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Smoke billows across the too-still battlefield, blocking Drift’s view. He lowers his rifle, a puff of steam escaping his mouth as he lets out a short, frustrated vent. He’s supposed to be looking for survivors, but the battlefield is silent, save for the steady whistle of the wind. Why does he always get stuck with the worst tasks?
The only thing he’s going to find out here is death.
Death is an old friend of Drift’s. They’ve danced together several times - on cold nights in the Dead End where fuel was scarce, and on energon-soaked battlefields - but no matter how bad Drift’s luck gets, death always manages to stay just out of reach, passing him over in favor of another partner, another dance.
He shakes his head, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the Autobrand on his chassis. He’s seen a lot of good bots die since joining the Autobot ranks. He likes to think they’re in a better place now, that there’s some peaceful afterlife waiting, but perhaps it’s just wishful thinking.
He hops silently down from the ledge he was perched on and wades into the fog, proximity scanners on high alert. He wouldn’t put it past the Decepticons to come out here and scavenge for parts, but Drift is more than prepared. He’s one of the best shots in the Autobot ranks, and that isn’t bragging, it’s just a fact.
The world around him remains still and quiet, but Drift pushes forward, letting himself hope despite the odds. Please let him be here. Let him be alive.
He and the speedster from Nyon go back a long time. Drift has more or less taken Hot Rod under his wing, the way Optimus did for Drift before the war began. He feels responsible for Hot Rod, and besides that, he considers Roddy to be his closest friend. He’s reminded yet again why having friends is dangerous. I can’t save them all. But oh, how he wants to.
A faint sound catches his attention. It sounds like muffled cursing, coming from off to his left. Drift’s finials prick up and his body tenses. A tingle runs down his spinal strut, and in that moment, he’s hit with a feeling , like some sort of sixth sense, but he can’t quite place it.
He creeps silently towards the sound, hand moving to the sword on his hip. He’s an excellent shot, but truthfully, Drift has always favored the blade. It gets things done quickly, silently, and effectively, just like him. He intends to reveal himself only when he’s within striking distance, but fate has other plans.
A sudden gust of wind blows across the landscape, clearing the fog, and time stands still as Drift’s optics lock with those of a ghost. Drift recognizes those optics immediately. How could he forget?
Talented hands, moving so fast. Kind whispers. Promises of better things. Gentle teal optics, filled with so much compassion. More compassion than Drift has ever known.
“Ratchet?”
It can’t be. Ratchet is dead.
Drift, racing through Rodion, praying he’s not too late. Black billows of smoke filling the sky. Orion Pax standing in the rubble of Ratchet’s clinic, helm hung in mourning, whispering an apology for being too late.
“Kid?” A voice echoes. So the ghost recognizes him too.
Drift finally tears his gaze away from the teal optics to examine the rest of the mech. Ratchet’s physical frame looks much the same as it did all those years ago, but his face carries more wrinkles, and there’s a tiredness to him. War has not been kind to Ratchet. The biggest difference, however, and the thing that takes Drift’s breath away is the purple Decepticon badge situated square in the center of Ratchet’s windshield.
“I thought you were dead,” Drift whispers, falling to his knees next to the crouching medic. Once he hits the ground, he realizes who the medic is fixing. Hot Rod.
“Not yet,” Ratchet grunts, snapping a loose cable back into place. “This one of yours?”
Drift nods, still a little lost for words. Ratchet is repairing an Autobot. Do Decepticon medics do that? He’s certainly never heard of it.
“He’ll be ok. Just keep a closer eye on him. He seems like a troublemaker.”
“You have no idea.”
Ratchet huffs a small laugh, looking Drift over.
“You’ve changed. You look stronger now. More confident. I always knew you’d make something of yourself.”
“You’re a Decepticon,” Drift responds, somewhere between surprised and accusatory.
“Yes, I am. You got a problem with that?”
“ Why? Optimus… he was your friend. He thinks you’re dead.”
Ratchet sighs. “Now isn’t the time to explain my reasons. Optimus means well, but he’s not a perfect mech. He’s flawed. Buy me a drink sometime and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Drift gazes sadly at him, and Ratchet clears his throat, turning to pack up his medical supplies.
“Get your friend home. He’ll need bed rest for at least two days.”
Drift stares for a long moment, a question lingering on his glossa.
Come with me.
He doesn’t end up asking. Instead, he gathers Hot Rod into his arms and gives Ratchet one last mournful look. Their optics linger for just a moment, and then Ratchet turns, vanishing into the dark landscape.