[Bayverse] War Without End: Ratchet - Part Five

[dracoqueen22]

War Without End: Ratchet

Part Five

------------------------------------------

Ratchet lingers outside the open door, staring at the wrenched metal that had literally been torn open. The attackers hadn't bothered with hacking the panel, opting instead for brute force. Beyond the door is a hallway, the overhead lights flickering in and out, casting eerie shadows. The splatters of energon are visible nonetheless, though the subtle glow is ebbing away as it decays.

He doesn't want to go inside. His fingers curl tightly around his medkit. There aren't going to be survivors. Why did he bother? He's the senior medic on scene; he is supposed to go inside. But he can't seem to make his pedes move.

“Ratchet.”

He stirs at the sound of his designation. He turns to acknowledge the presence of his commanding officer.

“Ultra Magnus.”

Prime's brother-in-bond meets Ratchet's gaze. His energy field is tightly contained, but the emotions are too visible in the way he holds himself.

“I could call Hoist, if you prefer.”

Ratchet jerks his optics away, forcing a ventilation through his systems.

“No,” he denies, tanks roiling as he stares at the decaying energon. “I won't force him to endure this. His spark is gentler than mine.”

“I think you underestimate yourself, old friend.”

Ratchet doesn't reply, forcing his pedes to obey his orders and move forward, entering through the gaping hole of the main entrance. His sensors pick up the sounds of movement ahead of him, the three-mech team of soldiers who cleared the rooms of possible hostiles. Not that there are any to be found. Whoever committed this atrocity is long gone.

Decepticons.

His processor wants to accuse their most recent foe, but Ratchet isn't sure what to believe. Megatron is Lord High Protector. Surely he wouldn't sanction such a horrifying and pointless attack. What use would it serve? There's no advantage to be gained here. Unless demoralizing the Autobots and some of his own slagged troops is what he had in mind.

Frame hitching, Ratchet calls upon his steel-spun will and presses on. The first room is empty, but there are signs of a struggle. Broken furniture, energon splatters, claw indentations, drag marks. It makes him shudder. He keeps going, the lights casting macabre shapes everywhere. He cuts on his headlights, though his scanners tell him all he needs to know.

Another room is empty. Another.

The fourth is – was – inhabited. No longer. There are three inside, two mechs and a femme. An adult and two younglings, the elder curled around the younger as though to protect them. The blast had struck the adult mech from behind. Strong enough to cut through his civilian plating, straight through his spark, and out the other side where the younglings and their softer metal had no defense. All three, taken in a single blow.

Ratchet leaves as quickly as he enters, a soldier slipping in behind him to retrieve the empty frames for proper burial. To record designations and hopefully contact kin, if any can be found.

It's a blur. A blur of death, death, and more death. The heavy ion scent of weaponry hangs in the air. The floor is gummy with spilled energon.

“Medic!”

One of the soldiers hollers, and Ratchet breaks into a run, spark whirling in his frame. Someone's pinging him with a location, and Ratchet follows it, sensing the urgency in the ping.

A survivor. They actually found a survivor!

He skids to a halt near an open doorway and hurries to the side of two bots, hovering over the sluggishly bleeding and tiny frame of a youngling. Ratchet drops to his knees, fearing he doesn't even have equipment small enough to pierce the narrow lines and handle the delicate frame.

The little one's spark pulse is fading fast. His gold optics flickering like the overhead lights. One hand weakly clutches at a soldier's. His other arm is missing. He's been clawed from clavicle to hip strut, and Ratchet doesn't even need his sensors to see the state of the young one's spark. The spark chamber's been breached.

It's a Primus-given miracle that the little one has clung to life this long.

Performing a systems check, Ratchet reaches for the youngling, relieved that his hands aren't shaking. An energy field frantic with pain and fear grips onto Ratchet's own, making his chassis tremble. The little one clicks at him, reduced to the tonalities of sparkling language.

“I'm here,” Ratchet says with a gentleness that would surprise his usual patients, the rough and tumble warriors of the Autobot army. “I can help you. It'll be all right.”

At least, he wants to believe it will be so. The damage is so severe. He almost doesn't know where to begin. Torn and ravaged energon lines. The spark chamber breach. Energon a pool beneath the little one.

