Chapter 1: One
Chapter Text
It starts with a panicking dockworker shouldering his way through the front doors, a limp and dirty frame in his arms. “Help! Please, you have to help him!”
Ratchet was in the back of the clinic, unaware of the commotion brewing, working with the first shift intern, watching over as they correctly placed the intra-linear feed and began running a hydraulic line flush. The patient had presented with too much water in their system to let their own filters handle it, but not quite enough to justify having to in-patient them for the day to put them on a secondary system while they drained and flushed the tank manually. This was the happy medium, it would take a few joors to complete and was good practice for Gimlet who was only in their first vorn of their residency. And Ratchet would have actually complimented the work except there was a slag ton more screaming coming from the front than there should have been (the correct amount was none). Gimlet looked up at him, a little bright opticked but nodded and stayed with the patient, pulling the curtain around to give some privacy.
Hauling aft through the ward door, he made sure to lock up behind himself, more than half expecting either a leaker screaming for energon or one of the perimeter gang members trying to hustle them for stim-packs. What he wasn’t expecting was for Hackjob to be standing at the triage desk, shouting at what appeared to be neither a leaker or a gang member.
“What the frag is going on up here?” It was hard not to bellow, to keep his voice even so as not to add to the volatile situation but Ratchet had vorns of practice, even if some orns were harder than others to draw on it.
“What’s going on is this, this junkie is looking for a fix and won’t leave! He’s been screaming and causing a scene and all the real patients are getting distressed because this piece of slag won’t leave!” Hackjob screamed and stood taller with a little hop, gesturing rudely at the blue and red mech who looked about a breem away from a stress shut down.
“I’m not! He needs help! I’ve been trying to tell you he’s overdosing and the halt-chip I gave him is only going to hold it off for so long!” The large framed labor mech shouted back, before Ratchet could get a word in edge wise.
“How about everyone calms down and brings the decibel level down several notches? How long ago did you administer the chip?” Ratchet moved around the desk, getting a clearer look at the light grey racing frame. A few steps was all it took for him to see the circuit boosters that had been jammed directly into the cranial ports and the very obvious halt-chip that had been forced in between them. Taking a vent to save himself from yelling at the discriminating second vorn intern, he glanced back as he got closer to take the racer from the labor class mech. “Hackjob, go ahead of me and prep bay two for a full hook up!”
The red and blue mech’s optics were bright with stress, his plating starting to clatter as he hesitantly released his burden. “I-I want to say about twenty breems ago but I’m not entirely sure. I panicked when I found him. Our f-first aid classes don’t really prepare us for this sort of thing. I know he’s probably just going to go do it again but I couldn’t just leave him. There were a couple of mechs watching him, I don’t know what they wanted but it probably wasn’t good.”
“Hey, look at me. You did good kid. You did the right thing ok? We’ll do our best for him. I’m going to take him now, alright? Once I have him I want you to go sit down in the waiting area, ok?” Gently the medic lifted, reassuring the other as he took the racer and moved quickly back through the ward doors. A stretcher would have been more ideal but at this point he didn’t want to risk the extra few breems it would take if the halt-chip wore off sooner than it should. A half glance back let him know that the laborer had sat down where he’d been standing, too rattled to make it the dozen or so steps to the seating area.
Putting the laborer from his cortex for now, Ratchet focused on the dying mech in his arms. He ran his internal scanners, which weren’t as good as the hand helds or the ones inbuilt into the med berths, but it gave him a baseline to ping back to Hackjob. He moved as quickly as he dared, careful not to jostle his load on the off chance he could dislodge the halt-chip. Intermittent ventilations, overheating cortex, cold to the touch and greying extremities, all classic signs of an over dose. Poorly functioning pumps, unequal spark output and thinning armor with weakened struts all spoke of chronic malnutrition.
Getting into bay two, the medic carefully placed the limp racer frame down on to the med berth and sterilized his hands and arms quickly. “Get a transfusion with diluted med-grade hooked up, I don’t want to shock his systems.” As he spoke he was already in motion, placing sensor patches along the frame, followed by a secondary ventilation support system. “If we’re lucky the halt-chip will hold off long enough to start getting some extra carbon in to him.”
