[Bay] War Without End - Drift Part Three

[dracoqueen22]

Title: War Without End – Drift Part III
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Drift, Ratchet, Thundercracker, Prowl, Dreadwing, Tracks, Wheeljack, Skywarp
Pairings: DriftxRatchet
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.


“Perhaps the problem isn't our method,” Wheeljack theorizes aloud, pacing back and forth across the floor of the barn. “But that there has to be a certain level of sync between the participants.”

“You mean, the spark donors must be closer?” Ratchet questions skeptically.

Wheeljack inclines his head. “Prowl and Dreadwing are relatively strangers. A few months spent in close quarters doesn't for a bond make. But someone else...?”

“Like Thundercracker and Skywarp?” Drift prompts.

“Or myself and Tracks,” Wheeljack suggests, vocal indicators flashing brightly. “We should try and match frame types this time. Perhaps there's too much difference between a Seeker and a grounder.”

Drift feels amusement slide into his field. “You do realize Thundercracker and Skywarp are both Seekers, right?”

Wheeljack waves a dismissing hand, taking up his pace again. “Yes, but they are both fliers. Everyone knows that Seekers run hotter. Let's see if we need a cooler burn.”

Amusement stretches further, and Drift has to turn his helm, hiding his laugh. There's something about that term which turns him back into a sparkling.

“Or we need the greater energy capacity of a Seeker,” Ratchet argues, nearly matching Wheeljack pace for pace. “We only have three more tries maximum before we have to wait for all of our sparks to regenerate.”

“Yes, but the spark slivers dispersed before we could get them close enough to merge. They were too unstable,” Wheeljack counters.

“Or they weren't strong enough.”

Drift's helm is starting to ache. He’s no scientist, and it's clear that the two of them have differing opinions on what went wrong before.

The data, Wheeljack claims, is inconclusive.

“But you can agree that there needs to be some kind of sync?” Drift asks, hoping to get them to focus on what they did know as opposed to what they didn't.

Both wing their gazes toward him.

“If that's what's important,” Drift continues, drawing on what little he could remember of Perceptor's babblings, “then we should have the spark donors split at the same time in proximity of each other.”

Ratchet looks at Wheeljack and vice versa. Drift detects the low-buzz of private comms. between them and can't be offended. Not when their argument was making him twitch.

“Thundercracker and Skywarp may be out of balance due to Starscream's loss,” Ratchet murmurs, fingers clicking together.

“I already have Tracks' consent,” Wheeljack puts in brightly.

Drift ventilates his relief and leaves them to it. He supposes he better warn Tracks what’s coming because the other two might forget. They’re already starting up another debate about distance and proximity and focus and energy levels.

At least Ratchet isn't moping anymore. Drift will take a cantankerous Ratchet over a sulking Ratchet any day of the week.

o0o0o

Another day, another attempt.

Tensions are higher this time around with Wheeljack one of the participants, and Drift is now drafted as Ratchet's second pair of hands. He's no medic, but he's had enough drilled in his processor that he can't fail. Ratchet won't accept anything less.

Prowl and Dreadwing hover in the doorway, watching with expressions that give nothing away.

Skywarp has the scanners, standing back to take his readings in Wheeljack's place. His wings are hiked upward, trembling. As though the level of energy and apprehension in the room are rasping against his sensors. It probably is. Drift's own spark won't stop throbbing with anxiety, and he's not even the one about to make the attempt.

Drift rubs his palms together, telling himself his hands aren't shaking, and neither is his plating. His ventilations come in sharp bursts, and he offlines his optics, focusing to bring them back under control.

Tracks and Wheeljack stand right next to each other, the former looking more strained than the latter. Tracks' plating vibrates, energy crawling in visible flashes out from under his armor; his optics are almost entirely white. His hands are clenched, backstrut hunched, bracing himself.

“All right,” Ratchet says, and his voice startles everyone, even Prowl and Dreadwing in the doorway. “We can start now.”

The silence has been as unnerving as the waiting.

“I am beginning to see why Dreadwing fussed so,” Tracks states, vocalizer glitching. “This isn’t comfortable.”

“It's necessary,” Ratchet retorts, running a scanner over Tracks first. Once it beeps to his satisfaction, he turns his attention to Wheeljack, only to frown. “The more extra energy you can sustain, the better chance you have of producing a viable spark fragment.”

