the hatchling Ratchet had onlined. Red is still, possibly in recharge. There are eleven others like him, unknowingly waiting for Ratchet to pull another miracle.
Yeah, Drift thinks, it's still worth it.
"It's not coherent," Ratchet continues, sounding more like he's convincing himself than Drift. "I need time to sort it out."
"I see," Drift allows and there's a tightness in his internals that he doesn't want to contemplate. "I'll go find Prowl then."
"Tracks covered your shifts, though he grumbled about it."
"Then, I'll go find Tracks."
Drift pauses, waiting to see if Ratchet tells him otherwise. But no, the medic is playing at being busy. So Drift will give him the courtesy of pretending not to notice and make his escape. Which he does with far less grace than he is used to displaying, legs wobbly and processor spinning.
He doesn't allow himself to look back, though part of him wants to badly. He needs to believe in the courage he'd displayed earlier. He does trust Ratchet, and while he feels plenty of shame for his past, he can't afford to let that hold him back. Besides, Ratchet has a right to know.
Blurr had taken it well.
Sort of.
Then again, Blurr hadn't had to experience it all in glorious, full-color detail.
Drift winces and tries not to think about that either.
Outside the medbay portion of their medbarn, Skywarp is crouched in front of their "surveillance system". His optics and audials are locked on the half-dozen televisions displaying human newscasts. There's no way he missed the conversation a dozen yards away, though he's doing a fair job playing ignorant.
"Nice to see you're up and about, Drift," the Seeker greets with a twitch of his wings and something like a smirk curling his lips. "When the Doc said you were down for maintenance, we weren't worried at all. We knew you were in the best, ahem, hands."
He works through a variety of responses in his helm before settling on the most neutral territory.
"I appreciate the concern," he allows. "Where's Prowl?"
Not that he wants to speak to their leader, he just doesn't want to talk to Skywarp. That Seeker is one best taken in small doses.
"Cloistered with Dreadwing," Skywarp replies and turns his back on Drift, waving a dismissing hand. "Some kind of tactical meeting. Boring. You're welcome to intrude."
Welcome, yes. But interested in doing so? Hardly.
"I think I'm good." Drift shuffles his pedes at a loss. He's supposed to be on shift right now. But if Skywarp's covering it, and the medbay is rather cold, he has no clue what to do. "Where's Tracks?"
"Storage building. He thinks if he looks long enough, he'll find a better wax." Skywarp sounds both amused and condescending. "I'm waiting for a good time to tell him he can just check Amazon. Heh."
Typical Skywarp.
Drift shakes his helm and takes his leave, not that Skywarp really notices. One of his favorite shows is on, and though he should be paying attention to the news networks, Skywarp likes to flip back and forth.
Outside, it's hot and humid. Sunshine beams down on his frame, warming it immediately, but the humidity settles like an itch under his plating. It reminds him too much of the racetracks, all underground and tightly confined and stuffed with far too many mechs.
Thundercracker and Wheeljack are on the Ark, which means the Jackhammer is with them.
His options are limited.
Drift heads for the command barn. Maybe Prowl can give him something to do. There's a jittery sensation in his lines, an itch in his processor. He needs to be moving.
He pushes open the door with a loud creak, and only the shriek of his proximity sensors keeps him from colliding with Dreadwing. As it is, Dreadwing's hands shoot out, grabbing his shoulders and steadying him.
"In a hurry?" the large Seeker asks, amusement rumbling his vocals. Of the flight-capable members of Drift's cadre, Dreadwing is the largest, though it's only by a fraction. Skywarp enjoys teasing him about it.
"Of a sort," Drift replies. "Thanks." He leans to the left, trying to look past Dreadwing. "Prowl busy?"
"He's recharging."
Drift tilts his helm, giving Dreadwing a sidelong look. "Is he now?" No, there isn't any teasing in his vocals, not at all. "Good, I guess. He needs it."
"We all do." Dreadwing's plates rustle. "Did you need something?"
Drift rolls his shoulders and feigns boredom. "A task. Something to fill the time."
An arched orbital ridge is Dreadwing's response. "Your field begs to differ. Did something happen?"
Drift fights not to stiffen and simultaneously hates himself for being that translucent. He doesn't know why, but there's something about Dreadwing that comes off as paternal. Or perhaps that's not the right word. He reminds Drift of a caretaker, the good kind. The kind bots had when they were truly cared for and not a piece of property.
"Someone should go on patrol," Drift redirects, taking a backward step so that Dreadwing can leave the barn. "I volunteer."
Dreadwing doesn't budge. He crosses his arms and looks all the more indomitable. "Trouble in paradise?"
Someone's been listening to Skywarp.
Drift's sheaths rattle involuntarily. "No."
"You know, it would have been more believable if you said yes." Disbelief and amusement both ripple through Dreadwing's field. "Ratchet isn't the easiest mech to get along with, and I should know. I've had my share of troublesome partners."
Tracks immediately comes to processor, though Drift is at least tactful not to say as much aloud. Drift likes the triple-changer, but he's not surprised to find that Tracks might be somewhat difficult.
Drift looks away. "Maybe I just don't want to talk about it."
"No one's forcing you." The Seeker gestures to the open field and the roads beyond. "You're free to go."
Drift shifts in place and then cycles a ventilation. Dreadwing doesn't deserve his poor attitude. Even if he doesn't really know what's crawled up his muffler.
"I apologize." He dips his helm. "I'm a little on edge right now, but that isn't Ratchet's fault." Drift glances away once again. "More like, there's something wrong with me."
Dreadwing huffs a ventilation. "There's something wrong with all of us in case you haven't noticed." His optics cycle down, like they are scanning Drift from helm to pede. "Did you try asking forgiveness?"
"I don't know what I did," Drift answers.
But that's not precisely true. It's nothing he did, but everything he is, and Drift doesn't think there's an apology for that.
The Seeker gives him a wry look. "I feel like I've stepped into an episode of a human drama."
"Very funny." Drift ruffles his shoulder armor, and there's a fleeting thought of the open road. Of driving without destination or thought. "You're not helping."
"You didn't exactly ask for that either."
"I thought it was implied." Drift edges past Dreadwing, leaving the barn since the Seeker seems inclined to stay. "Then again, I don't even know what the issue is."
Amusement makes Dreadwing's wings twitch. "Given your choice in berth partner, I can only say that you're a braver mech than I. And than most."
"Thanks," Drift says dryly, and rolling his optics, he shifts to alt-mode. "I'm going on patrol." His tires spin against the mud and grass.
"Have fun," Dreadwing calls after him, his laughter carrying through the air.
Some help he was.
a/n: On to part two...