/You want what now?/
First Aid was grateful for his facemask. Draft had to be the strangest person he'd ever met, circumstances notwithstanding. The mech's latest request certainly fit the pattern.
/Just like, you know, wires and bolts. Spare parts. Stuff like that./
/Why?/
/I'm testing something. Is that a no?/
Draft sounded disappointed. Without letting on to the fact that he was on the comm (a big no-no in Ratchet's the medbay), First Aid replied, /Probably. What are you testing?/
/No offense 'Aid - you're cool and all - but I'd rather not tell you./
/Then I'd rather not help you./ The protectobot retorted. Ha. There. Take that.
/Aww, but-/
"First Aid, kindly tell whoever you're flirting with you're on duty!" Ratchet's voice snapped like a whip, to a smattering of laughter.
First Aid jumped. "Yes Sir!"
Ratchet was giving him the stink eye. Eventually His-Scariness turned back towards the arm he'd been assembling. Only when he was busy again did First Aid dare to continue. /Sorry. That was Ratchet. Seriously, what do you need it for? I don't want you pulling a Wheeljack./
/A Wheeljack?/
First Aid hmmed. He explained, /You shouldn't tinker with things you don't understand. Wheeljack has a habit of his inventions, well, exploding, because of that./
/...Yo…./
/Draft?/
/Isn't that the guy who built my visor? That Wheeljack?/
/Of course. People don't have duplicate designations like on Dirt./ First Aid supplied.
/So what you're telling me is his stuff explodes so often, it's a catchphrase around here? And you let him make my visor?/
First Aid stifled a snort. Maybe he should have phrased it better, or just not mentioned Wheeljack at all. /Relax, I designed your visor, remember? 'Jack just built it. His projects only blow up when he designs them./
/You're all insane./
/Says the guy raised by an aliens. Hey, have you been drinking that medgrade I gave you?/ First Aid said said, switching gears. Back in his room in Ultra Magnus's quarters, Draft glanced at the cube of definitely-not-medgrade on his desk. Sometimes he swore the damn medic could see him.
/Um...maybe./
/Draft, you need to drink those. You're still recovering./
/Come on, that stuff tastes gross./
/What do you mean?/
/It's stale compared to regular grade./
/I assure you, it is not "stale". What do you mean by 'taste'?/
/You know, like, flavors?/ Draft said. Had to admit, he enjoyed talking with First Aid like this. The medic didn't mind conversing in English with him every now and then. He'd missed that.
First Aid kept an optic out for Ratchet, but the CMO still looked occupied. /How does energon have a 'taste'? That's an organic sense./
/You mean you dont-/ Draft cut himself off, realizing he couldn't describe "taste" and "flavor" without using the other. Taste was just...taste. If the humans had figured out a way to simulate it, he'd figured his own, way more advanced people had done the same.
Draft selected a memory file, pulling it up on his HUD. /Here, it's hard to describe. You mean you guys don't have stuff like this?/
It was a memory of chocolate. If First Aid claimed he didn't like that, then he really was insane.
Abruptly the comm cut off.
Lying on his side, oblivious to the mini disaster he'd just created, Draft's sightless optics widened behind their visor. Did he just...did First Aid just hang up on him? That was a first. Haha, maybe Ratchet got him.
Perched on his shoulder, the drone chirped.
"I know." Muttered Draft.
The young Cybertronian had been relaxing in his room after that firing range session with Hot Rod, feeding the drone various things. He'd checked the base bulletin via his HUD, only to come up short. It seemed no one was looking for a...whatever this thing was. Did that mean he could keep it? Because seriously, a pet that ate your garbage was hella useful.
And, though he'd never admit it, he was kind of lonely.
/Springer to Draft./
The drone hopped off him, displaying a powerful jump for something so small. Draft watched it explore with a will of its own. /Draft here. What?/
/Hey, what did I tell you about using your Dirt language? Reports./
/Right. Coming./ Guess he wasn't getting out of those. He'd have to figure out where to get more food - trash, spare parts, something metal - for the drone later.
Coaxing it onto his hand, he got up, looking around. His wings drooped. If he took it with him, Whirl or Springer might confiscate it - seeing as they'd taken everything else away. But he didn't have a good place to hide his new friend.
Draft poked his head out the door, careful to hold the drone out of sight. Hmm, couldn't hide it in the main room. Whirl was in there right now.
The cyclops looked up. "What?"
"Nothing."
Draft closed his door. Seeing as it was all he could do, the Earth mech gently placed it in the drawer of his desk.
I'll come back soon, he mentally promised; he left.
Having a very detailed (which was mildly insulting) map courtesy of Springer, Draft knew where to go. The wrecker's room was in the main barracks. It was a lot...smaller than Blaster's had been, barely big enough for two berths stacked on top of each other like bunk beds and a card table in the corner.
Springer and Hot Rod shared this room?
The green Autobot already sat at the table. Draft claimed one of the two empty seats across from him.
"You, are in a lot of trouble." Springer monotoned, unaware of how actually true the statement was.
"What?"
"That is, you would be, if you were a normal recruit."
Confused, Draft sat there for a minute. Was Mean-and-Green gonna teach him how to do his reports, or…? Springer reached out then, handing him the datapad. "So you have your basic format," he said without preamble. "Reports should always look like this."
"But what if I don't have anything to r-report?" Draft asked, briefly ashamed at his impatience.
"You always report something, even if it's nothing. Compute?"
"...I think so."