Tracks groans, his field fizzling with discomfort. “You keep talking, and all I can hear is you telling me this is going to hurt.”

“Yes, well… that, too.” Ratchet switches his attention. “Wheeljack, what on Primus have you been doing?”

The inventor beams, indicators lighting up like a rainbow. “I came up with it last week,” he says, exuding cheer. “It takes all the extra energy, shunts it to a sink, and then sends it all cycling back on my command. No pain and all the gain.”

“And you couldn't have shared it?” Tracks demands with another rolling moan and spasm of his frame.

“It was experimental. You told me not to come near you with anything that was still experimental after what happened on Ibux.”

Drift cycles his optics. Did he want to know what the frag happened on Ibux?

Ratchet ventilates a sharp burst. “Wheeljack, what in the -- No. No, I don't want to know. Just take that fragging thing off so I can take a real reading.”

“If you say so.” Wheeljack, all but beaming from his own accomplishment, fiddles with something in his chassis. He then straightens, putting on the air of someone patiently waiting. “There. Now, I only have to-- Oh, dear.”

Two words one never wants to hear from Wheeljack.

Drift takes a step back. Tracks takes three steps away. Ratchet produces a wrench from Primus knows where. Probably a special subspace pocket he keeps just for tools required to beat unsuspecting Autobots with.

“Wheeljack,” Ratchet warns.

The inventor waves a dismissing hand. “I'm fine,” he says and winces. “That's just, um, more energy than I was… ah, expecting.” A full frame shudder races visibly across his plating. “A lot more.”

“I could've told you that,” Tracks spits out with a frustrated burst of his ventilations.

“Not the time, Tracks,” Wheeljack retorts. Then, his knees buckle beneath him, and he drops as a flare of energy field bursts through the room, strong enough to send Drift reeling.

It's a full, concentrated flare and Drift's sensors go haywire. His own field rises up to meet it, interested in this bright and shining sensation. Even more so when Tracks' field stretches out, filling in what little gaps remain. Until the whole room tastes of Tracks and Wheeljack, somehow a mingled mass.

“Primus,” Drift pants, and he sets his knees to lock before he drops, too.

“Ratchet,” Prowl’s voice floats in from the doorway. “I don’t believe we can wait any longer.”

“Hurts,” Wheeljack gasps out.

“And that's why we let it build up gradually,” Ratchet all but snarls. “You fragging glitch.”

The engineer moans, optics dimming. “Yell at me later, Ratch. I'm about to combust.”

As if to agree with him, Tracks drops, frame curling inward. A low sound, mixing pain and exasperation, rattles from the his vocalizer.

“All right, you two, focus.” Ratchet subspaces his scanner. He sends a ping to Drift, as though reminding him to pay attention as well. “Let's try not to frag this up this time.”

Drift inclines his helm and looks at Wheeljack. The inventor's vocal indicators are pulsing dimly, his field flashing through the room in increasingly larger surges. Tracks is no better, radiating pain and anxiety.

“Never again,” Tracks bites out, losing his reserve, slipping into an older accent. His chestplates part with audiable cracks, sliding away and up, revealing the unmarred surface of his spark chamber.

“Drift,” Wheeljack says, strained. “I'm going to need your help here.”

“Sorry.”

The apology comes easy, and Drift returns his attention to Wheeljack in time to see the inventor parting his chestplates manually, actually digging his fingers in gaps and pulling the armor panels aside.

Drift frowns. “Why don't you--”

“Can't,” Wheeljack replies and looks sheepish as he pushes aside a second layer of armor, wise considering his reputation. “Disabled those commands eons ago. Just in case I was ever hacked.”

“But what if--”

“Want to hide something? You do it in plain sight.” Wheeljack's ventilations stutter and his shoulders hunch.

He does something with his fingers, and his second armor layer springs open, spark chamber coming into view. Unlike Tracks, his gives evidence of several welds, injuries few mechs can survive. Spark chambers usually don't last once compromised.

“I've died a lot,” Wheeljack puts in, suddenly talkative, helm turning away and vocals softening. “But I always come back. Guess Primus isn't ready to have me yet.”

“And I'm not about to give you to him either,” Ratchet adds from right next to Drift. “So stop chatting and get to splitting.”

Not that they need any urging. Two sparks come into view, pulsing and beautiful, bright and eager. Tracks, shades of aquamarine. Wheeljack, shades of a deeper green. Together, they are like images Drift's seen of some of Earth's warmer oceans, just beneath the surface.