He gets to work, murmuring encouraging words, hands moving swiftly. He seals off leaking lines, sets up an energon drip, and whips out small strips of temporary metal to protect the little one's spark casing. He works as though the fires of the pit are chasing his heels, trying to pull the youngling from the arms of the soldiers still holding him.

Something happens. The little one twitches beneath him, optics flaring bright. One arm spasms, flailing out. His spark stutters.

“No!” Ratchet curses a solid stream of invectives, some not even Cybertronian in nature, and snarls at the soldiers still in the room. He needs more hands.

He's not going to let this youngling offline. He's not.

“Ratchet.”

He jerks out of the memory purge, sensors rapidly scanning, spark feeling too tight for its casing. One hand flutters to his chestplate, feeling the strong thrum of his spark beneath. The memory is fresh, all too fresh, despite how long ago that attack had happened. At the beginning of the war, to be honest. When hostilities had first broken out between the newly designated factions.

The youngling hadn't made it. So many of them hadn’t made it.

Ratchet's plating clamps tightly down to his frame, and he bows his head, shuttering his optics. The attack wasn't one of the first, nor was it one of the worst. The youngling wasn't the first mech to die in Ratchet's hands, and he wasn't the last.

How many times had he patched up a soldier from the battlefield, sent him or her out again, only to have repeat the process over again? How many times had he brought a bot back from the brink of death, only to fail the next time around?

--Ratchet.--

Someone’s pinging his personal comm channel. A specific one, in fact, that only a choice couple mechs and a single human have the codes to connect. With the Seekers being over an eleven hour drive away now, the contact by comm has become necessary.

--Do you have any idea what time it is, Skywarp?-- Ratchet demands as he forces several ventilations through his system. His HUD chimes with alerts for more energon and a reminder that his much-needed defrag cycle had been interrupted.

--Not a clue,-- the Seeker replies with far too much cheer.

Ratchet checks his chronometer. He's been in recharge for only a joor, and right now, it's the dead hours right before sunrise. He's got a maintenance scheduled first thing in the morning, too.

He slings his arms over his eyes, shifting about on the medberth, which is only slightly more comfortable than recharging in alt-mode. But it's not like the humans have given them personal quarters, furniture, or any privacy.

--It's too slagging early, is what it is. What the frag do you want?--

--It's cold here.--

Ratchet has begun to wonder if he’s lost his sanity. This only makes him certain of it.

His palm slides over his face as he stills. --You commed me to whine about the temperature?--

--It's snowing,-- Skywarp complains, and the comm still manages to carry the distinct, annoying pitch of a Seeker's whine. --And it hasn't stopped snowing since that idiot dropped us here. Couldn't you have picked somewhere warmer?--

Sparklings. He feels like he's adopted a pair of fraggin’ sparklings.

Ratchet's spark lurches then, the memory purge fresh on his processor.

--I didn't have the luxury of choice,-- he retorts.

And really, he didn’t. For all it had been ridiculously easy to hide the Seekers from sight and scanners, they didn’t have much choice in where to stash them after that.

At least, they’d been quiet in the warehouse though.

--Skywarp…-- Ratchet shakes his head, even though the other mech can’t see it. --…Do you remember the bombing of Ultrix?--

A moment of silence passes over the connection. Skywarp is most likely searching his memory core.

--Uhh. That was a long time ago, Ratchet. Back at the beginning of the war. I hadn't joined the Decepticons yet.--

--You must have heard of it. Ultrix was the first major offensive.--

Though no one could ever prove that it had been the ‘Cons who machinated the attack, it was a general assumption amongst the populace. One Megatron had never sought to disprove.

--The youth sector took the most damage,-- Ratchet continued.

Comprehension must have dawned because Ratchet can all but sense the wince in Skywarp's reaction.

--Yeah. I remember it,-- he allows slowly. --What about it?--

--Did Megatron order that attack?--

Now, Skywarp sounds annoyed. --I already told you that was before my time. You could've asked Starscream if that squishy hadn't blown his processor off.--

--Would Thundercracker know?--

--TC joined even later than I did.-- Skywarp huffs across the comm. --What does it matter anyway? Thinking of payback?--

Ratchet exvents softly. --I was there. I wonder, to this day, what could have possessed Megatron to consider it a viable target.--

--How should I know? Old Megs has always been a few circuits short of a board. Though I wouldn't take him for a sparkling killer. He was always… well, not tender. Megatron isn't tender. But he didn't bully the hatchlings. Not really.--

Ratchet reboots his comm system. --Wait. Hatchlings?--

This is news to Ratchet. Since when did the Decepticons have access to hatchlings?