“Don’t know why we’re bothering, he’s just going to go right back out there and jam more of those into his helm.” Hackjob muttered, though he didn’t hesitate in hooking up the unconscious mech to a energon feed.
Part of Ratchet wanted to give the second vorn intern a dressing down, but it wouldn’t fix anything and only set the medic in-training on the defense. It also wasn’t the first time that the little two-wheeler had said disparaging things about the lower caste and street-folk that the Free Clinic treated. “Its not our place to judge. Our job is to treat those that come to us. A lot of these folks don’t have the means to anything better than what they already have down here.” He just finished hooking up the spark support cable when the halt-chip suddenly gave up and their patient started seizing, monitors screeching their dismay.
“Slag! Get a full dose of carbon and inject it, half a dose at a time and keep an optic on those pump read outs as you do!” The medic activated the in-berth magnets, halting the flailing and jerking limbs. It wasn’t good for the compromised frame but it was the lesser risk of trying to jab a needle into the fuel filter and missing, never mind the damage he could do trying to remove the circuit boosters. He ripped open a closed surgical tray, grabbing three sets of forceps while he engaged the magnification in his optics, zeroing in on the chip and boosters. Carefully, very aware that he could cause processor damage if he removed the boosters wrong before they finished their uplink, he used two sets to stabilize the circuit boosters and the third to gently remove the halt-chip. The two boosters followed, all of the forceps set haphazardly in a tray.
A raspy gasp and harsh coughing brought their patient’s ventilations into a better rhythm though Ratchet didn’t disconnect the secondary system. Spark output was still poor and all of the mech’s pumps were stuttering, making the medic frown. The monitor showed everything rise up and stabilize briefly before rising and dropping erratically as Hackjob injected the carbon. And that should have been enough for the two boosters, with the racer frame’s compromised readings it could just be too much for the mech’s frame to handle. But… Reaching under the patient’s helm, he palpitated the thin plates where helm and neck met. “Frag, there’s at least two more. Give him another half dose, these feel like they’ve been forced in deep. There’s no way he put these ones in himself.”
The frame was still seizing and Ratchet didn’t dare demagnetize the berth, risking the possibility of the processor damage versus the damage that Hackjob would cause if he missed the fuel filter. He ran a micro-transformation, the last two digits on his left servo forming together and opening to a small mirror so he could see while he carefully worked out the third booster followed by a fourth and then a fifth with his right servo.
Almost immediately some of the vitals improved, and the seizing stopped, though the poor racer frame wasn’t in the clear yet. At this point Ratchet and his intern had done all they could, it was up to the mech on the med-berth to pull through, and the medic had seen his fair share of deaths from over dose here in the Dead End, even after treatment. Some of them didn’t want to pull through, some times the already compromised systems couldn’t handle the shock from going from one extreme to the other.
When the racer didn’t suddenly flatline after a few breems Ratchet relaxed just a little bit. Of course that was Primus’ sign to frag him off. The racer gurgled, optics brightened with the faint hints of consciousness and began to try and purge and choke on the regurgitated energon, still magnetized on his back.
Ratchet sent the code to de-mag the berth and rolled him, quickly tucking him in to a recovery position. Partially processed energon splashed on to the berth and floor as the racer heaved again, coughing and gasping but thankfully not fully choking or aspirating on it.
“Ugh, gross.” Hackjob grimaced and took a step back, hands up and despite only being two joor into his six joor shift, very clearly done with the day. When he had gotten into medicine, this was not what he had envisioned himself doing.
Frowning the medic held back some choice words and rolled the racer back so that he was laying supine again, fans rattling and vents wheezing but ventilating under his own power again. “Hack, why don’t you go back to the front now? We shouldn’t leave it unattended any longer than we need to. If I need more help I’ll call Gimlet in.” He kept his field even, not wanting to stress the partially aware mech on the berth.
“Yes sir.” Hackjob skittered off, as if sensing Ratchet’s displeasure, he made sure not to meet the medic’s gaze.
