[Bay] War Without End - Drift Part Four
Nov. 5th, 2014 09:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: War Without End – Drift Part IV
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.
Drift doesn't recharge.
Considering that he does less than just about anyone else in their cadre, he doesn't need as much. Most of his energy is expended in sitting and monitoring either the human broadcasts or the consoles in their control room. Between he and Tracks, they barely consume a cube's worth of energon a day.
Besides, Ratchet rests much easier if he thinks someone is monitoring the hatchling's condition when he isn't. With Wheeljack millions of miles away and working on the Ark, that doesn't leave many options.
At this stage luckily, there isn't much for Drift to do but make sure their energon feeders are full and they don't seem to be in any distress. Red, too, is recharging on the mini-berth Ratchet made, performing some much needed defragging.
Drift busies himself by puttering around. Tracks had helped pass the time, and it feels odd to be so clean and waxed again. It looks nice though, so Drift supposes that's what matters. It made Tracks happy for some reason, and that's always a good thing.
Time passes slowly, and though Drift is reluctant to stir Ratchet from his much-needed recharge, he knows the medic will gripe if he rests too long. Better to avoid the vitriol whenever possible, so Drift draws up two cubes of energon, nods to an ever-vigilant Prowl, and creeps back into the medbay.
It's nigh impossible to gently wake someone from recharge, but Drift tries. First, he gives Ratchet something like a gentle ping. Then, he sets the energon aside and slides a hand down Ratchet's arm, a bare touch that's just enough to excite the sensors but not cause alarm.
Hopefully.
Drift, after all, has learned his lesson when it comes to startling Ratchet. The medic tends to react with strut saw first and growl a question later.
He checks on Red, but the hatchling is still in recharge. He browses the others as well, including the brightly colored grounder Ratchet had been contemplating. Then, the four Seekers, one of whom will get the honor of being Thundercracker and Skywarp's attempt.
Sounds of a fan clicking on alert him to Ratchet's onlining.
Drift turns, reaching out with his field and pleased when Ratchet reaches out as well. “Good morning,” he says.
“Is that what they're calling it?” Ratchet rolls over with a noisy creak of the makeshift berth. One hand rises to his helm, fingers tracing the geometric lines. “I honestly can't tell if the recharge helped or made my fatigue worse.”
“You could always recharge longer. I don't think anyone would complain.” Drift retrieves his cubes, moving closer.
With a hiss of protesting hydraulics, Ratchet pushes himself upright. His legs dangle over the edge of the berth.
“Too much to do,” he says and lowers his hand, cycling his optics as though struggling to focus.
He pauses, cycling them again, and then gives Drift a critical look. “My, aren't you shiny?” Enjoyment flickers in his energy field.
Drift rolls his optics. “Blame Tracks. He insisted.”
“Good for him.”
“Are you saying I was dirty?”
Ratchet's smirk grows. “I would never say that.” He pauses for effect. “But you were. I was beginning to wonder what color your plating was supposed to be.”
“Hah, hah. You could stand to go in for a little detailing yourself, you know.” Drift gives the scrape marks and paint transfers a pointed look.
Ratchet reaches for one of Drift's cubes and wriggles his fingers with impatience. “I'll keep that in mind. It'll be the first thing I do, once everyone is up to my expected level of maintenance.”
Which would be never, considering their general state of disrepair. Oh, they are all functional, but Ratchet's idea of repair is nothing short of one-hundred percent and nothing but a fully-stocked medbay will make any of them reach that magic number.
Drift hands over the energon, fiddling with his own as he watches Ratchet consume his. Half a day's worth of recharge and Ratchet looks as though he could use a few more. His plating is dull, his optics dim, his armor clamped tight to his frame in a show of anxiety that Drift hasn't seen since they left Optimus and his Autobots.
All of this business with the hatchlings and sparking them can't be good for him either. The disappointment is heavy, weighing on the spark, and Drift knows that Ratchet must feel it more than all of them.
“Red's still offline,” Drift comments. “In case you were wondering.”
“He should be running an extended defrag,” Ratchet replies, his gaze turning distant. “It'll keep him down for the rest of the day. Which is good because I need to focus on retooling coding for a Seeker.”
He doesn't sound the least bit excited about it. Resigned more like, as though he already feels they’re going to fail and he's just going through the motions.
Drift shifts his weight, gnaws on the idea that's kept him unable to relax all night, and against all odds, decides to go for it. What does he have to lose?
“I think we should try.”
Ratchet goes still. “Beg pardon?”
Drift cycles a ventilation, gathering his resolve. “You and me,” he says, and something like hope unfurls within his spark. “I want to try.”
“So we can fail like everyone else?” Ratchet won’t look at him.
“Because we can succeed.”
A moment's pause before Ratchet lowers his cube, his expression full of confusion and disbelief. “Why do you think that?”
He rolls his shoulders. “Intuition?” Drift hazards a guess. “No one wants it more than you, and no one wants it to work more than me.”
If only, he tells himself, to take the despair out of his partner's field.
Drift turns his helm, looking pointedly at Red. “And because he deserves more than this half-life.”
“Last night we discussed Thundercracker and Skywarp,” the medic begins.
“Red's ready now,” Drift points out.
Ratchet tilts his head, surprise echoing in his field. “You really want this.”
It's more statement than question, as though Ratchet isn't sure whether to believe him.
Granted, Drift tends to avoid the hatchlings, only caring for them when pressed and doing his best not to touch them. That doesn't mean, however, that he's indifferent to them.
“Yes,” Drift replies and crosses the room, setting his energon on the berth next to Ratchet and nudging his smaller frame between Ratchet's thighs. “We're both grounders, and our fields sync well. I'm probably the closest in frame design to Red, his coding is from you, and we can both focus.”
Which, considering the latter, he's not sure he can say for Skywarp. The Seeker tends to get scattering thoughts when he's excited.
Drift rests his hands on Ratchet, feeling the warm plating beneath his haptic sensors and the thrumming of living metal. His partner’s field is quiescent. For once soft with much-needed rest, but it rises to the occasion when Drift reaches out in tentative offer.
“And,” he adds, letting mischief curl his lips, “we'll have a bit more fun building the energy.”
A grating chuckle escapes his partner. “I'm starting to suspect an ulterior motive.” But one of Ratchet's hands rests on Drift's helm. Two fingers stroke a finial in an upward path that draws a curl of static.
Drift swallows a moan. “There... might be bit of a one,” he admits, tilting towards Ratchet's expert touch. A rumble rises in his chassis.