--Yeah. The Fallen's ship had hundreds of stasis-locked pods. Unfortunately, what we didn't have was energon,-- Skywarp responds with a matter-of-fact tone, like reciting a shopping list or something else equally mundane.

Ratchet's processor is reeling with recognition. --The drones…--

--You didn't know?--

Honest confusion filters through the comm.

--We didn't realize.--

Ratchet feels like smacking himself in the helm, smacking all of the Autobots. They had thought the nameless, nude protoforms to be drones. Not unsparked frames. Not younglings.

Skywarp grinds his mouth components together, the noise carrying across the comm. --Stupid Autobots.--

--Why did Megatron online them if he didn't have the Allspark?-- Ratchet demands, unable to fathom the crazed leader's rationale. To use drones in battle is one thing. To involve unsparked protoforms is an entirely different matter!

--He needed troops.--

Once again, Skywarp sounds far too nonchalant about the whole line of conversation.

Ratchet's spark lurches. --That's horrible.--

--Or practical. Take your pick.--

Frag ‘Con logic to the pits.

--Where's the Fallen's ship now?--

--Gone. Megatron and Starscream moved the rest of the hatchlings to their base here. Though they're probably all dead now.--

Once again, Ratchet has to reboot his comm system. Skywarp's words and the reaction he's having to them don't seem to match up logically.

--What?--

--The only ones who knew where they were are dead now.-- Skywarp transmits a contemplative chirp. --Even if we wanted to help them, we wouldn't know where to start. Besides, without the Allspark, what's the point?--

Words fail Ratchet. --You can't... I can't... Younglings!--

That is all his shocked processor can manage right now. They'd fought younglings, slaughtered younglings.

Primus! They’re still destroying younglings. The various ‘Cons scattered across the globe and in hiding. The Autobots had believed them to be drones as well, the majority of them at any rate.

--Warp's right, you know,-- Thundercracker's voice cuts into the comm effortlessly. Either Skywarp had given him the key for this specific conversation, or he'd hacked it. --Without the Allspark, they won't be anything more than pseudo-aware frames. Barely better than drones.--

Ratchet grits his denta. --That doesn't make leaving them to starve to death right.--

--Autobot sentimentalities.-- Skywarp makes a derisive noise. --What can we do? We can't get to them. We have no energon to sustain them.--

--Sparkless ‘Cons. All life is precious,-- Ratchet growls.

Anger floods the comm in a heavy tide. --Unless they’re Decepticons, right?-- Thundercracker demands.

--We were at war!--

--If that’s the argument that eases your conscience,-- Thundercracker snaps his words into the comm, thick with bitterness.

Ratchet's hands form fists. --Don't tell me you never killed an Autobot.--

--We all have energon on our hands. But I'm through with listening to Autobots hide behind their hypocritical ideals while ripping out the sparks of their enemies.-- Thundercracker's tones are icy with a sense of betrayal that’s deeply personal. --At least I'm honest about what I am.--

Silence fills the empty space of the comm.

Ratchet concentrates on his frame as he tries to calm the frantic whirling of his spark. The Seekers are both right and wrong. He can't imagine simply abandoning the hatchlings. But he doesn't have any way to retrieve them either. That he can't argue over Thundercracker's characterization of Autobot ideals is perhaps the most telling fact to take away from this.

--I’m a medic, Thundercracker. And a mech who's fragging tired of this pointless war.-- Ratchet slumps. --That's all I can claim to be. Was there something else you needed?--

--It's cold!-- Skywarp cuts in, back to whining.

--Ignore the sparkling. This location will suffice,-- Thundercracker replies, tones stiff and indicating that their discussion is hardly over. --It’s perfectly isolated.--

--Good to know,-- Ratchet says and surprises himself by actually meaning the sentiment. --Try not to let the sparkling hurt himself. I'm a long drive away.--

A strained chuckle spills into the distance between them.

--He'll have it coming if he does. Thundercracker, out.--

Ratchet stares up at the bland warehouse ceiling. They’re not quite friends, the old wounds of a lifetime of war making that particular truth a long time coming. But they’re reluctant allies. It’s enough for now.

He offlines his optics, trying to slide back into recharge, hoping that the memory purges will leave him be.