“Alright kid, lets get you cleaned up… Seems like you’ve had a pit of an orn.” He opened a pack of sterile, damp wipes and began to gently clean off the plating that had gotten splashed with the partially processed energon. A fair layer of grime came off as well, causing Ratchet to sigh to himself. As much good as he knew that this little clinic provided to the people in this little corner of the Dead End, there was plenty of basic needs that weren’t being met for a lot of people down here. A mech needed access to wash racks to be able to keep themselves clean. Not only for things like frame maintenance and integrity but for their mental health as well. Not to mention how society at large viewed those that couldn’t keep themselves clean – for whatever reason.
He kept a half optic on the read outs, cleaning up the berth and floor as well. The racer frame was still only partially aware and didn’t seem to be in a hurry to boot up fully. The diluted med-grade seemed to be helping quite a bit though it would take a quartex of good, regular fuel before this poor spark saw any true benefits. Still, it was no excuse not to do what he could. He flicked the scanner in the med-berth to start a full frame scan, poor kid would probably be in over night unless he miraculously recovered enough to walk himself out in the next joor or two.
Aware that he was puttering around, (he was waiting on the scan he told himself), the medic didn’t really want to leave the racer alone, half aware as he was. While he wanted to think and hope the best he wasn’t stupid. Many people tried to steal things from the clinic, whether because they truly didn’t see any harm in it or just didn’t care, it happened. Never mind the harm someone could do to themselves coming online in a panic after such a harrowing experience – even if it was self inflicted.
Pinging both interns for updates, Ratchet settled himself onto a stool and resigned himself to do some of the paperwork that had piled up during the orn. (The same paperwork he had put off because he hadn’t want to do it at all). He quickly got pings back letting him know that Gimlet had stepped up and triaged those waiting while he adjusted charts at the front desk and would be heading back to the first bay now that Hackjob was back at the front. Some orns he had a hard time believing that Gimlet was the first vorn intern and not the second given how they both behaved.
Distressed moaning pulled him from his musings and paperwork, the frame on the berth squirming as optics brightened to full dilation. Fans ran at an even rate, if a bit rough sounding and the med berth pinged its finished scan to the data pad in Ratchet’s hands.
“Wha-wha…? Nnnn??!” The racer squirmed more, ventilations begin to cycle faster as he started to panic at seeing a strange ceiling on top of the feeling of being plugged in to in multiple ports. The heavy scents of some type of cleanser and spilt energon cloyed their way into his olfactory sensor, distressing him further.
“Hey, shhhhh, shhhhh, you’re ok. You’re ok. You’re safe, I promise. You’re at the Free Clinic and my designation is Ratchet, I’m the leading medic here.” Hauling his heavy frame off the stool and to the berth side, Ratchet set his data pad down on the trolly and made sure he was in the racer’s line of sight. He refrained from touching him for now, and took a moment to glance at the monitor to make sure everything was still stable now that the patient was fully booted up. “Can you tell me your designation, and what you remember last?”
The racer stared a moment, ventilations still pulling too much air but he wasn’t squirming like he was trying to get off the berth anymore. Optics a little over bright, (stress? Or residual effects from the boosters?) the mech stared a breem longer before he spoke. “I-Drift. My des is Drift.” His voice was rough but he was quiet a moment and looked at Ratchet fully before he glanced around himself quickly, taking a longer klik to stare at the energon feed. “Why am I here?”
Concerned that the patient, Drift, didn’t remember what he had been doing to end up in the clinic, the medic frowned slightly. “I’ll go over that shortly, I just need you to tell me what the last thing you remember is.” Seeing the hesitation still in the racer’s face he tried to reassure him a little more. “I’m just trying to make sure there isn’t any processor damage, short term memory is usually the first thing that’s affected in situations like yours. You aren’t in trouble.”
“Oh…” Drift looked back over, staring the medic straight in the optic in an unnervingly long breem. “I…” Brow plates furrowed and the long plating of his finials shifted and flared slightly as the racer clearly struggled internally for a moment before realization washed over him and he looked away, not wanting to meet the medic’s gaze. “Was boosting. Got a good pay out from a customer and she tipped out a booster on top of the creds….”
“Ok, do you remember how many you used?” There was no judgement in the medic’s tone as he picked his data pad back up and began filling out the chart more fully now that Drift was talking.
“Uh… I dunno, two maybe three? Why?” Drift’s voice was full of suspicion and the defensiveness of a mech used to having to fight over the smallest of things. Of being judged over the smallest things.