Beautiful, he thinks, and a shudder races across his plating. Their fields are so strong and vibrant that it feels like a physical pressure on Drift's armor. It sinks past his plating, strokes over his circuits, causing his systems to ping back pleasure.

Last time, he hadn't seen anything. This time, he has a front row seat.

He figures Tracks will be the first, but it's Wheeljack who groans, one arm flailing and latching onto Tracks. Their fingers twine, gripping with the sound of squealing metal, and Wheeljack's spark flares. It swells in his chamber, and Drift's not sure how to describe what happens next.

There's a sharp burst. Like the pulse of a blaster or the discharge of a plasma shell. A piece of Wheeljack's spark breaks away. It's connected to him by a thin, crackling stream, and Drift tilts forward, hands cupping to grab it. The spark segment tips into his fingers, static dancing against his dermal plating. It’s strangely cool to the touch.

The closest he can equate it to is the time he made Blurr overload by dipping his finger's in his mate's spark. It’s the most intimate thing they had ever done together, requiring the greatest of trust, and Blurr had overloaded so hard that he'd offlined for nearly a joor. Drift had called Perceptor in a panic.

Wheeljack sucks in a loud ventilation, sagging further, his optics flickering.

Drift stares at the sparklet in his hands, which bounces back and forth, energetic and fuzzy. His dermal plating tingles, own spark surging behind his chestplate as though trying to join with the bitty one.

He can't remember what he's supposed to do next. How is it even surviving out here?

“Drift!”

Ratchet barks at him, his designation like a command. Drift startles, whirling toward the medic who's holding his own tiny sparklet. Drift glances over his shoulder, sees Tracks sagging, and then, he has to pay attention because Red is waiting and the spark in his hand is growing warmer. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.

“Together.” Ratchet catches and holds his gaze.

Drift nods.

They move in unison, hands cupped over Red's spark chamber, two tiny sparklets pulsing dimmer and dimmer in their palms. Ratchet tips his hands first, the sparklet dangling from his fingers like some kind of liquid gas, static dancing from his hands to the open spark chamber. Drift follows his example, feeling the sparklet tug and pull at his dermal plating before reluctantly submitting to gravity.

They collide in mid-air, the sharp scent of electrical discharge filling the air along with the snap-crackle of static energy. Drift watches as tendrils of energy snap out like lightning from the pair, drawing them together. The two different sparklets circle around each other, spinning faster and faster. More energy tendrils make a connection as their combined form glows brighter.

Drift's ventilations hitch. He doesn't dare look at Ratchet. It seems to be working.

Within Red's spark chamber, the conjoined sparks writhe, as though struggling to fill the empty space. But they still haven't completely merged. Drift can make out a distinction between them, where they've fused along the middle but haven't come flush together. He's no medic, but even he knows that the merging must be complete.

Ratchet has his scanner out, silently observing.

Drift frowns. Is it just him or do the sparklets seem dimmer?

He focuses, narrowing his senses, trying to read the tiny energy field given off by the sparklets. He is alarmed to find that it is shrinking.

“Ratchet--”

“There's nothing I can do,” the medic snaps, hands tightening their grip around the scanner. His optics are dark and focused. “It's in Primus' hands now.”

Drift presses his lip plates together. Primus doesn't give a frag about anything, he reasons.

The combined sparklet is much dimmer now, the tendrils forming becoming less and less. Some of the tentative connections appear to be withering away, the sparklets losing their shape. It flexes, less spheroidal and more shapeless. It sags, pooling in the bottom of Red's spark chamber. It quivers, a few bits of static dancing in the center.

Ratchet's soft whuff of ventilation and gradual lowering of his scanner is all the answer Drift needs. Especially when the medic turns away, seeing to Wheeljack and Tracks, both mechs unconscious.

Drift stays, standing there alone as the spark flickers, struggling to remain viable. It fights a losing battle, gradually diminishing until there's nothing left but an echo of the energy and some kind of plasma residue at the bottom of the chamber.

Another failure.

Drift's helm dips, disappointment and despair filling the confines of the barn.

o0o0o

Wheeljack barely regains conscious before he is contacting Skywarp and arranging to get back up to the Ark, citing a need for them to be off this planet and soon. Whether it's because he blames Earth's natural energies for their failures or wants to work out his disappointment the only way he knows how, Drift doesn't know. He doesn't ask either.