Hatchlings. Primus.

o0o0o

Bumblebee shows up bright and early, so early in fact that Ratchet had just barely tumbled off the medberth before the young scout appeared in the open doorway of his medcorner. Bee's face flits with amused surprise as Ratchet cycles his optics, processor booting sluggishly.

--Long night?-- Bee asks across a narrow-band comm, looking but finding nothing that could possibly explain Ratchet's behavior.

His confusion is logical. Ratchet is very rarely caught flatfooted.

“Something like that.” The medic grunts, his HUD pinging him a reminder to refuel. He could go a few more hours yet though. “You're early.”

Bee steps inside, pedes a bare whisper against the concrete floor. --Didn't have anywhere better to be.-- He lifts a hand, fingers running over his neck components pointedly.

“Where's Samuel?”

--With Carly. I guess.-- Bumblebee's shoulders lift and drop casually; there's something unsettling about his lack of usual exuberance. --Mearing's still trying to keep him out of the loop.--

Ratchet huffs. “That woman never learns.” He slides off the berth, joints giving an unoiled screech. “Up here with you.”

--She thinks she's keeping him safe.-- Bee hops on, legs swinging over the side like the youngling he used to be.

Ratchet lets out a noise.

Safe. Right. Nowhere is ever going to be safe.

He pulls out his scanner, activating it.

“Any complaints? Now's the time to voice them. So to speak.”

Bumblebee's vocalizer works in fits and bursts. Ratchet despairs of ever fixing it properly.

--Left hip. It's not setting right.-- Bee moves said joint to prove his point with the sound of metal grinding improperly.

Hmm, that will have to be attended.

“Anything else?” Ratchet's scanner beeps and a list of Bee's vital levels pop up on the screen. He scrolls through them, finding nothing out of the ordinary, and sets the scanner aside.

Other than the hip – and the vocalizer – the scout's in perfect repair.

Ratchet reaches for Bee's leg, unlatching the first layer of outer armor so he can get to the gears beneath. He sets the plating aside when Bumblebee finally answers him.

--Mikaela was in Chicago. --

Startling, Ratchet draws back.

“What?”

Bumblebee doesn't meet his gaze. Looking past him instead, hands locked on the berth, a tight grip.

--She'd just moved there. A few months before the Decepticons attacked. --

Ratchet honestly can’t think of what to say and simply blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“Did she make it?

The expression on Bee’s face says everything he doesn’t. Ratchet shutters his optics for a few sparkpulses.

“Does Sam know?”

--I haven't told him.--

“It's probably best that you don't.” Ratchet doesn’t know what else to say but this.

Mikaela had hurt more than Samuel in her sudden abandonment. Ratchet's not surprised that Bee had kept tabs on his former friend. They had so few human companions on Earth, especially those worth trusting.

Bee's helm dips. --I know.--

“Did she ever tell you why?”

--No.-- The scout lifts his gaze to Ratchet, optics a painfully pale shade. --It came out of nowhere, Ratchet. One day, they were in love. The next... I don't know.--

Ratchet remembers. He'd expected there to be rumors of long weeks spent in fierce, bitter arguing. He'd expected tales of stony silences, tears shed, and a gradual deterioration of their relationship. Instead, Bumblebee had reported Mikaela's abrupt dismissal and equally abrupt exodus from their life.

Samuel had refused to talk about it beyond saying that he’d made his choice and Bee was it. No amount of cajoling on Bee's part could convince him otherwise. And then, it all became a moot point because Mearing came into the picture, effectively shunting Sam out of association with the Autobots. She'd also done her very best to replace the familiar members of NEST with unfamiliar faces, ones who didn't warm up to the Autobots as quickly as their prior brothers-in-arms. She'd been successful in convincing Epps to take another post and only Lennox's stubbornness had kept him in command. He’d refused to leave Ironhide.

It seemed as though one by one, Mearing had been stripping them of their allies, anyone who would treat the Autobots as people. Who could see them as something more than war machines. Even if, in truth, Ratchet fears that is what they’ve become.

“Attention! Incoming unidentified object detected!”

Alert sirens flash and wail, cutting into the somber discussion.

Ratchet's attention immediately diverts. His spark drops into his tanks. No. Not again. He can't stand there and watch them mercilessly shoot another Decepticon out of the sky.