“Alright, there’s no worry if you aren’t fully sure. And, well, to be honest Drift you must be one pit of a stubborn mech because we pulled five circuit boosters from your helm. The only reason we were able to save you from the overdose is because a good samaritan not only administered a halt-chip but they also brought you here.” The medic reached over and adjusted the secondary ventilator as he spoke, dialling it back to five percent. He planned on leaving the racer plugged in for the time being, the poor mech’s spark could use the extra charge.
Drift was clearly taking a moment to process that, visibly hesitating as he spoke. “You… you saved me?”
“Of course.” It’s my job was on the tip of his glossa but something in his spark held him back. There was such a raw, vulnerable look on the racer’s face plates that he didn’t want to crush it. “You’re special kid, I can tell. Not just anyone could have survived what you did.” He reached over, slowly to give the other time to pull away and very lightly and carefully placed his servo on top of the younger mech’s servo. He let it rest there a moment before giving it a gentle squeeze and let the other feel his field, steady and truthful before he pulled away.
Yellow optics were over bright again, stress or high emotions, fans protesting more as Drift stared again. He wanted so very badly to believe the earnest seeming medic in front of him. But… That wasn’t how people were to mechs like him. Mechs like the medic in front of him always wanted something. Whether that was to feel superior, credits or other things. They didn’t do things like fix a dying leaker who’d shoved one too many boosters into his ports (even if he was really sure he hadn’t put in more than three.)
“And what’s all this saving gonna cost me?” He didn’t want to fight a medic, a real doctor unlike the hacks that preyed on the people of the Dead End, but he also wasn’t going to let some medic part him out because he owed him. “I don’t got no creds.” Especially not for fancy treatment like this. This looked like a real clinic. It smelled clean and looked so neat.
Though… The medic was broadly built, clean lines with a handsome enough set of face plates. Drift forced his lip plates in to a coy, coquetteish smile and ran his free servo up his thigh and let it rest at his hips, digits pointing in towards to his pelvic plates to draw attention to the charcoal grey and yellow that were meant to draw the optic. “I wouldn’t mind paying in more… direct ways for my hero though.”
It was only Ratchet’s very firm self control that kept him from grimacing (the same self control that kept him from telling Senators and Towerlings that they were idiots). “No. No…that’s not necessary. No one pays at for treatment here. Besides, you should be resting. Your frame and cortex were put through quite the ordeal.”
“You sure doc? I promise I can show you a real good time.” He wasn’t quite sure why he was pushing, he wasn’t much a fan of interfacing in general, but it was work that kept him and his cadre fed. He didn’t want to look a gift zap-pony in the face if it was true that he didn’t actually have to pay.
“Yes, I’m very sure. Even if it wasn’t free, I have a conjunx.”
Drift held back a snort at that. Plenty of conjunxed people still hit him and all the other acting pleasure-bots up. Vows didn’t stop them from trying to get their spikes wet at any opportunity. Still, it was kind of sweet that the medic was loyal like that. Or at least loyal enough not to frag around with a skiv like him. “Well then, I’m not gonna stop you if you wanna fix me up.”
Ratchet smiled at that and adjusted the drip to feed a little faster since the energon was settling well in to his frame. “I’m glad, because if you’re ok with being admitted for the night that would give your systems time to recover better and give me time to get some more energon in to you.”
“….you’re going to feed me?” That seemed like it had to be fake. No one just gave people energon. Especially not down here.
“Well, it will be med-grade, but yes. You could really use the additives.” Ratchet frowned a little. “Once this bag is finished intergrading I’d like you to drink a cube and rest for at least four joors before we discharge you to make sure everything is being properly absorbed and there’s not any underlying reasons for the malnutrition I can see in your scans. I’m assuming that it’s largely from energon insecurity given the scarcity down here but it never hurts to make sure it’s not something else.”
Drift didn’t know what to say to that. No one gave up energon just like that, especially not something as valuable as med-grade, specifically because of all of those additives. It felt too much like a trap, like if he slept he was going to wake up and find his t-cog missing or some other important organ ripped from his frame. “K…”
“Will you be alright on your own for a bit, while this drip finishes? It should take about a joor. I have some other patients to see still before the clinic will close for the night.”