Grief carries a heavy weight, and right now, it has permeated throughout their cadre. Even Skywarp is no longer his cheerful self. No one complains about monitor duty. Their command trine crowds around the makeshift computers, plotting and planning and deciding and no one comes to the medbay just to visit anymore.

Ratchet used to trip over mechs wanting to stare at the hatchlings, hold them, envision a future where Cybertron is rebuilt. Albeit on another planet but thriving nonetheless.

Two failures later and Drift is the only one who can walk into the medbay without flinching. Even Ratchet acts like he's walking into a morgue rather than a medbay. At least, he's onlined Red, letting the drone scamper around, chittering to itself as it completes whatever task Ratchet has given him.

Offering consolation is no easier the second time around.

“What are we missing?” Ratchet asks, surprising Drift with his willingness to speak. “What are we doing wrong?”

“We got closer this time.” Drift leans his hip against a pile of crates. “We must be doing something right.”

Ratchet shakes his helm, setting down a tool with a loud clank. “But it's not enough. There's something we're missing, some piece of data that is dooming us to failure.”

“Such as?”

“I don't know!” Ratchet's field surges, flush with frustration and disappointment. He cycles a ventilation, visibly restrains himself. “Maybe it was an empty hope to start with, pointless conjecture from half-remembered research.”

Drift moves forward before he thinks about it. “You can't mean that.”

“Of course, I do. We were foolish to try.” Ratchet braces his hands on the counter, shoulders hunching. “It must be a punishment. We destroyed ourselves, and Primus is denying us this second chance.”

Drift brushes his hands across Ratchet's back. He feels the flutter of agitated plating, the despair so thick in his partner’s field.

“I don't think that's it,” he offers. “Maybe it's not something we're doing.”

That Ratchet doesn't pull away from him is a victory in itself

“Elaborate,” the medic demands, and there's a barely tangible loosening of his armor, as though he's relaxing.

Drift lets his fingers explore. He traces lines of paint and transformation seams, less to arouse and more to comfort.

“What if we're doing everything right, and it's the spark that's not behaving.” He lets out a ventilation, trying to put his theory into words that make sense. “What if the spark is viable but doesn't like the housing?”

Ratchet's helm half-turns, looking at Drift over his shoulder. “Like a transplant rejection?”

It doesn't happen often but enough that medics know to watch and have a term for it. Sometimes, frames don't like upgrades. Sometimes, sparks don't like re-frames. They reject the new material, the new design, and it takes a talented medic to put a distressed spark back to standard before it destabilizes completely.

“Yes,” Drift answers.

“Hmm.” Ratchet shifts, processor turning contemplative. “That makes sense but would also complicate matters. How can we anticipate what frame a newspark wants?”

“Trial and error,” Drift suggests and slides a hand down Ratchet's back, reaching for a knot of cables that tend to kink. “And a bit of logic. Maybe Prowl and Dreadwing didn't succeed because their frames are too different.”

“Wheeljack and Tracks are both grounders,” Ratchet points out.

“But Tracks might as well be a triple-changer,” Drift reminds him. “Maybe that's just different enough that Red's simple frame rejected their combined spark.”

Another contemplative hum escapes his partner. “It's worth considering. Which means Thundercracker and Skywarp are our most logical candidates for a third try. They are the same basic frame and have the trine-bond as well.” He vents noisily, rotating his mid-section forward and presenting more of his back to Drift. “I'll have to prep a Seeker hatchling.”

“Or,” Drift says, digging into cramped cables and watching as the tension gradually drains from Ratchet's frame, “you could refuel and recharge.”

He expects bluster and arguing. Ratchet never goes down without a fight. Instead, he hears a soft sigh from Ratchet.

“I have duties,” the medic says, but it's a protest half-sparked at best.

Drift's fingers wander further. They slip beneath armor plates and dance over the tense cables.

“And I bet if I were to ask Prowl, he’d insist that they wait.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “You are no good to anyone undercharged and threatening to glitch.”

The sound of a sudden crash make the both of them startle. Drift whirls at the same time as Ratchet, only to find that Red has somehow gotten his pedes tangled in a bin of wire. In the course of attempting to free himself, he tipped it over, colliding with a tray of tools Ratchet had on a crate nearby.