--An Autobot?-- Bee chirrups, sliding off the berth with less enthusiasm than usual, desperately trying to chase away his somber mood.

“I can only hope,” Ratchet mutters and turns on a pede, hurrying out of his medcorner.

No one's summoned him. Or the Autobots. Curiouser and curiouser. But he'd like to see them try and stop him.

Unsurprisingly, Prime is there before anyone else, his optics locked on the screen.

“Cybertronian?” he asks.

“We believe so, yes,” Lennox answers.

Mearing, thank Primus, is nowhere in sight. Perhaps she's gone back to DC for a face-to-face debriefing.

“Decepticon?” Ratchet asks, fingers curling into fists at his side. Never has he wished so hard for it to be an Autobot arrival. If only to spare a spark.

A moment of heavy, anxious silence spills through ops. Footsteps announce the arrival of other Autobots: Bee, the Wreckers, Dino. Sideswipe's probably in recharge.

“Comm systems confirm,” one of the techs replies, and her lips widen in a happy grin. “Autobot signal.”

Just one? The Autobots have all arrived in a group of some kind, but this arrival is by his or her lonesome.

“Coming in hard and fast, too,” another techie inserts, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Trajectory uneven. The transmission seems to be automatic.”

Prime swings his gaze toward Ratchet. “Injury?”

“Has to be. If the poor fragger's even alive at all,” Ratchet growls. “Projected landing coordinates?”

There's another pause as calculations are made.

“Shit,” the tech mutters and cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder up at Prime. “He's, uh, going to land right on top of us. If he doesn't deviate.”

Ratchet's frame stutters.

“Time?” Prime demands.

“Three minutes, sir. Max.”

Ratchet whirls on a pede and drops into alt-mode, screeching out of the main warehouse, sirens wailing to clear the way He can hear Prime right behind him, engine growling, and no doubt the others are coming, too. Ahead of them, the alert systems start screaming a warning to the soldiers and civilians. Informing them about the incoming, urging them to take shelter in bunkers.

Outside, Ratchet turns his sensors upward, scanning the skies for signs of the Autobot's arrival. They aren't kidding about the rate of descent. He's tearing through the atmosphere so fast he's leaving streaks of flame in his wake. His trajectory is wobbling.

“He's going to overshoot,” Leadfoot says, appearing at Ratchet's left elbow. “He's not going to hit the base, he's going to--”

''--slam into the river. Slaggit!” Ratchet snarls and takes off, the rest right behind him.

The roads aren't as clear as Ratchet would like, still choked with potholes save for a single lane cleared to allow the passing of emergency vehicles and supply transports. He doesn't get there in time to see the Autobot land, though his sensors pick up the tremors that radiate outward from the area.

Ratchet arrives just as the mech pulls himself out of the river, movements slow and stilted as water sluices off his protoform. He'll need an alt-mode soon, Ratchet decides absently. He doesn't immediately recognize this arrival, and he surreptitiously starts to scan the unfamiliar frame, reports pinging back a mech in desperate need of maintenance.

Prime, mere seconds behind Ratchet, shifts from to root-mode in one smooth motion.

“Unidentified Autobot,” he rumbles stiffly. “State your designation and team.”

The mech doesn't salute, but his optics skip first from Ratchet and then to Prime.

“Drift, sir,” he says. “Formerly stationed on the Solanus.”

Ratchet's optics spiral outward. The Solanus? Last he'd heard, it was destroyed by the Decepticons.

“Drift?” Someone repeats behind Ratchet, the voice identifying Leadfoot. Or the snarl, rather. “You mean Deadlock.”

Drift's plating clamps down tight to his frame, his stance rigid and contained. “I’m no longer that mech.”

Leadfoot growls. “Ya can change your designation, but that don't change what you are.”

“What's going on here?”

The voice, all too human, cuts into their conversation, and Ratchet's spark sinks at the sound of it.

So, Mearing is still here after all. And as they had been speaking in Cybertronian, she wouldn’t have understood the conversation between them.

Prime turns to face her; Ratchet only directs a sensor toward her.

“We have a new arrival, Director. Another ally.”

Leadfoot makes a disdainful grind of gears. “He's no ally.”

Mearing only glances at the Wrecker. He’s usually beneath her notice.

“He doesn't seem to think so.”

“He's a Decepticon,” Dino says with more vitriol than Ratchet could have expected out of the red mech. Perhaps there’s something personal between himself and Drift.

