"So what's with the new guy, he can't talk or some slag?"

That was Blades, who was standing uncomfortably close to his audio. Springer shoved him out of his personal space with a huff of annoyance.

"What makes you think I'd know?"

Blades didn't slip on the slick floor from the push. Instead he moved to lean against the wall, still close enough for conversation over the rushing SSSSHHHHHH of solvent spray. They were in the washracks.

"Groove saw you get off Ultra Magnus's ship with him in the shuttle bay. How come he can't talk?"

"What are you talking about? Of course he can."

"You know what I mean," Blades said. "I hear he chokes up worse than a greased engine."

Springer scowled, though only half of it was really directed at Blades. That kid…. "He's got a speech problem, okay? I'd lay off if I were you."

Technically not a lie.

The other helicopter looked surprised but then pleased he'd come to the right mech. "So you do know him. Where's he from then?" He pressed, getting a polishing cloth out of subspace. "He's not a Wrecker, and besides, his public file's empty. He a transfer? What's he specialize in?"

Springer chuckled. "And why are you so interested?"

Blades shrugged, rubbing the polishing cloth in circles on his arm. "I mean honestly, who isn't? You see that aft?" He snickered. "Now that's symmetry."

Abruptly Springer wasn't laughing anymore. In fact, he looked really peeved.

"Leave him alone, Blades." He growled, turning off the shower with a quick jab to the wall mounted buttons. He knew that tone. Blades was well known for bunking around, especially with flight frames, and once his friend acquired a target he didn't easily lose it.

"What, is he taken?" Like that would be a deterrent.

"Look, just...it won't end well. Trust me on this," Springer urged. "You do not want to get involved with this one."

Blades frowned as he stepped out of another mech's way. It was just past third-shift; the washracks were fairly crowded for this time of cycle.

"What do you mean it won't end well? For him or me? Springer?"

But Springer was now moving for the exit, already beyond done with this conversation. If Blades only knew. "Don't try anything, Blades," he gave in final warning. "I'm serious."

Now that he was all squeaky clean and ready to present, Springer really had a meeting to get to. Blades watched him go, before deciding to head back to his team's quarters, a smirk plastered on his face whole way.

Was that a challenge?

Draft frowned. He was...bored. Yeah, that's what he was. Well, as bored as one could be surrounded by aliens.

Not aliens, he had to remind himself, as he eyed the current occupants of the rec room. It was like a scene out of a movie. A few months ago he'd never seen anything like him, and now there was a whole planet full of them. For once, he was among his own kind.

So why did he feel like an alien?

Maybe it had something to do with the weapons each mech - each soldier - sported. These people were at war. Had been for apparently millions of years (Draft had been astounded to learn he would live that long. In his Earthly perspective, that meant he was practically immortal.)

He felt like such the civilian around them. He'd never given much thought into joining the military back home, and never imagined he'd be conscripted into service like this; kidnapped and forced to act the part. Okay maybe not forced. It was an agreement of sorts, his kidnappers keeping his whole age thing on the down low as long as he put in the effort to "assimilate", whatever that meant. What was this, the Borg? But it beat being treated like a child because of the whole ridiculously long lifespan thing.

/Stop sulking you half-bit./

Draft perked up. The only numbers currently programmed into his comm were those of the Wreckers and his new teammates. Who-

Oh. Twin Twist was sitting at a table nearby.

/I'm n-not sulking./

/You call sitting by yourself not sulking? You finished that cube half a joor ago./

/So?/ Draft said, mentally figuring how long a joor was again.

/So go have fun or something. Stop looking miserable./

/You kn-know, I wouldn't be miserable if you guys hadn't-

/-Oh for the love of Primus don't start that slag again, I thought you learned it'll get you nowhere. You're stuck here. Accept it. Now go make some friends or something./ Twin Twist interrupted. The mech sounded genuinely concerned, though Draft dismissed it. As if. People didn't kidnap people they were genuinely concerned for.

However Twin Twist did have a point, he had spent a lot of time in here. Draft stood. No one was magically going to fix his boredom for him. Unfortunately, he doubted there was much to do on a military base that wasn't, you know, military related. He didn't even know where else he was allowed to go, other than his room.

I guess I could go for a nap.

...

Draft awoke feeling something wasn't quite right. Not because he had doubtless overslept, but because when he onlined his optics, all he saw was the floor above him. Or should he say, below him.

What the fuck? Why was he attached to the ceiling? How? Twisting, he didn't see or feel anything physically restraining him.

"Ultra Magnus!" He yelled.

Draft doubted the big mech would do this in revenge for throwing that datapad at him last night (as he had done far worse trying escape him and the other Wreckers earlier). Besides, being immature or having any iota of fun seemed beneath him.

No response.

Draft flailed some more, arms and legs dangling useless. "Ultra Magnus, you there?!"