Ratchet releases an audible sigh. “He's not unlike a human toddler.”

“I'll clean it up.” Drift holds out an arm to keep Ratchet from helping. “You get a cube of energon.”

“Should I be addressing you as sir from now on?” the medic retorts, but there's amusement rather than offense in his tone.

More noticeable is the fact that he doesn't argue, though Drift attributes that to Ratchet hating to clean up avoidable messes.

“Only if that's what you're into,” he tosses over his shoulder and stifles a laugh when Ratchet tosses him a startled look.

This, Drift surmises, is much better than angry brooding. He can understand Ratchet's disappointment, but wallowing in it isn't going to help anyone. Wallowing is what leads to racer-cum-gladiators turning into eagerly murderous Decepticons.

“Stuck!” Red chirps, crimson optics rolling toward Drift in a look that would be pleading, had he anything resembling emotion. “Stuck!”

Drift rolls back a sigh. “Yeah, I noticed.” He crouches to disentangle the hatchling, though it seems weird to call Red one since the hatchling is only shorter than him by a helm. “What are you working on?”

The hatchling at least is aware enough to stay still as Drift unwinds the thin wire from his ankle servos.

“Sorting,” Red offers.

“Sorting what?”

“Wire.”

Well, of course. Drift chuckles and gets the last of the wire free. “Can you pick up the tools you knocked over?”

Red pushes himself to his pedes and gives his frame a look over. “No damage,” he says and holds his arms out. “See?”

“I see.”

It's not unlike a human child, now that Drift thinks about it. Had Ratchet programmed the AI to mimic toddlers on purpose?

“Can you pick up the tools?”

The hatchling immediately crouches and starts to gather the scattered tools, making a small pile. “Yes. Next?”

The smile that takes Drift's lips is entirely involuntary. “Go back to sorting. But no messes this time, alright?” His hand brushes over Red's helm as he rises to his pedes. Sometimes, it's hard to recognize that Red isn't actually sparked.

“Yes!” Red chirps. He's got the tools in a pile now, and he's picking them up, examining them one by one before walking them carefully back to the tray.

“Huh.”

Drift turns, a prickle dancing across his shoulders. He finds Ratchet standing there, holding a cube of energon. One orbital ridge is lifted.

“What?” Drift asks.

The medic shakes his helm, brushing past him and heading for the medberth. “I think that's the first time you've willingly touched a hatchling, is all.”

Drift shifts, embarrassment worming into his field. “He's not small anymore.”

Which is really only part of the problem.

“Is that all?” Ratchet hauls himself onto the berth, enjoyment wafting Drift's direction, along with a teasing caress of his field. “Have him recharge. I want to tweak his coding in the morning. He can finish later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ratchet's lips twitch. “Oh, have we switched roles now?”

“I was under the assumption we were a partnership.”

“Mm. That too.” Ratchet drains the last of his cube and sets it aside, swinging his legs over the berth to stretch across it. “Get the lights, will you, sweetspark?”

Drift rolls his optics. And the rare but welcome Ratchet humor emerges. “Whatever you say, sir.” He shakes his helm and his the switch to cut the lights down to dim.

Red looks up from his sorting, making a confused sound. “Dark.”

“Yeah, it's dark.” Drift gestures to the hatchling, pointing to his usual berth. “Come on. Finish sorting later. Recharge now.”

Red obeys, scrambling up onto his berth and lying flat. Drift wonders if he can put himself into recharge or not, but that question is answered for him as Red almost immediately powers down. He supposes that's the difference between an AI drone. No worries to keep a system from cycling over and over.

Quiet takes over the medbay, save for the gurgling of the hatchling tanks and the soft clicks and whistles of Ratchet's frame as he eases into recharge. Drift lingers, picking up a few things, checking on the tanks, field twining with Ratchet's. Finally, he makes himself leave and resists the urge to climb in beside Ratchet.

Co-recharging hasn't been discussed. Yet.

It's a step by step process, both of them unwilling to push, though for different reasons. Ratchet, out of some misplaced worries about Drift's affection for Blurr. Drift, because Ratchet can be so fragging prickly and he doesn't want to upset the balance.

He creeps out to the main section and finds Prowl of all mechs perched in front of monitors, watching the human news networks. Drift's facial plates heat. He often forgets that the medbay isn't as private as it seems.