“I'd prefer to be neutral,” Drift says tightly, easily adjusting in the shift from Cybertronian to English. Prime must have data-burst him the language pack.

Mearing's eyes narrow, one heeled foot tapping impatiently against the ground. “We don't house neutrals here. Either Prime is your figure of authority, or you can leave.”

In other words, the humans don't want any loose cannons mucking about. Which may be yet another cog in the wheel explaining why they don't like the wandering ‘Cons.

Ratchet waits for Prime to say something to the contrary. That it isn’t up to the humans.

He waits in vain, however. And he should have known not to expect anything from their leader.

Prime instead inclines his head in acknowledgment of Mearing's statement and redirects his attention to Drift. “There were four others assigned to the Solanus. Where is the rest of your team?”

The unadorned head dips ever so slightly. “Smokescreen, Blurr, and Springer are dead,” Drift replies, and his systems audibly cycle down. “Perceptor and I were separated.”

“Separated?” Leadfoot tosses Drift a sidelong look, taking another step back and putting more distance between himself and the former ‘Con. “Probably killed them all yourself. Too much extra baggage.”

Ratchet expects anger. Those are the kinds of accusations that get mechs shot. Drift, however, neither raises his weapons nor snarls with fury. His plating clamps down tighter, if possible, even defensively. But he doesn't speak. His optics remain on Prime, waiting for their leader to pass judgment.

“He's a spy, Prime,” Dino insists with more that inexplicable vitriol.

Drift's flinch is less noticeable this time, but Ratchet is watching him too closely to miss it.

“Your transmission said that the war is over,” Drift inserts, focusing on Prime alone. “That this planet is our home now. Is this true?”

Prime studies him. “Yes, the Decepticons have been defeated.”

Drift nods, his helm lowering as though this news is something to mourn. Interesting.

“I see. That is good news.” His vocal tones don't support his sentiment though.

Ratchet shifts, trying to catch someone's attention. “Prime, protocol,” he reminds his leader.

It's his right, after all, to drag in any new arrival for a full checkup, and Drift needs an alt-mode and some rest. Not to stand here and be glared at by most of the Autobots, while Mearing eyes him with her special brand of disdain.

Prime gestures to him. “You remember my medic, Ratchet. He will see to your injuries and help you get settled.”

“I don't think this is a good idea, Prime,” Topspin says, backing up Leadfoot. Beside them, Roadbuster gives a show of support but says nothing.

“Drift has chosen to be an Autobot. I will give him the benefit of the doubt,” Prime finally decides.

Not a single one of them considers asking Drift what he thinks about the whole situation. Ratchet supposes that they're at least calling him a traitor to his face rather than to his back. He doesn't know which would be worse.

“You're own allies don't trust him,” Mearing comments then. “So if a single human is harmed, I'm holding you accountable, Prime.”

“Understood.”

Not a single argument. What’s this broken creature inhabiting the frame of their Prime? Have the deaths of Megatron and Sentinel truly shattered Optimus’ spark? Doesn't he have any pride?

“Everyone, dismissed,” Prime adds.

He gestures to the crowd of Autobots that have gathered. There are humans present, too, NEST soldiers and a few curious techs who came along for the ride. They start to disperse. Mearing doesn't look happy about Prime's decisions. Ratchet can see the storm brewing in her eyes, even as she digs out her cellphone and starts making calls.

Prime wants this to be their home. But how many before they are too many? Before the humans draw the line and say no more Cybertronians are welcome?

What then?

Ratchet ventilates and beckons Drift toward him. “Come on then,” he says, more gruffly than he intended, but there are too many thoughts swirling about in his processor to waste circuits politeness. “We'll have to walk until you find an alt-mode you like.”

Drift nods. Not one for conversation, is he?

Ratchet leads the way, barely hearing Drift behind him. The mech walks like he's had some kind of Special Ops training. And maybe he has.

Ratchet pings his databanks, trying to drag up anything he knows of him. Deadlock, he remembers, had been a brutal and vicious killer. No pity, no remorse. He isn’t the type of Decepticon Ratchet would have pegged for switching sides. If anything, Deadlock had been the posterbot for ‘Con brutality. He'd been Turmoil's second-in-command, another mech also known for brutality.