“Yeah, I’ll be good.” It felt demeaning to say it like that but the racer didn’t really know what else to say. The lure of maybe more energon was just too strong. Never mind the bag of it that was being fed directly in to his lines and the charge cable. Worst case he could snatch the bag and try and run out of the back of the clinic if things got weirder. It felt wrong to think about betraying the medic that way but the practical part of his processor knew that he needed to look after himself first. No one else was going to do that for him.
“Alright, I’ll grab you a blanket before I go. Some times after such a strain your frame will have trouble self regulating temperature.” The medic pulled a warmed tarp from one of the cabinets beside the berth and unfolded it with a practised flick of his wrists. Tucking it around Drift’s pedes and chassis he gestured to the side of the berth, “There’s a call button here, press it if you need anything or if you start feeling unwell in anyway.”
Drift nodded and watched as the medic left, the door closing with a soft woosh of its tracks. Everything felt surreal, like he had taken an extra hit of syk and reality was a step sideways. He settled back a little more in to the berth, fisting at the tarp blanketing him and warming him – he hadn’t even realized he was cold, too used to ignoring his frame and it’s needs.
The scent of cleanser in the medbay, the warmth of the tarp, the extra energon in his system, the stress on his frame of apparently nearly dying… It was all a bit too much for the racer’s strained frame and despite his unwillingness to let himself be any more vulnerable in this apparent sanctuary, he slipped into a restful recharge.
Chapter 2
Notes:
(Pointedly doesn't look at the calendar.) Woooo, so about that chapter being out by a set time... It sure didn't happen, but I have finally finished it! I hope that it was worth the wait for all that it is. I hope I was able to get across the idea of why Deadlock/Drift in the future would have such a focus on Ratchet.
Thanks to everyone who has read this and waited so patiently. <3
Chapter Text
Awareness came slowly, like surfacing after dropping syk. He was warm, comfortable even. There was a coziness that only came from being bundled up in the little berth he and Gasket had made in their shared den. There was no comforting field of the older Dead Ender though, which was strange for how warm he felt.
He was loathe to move, his processor slow to online and boot after so many vorns of boosting but if Gasket was already up and moving that meant he needed to get going too. It was his turn to try and get extra energon for the cadre of elders and if he wanted to do that he needed find a good corner to work early. Especially if he wanted to get enough for boosters to make said corner work more bearable.
He stretched and when he wasn’t butting his pedes and helm against the wall he onlined his optics quickly. He was not in the little bolt-hole that he called home. His cortex lagged and panic rose quickly in his chest, something very close letting loose a little wail. Long practice kept any startled shouts inside though, as that kind of sound would attract unwanted attention.
The room was clean, sterile even and there were things around him that he didn’t have names for. Yellow optics were wide and overbright from stress. He was in a strange berth and he was tucked into it, like something out of a story. It was… a med berth? It was kind of hard to tell, actually. Things from the previous night were hazy in that familiar, soft way that syk helped glaze everything part of his life in. The medic from the night before was slumped in the chair in a corner, arms folded over that ample chest and helm tilted back so it was braced between the corner walls. His mouth hung open ever so slightly and snores rumbled softly from him.
It was sort of nice, actually. The medic had been worried about him last night and had been concerned enough to be there for him when he woke. Not many people bothered trying for Drift, not any more. The cadre of elderly he helped with as he could didn’t count. They didn’t have anyone at all other than the other strays. Unless the medic had stuck around to make sure he paid for those services rendered. That was more likely but that ever hopeful part of his spark wished it was the former.
That thought didn’t make any sense though, the medic had said it was free. Free for everyone, even mecha like him. So… It had to be because he cared. Or maybe he was worried that Drift was going to try and lift something, which was fair. He’d definitely thought about it briefly. It would be a pretty slag way to repay the other, but it was every mech for themselves out in the Dead End.Harder to forget the haloed light around the medic who’d been leaning over him as he came back from the brink.
Drift sat up and the tarp pooled in his lap with a loud rustle. The thing that had wailed chirped loudly and he startled right off of the med-berth with a clatter of plating. The line that had fed him energon had been removed at some point and that was the only reason he didn’t end up in a bigger tangle.