“Thank you, Drift,” Prowl comments without taking his optics from the screen. His sensory panels twitch. “I was concerned about his lack of recharge.”

Drift shifts his weight. “Probably as worried as he is about yours.”

Laughter flickers in the tactician's field. “Yes, well, Ratchet is woefully misinformed. I am adequately filling my recharge requirements.”

It takes all of Drift's self-control not to smirk at Prowl. He's sure that a certain Seeker – or two – is responsible for Prowl's sudden interest in recharging properly.

“He'll be happy to hear that.” Drift shuffles to the left, catching a glimpse of the TV screens. It doesn't appear anything interesting is happening. “Where is everyone?”

“Skywarp, Wheeljack, and Dreadwing are on the Ark. Thundercracker is in recharge. I believe Tracks is in Wheeljack's lab,” Prowl informs him, sensory panels lifting before they flatten against his backplate.

Drift makes a noncommittal noise. He'd hoped to talk to Tracks, but he's not going anywhere near the lab. No offense but Drift has learned his lesson when it comes to mad scientists, and he doesn't trust anything with a laboratory attached to it. One too many protoform scars will attest to that.

“What about the Ark?” Drift asks because he's not an engineer or a medic or a large Seeker, so he doesn't go up to the Ark nearly as much as anyone else. “How long until it's ready, do you think?”

“According to my last estimations, the Ark is eighty-seven percent complete to the best of our resources and abilities. It’s flight-ready but not prepared for space travel,” Prowl answers. “There also remains the matter of stocking it.”

Drift inclines his helm. “In other words, more solar converters working at maximum because we have more mouths to feed than we have hands to mine the deposits?”

“To put it plainly, yes.” Prowl reaches forward, fingers tapping the small control panel to change one of the channels. “Though it’s my hope that our efforts will succeed and we can awaken at least two hatchlings. If not spark them, then upload them with AIs like Red.”

It makes sense, Drift thinks. The drones might not be alive, but at least if they are run by AIs, however rudimentary, they can follow basic commands. They can run in the face of danger, carry their brethren, and obey. The more hatchlings that survive, the better the chance for sparking them in the future, as soon as they figure out the particulars of the process.

Drift folds his arms. “Ratchet wants to try for a Seeker next.”

“Has he come to any conclusions regarding our errors?” Prowl questions with a tilt of his head.

“More theories.” Drift stares at the floor as he runs through the various concepts they've discussed. “He thinks it has something to do with frame type.”

Prowl makes a noise best described as disappointed. “That would be unfortunate. One of the hatchlings is a rotary, and there are none among us.”

“It's just a theory.” He rolls his shoulders, swords clanking. “We think we're on the right course when it comes to field bonds. Wheeljack and Tracks got close. It could be that Wheeljack's little trick with the regulator threw it off.”

Prowl's sensory panels twitch, the only outward sign of his annoyance. “Given the data, attempting to enspark a Seeker hatchling with Thundercracker and Skywarp is our best chance then.”

“Yes.”

Drift can't hide his own disappointment. All he can see is Red, cheerful for all that he is truly emotionless. Eager to please, obeying without question.

It's too easy to think of Red as an individual when he's alert and aware and moving around. The other hatchlings are in a constant state of stasis and don't look alive, but Red does. He reacts and responds, and even without a spark, he seems to have a personality.

He deserves to be sparked, Drift thinks. He deserves more than this half-existence, one ruled by a mediocre AI. Ratchet's done his best, but he'll admit he's not a coder, especially not for something as complicated as a fully aware AI. He'd had to strip out Megatron's forced battle coding because there'd been nothing of civility in it. And he's altered copies of his own coding, but there's so much in it related to spark mechanics that he's had to strip it to the bare minimum before Red's frame would take it without crashing.

“You sound as though you disagree.”

Drift rolls his shoulders. “Thundercracker and Skywarp are our best chance,” he says, putting optimism into his tone. “But Red deserves it, too.”

“They all do,” Prowl replies, fingers tapping as he cycles through several channels, only remaining on one long enough to discern whether or not it’s important. “With time, we will give every one of the hatchlings a chance. We must all be patient.”

Patient?

With Optimus and his Autobots ventilating down their backstruts? The humans scouring the land and skies for signs of traitors? Astrotrain lurking around the Ark like an accident waiting to happen? Drift doesn't think there's much patience left in him. Not when he feels like he's dancing on the edge of a blade, waiting for someone to come along and give him one last push.