Ratchet's other hand settles on his hip. His secondary thumb stroking inward, pressing between two transformation seams with a curl of static.
“Throttle it back, Drift,” he murmurs, vocals carrying a wicked tone. “Isn't Prowl at the monitors?”
“The last thing I'm worried about is an audience.” Drift turns, capturing Ratchet's fingers before the medic can pull them away, nipping at their sensor-rich tips.
Pleasure vibrates in Ratchet's field. “In that case, remove your giant knife and climb on up here.”
“Already did,” Drift murmurs, joining the medic on the berth with less grace than he is accustomed.
Ratchet chuckles. “I'm beginning to think this is more than a little premeditated on your part.”
Drift's empty sheaths clank as he settles himself in Ratchet's lap, easier since Ratchet is so much larger. Though the times when he's pressed down to the berth by Ratchet's greater mass are fun as well, it's not very practical given their intentions.
His hands delve into the complicated mechanisms of Ratchet's shoulder, fingers stroking wires and cables, dancing over tiny, tiny gears. His partner’s entire frame is a construction of convertible tools, all necessary for a war-time medic, and while there's few that would consider him classically beautiful, Drift himself does.
There's an allure to all that complex gearwork, the struts wound with cables, the double-joints. Drift leans closer, own ventilations stuttering, fingers drawing charge like one of his martial kata.
Ratchet shivers beneath him. His plates flex and twist, larger ones splitting into smaller and back again. Drift's hands wander lower, down his sides, tickling into the seams of his hip.
There's a swivel here, Drift knows. He's seen Ratchet transform often enough, his entire upper frame performing a three-hundred and sixty degree spiral. Primus, it is gorgeous. Heat flushes his internals at the mere memory of it.
“Eager, are we?” Ratchet says, but his hands slide up Drift's legs, dragging curls of static with them, manipulating his energy field with a medic's ease.
“For you? Always.”
Drift dips his helm, focusing on the heat rising from Ratchet's internals, the pleasure pulsing in the medic's field. His headlights are especially alluring, and Drift's fingertips explore them. Their connections, the honeycomb glass.
Ratchet sucks in a ventilation. His frame heaves, tipping Drift forward and closer to him.
“You...” He pauses, reboots his vocalizer. “I swear you do that on purpose.”
“Touch you?” Drift grins, flickering one optic in a facsimile of a wink. “I'd like to think you enjoy it.”
“I never said that I didn't.” Ratchet's gaze brightens. One arm encircles Drift, fingers tracing his backstrut and sensitive components.
Drift arches forward, and pleasure streaks down his circuits. His spark throbs, and a groan escapes him before he can dial it down.
“But,” Ratchet continues, fingers working their magic, “that wasn't what I was referring to.”
“I know.” Drift pants. He drops his hands, toying with the wheels at Ratchet's hip, fingers dipping into the wells. “And yes, it is on purpose.”
Ratchet's field swells with amusement, but it's a passing fancy as lust drizzles over the top. He shivers beneath Drift, frame shifting, forcing Drift to move with it lest he be tossed from the berth.
There's something alluring about watching Ratchet come undone, Drift thinks. Emotions for the medic are usually pretty close to the surface. He's blunt and doesn't hold back. But there's an element of control there as well, especially when Ratchet is free to display his irritation or anger but quick to hide his cheer.
Drift scoots closer, their chestplates bumping, and he can feel the thrum of Ratchet's spark beneath, spinning faster and faster. His hands sweep across Ratchet's frame, pinching lines and tracing seams and dragging curls of static over that odd shade of green that no one's managed to convince Ratchet to give up.
The medic’s grip slides from Drift's backstrut to his hips, locked just behind his sheath connectors. His fingers hook on an armor plate, pinning Drift down, as though preventing him from escaping. His ventilations increase, fans spinning fast enough to make the berth rattle.
“We have a purpose, you know,” Ratchet reminds him, optics spiraling in and out as though struggling to focus.
Drift flexes his field, letting it twine playfully with Ratchet's. “Oh, I remember. Are you saying you’re that close?”
“I'm saying,” his partner grits out, static lacing the edge of a syllable, “that there are important steps to consider.”
He tries and fails to conceal the smug pride that fills his spark. Usually, it's Drift who's helpless and unfocused at the hands of Ratchet's skill. It's nice to have the tables finally turned.
“I'm all audials,” Drift says and lets his thumbs sweep a path over the plating on Ratchet's abdomen.
The medic mutters something subvocally before giving Drift a wry look, pushing him a foot or so back. “Patience,” he orders. “I can't remember the last time I cracked my chestplates.”
Drift inclines his helm, reaching to trace his finger down the near-invisible seam, hidden behind the network of grill and headlamps. “You don't get slagged often.”
“Try never,” Ratchet corrects. “I've never been badly damaged over the course of the entire war. Which is a good thing since there's no one to repair me if I do.”
“Something like that is skill, rather than luck,” Drift suggests.
Ratchet shrugs, dismissive. “You could say that. Now hush. I need to concentrate.” His optics dim a few degrees, his fingers twitching where they rest on Drift's hips.
Drift slides his hands away, unsure exactly how Ratchet's chestplates and kibble shift around to get to his spark chamber. He watches as the grill splits down the middle and swings down, parallel to his frame. Behind it, the chestplate folds and slides down, underneath itself, until Ratchet's spark chamber is revealed.
Drift's ventilations stall as a brilliant blue light washes into view. No wonder Ratchet has all the extra kibble on his chassis. He has no secondary plate over his spark, just a thin, clear casing.
“I never upgraded,” Ratchet admits. His frame thrums faster, spark pulsing visibly and his field reads of a mixture of unease and excitement. “By the time I realized I should, there was no one around to perform the procedure, and I didn't have time to program a CR chamber.”
Drift works his intake. “You should’ve never been on the frontlines.”
“I didn't have much of a choice.”
Drift corrects himself. Skill has a large part to play, but honestly, Primus must love Ratchet. He's stood pede to pede with some of the worst Decepticons, survived a millennia long war, and did it all with barely any armor over his spark chamber.
“I have no words for this,” Drift comments.
“A first,” Ratchet drawls. His grip on Drift's hips loosens, fingers more a tease than a hold.
“Yeah, well, it happens.” Drift's gaze wanders back to Ratchet's chassis, drawn by the sight of the fiercely glowing blue.
“This is the first time I've seen your spark,” he realizes aloud, reaching to touch before he realizes what he's doing. He draws his hand back. Only for Ratchet to snag it, holding it in place.