Drift, by outward appearances, hardly seems to match the Decepticon he’d been. Ratchet doesn't know much about him. Has met him only once in passing before the Autobots had split across the universe in search of the Allspark. In fact, Ratchet has only rumors to draw upon, and one rumor in particular has circulated with such continuing persistence that he wonders if it is fact.

“Will this do?”

Ratchet startles out of his pondering, turning toward the car that Drift is standing next to. It's probably one of the vehicles in better repair around here, by virtue of the fact it hasn't been crushed or set aflame. It's in remarkably good shape considering. And a quick internet search provides the make and model.

“It's up to you,” Ratchet replies with a shrug. “Some of us go for utility. Some of us like something a bit more... flashy.”

And no, he doesn't immediately think of Sideswipe or Dino. Or Bee, who picks the newest model of Camaro every chance he gets, which doesn't quite fit in with his position as scout.

Satisfied with his answer, Drift scans the vehicle and then shifts into his newly acquired alt-mode, each twist and turn of his frame slow and measured. He revs his engine experimentally, lifting up and sinking down on his hydraulics as he tests out his new form.

“Does it fit?” Ratchet asks, a bit of a smile teasing at his mouth.

“It'll do,” Drift replies. His vocals are tinny as they transmit through the air.

Amused, Ratchet shifts as well and then leads Drift back to their temporary base, which has gone back to business as usual now that the all clear has been given. Prime, no doubt, will be locked into meetings with Mearing and the human command chain again. He seems to spend all this time there as of late.

Sideswipe's probably still in recharge, lazy aft that he is. It looks like Dino's heading out for some rescue and recovery. The Wreckers... well, Mearing likes to keep them close to base. Now that she can't ship them off to Florida and out of the way, she only allows Prime to send them on ‘Con-slaughtering missions.

Allows.

Ratchet huffs. Optimus is their Prime. He’s supposed to be the one issuing orders. But now, he looks to the humans first. Seeks permission. Plays the loyal servant.

It's enough to make Ratchet's tanks churn.

“So this is our home.”

Drift's tone is bland, showing neither approval or disapproval.

“Temporary,” Ratchet corrects as he leads Drift to the main warehouse and the far corner that serves as his medbay. “Though our previous facilities weren't much better.”

Their headquarters in DC had been more spacious, more state of the art and more defensible. But in the end, they were still warehouses that lacked privacy and the distinct feeling of home. They felt more like a prison.

Drift returns to root mode, the new lines of his alt-mode clearly visible on his plating now. He's in shades of white with the occasional line of crimson to break up the monotony. Two crests, reminiscent of a Praxian's chevron, decorate his helm. And it's only then that Ratchet notices the sheath peeking up over Drift's right shoulder.

Ah, that's right. His file states that he is a swordsmech. Must’ve had it in subspace before.

“Your medbay appears underequipped,” Drift notes almost dryly.

“Tell me something I don't know,” Ratchet agrees and pulls out his scanner. “Up on the berth.”

The new arrival complies, his optics still gathering data on his surroundings. “The native population doesn't appear to be very friendly. Or welcoming.”

“Mearing is not the best example of her species.”

Ratchet sets a reminder to introduce Lennox and Epps to Drift. He wishes Graham were here as well. He has the feeling the two would get along.

But Graham is yet another of those whom Mearing had managed to successfully drive away, not but two months after the battle for Chicago. The Americans remain aligned with the British, but there’s no longer a British representative amongst NEST.

Ratchet's scanner beeps at him. He scowls at the device.

“Primus, you need a coolant flush.”

Not to mention two struts that require realigning, several stripped gears, a fluctuating heat capacitor, and shorts in his sensory net.

“Among other things.” Drift lifts a hand, giving it to Ratchet as the medic reaches forward. “I am... used to suspicion. But I must I didn't expect an unfriendly atmosphere.”

Ratchet sighs, hating himself for the human mannerism. “It's a long story. Or I could just give you the data packet if you'll trust me with a cable.”

A port is offered to him in the very next ventilation cycle.

“You aren't wary of me,” the other mech observes. “Why?”

“Because I believe that mechs can change,” Ratchet replies honestly, thinking of his Seekers and the other ‘Cons who just need a chance. “Though I may be the last who thinks that way now.”

“I noticed.” Drift pauses, helm tilting as Ratchet initiates the transfer. “It’s a large file.”

“We've been here for five years. A lot has happened.”