Drift withdraws a sigh. “He'll need one of the Seekers in the morning,” he says, picking up the pace. Perhaps he'll seek out Tracks after all. “To get a copy of their coding.”

“Thundercracker will be his best bet as much of Skywarp's core coding is corrupted.”

“I'll be sure to pass that on.” Drift pauses in the doorway to see if Prowl requests anything of him, but when the tactician lapses into silence, he makes his escape.

He sucks in a cool draft of night air, stepping into an early summer breeze. The idea of seasons is interesting, to say the least. However, Drift isn't fond of how unpredictable Earth's weather tends to get. Thank Primus their rain isn't corrosive since it tends to crop up without warning.

Earth, in solitude, is much quieter than Cybertron. There's no subtle hum, the underlying and constant whirr of a planet in motion. Drift knows that Earth is spinning; he can track the movement of the stars. But he can't feel it, not like he can on Cybertron.

Could, Drift corrects himself. Could. And won't ever again because Cybertron is gone. While Drift had never been particularly happy living there, it’s still home to him. He's never really had one of those before, a home.

He's had owners and a tiny, one-room apartment little bigger than a cell that held a berth and nothing else. He can't remember life before the races. He doesn't know if he was illegally sparked as one or if they picked him up off the streets or if he wandered in one day and didn't know he was agreeing to slavery.

He can't remember, and sometimes, Drift is glad for that. He can't hate caretakers who abandoned him if he doesn't remember them. Or he can't loathe the priests for giving sketchy mechs a sparkling if he doesn't know that either. And he can't hate himself for being too stupid to read between the lines.

Drift tilts his helm back to look up at the sky. Somewhere, in that far distance, are the ruins of Cybertron. Bits and pieces of a shattered landscape drifting around in space, kind of like its former inhabitants.

He'll never go home again.

“What are you looking at?”

Drift turns his head to find Tracks emerging from Wheeljack and Skywarp's shared laboratory, looking a bit shinier than usual. And brighter as well. Tracks has apparently taken the time to touch up his paint. Drift resists the urge to glance down at his own. There's no way it's presentable.

Well, he supposes a mech has his priorities.

“Nothing in particular,” Drift says and shifts his weight, giving Tracks a once-over. “Nice paint.”

The once-Towers mech grins. He slides a thumb down his forearm, along a line of perfectly applied detailing.

“Thanks. I feel a bit more like myself now, if you know what I mean.”

Drift makes a noncommittal noise. He supposes he might understand where Tracks is coming from, though being clean and shiny had never been of importance to him. Not when there were other, more worrisome issues, such as fueling and maintenance needs.

He turns his helm back toward the sky, stars half-obscured by hazy clouds, and a half-full moon lighting the rest. Wouldn't it blow the human's minds to realize that right now a handful of Transformers are up on their moon with a space-capable ship large enough to carry them and a few hundred more up and away from their planet?

“Or maybe you don't.” Tracks ventilates a sharp burst and steps out of the brightness of the moonlight and into the shadows of the barn next to Drift. “How's Ratchet?”

“Recharging.” Drift winces, tossing Tracks an apologetic look. “How are you?”

Tracks rolls his shoulders, winglets twitching as his gaze wanders away. “Sore. Exhausted. Feeling like I'm not firing on all cylinders and swigging energon like I can't get enough.” He pauses, expression closing down. “I'll get over it.”

“Would you do it again?”

“In a spark cycle,” Tracks replies without hesitation. “It hurt like nothing I've ever felt before, including getting punched through the internals by Bludgeon. Yet, if we can make it work, it’ll be worth it.”

Bludgeon?

Drift arches an orbital ridge. “I'm surprised you survived.”

Bludgeon has a thing for making sure his victims stay down. He loves finishing off helpless bots, Decepticon and Autobot alike.

“Barely.” Tracks cracks a grin, but it falls short of his usual confidence. “Had a good medic to put me back together.” He pauses, one pede pushing at the ground. “That was a long time ago. When I still had my team.”

The ache in Tracks' tone is unmistakable. It's the same that takes Drift from time to time when he thinks about Springer or Blurr or Smokescreen or Perceptor, the last of whom might still be alive. Perceptor is clever and knows how to keep his helm down. He's probably out there somewhere, hoping that an Autobot ship will stumble on him.

“Anyone I know?”