“It won't hurt anything,” Ratchet says, his tone thick with arousal. “And I trust you.”
Drift had never realized how attractive trust can be. Working his intake, he reaches forward, fingers brushing the rim of Ratchet's spark chamber. The beautiful swirl of energy strobes in response, distant tendrils reaching from the confines in thin wisps. He feels, more than sees, Ratchet shudder.
“Bad?” he asks.
Ratchet's grip on him tightens. “No.” And his voice is husky.
Good, then. Drift slowly traces the rim of Ratchet's spark chamber, exploring the ridged whorls that serve as the closure. Static discharge connects his fingertips to the heated metal. He can hear Ratchet's ventilations quicken, can feel the thrumming of arousal in the medic's field and plating.
It's hard to keep his own at bay, his own spark throbbing in response, as though eager to join with Ratchet's. Not that Drift is that brave. He's not keen on tempting fate that much.
Drift's engine hums, coinciding with the rumble of Ratchet's, which increases in intensity as he dips his fingers into Ratchet's spark. How to describe it? Hotter and sharper than the sparklet he'd cupped not so long ago. The nips of electricity are stronger, edging toward painful as they slip beneath his plating.
Ratchet's reaction, however, makes the sting worth it. The medic moans, helm dipping, chassis pushing forward in encouragement. His hands twitch, fingers tightening with a creak of metal on metal. Arousal blasts fierce in his field, pleasure swamping Drift from helm to pede.
His chestplating twitches, spark pushing toward the confines of his spark chamber. His field sings with approval, desperate to join in Ratchet's pleasure.
“Primus,” Ratchet murmurs, vocals strained.
Drift pushes deeper, inch by precious inch, and he's not sure how or why, but somehow the spark energy feels denser. There's resistance, like touching something as soft as human-made cotton. It's springy and solid yet so light that it's almost intangible.
Ratchet shudders, plating lifting and clamping. Electricity dances out from under his armor, curls of bright blue and white lighting up the room. His whole frame hums, shifting beneath Drift, a steady rhythm that bleeds desire.
Drift moves his weight, feeling his thigh plating scrape against Ratchet. The heat emanating from the medic is a warm waft against his armor. Drift shivers, more so when his partner loosens his grip and drags his hands upward. Agile fingers dip and slide in transformation seams, drawing out lines of crackling energy.
Drift reaches, tracing his fingers around the open edge of Ratchet's spark chamber and is rewarded with a sound that can be best described with a whimper. Ratchet jerks, and his hands snap out, grabbing Drift's wrists.
He startles.
“Hurt?”
Ratchet shakes his helm. His ventilations come faster, cooling fans spinning into a whine.
“The opposite. You keep that up, and I'll have a misfire.”
“I'll consider that a compliment.”
“You would.” Ratchet squeezes his wrists affectionately before letting go, only to place his palm flat on Drift's chestplate. “Your turn.”
His spark quivers. There is a moment of apprehension, remembering what happened the last time he bared his spark, though that had been unwillingly. In this, at least, he has a choice.
He trusted Ratchet to scan his memory core and processor. It's not that much a further step to his spark.
Drift's head lowers, and his palms land on this thigh plating, latching down. He can't look Ratchet in the optics, not yet, as he sends the manual override to part his chestplates.
Ratchet's hand drops to cover one of his own, field pulsing encouragement. Drift draws on it, locks it down inside.
His chestplates part, not split straight down the middle, but a y-shape. The two bottom thirds draw down and to the side. The top third folds up and back, revealing the spiraled secondary panel on his spark chamber.
Ratchet's free hand traces the intricate pattern. “Is there a meaning behind it?”
Drift's hands clench. He feels each resonation of Ratchet's touch echoing through his spark.
“Not really. It's the design they favored in Crystal City. Insensible for war-time, but they were an army of pacifists.”
“It's beautiful.”
Drift's faceplates heat. “The point, I think.”
Ratchet's touch follows the spiral, a bare tickle that is light and reverent. “Open for me?”
His head dips another inch. He responds without words, ventilations quickening as he releases the locks and lets his spark chamber spiral open. Defensive protocols scream at him, warning him of the danger, and he dismisses each red note as it pops up.
In his rebuild, the mechs at Crystal City had re-constructed him from the inside out. They had changed his spark chamber cover but not the chamber itself. So it still bore the nicks and scratches and oxide stains of a lifetime of hard functioning. There is, Drift knows, a massive weld scar through one side of it.
He'd almost died. Star Saber and his mechs had saved Drift in more ways than one.
Drift hunches, feeling exposed, and nearly startles when the lightest brush of fingers touch against the edges of his spark chamber. It's a startling sensation, like static across his circuits but pleasure at the same time. Heat ripples outward from the touch, and he can feel his spark pulse brighter. His circuits hum with energy.
“Okay?”
“Yes.” Drift relaxes, determined to face this with the same resolve as everything else. “Keep going.”
Ratchet's field reaches for his, deepening the connection, until he can feel the medic's banked arousal and rising charge. Buried within that is his affection, his trust. It's a boon, and Drift shudders, drawn by the emotional stability as much as the physical pleasure.
Ratchet, of course, chooses that moment to draw lines of electric bliss across the outward corona of Drift's spark. He arches forward, spark pulsing brighter, tendrils reaching out with eager desire for more of that pleasure. As if it has already forgotten how quickly it can turn to pain.
Drift groans, his armor plates flaring, heat pouring out from beneath. He sees the static leap outward from the corner of his vision. His fans are whirring, entire frame vibrating from the force of it. Prowl in front of the monitors has to know what's going on now, but Drift can't be bothered to care. Not with Ratchet's fingers pushing deeper. Into the core of him, a sensation both strange and arousing.
It's not like his spark has tactile sensors or anything to register touch. He can't tell if Ratchet's fingers are hot or cold, but somehow, he can still sense every imperfection in the paint, every score in the metal no matter how minute. It's weird but in a good way.
Drift pants through another ventilation and can't take it anymore. He scrabbles at Ratchet's chest, trying to pull himself closer, reading the yearning in Ratchet's spark through their mingled fields as clearly as it emanates from his own. Every warning about directly merging sparks flies out of his processor. Surely, if tactile spark touching feels this good, direct spark contact must feel even better.
His fingers hook in the grill on Ratchet's chestplate to other side of his parted chamber. Drift pulls, gasping as the thinnest tendrils reach across the gap, brushing together. Pleasure like electric fire streaks through his systems. Drift jerks, metal slick against metal in a jarring shriek.