Still nothing. Well, this was just great. How was he supposed to get down? What the hell even was this? He'd only been here four days, which was hardly long enough to get on anyone's bad side minus Air Raid. But that asshole was the opposite of stealthy.

/Jetfire to Draft./

Draft quit struggling, thoughts of the possible culprit grinding to a halt. /Uh...Draft here. W-What?/

/Care to join Silverbolt and I for some breakfast before patrol?/

Oh yeah, Draft forgot. His first on base patrol was today. How was he supposed to do that if he couldn't get down? He imagined the military, regardless of species, didn't take tardiness lightly. Ultra Magnus certainly wouldn't.

/Actually/ Draft replied, swallowing his pride. /you...g-going to think I...I'm, crazy, but I swear I'm...glue to the ceiling./

There was a pause. Draft imagined Jetfire and and his commander laughing about how retarded that sounded, but then Jetfire's voice groaned over the line,

/Not again! Tell me where you are mech, I'll help you get down./

Again? Again? What the hell did he mean, again? The way he said that so nonchalantly made Draft wonder if this was considered normal. What kind of place was this?

/Umm...does this h-happen...lots?/ Draft had to ask, unable to think of the Cybertronian word for "often".

/Yup, all the time, you're not special./

That was Air Raid's voice, having apparently been enlightened to the situation by either Jetfire or Silverbolt. Lovely.

Jetfire asked, /Where are you?/

Draft sighed, trying to break free one last time before giving in to the humiliation sure to come. /Ultra Magnus's quarters./ he grumbled.

There was another pause.

/The frag are you doing in Ultra Magnus's quarters?!/ Air Raid demanded. /Has he seen you yet? Wait, never mind. Jetfire, can we puh-lease wait until after 'Magnus sees this?/

/We have a patrol to run./ Jetfire sounded annoyed.

/Aww./

/We're on our way, Draft, so just-/

/ -Hang in there!/ Air Raid couldn't help but finish, and with a laugh he got off the comm before Skydive could kick him off.

Five minutes later three perplexed aerialbots were standing in his room.

"Oh, nice." Air Raid said. He couldn't stop snickering. At least Jetfire was trying to keep his expression under control. Silverbolt was the only one who didn't seem to find this funny, and embarrassed, Draft mentally cursed the other two. Why'd they bring the commander? When Draft had saluted him, still upside down, upon their arrival, Air Raid had broken into a hysterical fit of laughter.

"This looks like Sideswipe's usual work. I have some anti-adhesive from the time he got Fireflight." Jetfire was telling Silverbolt, who muttered something that sounded like "well then unstick him."

Who was Sideswipe?

Jetfire nodded, and rose using the thrusters in his peds to get at Draft. It turned out the younger Cybertronian's back had been glued to the ceiling. Within minutes - err, breems, Draft mentally corrected - he was free.

"You three, get to your duties." Silverbolt said. "Show's over." He left then, and Draft followed the other two into the hallway.

"So...patrol?" He asked, looking at Jetfire. What a way to start the day.

Jetfire nodded. "Yes."

Hot Spot was an observant mech, so he knew when one of his friends was upset. Be it Tracks when he got caught racing in the halls again, or Hoist when one of his projects fell through. He especially knew when it was one of his gestaltmates though, and so was waiting in their shared quarters with Streetwise and Groove for First Aid to get off shift. Blades was busy on monitor duty.

First Aid didn't look surprised when he came home to the ambush, though to be fair he didn't have a face. "Uh...hi guys?"

Hot Spot pointed to a chair. "Team meeting, minus Blades. Sit down."

"What's wrong?"

"You, that's what's wrong." Streetwise accused, but Groove interrupted him.

"You've been feeling jittery all week mech, like you expect Megatron to waltz into the medbay."

Hot Spot nodded. "Yeah, it's distracting all of us. So out with it; what's got you so spooked?"

First Aid smiled behind his mask. He should have known. Amd Ultra Magnus should have known. Keeping a secret among a gestalt was like messing with Jazz and expecting to get away with it. You just didn't.

"Sorry guys." He apologized.

"Sorry doesn't fix anything." Streetwise said, relaxing into the couch next to Hot Spot. "Who's the aft we have to kick?"

"Streetwise," Groove hissed at the poor joke.

"Is it one of your patients?" Hot Spot asked.

"No…."

"Well then what is it 'Aid? I'm tired of feeling paranoid when it isn't even me!" Streetwise demanded

"It's...look, it's classified, okay? Not even Ratchet knows. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."

"Boo." Streetwise immediately objected. "We're trustworthy."

"That's not what I mean." First Aid began, but Hot Spot held up a servo. "Well then don't tell us. Not everything; you don't have to be specific. You want to talk about it."