Ratchet bends over Drift's hand again, the fingers twitching as he plucks out stripped hydraulic lines and replaces them. Quiet fills the medcorner while the transfer completes, and Drift starts unpacking all of the data. In retrospect, it’s a lot to take in.

The destruction of the Allspark. Megatron's death and return. The alliance with the humans. Sentinel's betrayal. The destruction of Cybertron. The loss of their family.

A small keen escapes the white mech.

“Jazz,” he says as Ratchet looks up at him in concern.

Ratchet lowers his gaze. “Yes.”

“He was a good mech.”

There is no denying that point.

“I know.”

Drift makes a strange noise, vocalizer clicking. “Sentinel Prime. His betrayal explains much about their reaction. If a known ally could turn traitor, how much easier would it be for a mech who was once Decepticon? But Cybertron...?”

“Is truly gone.”

Every time he confirms it, Ratchet feels another piece of his spark shrivel away. Like he's dying sliver by sliver.

Drift offlines his optics, free hand tightening in a grip on his thigh.

“Earth will never be home,” he manages.

“You haven't given it a chance yet.”

“And yet, judging by the emotions in your field, you don't disagree.”

Ratchet clamps his mouthplates shut. He can't dispute Drift's claims. Not when the truth is buzzing all around him.

He finishes Drift's hand and moves to his left pede. The ankle joint is not responding properly.

“What happened to your team? To the Solanus?”

This time, it’s Drift's energy field that betrays his emotions. “...Turmoil.”

Ratchet winces. No wonder Drift hadn't disputed Leadfoot's claims. He must believe he might as well have killed his team himself. Turmoil had come after the Decepticon traitor and the crew of the Solanus had been in his way.

“Perceptor?”

“The last time I saw him, he was alive. Took the archives and his research before Turmoil could.”

“His research?”

“I don't know much about it. Something to do with our sparks.” Drift's faceplates tensed with concentration. “He was always babbling about the Thirteen and the origin of the Allspark.”

Drift's careful facade cracks with genuine grief. There’s real affection there, which Ratchet is not surprised to find. Drift's team had been carefully selected, by Jazz actually, to consist of mechs who wouldn't hold his past against him and would also compliment his abilities. Jazz had always been the best of seeing through a bot, to the truth in their spark.

It appears that Jazz's plan had worked. Drift had made friends, trusted companions, of his team. And if rumors were to be believed, perhaps they had even more.

Ratchet takes a risk and offers consolation. “I'm sorry about Blurr.”

Drift's helm dips. The grief that pulses from his field still fresh and spark-rending.

“It is war.”

That answer is thin at best. It always has been in Ratchet's opinion. That it’s war; that their friends and lovers and kin had died for a good cause.

A good cause Ratchet isn't sure he believes in anymore.

It's a pale comfort when faced with cold berths. The empty place in your spark where someone important used to be. The connection that drones flat and dead where a lover or caretaker once commed. It doesn't get easier to bear, the pain never fades, and with each passing vorn, each passing battle, the grief can only build on itself.

“You mean was.”

“I meant what I said.” Drift lifts his gaze. “I saw the data packet. The war isn't over for Prime. It won't ever be over for us.”

Ratchet's spark skips a pulse. “Because the Decepticons are still a threat.”

“Are they?” Drift's blue optics are pale, so pale they are nearly white. “Leaderless. Weak from hunger. Demoralized. Oh, yes. What fearsome opponents they must be.”

Ratchet nearly stares at him. He thinks that he’s found another ally. A kindred spark. Someone to see the truth as Ratchet sees it.

“The humans would never accept a truce,” Ratchet offers, giving the arguments that he already knows Prime would claim.

“How convenient an excuse.” Drift's optics spiral outward, as though his words are too rude. “Apologies, Ratchet. I've been alone in the universe too long. Too much time to think.”

“We could all use a little perspective.” The medic awkwardly pats Drift's leg, rising to his pedes. “And in your case, some recharge. I'll fix up the rest later.” He checks the logs for confirmation. “Bay 37 is your new berth. Congratulations.”

Drift stands, giving his fixed leg an experimental twitch.

“Welcome home,” he replies and doesn't bother to hide the sarcasm.

Ratchet doesn't have the spark to try and prove him otherwise.

***
(on to part six)

Comments

[theropod]

I can but hope Ratchet and Drift get on swimmingly in the future, love those two.