Ratchet grabs his shoulders, grip firm, keeping them apart. “Not a good idea,” he whispers, but the words are stilted, forced. Like he's fighting himself, too.
Control slips out of his grasp. Drift's hips rise and fall against Ratchet's frame. His spark feels swollen and unsteady within his chamber. As if he could tip and it would fall right out. He looks down and thick, grasping tendrils curl outward, crooked in yearning.
“Feels like one,” he says, fingers in a death grip on Ratchet's grill.
“Wait,” Ratchet orders, and his optics flicker, burning brighter. “You have to let it build.”
Drift works his intake, sucks in more air, but his systems can't get enough to keep it cool. He feels like he's burning through his coolant, frame cycling hotter and hotter. Each pulse of his spark is longer, deeper. He can feel the mechanisms of his chamber trembling. His legs shake.
It won't take much, he thinks.
He drags his attention back to Ratchet, tries to focus.
“How much?” he questions. But his gaze wanders again, to the beautiful pulse of Ratchet's own spark, looking too large and bright to be contained in Ratchet's own chamber.
Static dances out from under Ratchet's plating. It's dancing over his frame in brilliant snaps, each one longer and brighter than the last. It's like his frame is fighting to keep the energy contained.
Too long and they'll blow circuits. Longer than that and they'll fry important processing chips.
“As much as you can take,” Ratchet says, and he sounds like he's struggling. His grip on Drift's shoulders tighten, pressing into his armor, leaving grooves behind.
Drift can't even feel the pain.
No. He's wrong. There is pain, but it's not in his shoulders. He can't grab a ventilation, his frame is shaking, and there's a buildup of heat, focused in his chassis. He detects the scent of ozone, burnt circuits. Ratchet is just as hot beneath him, their fans whirring in deafening concert.
And the others had lingered in this? Had built it up gradually for days?
Drift hunches, wants to press against Ratchet, chest to chest, and has to lock his arms to keep himself from doing so.
“Now?” he asks. Or begs perhaps.
“No.” Static in his vocalizer, denial less firm than before.
Drift tries to pull in air but can't. It catches, and he's overheating, and something inside him fizzles.
“Ratch--”
Fingers unlock from his shoulders and slam against his chestplate to either side of his chamber, pushing him as far back as Ratchet can without throwing him from the berth. Drift wobbles, struggles to catch himself, and watches with wide optics as Ratchet cups his hands in front of his own chestplate.
His spark flares bright, too bright, and Drift's optics have to cycle down. He hears Ratchet groan, the sound of gears grinding together in forced functioning, and Ratchet goes utterly stiff beneath him.
Drift's own spark pulses, and he throws his hands up to cover it, not that it makes a difference. He wants to keep watching, but his frame twitches violently, and a flash of fear strikes him from helm to pede. It feels like his spark wants to crawl out of his chamber. He has to do it now before he combusts or self-ignites or--
There's no manual. No instructions that tell him how to split his spark. Everyone had a different experience. No two stories were alike.
Warnings crop up, a dull haze of red on the edge of his attention. Energy levels critical. Excess bleed off required immediately. Systems are beyond redline.
Drift isn't sure what to expect or how to trigger the necessary split. All he knows is the pain. He dimly feels himself hunch, his hands cupped in front of his chest as Ratchet had done. There's a large, pulling pulse stronger than all the others. It feels like something's reached into his chamber with fingers made of energy blades.
Pain.
It's not the worst that Drift has ever felt, but it's up there. He gasps a ventilation, his frame bowing inward in reaction, and reminds himself to sit up straight.
He moans, vision going dark for a second, and feels a scrabble at his hands. He reboots his optics, sees a fuzzy image of Ratchet grabbing one of his hands and the leaping, tiny spark he holds. His own chestplates snap shut with a speed that could take off limbs were any still trapped within.
Drift stares dumbly as their hands clasp, two tiny pieces of dancing light pressed between them. His fingers tingle like sensors slowly coming back online after being replaced or repaired. The pain is still there, but it's a distant sensation compared to the rushing in his audials, the sight of light flaring between their clasped fingers.
Hope dares rise like a ragged, wounded thing.
He doesn't know how Ratchet manages to slide out from beneath him and clamber off the berth. Or how Ratchet stumbles to his pedes, clutching the merged spark with one hand, holding it against his closed chestplate.
“Is it--”
“Come on.”
The medic's free hand grabs Drift's arm, yanks him along.
He can't tell whose supporting whom as they stagger toward Red's berth. Ratchet spills the sparklet into Drift's hands, his own working quickly to trigger Red's chestplate open.
Drift's hands are hot and tingling, his spark surging behind his chestplate as though trying to rejoin with the sparklet. His limbs are weak, pedes shaky, energy levels dropping so fast he's not sure how much longer he can stay online.
But then, Ratchet grabs his elbow, pulls him toward Red. Drift tips his hands, letting the sparklet tumble into Red's spark chamber.
It's going to work, he tells himself as he watches the bright spark pulse and dance and glimmer within the tiny chamber. It's going to work because it has to.
Drift grips the berth, trying to keep himself upright, optics locked on Red's spark chamber. Ratchet is beside him, pulling out his scanners, running it over Red's frame, saying nothing, his energy field flat and anticipatory.
The sparklet continues to glimmer. Tendrils of spark energy probe the confines of the chamber as though teasing the walls for comfort. It's giving off a field, Drift's sensors tell him. Albeit a small one but it's growing in intensity.
And then, Red's spark chamber irises closed, sealing the spark from view.
“Ratchet?”
“I think it worked,” the medic breathes, scanner hitting the berth as he stares in surprise. “I didn't trigger that.” His field flares, the thrill of success teasing at the edges. “It's a protective protocol that triggers even when a mech's unconscious. It's spark-deep, but only if the spark itself is stable enough.”
Stable. Relief sweeps through Drift so fast that his processor spins.
It worked.
“See?” Drift says, offering Ratchet a shaky smile. “I told you we could do it.”
And then, his world goes dark.
Drift swims back to consciousness slowly, registering first the warmth all around him, and the thrum of another frame beside him. His systems boot up, registering no errors, and his audials online long before optics. There's murmured conversation, and the air is light with optimistic energy.
He onlines his optics, struggling to focus, zeroing in the one voice that is least familiar to him. A dark red and grey mech is talking to Prowl and Thundercracker with Wheeljack circling around him, scanner in hand.