He didn't phrase it like a question, because honestly, whatever it was, First Aid did want to talk about it and they all knew it. First Aid shuffled his peds, considering if it would break his orders. Technically….

"I can't."

"Ughhh, First Aaaaaaid," Streetwise whined. "Can't you just say, like, we sensed some things through the gestalt bond, and then you had to explain from there? I mean, that's kinda true anyway. Come on, how about just the part that's making you angry?"

"I'm not angry." First Aid objected.

"You're downright furious, and don't think we don't know."

"Hot Spot." First Aid implored, ignoring Streetwise in favor of his oldest brother. Surely Hot Spot wasn't agreeing with this..this downright insubordination. But the gestalt leader shook his helm.

" 'Aid, how you feel is affecting all of us. If this were any other squadron I wouldn't ask you to disobey orders, but this isn't."

That their gestalt came before orders went unsaid. First Aid was going to regret this. "...Fine..."

Streetwise perked up, all audios. This better be good.

"There's a new recruit," First Aid began, wondering where to start. "He's not exactly normal. I mean, he's like everyone else, but he's kind of a...sparkling."

"Like he acts like one or is one?" Streetwise interrupted, earning himself an elbow from Hot Spot for the stupid question. What did sparklings, of which there no more created since the beginning of the war, have to do with anything?

"Like he is one. Actually, both, I guess. His spark's physically a sparkling's, but he's been raised to believe he's an adult."

No one said anything for a minute, obviously struggling to believe him even though you couldn't lie to your gestalt. They could sense he was telling the truth.

"I think people would've noticed a little sparkling running around." Hot Spot finally said. That was an understatement. Surely there were a few still alive with the neutrals, but bringing one to a war zone? There'd be a stampede to see the little guy.

First Aid drummed his fingers thoughtfully. "Not so little. He has an adult frame."

"And, if I'm getting this right, he's been enlisted." Hot Spot realized. That explained why his brother was so angry. No way was that legal.

"We don't need troops that badly." Streetwise snorted. "Does Prowl know? Prime? Optimus would never allow it."

First Aid shook his head. "Well, no, but that's the thing. Where he was living, everyone became an adult by 6-ish vorns, which is how old he is."

This time it was Groove who spoke, trying to be rhetorical. "On what planet?"

"On Earth."

"On what?"

"It's an organic planet. Class M world, with space capable sentients, though apparently they've only gone as far as their moon." First Aid explained, glad for the way Groove had phrased that. Over the eons Cybertronians had met a multitude of intelligent species. Many thought of organics as primitive, weaker beings, or simply barbaric beings. The Wreckers had discovered Earth on their way through the Sol galaxy, which held relatively little value besides a few more resources than usual. There they had found Draft. It wasn't hard, seeing as his unshielded spark signature was the only one on the planet.

"Anyway, that's not important, though you can't tell anyone about that either." First Aid continued. "He grew up around organics. In fact, I don't think he'd ever seen another Cybertronian before his...rescuers...found him. I can't blame them for not leaving him behind, but he just won't listen to us. He thinks he's been kidnapped, and only agreed to join the army because they threatened to put him back in a sparkling frame if he didn't."

"So, uh...what do you have to do with this?" Hot Spot asked.

"Oh, they needed a qualified medic to do a physical when they arrived, or I guess if he gets injured, and I'm pretty sure Ratchet would have killed them by now." First Aid actually giggled at the mental image. A shouting match between Ratchet and Ultra Magnus would be legendary.

"They can't just..they can't just do that." Streetwise sputtered. "Making a sparkling serve in the army? Prime has to know!"

"He's not a complete sparkling." First Aid corrected, though he felt the same way. "He acts more mature than Sideswipe any day, and it's not like he's stupid. He's coming from a place where he functioned like an adult, it would be wrong to stick him in a sparkling frame against his will and baby him for the next 12 vorns. We don't have the resources for that. Anyway, I'm just...I've just been worried about him, I guess. This whole thing's crazy."

"Definitely." Hot Spot agreed. Vector Sigma, what a story. The gestalt leader had never heard of a Cybertronian being raised anywhere other than Cybertron. Before the war there had been strict laws about taking younglings below a certain age offworld. This had to be the first case in, like, ever.

Apparently thinking the same thing, Groove breathed, "Can you imagine the perspective he could give us? I mean, if we weren't at war right now. What you're saying is he was raised by organics, right? I bet Rung would love to meet him."

Rung was under Ratchet's command, and First Aid was acquainted with the eccentric psychologist. He thought of all the studies he or even Perceptor would put the poor kid through and nodded.

"He probably would, but you can't tell anyone, remember? I'm his designated medic, so I know, and the people who brought him here know, but that's it."

Groove nodded, though he still had that thoughtful glint to his optics. Streetwise leaned forward.

"So, who is this guy?"

"His designation's Draft."

Chapter 2! Let me know what you think, I love getting reviews!