A grin curves Tracks' lipplates. “Actually, you might have.” A little laugh escapes him. “Name was Ambulon. Used to be a Decepticon until we convinced him otherwise.”

What? Like all former Decepticons knew each other?

Except...

Drift frowns. He runs the designation through his databanks, only to let loose a sharp bark of laughter. Yeah, he'd heard of Ambulon. So much for indignation.

“How many were on your team?”

Tracks steps back, lowering himself to one of the crates they keep stacked outside of the barn. “Calling it a team is generous. It was an accident we all ended up on the same ship.” He tilts his head back and looks skyward. “There was an attack, and everyone fled to the nearest escape. There were ten of us, mostly strangers, all staring at each other trying to figure out who was actually the highest-ranked and therefore our commanding officer.”

It's actually the most Drift has ever heard Tracks talk about before. Tracks tends to focus on now, which for him, is Dreadwing and Wheeljack.

“Who did it end up being?”

It's an interesting concept to Drift, whose own team had been hand-picked by Jazz. Guarding Perceptor had been their main duty, but they had also been chosen based on who would be willing to work with a former 'Con.

“Kup.”

“I know him.”

“I think everyone knows him, even Decepticons,” Tracks agrees in a dry tone. “No one wanted to fight him for it either. We just powered up the ship and left for places unknown.”

Drift folds his arms, checks his chronometer, and confirms that they still have some time before they have to worry about being indoors.

“No plans?”

“I think we all expected to turn around and head back to Cybertron at some point, but the Decepticons gave chase, and...” Tracks rolls his shoulders again, energy field pulling in tight to his frame. “By the time we could stop and make a plan, there were a lot less of us, and we were running on fumes.”

“And one by one, you dwindled down,” Drift murmurs. It's not his story, but one he's heard before from Prowl and mentioned off-hand by Wheeljack and the impression he'd gotten from Dino.

Tracks leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Did I ever tell you how I met Dreadwing?”

“No,” he admits.

“No surprise there.” Tracks chuckles, but it's a bitter sound. “Myself and what was left of my team were shot down by another Decepticon ship. They landed; we crashed. We emerged, damaged but determined to fight, and they responded in kind.”

Tracks pauses, as though trapped in the memory. Drift keeps his silence. Tracks will get to it on his own time.

“I took a hit to the helm, rough enough that it forced a hard reset, and when I rebooted, there wasn't anyone left. My team was dead, and so were the Decepticons. Except for one.”

“Dreadwing?”

The former noble inclines his head. “I heard him groan, saw this mass of metal shift, and I thought it might be one of the Autobots. Until I saw the Decepticon brand. I almost left him there.”

“Why didn't you?”

Tracks rolls his shoulders. “I didn't have anywhere to go. Neither did he. What was the point? I could’ve killed him and been the only one there.”

“Or he could’ve killed you,” Drift points out.

A soft ventilation escapes Tracks, and he leans back, a defeated slump to his winglets. “I think a part of me didn't care. My world was dead, my people were gone, my friends...”

He trails off again, and this time, he doesn't continue.

Not that he needs to. Drift understands perfectly well what Tracks means and where he's coming from.

“Why didn't he kill you?” Drift asks.

Tracks tips his helm, shooting Drift a smirk. “You'll have to ask him. We ended up with this uneasy, unspoken truce. I was more mobile, so I found us energon. But he could get us off the rock, so it was in my best interest to keep him alive. We talked because what else could we do? And that, as the humans say, is that.”

“I'm sure there's more to it.”

“Of course, there is.” Tracks pushes himself to his pedes, whipping out a cloth and running it over his plating where a few specks of dust attacked him. “But that's all I'm willing to share.”

“Fair enough,” Drift concedes.

Tracks gives Drift an appraising scan. “You look terrible.” He tilts his helm, gesturing for Drift to follow him. “Come on. I'll repaint you.”

“Why?”

Tracks offers a snort of air. “You're embarrassing to look at, and you obviously need a distraction.”

“And that's your only reason?” Drift lifts an orbital ridge.

“You could call it a gesture of good will. You'll thank me later.”

Tracks heads toward the lab, and Drift hesitates until he feels like a coward for doing so. Surely, it's safe so long as the resident mad geniuses aren't there, right?

Drift ruffles his plating. “That's what they all say.”

Tracks laughs.

***
a/n: And now for the final part, part four...