Who...?
“He says he wants to be called Knock Out,” comes the unexpected answer from just behind Drift. “And he wants to be a medic.”
“Wants to be?” Drift repeats, curious still, as he watches Red – Knock Out – move around with purpose. His optics are bright and alert.
The berth rattles as Ratchet pushes himself upright, and Drift follows his lead.
“He gets the choice, but I suppose that copies of my coding might have had something to do with it,” Ratchet answers. His field is calm and composed, but Drift can tell that there are undercurrents of something.
“But he's stable.”
Ratchet's hand rests on his shoulder, squeezing briefly.
“He's stable,” the medic confirms.
“And the fertile duo awaken at last!” Skywarp's loud announcement shatters the contemplative quiet.
Drift startles.
He hops down from the berth, but it's not enough to save him from Skywarp's attack of affection. The Seeker throws an arm over his shoulder, leaning heavily on him, his field shimmering with amused triumph.
“Congratulations! It's a boy!” Skywarp continues with a snicker. His arm is like a magnetic clamp on Drift, preventing him from squirming away. “And you two mechs sure make a pretty sparkling.”
Ratchet's engine gives off a warning growl. “Skywarp, you’re treading on dangerous ground. I’d consider carefully what you say next.”
Despite himself, Drift feels a trickle of amusement. It's always fun to watch Ratchet threaten anyone with bodily harm.
“All right, all right.” Skywarp releases Drift and backs away, holding up his hands. “Anger not the Hatchet.” He elbows Drift in the side. “But I can tease you just fine, yeah?”
“No.” Drift edges away from the Seeker, struggling still to focus.
“Neither of you are any fun,” Skywarp declares and turns away with a huff, though there's no offense in his field. He's teasing for the sake of it.
Drift turns back to Ratchet. “How stable is he?”
“You could find out for yourself,” Ratchet replies, the hint of a smile tugging at his faceplates. “He exceeds all of my expectations and Prowl's calculations.”
Interesting.
Drift looks at Knock Out again, still awed by the sheer vitality in the mech's movements. Red had always appeared more lively than his stasis-locked brethren, but there’d been something missing, something that marked him as not entirely alive. But Knock Out is different; he feels different.
Drift knows how each and every one of his allies feels. He knows the shape and vibration and intensity of their energy fields. He can identify them with his optics and audials off and only his sensors online. At present, there is one unknown field in the room. The edges of it are familiar somehow, a discordant ring of a once-known melody. It’s the mark of a truly sapient mech, proof positive that Knock Out lives.
Ratchet slides off the berth with a dull thud of medic weight against organic floor. “Knock Out,” he says, raising a hand to beckon. “Come here.”
Drift stiffens. He's not sure he's ready for this.
“I'm not done scanning him,” Wheeljack protests, following after with a scanner in each hand, both of them beeping and chattering back at the engineer.
“He's not a science experiment,” Ratchet snaps.
“Yes, I would prefer not to be,” Knock Out replies with a dry manner and a vocal timbre that hovers somewhere between Skywarp's sly tone and Tracks' soft tenor.
He is still short, Drift notices. Though according to the files Ratchet gave him, Knock Out should gain more mass and height through the rest of his development. How that works, Drift doesn't know. He glazed over that lengthy explanation, but Ratchet assures him that Knock Out will be similar in size to him by the end.
“This isn't about science,” Wheeljack huffs, though he tucks the scanners away. “This is for medical purposes.”
“Which I'm perfectly capable of handling myself.” Ratchet puts himself between Wheeljack and Knock Out. He makes for quite the effective immovable object as his optics zero in on the newly-sparked hatchling, helm lowering to pin him with a fierce stare. “Well?”
“All reports are returning optimal,” Knock Out says with a tone of recitation. “No errors. No glitches. No lagging.” He punctuates his answer with a smirk.
Yeah, there's definitely some Ratchet in there.
“Good. But just to be sure...”
Ratchet pulls out a scanner of his own, pointing it at Knock Out.
A resigned sigh escapes Knock Out's vents. But then, he rolls his optics toward Drift, gaze flicking up and down in assessment.
“Knock Out, that's Drift,” Ratchet introduces when Drift finds himself incapable of a greeting. “He's the other… well, spark donor.”
“I thought as much,” Knock Out allows and lifts a clawed hand, gesturing to his chestplate. “I already knew it here. Knew it like I knew you.” He tilts his helm to Ratchet, and when Drift remains silent, Knock Out shifts his weight and glances away. “Nice paint, by the way.”
Drift honestly isn't sure how he's supposed to take that. Is it a true compliment or teasing him about the fact he's so very polished?
“You'll have to excuse him,” Ratchet says as his scanner beeps, and he tucks it away, apparently satisfied with the results. “Sometimes, he glitches.”
Drift scowls. “I do not.”
“Prove it.”
A hint of a grin teases at Ratchet's mouth before he turns away, calling out to Wheeljack about whatever the engineer had gotten on his scanners.
“I suppose a certain amount of gratitude is in order,” Knock Out says, folding his arms over his chestplate in a defensive move that is oddly familiar. “For the risk that you took.”
“It was worth it,” Drift replies earnestly, still staring at the impossible being in front of him.
Knock Out unfolds an arm, and Drift is suddenly struck realization. By watching the movement. By the way he tilts his helm, the way he shifts his weight. It’s like looking into a mirror. It’s like seeing himself with different paint colors. But only if Ratchet were superimposed.
This isn’t just a stranger. This is him. This is Ratchet. This is both of them together in an entirely new being. One who thinks for himself, acts independently.
This is a sparkling. Their sparkling.
Drift stares at him. Knock Out stares back before shifting on his pedes in a move that is so painfully familiar – so painfully Ratchet when he’s embarrassed – that Drift has to cycle his optics.
“It was worth it,” Drift repeats then, and Knock Out looks at him again.
There’s a gleam to his optics, red though they might be. It’s aching and familiar and searching for something. For some connection. For some acknowledgment.
A slim talon reaches out to brush over his arm. “Thank you.”
Drift slowly reaches back. Knock Out’s energy field is soft and hesitant but leans against his own likes it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps it is.
“You're welcome.”
It's awkward but not forced. And even as Knock Out’s field settles against him like a helm on his shoulder, Drift wonders what else he’s supposed to say. Or do. There’s no guide for this situation. No precedent. It’s not like with other caretakers. They go to the Allspark and come home with a sparkling. But it isn’t made from them. They only have as much connection as they want between them.