Springer nodded to himself, unsubspacing a different datapad. "Here's an old one. Usually, you'll only fill half the screen if nothing out of the ordinary happens. Just enough to say, "hey, nothing out of the ordinary happened". And see how this doesn't follow that outline exactly? You can omit the parts that aren't relevant."
Draft listened, glancing at the outline. "Can I keep this?"
"Of course." Springer snorted. "Here, you try."
"What, like now?" The imp asked him.
"Yes, now."
"You know I've been on m-monitor duty for a week, right?"
Springer rolled his optics. "Yes, but surely you've seen something interesting you could write about."
Draft frowned. He wasn't sure what exactly constituted "interesting". What, like fights? Overcharged people? He'd seen one of Blaster's cassettes, a black panther-like robot, exploring the shuttle bay once.
"Nope." He said.
"Fine then, pick a shift from before your..accident."
"Give me a m-uh, b-breem?"
"Sure."
Draft thought about it. Let's see. He guessed the most interesting thing that had happened to him - who was he kidding, crazy stuff happened to him so often he might as well be in a bad fanfiction - was when….
"Okay, done."
"Did you remember to write vertically?" Springer asked.
"Yes."
"Left to right?"
"Yes."
"Did you sign it?"
"Yes!"
Springer chuckled, finally taking the datapad he was tempting the sparkling to just throw at him (according to Ultra Magnus, it was a favorite hobby). The humor quickly disappeared, though.
"Did I do it wrong?"
"No, this looks good, Draft. You went on perimeter?"
"Huh?"
"Silverbolt took you on a perimeter patrol?" Springer clarified.
"Yeah." Draft confirmed, though surely Springer had just read that. "We f-flew around the edge of Iacon."
"Who else was on the patrol? Just you and Silverbolt?"
"Um, no...Jetfire and Air Raid came too. And...S-Slingshot." Draft remembered. "Was I supposed to put that in there?"
Springer ignored him for a second. "Yes." He finished reading the report. "Always mention who you're with. I just figured Silverbolt would wait a while before assigning that."
Not a complete lie, if you replaced a while with never. Springer wondered if he should mention this to Ultra Magnus when he got back. Taking a new recruit on perimeter patrol with a high ranking officer, far from prying optics, was a sort of test around here. It occasionally ferreted out traitors, who would try and use the opportunity to assassinate the officer.
"Oookaaaaay," Springer mentally filed that disturbing line of thought; was Silverbolt onto them? He slid the datapad back to Draft. "Now that you've done one, you can do them all."
"Awww."
"Come on, if you stay focused this will only take a joor. I know you can do it."
Draft didn't say anything, though whether he was mentally recalculating what a joor was or a way to escape was unknown. Springer wouldn't put it past him. Surprisingly though, the flyer didn't argue. "Okay."
But this was quickly followed by, "On one condition."
"Draft, you have to do these." Geez, how thick was this kid's helm?
"Granted. I will. Can't I add a condition?"
Springer barked a laugh. "That's not how that works."
"Please?" Draft pushed, all sparkling innocence. Springer, if only for curiosity, relented,
"That depends. What condition?"
Draft pointed to his trash can. "Can I have that?"
"My trash receptacle?" The frag?
"Just what's in it."
Oh, well that made sense. Not. Springer turned to look at the trash can before turning back around to give Draft the thousand yard stare. "You want my trash?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Is that a no?"
"Yes, that's a no, you glitch. Why do you want it?"
"But you're not even using it."
"Yeah, because it's trash. That's what trash is. None of it's usable." Wtf were they even discussing this for? He must want it for something stupid, or something dangerous, and Springer wasn't about to be party to either.
Draft smirked. "You say that-"
"You know what - don't. Whatever it is, the answer is no. Finish your reports."
"But-"
"Reports!"
Ratchet knew some stupid slag was about to go down. Call it a sixth sense, but his medbay never stayed quiet for long, especially mid-shift. He was about to call out First Aid for the second time concerning workplace etiquette - of which using your comm was not a fragging part of - when his apprentice abruptly hit the deck.
Uncharacteristically, Ratchet froze. First Aid?
This lasted less than an astrosecond, and then he was kneeling next to him, trying to rouse him and when that didn't work, taking his vitals.
"First Aid." He shook him. His scans were indicating a processor crash. That in itself wasn't too serious, but still. Weren't those supposed to be Prowl's thing?
"First Aid."
"Ratchet!"
Ratchet looked up. Slingshot shuffled in, dragging a knocked out Streetwise behind him. "I need some help over here! He just started screaming and clawing at his mouth and-...oh. Is he okay?"
The aerialbot asked, spotting First Aid. That sort of explained it. Not really. Ratchet swore and activated his comm. /Hot Spot come in./
No answer.
Cursing his luck, the CMO ordered, "Slingshot, tell your team to bring the other Protectobots here. I think this has affected all of them."
"Already on it." Silverbolt announced, having been coming in at that very moment. He and Huffer carried Hot Spot's large, unconscious, frame between them. "We were in the rec room and he just went crazy, holding his-"
"-mouth?" Slingshot interrupted. He flicked a wing at Streetwise. "Same here."
"What's wrong with them?" Silverbolt asked, concern for the only other Autobot gestalt coloring his voice. Ratchet took Hot Spot from him.
"Slag if I know, go find Groove and Blades, they aren't answering their comms either."
Hello everybody! I'm back! I've taken the liberty of organizing the previous chapters somewhat. They still have the same content, except now Draft has never met the Dinobots and I've named Bluestreak.