Drift runs a hand over his helm, venting lightly. “Do you really want to be a medic?”
Knock Out flickers his gaze at the question. “I think so, yes. According to Wheeljack, I'm still integrating a lot of basic Cybertronian modules. I seem to have an affinity for medical knowledge.” His lipplates slide toward a grin. “And I'm quite interested in seeing exactly how fast my alt-mode can go.”
Drift knows that look. “You have an alt-mode already?”
“Scanned and integrated.” Knock Out grins, his field rippling outward with pride. “Though Prowl says I can't go out until Ratchet gives the okay.”
Drift chuckles. “Good luck with that. He can be a real nanny-bot when he puts his processor to it.”
“I heard that!” Ratchet calls from nearby.
“Wasn't trying to hide it,” Drift retorts with a roll of his optics before redirecting his attention to Knock Out. “I'll take you out,” he offers. “For your first drive. We can see who's faster.”
“It'll be me, of course,” Knock Out says, gesturing to his whole frame, upper tires giving a little wiggle where they rest on his shoulders like Tracks' winglets.
Drift smirks. “We'll see.”
Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
“Why is he so intelligent?”
Ratchet looks up from the hatchling he's prepping, fingers buried in the flyer’s internals. Even for a hatchling, it's bigger than Drift and the same size as Ratchet.
“Who? Wheeljack?” He shrugs. “I constantly ask myself that.”
Drift leans against his partner. He lets his weight rest against Ratchet's side where it won't impede his movement.
“No. Knock Out.”
Ratchet shrugs again and leans back over the bright yellow hatchling; the accents of gold and orange make for a striking paintjob.
“He's not running an AI anymore. He's fully sapient, which means he can integrate lessons at quadruple the speed. He only has to download what he wants to know.”
Drift tilts his head back against Ratchet's side, feeling the thrum of the medic's frame against his own. “It's a big change.”
“Yes, well, he's not fully grown.” There's a click and a low curse before Ratchet continues. “He only knows how to act like an adult. That doesn't mean he's going to be one. You've seen the way he pouts.”
Drift chuckles. Knock Out had made the mistake of going against Ratchet's instructions in terms of recharge and had to be put in his place by Prowl. Mech's learned his lesson on that front from now on.
Knock Out spent the remainder of the evening sulking, buffing at his plating and muttering to himself. But he recharged as he was told and was all the better for it.
“Good point.” Drift reaches out with his field, letting it linger at the edge of Ratchet's before the medic responds in kind. “Are we a go for trying again?”
“As soon as I get this one ready. I'm uploading Thundercracker's coding right now,” Ratchet says. “I wonder if that might’ve also been the difference.”
Drift matches his ventilations to Ratchet's. There's something oddly intimate about them doing so in sync. It makes sense. Knock Out's frame is more amenable to Ratchet's spark-third because he carries pieces of Ratchet's coding. It would explain why all the others had failed.
“Do you think that means we can use sparks from two disparate frames?”
Ratchet's field nudges him with affection. “It's worth a try. At least, once all of us recover and can try for a second round. Thundercracker and Skywarp, however, can at least confirm a couple of my theories. Mainly that matching frames and coding can have an effect.”
“I had a thought, too.”
“Really?” Ratchet casts him a smile. “You? Think?”
“So funny.” Drift rolls his optics and leans in closer, choosing to let the slight pass. “Do you think we could use more than two donors?”
A moment of silence. Ratchet looks at him.
“Theoretically, it's possible,” he admits. “As long as the combined spark from the donors matches the minimum energy necessary, I don't see why not. We'd risk instability with too many donor sparks trying to merge. But three? Perhaps four? I'd definitely mark that as a real possibility. Why?”
Drift shrugs. “It's just a thought. Something to try. We don't want to limit ourselves to organic thinking after all.”
“Good point.” Ratchet's field flicks at him, approval and pride within it. “And that should help, too. Especially when we get to the frames we have no coding match for, namely the rotary and the shuttle.”
It's good news, Drift thinks. Really good news. Something to give them all hope again, which they so desperately need considering their current state of affairs.
“Twelve,” Drift murmurs, letting his energy tickle over Ratchet, nudging beneath his armor. “Twelve hatchlings; twelve new Cybertronians. Who knows? We might even find more out there.”
“At this point, I suppose anything's possible.” There's a click as Ratchet straightens and triggers the hatchling’s chestplate to close. “Now, I'm getting the feeling there's something you want from me?”
Drift stretches, pulling his arms over his helm and lengthening his strut-cables. “What on Earth gave you that idea?”
“Your blatant seduction, perhaps?” Amusement is ripe in Ratchet's tone.
He turns, taking away Drift's stability, but he quickly shifts his weight to avoid toppling to the floor. Though such action proves unnecessary as Ratchet pulls him against the medic's chestplate.
“Oh, noticed that, did you?” Drift asks and flares his field pointedly. “I was trying to be subtle.”
Ratchet's hand rests on his hip, thumb teasing the mount for his right sheath. “I never would’ve guessed. I thought you were eager to spark another hatchling.”
“You've been listening to Skywarp,” Drift accuses, but he's already rolling his head against the chestplate behind him, pushing back against his partner.
Ratchet chuckles. “Guilty as charged.”
It’s times like these that Drift misses Cybertron.
A gust of wind batters at him, trying to push him off the road, and he gamely jerks back onto pavement. It's storming so badly out here that the crops are near-horizontal and the sky is a thick, dark morass.
Storms. Drift doesn't envy Earth for its storms, save that Earth's rains are a Pit of a lot safer than Cybertron's acid storms.
Good thing Ratchet forbade Knock Out from coming out here. This weather is beyond what he could handle at the moment.
--Drift?--
--I'm almost there,-- he replies as his headlights struggle to cut through the wind, debris in the air, and the sheeting rain. Primus forbid it starts to hail.
--Be careful,-- Ratchet warns in a tone that implies Drift better not arrive otherwise. Or he'll get more dents from his medic than the weather.
Drift grins to himself. --Whatever you say, sweetspark.--
Silence greets him, and Drift all but shivers. Brr. He can feel that chill across the comm. lines.
At least he'll get a warm reception when he gets home. Or well, something close to it.
That is, if this fragging storm doesn't get him first.
Wind throws him into the other lane. Right now, Drift wouldn't mind being a big piece of heavy machinery. Yes, he'd be slow, but then, wind wouldn't push him anywhere.
He scans the skies, ever wary of tornadoes. They’d narrowly missed being hit by one last year, and Drift has no wish to experience one for himself. These frequent wind storms are bad enough.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
And great. Hail.
Drift shudders. The sensation isn't wholly unpleasant, but the tiny, myriad dings are. He wonders if he'll be able to sneak in without Tracks seeing him.
Lightning flashes in a jagged burst across the sky. His energy field tingles, alight with the static lingering in the air.
Drift dares adding a bit more speed, tires whisking over the water-covered roadway. Hydroplaning is a real threat, but the next burst of lightning gives him a glimpse of the Lennox farm in the distance.
The dark Lennox farm.
Drift's headlights flicker, spark strobing in worry.
--WhiteKnight to Homefront.—
He suddenly can't remember who's on shift in the control room. If it's Prowl or Dreadwing since Thundercracker is supposed to be cycling up for a spark-splitting.
Silence.
Internal comms. can't reach this far with this much electrical interference. Which means whoever's on shift isn't getting a boost from the base comms. And that means the main comm. isn't getting any power.
So their shield array probably isn't either.
Frag.
Frag. Frag. Frag. Frag.
Drift kicks it into a higher gear, his aft fish-tailing on the slick concrete. The minutes it takes are some the longest in his life before he swerves into the driveway, scattering gravel in his wake, engine roaring over the muddy road. He's dirty on top of being dinged, and Tracks is going to pitch a fit.
Drift pings every mech on their secure line, needing someone to pick up. He's close enough now that someone's internal comm. should detect him.
--I'm working on it!-- Skywarp replies with a rushed, automatic message that conveys all the urgency this situation merits.
Drift flips into root mode just inside the medbarn, scattering mud in his wake. The Jackhammer’s luckily on the moon with Wheeljack, Dreadwing, and Tracks.
Which means Prowl's in the control room.
Drift bursts inside, flinging hail and rain. His headlights sweep the interior, a few emergency lights providing some illumination.
“Shut the fragging door behind you!” Ratchet snarls from the direction of the medbay, the emergency lights on his frame indicating his position. Knock Out's running lights also make him visible just to the right of the medic.
“I was worried,” Drift says as he turns around, forcing the rattling doors closed and wincing at the sight of the broken latch. He probably should have knocked first, but then, they usually don't use the latch.
--We're fine!-- Skywarp announces over the team-wide frequency. --We have a backup shield generator. It runs on a completely different circuit.--
--It's temporary,-- Ratchet reminds the teleporter. --It's not supposed to be continuous. So get the main one fixed. Now.--
Aggravation colors Skywarp's transmission. --I am,-- he retorts, and if there's a testy edge to his response, Drift blames recent spark-splitting.
He and Ratchet had done it the fun way, building up and expelling it all in one go. Everyone else had the uncomfortable method. Hurts like the Pit either way, but at least, he and Ratchet didn't have to linger over it.
Drift sighs as tension eases out of his shoulders. “How long has the power been out?”
“Ten minutes at most,” Knock Out replies, which coincidentally is just immediately after Drift and Ratchet's last conversation.
“And you're sure we're in no danger?” Drift question.
Ratchet rolls his optics, visible even in the dim. “Do we need to call you, Red Alert? This isn't our first outage, and I doubt it's the last. Blame the humans for their insistence on having overhead transmission lines.”
Drift picks his way across the floor, sweeping it with his headlights first so he doesn't step on anything possibly important. He intends to go into the medbay until Ratchet appears to bar his way.
“Not covered in mud, you aren't.” Ratchet holds up a hand. “You can either go stand in the rain and rinse off or wait until the Jackhammer comes back.”
Knock Out snickers; Drift ignores him.
“It's hailing,” he replies.
“I know,” the medic states and folds his arms, an immovable object. “My medbay; my rules.”
Drift eyes his partner. “Is this payback for calling you sweetspark?”
Knock Out cackles; Drift cuts him a glare. He can't see much of their sparkling in the dim, but he knows that the mech has his back to them. And his shoulders are shaking.
The lights flicker to life. Drift's optics cycle down in response, and he's treated to the firm look on Ratchet's face. He's serious.
Drift looks down. Well, hm. He’s covered from helm to pede in mud.
“Hop to it, dear spark,” Ratchet says dryly, shooing at him with one hand. “And while you're at it, find a mop.”
Drift opens his mouth, closes it, then whirls on a pede. Knock Out's laughter follows him as he beats a wise retreat.
The sound of Skywarp caterwauling nearly overshadows the emergency news broadcast on the television. Drift cringes and scoots closer to the television, trying to pay attention to the broadcast. He has a feeling that there's another arrival and they don't want to miss this.
“Frag it, Ratchet! You didn't say it would hurt this much!” Skywarp shouts and growls and whines, somehow all at once.
Drift ducks his shoulders, turning up the volume.
Trust Skywarp to be the most vocal. Never mind the miracle he and Thundercracker are currently attempting.
A low subsonic growl of warning rumbles out from the medbay, matching in tone to Thundercracker.
“Shut up,” he orders. “And focus.”
Drift can imagine the pout on Skywarp's face.
Ratchet probably looks like he'd rather be anywhere but there right now.
Knock Out is snickering, endlessly amused by the behaviors of his elders.
Drift dips his head and turns on the captions. He's paying attention; he really is. And yes, he thinks there’s a new arrival. One of the news agencies camped outside of the Autobot base in Chicago is apparently interviewing a soldier. The camera view keeps panning back and forth from the interview to the command center.
Static crawls across Drift's armor. His sensors go haywire, picking up the extra energy in the air, the spare vapors of spark static released from open chambers.
On the television, the camera pans to the grey sky, three objects clear in the distance. From this far, they look small. The humans speculate on their origins, both of them certain they are allies since the Autobots haven't destroyed them yet. How do they know, one of the newscasters asks, but there aren't any answers. At least the Autobots have managed to keep some secrets.
More grumbling arises from the medbay behind Drift. Ratchet's cursing subvocally. Skywarp is whining. Thundercracker's vents wheeze an exasperated hiss. Knock Out scrambles across the floor for something that Ratchet growls at him.
Prowl is probably pacing the limited confines of their command cubicle.
Drift pings him with a running video of what he's seeing on the television screen, just to keep their leader up to date.
More Autobots are arriving. Drift is sure of this. Otherwise, Prime and his happy human clan would’ve already blown them to bits. Mearing doesn't take chances, and Optimus doesn't try to stop her.
Prowl sends him a confirmation, only to follow it up with an intention to see for himself. Of course. Which means Drift will get the lovely task of sitting all alone in the command cubicle.
He sits back on his chair, tries not to listen to the noises of pain from a few feet over, and fails.
On screen, the arriving Autobots are getting closer, one noticeably larger than the others. Not that Drift would be able to recognize them by their protoforms alone.
The scent of discharged energy fills the air. Thundercracker groans. There's a clatter, perhaps Skywarp dropping offline as most of them have done after splitting their sparks. Ratchet's barking at Knock Out to hurry.
Drift twitches. He almost wants to go look, but he's supposed to be watching this screen. It's important.
He wants to see the new Seeker. This has to work. He believes it will work. All of the proper procedures are in place.
The door to the medbarn opens, Prowl strolling inside, sensory panels high and rigid against his backplate. He tries not to look agitated, but it's near impossible.
“Status?” Prowl asks, vocals soft, but he should have known Ratchet would hear him.
“Inconclusive!” The medic hollers from the medbay.
“Optimistic,” Knock Out drawls in correction.
Drift sighs. Knock Out has made sarcastic comments his trademark, much to Ratchet's consternation. He's not unlike a human teenager, which amuses Drift to no end.
“More Autobots,” Drift replies and gestures to the television, where the incoming arrivals have landed in front of a crowd of humans and Autobots.
“Three.” Prowl peers at the television. “Two minibots and a flight-frame by the look of them.”
“You can tell?”
“I have a rather extensive database,” Prowl replies with a dry tone. His optics cut to the medbay but instead of going inside, he gestures for Drift to get up, only to take his place. “I'll keep an optic on this.”
Drift glances at the television. The three Autobots are emerging from their transitory modes, unadorned protoforms gleaming in the pale sunlight. He doesn't recognize any of them.
“I suppose that means I should keep an optic on the command center,” Drift says, unwilling to hide his reluctance. After all, their long-distance transmitter is connected to the main computer. How else will Wheeljack and the others contact them?
Prowl leans forward, though Drift can tell his attention is evenly split. “Yes, that will suffice. Thank you.”
Chuckling to himself, Drift shakes his helm and backs toward the door. He tries to peer into the medbay, but their wall of crates is too large and all he can see is the tip of Ratchet's helm. Thundercracker's made it to his pedes somehow, but Skywarp must still be out. He can't see anything of Knock Out.
The atmosphere is tense, expectant but not melancholy. Drift hopes that's a good thing. He reluctantly leaves the medbarn, stepping into a chilly, wet evening. Drizzle plinks on his armor, so Drift hurries to the other barn.
He has to wade through a collection of supplies and belongings. It’s growing in volume as they stock up for their eventual exodus, which will hopefully be soon.
Drift makes it to the tiny command cubicle, still concealed by their curtain. It's getting a bit tattered now, caught on one too many joints and protruding spikes, but it still serves its purpose.
He drops onto the chair and glances at the monitors. A search program continues to run on one, scanning the sky for potential future residences. Another monitor is showing some kind of calculation, not that Drift understands most of it. Perceptor would’ve though. It's the sort of thing the scientist would have grinned over.
The last monitor is split. One half shows a human chat site, the other their direct comm. line for their cadre up on the Ark.
Drift settles in for a long, boring night and hopes Prowl relieves him soon.
--Drift.--
Well, speak of the Autobot.
He props one pede up on a crate, getting comfortable. --Nothing to report, sir,-- he drawls.
--I'm aware,-- Prowl replies, sounding amused. --But I thought you would like to know that we are now one mech stronger.--
Drift straightens as a smile steals his lips. --It worked?--
--It did.-- Prowl's good mood is evident in his tone, and it’s infectious. --His name is Sunstorm. And I estimate he's going to be a handful.--
With Skywarp's spark energies, what else could they expect?
--More than Knock Out?-- Drift asks because that snarky racer has already made Ratchet splutter and lose his temper twice daily. Though it's amusing to watch the experienced medic put his trainee in place.
--I'll let you see for yourself later.--
Joy.
Drift shakes his helm and returns his attention to the command console. It's good news at least. They have a method that works! That means once their spark energies return to normal, they can try again with the other ten hatchlings.
It may not be enough to repopulate Cybertron, but it's hope. Maybe they can find Perceptor and figure out how to have hatchlings again. Maybe there's an answer, somewhere out there, that can save them.
The computer beeps.
ArtisticLicense is now online.
Drift straightens on his bench, optics locked on the screen. Usually, Sunstreaker has little to say other than a quick update or an inquiry into Prowl's health. At this time of the day, however? Drift doesn't think it’s that benign.
Given that new Autobots have arrived, it can't be good.
He signs in, alerting Sunstreaker that he’s present.
No time, the frontliner types. Godfather knows.
Drift feels his spark plunge into his tanks, and he sends out a sharp ping to Prowl and Thundercracker and Ratchet. His ventilations quicken, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he responds.
How long?
Not long enough,, Sunstreaker transmits. Hours, if we're lucky.
Drift's battle protocols online. He has the urge to get up, start shouting, draw his weapon and look to the skies.
Three new arrivals, not sympathetic, Sunstreaker adds. Hurry.
ArtisticLicense is offline.
Drift sits back, staring at the screen. He can keep trying to contact Sunstreaker, but it won't do any good. Obviously, the frontliner had only found a spare moment to warn them.
Hours.
It’s at least a twelve hour drive from Chicago, if they obey speed limits. If Prime chooses to take the C-130s, then they have two hours at best estimate before the Autobots will be here.
Two. Hours.
Fighting?
It's not even an option. They are nearly matched in terms of force – assuming Sunstreaker and possibly Sideswipe switch sides. But Drift knows that his cadre has the disadvantage in the form of twelve hatchlings in need of protection. Not to mention the Autobots have human backup and the humans know how to hurt Cybertronians.
Drift's ventilations hitch, and he jerks to his pedes, hands clenching in and out of fists. He bursts out of the control room, nearly colliding with Prowl in his haste.
“What is it?” the tactician demands
Thundercracker and Ratchet appear behind him, their energy fields a collective swirl of concern.
“It's Prime,” Drift states, and his plating rattles. “They've found us. We have to go.”
a/n: Another one of those evil, evil cliffhangers. I have no shame. And now we are two mechs stronger! I couldn't resist adding in Knock Out. He's just too awesome.
Well, I do hope you enjoyed! We pick up next with Sideswipe's story, as soon as I get it back from beta.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