Panic and habit kept him from trying to bolt but it was a near thing. His slim racer frame had enough points and odd bits of kibble that the tarp was preventing him from running. He felt like slag and great at the same time. It was a little like being on boosters and that was enough to get him to settle a bit more. Maybe he had just dreamed all of that up?
“Here, let me help.”
That smooth voice broke through his confusion and Drift looked over his shoulder to see the medic a lot closer than he remembered him being. (Not to mention awake.) Maybe he was still hooked to a booster or two if he was losing track of a whole person like that.
“S’fine, I got it.” Drift held back a growl and twisted his frame about. The tarp tightened ever so slightly that for a moment he worried he would actually need to ask for help to get out of a tarp.
“Alright, alright.” The medic lifted his servos placatingly and took a step back out of the racer’s personal space.
With room to vent, it helped calm Drift down enough that he was able to shimmy out of the tarp and use the med-berth to pull himself upright. He felt weak suddenly and his helm spun before his knees gave out from underneath him. He clawed at the berth, dazed.
“Whoa there.” The medic came back into his space and braced him up as he wobbled and nearly went down. “That’s what I was worried about. Let’s get you back on the berth and get that cube of med-grade, hmm?”
Bright and clear blue optics met his dusky yellow and Drift nodded helplessly. The medic looked like he actually cared and it was such a foreign expression that the racer just let the other mech do what he wanted with him. It was a bit of a shock to find himself just sat on the med-berth instead of strapped to it – some part of him still expected to be torn into for his t-cog.
Warm hands were back in short order with a small cube of med-grade as well. Another kindness he didn’t deserve. He wasn’t going to say no to free energon though. (Even if it ended up not being free, it was too valuable to risk skipping.) The racer kept quiet as he drank slowly, watching as the medic puttered around the room, tidying lightly.
Finally he couldn’t take it any more and Drift hunched over himself, optics narrowing slightly in suspicion. “So… I can just… go after this?” A greedy part of him wanted to ask for more, to push and see what else he could get from this free clinic and this generous medic.
“That’s correct. You should feel more stabile once that energon has had a chance to process into your system a bit.” Ratchet wiped his hands off as he finished his cleaning. “Ideally you’d have another deca-cycle of only med-grade, but…”
“But this is the Dead-End and ain’t nothin’ like that for skivs like us.” Drift muttered. It wasn’t bitter, it was just the truth. He knew his place and sure, he resented the upper echelons that crushed them further down to make themselves look better and hoard more for themselves. That didn’t mean he had to take it out on someone who was helping all of them, though part of him was tempted. The medic was there and an easy target.
The medic’s face-plates fell a little at that, all too aware that what he was doing down here was important but wasn’t helping in the way that these mecha needed to be helped. “Look… If you can stay clean and come back in three orns, I’ll have a bit of work for you to do.”
“I don’t have shanix to spare for it, but I could pay you in some more med-grade. It would just be some courier work. Picking up supplies from where the Dead-End meets the docks.” Ratchet continued on when the other didn’t bolt or shrug off the offer as pity.
That seemed suspiciously good and everything down here that was too good to be true, was.
“You want me to… what?” It was hard not to be suspicious and the part of him that knew better, that knew the sorts of things that went on in the Dead End wasn’t surprised. Being asked to run drugs for an actual Medic was a new one, and none of the gangs would appreciate someone cutting in on their terf but if that’s what the Medic wanted then he would do it. He owed him one, no matter what Ratchet said in protest otherwise.
“I want, if you’re up for it, to run a package down here. I’ll pay you in energon. Like I said, I don’t exactly have an influx of shanix, and it’s nothing serious. It’s just some intra-linear tubing and empty bags so if someone wants to mug you for the box, just let them have it, nothing inside it would be worth your plating or spark.” Ratchet explained a bit better, he could see the hesitance on the other’s faceplates and he didn’t blame him. When he had first come down to the Dead End, things had felt so wrong and foreign but now he understood a little better, knew the rhythm that these mechs lived their lives to.
“You’ll pay in energon?” That was… Honestly better than shanix in some ways. Good quality energon was hard to come by down here and he could dilute it a bit and share it with Gasket. He wanted the shanix too, it was easier to get syk off of the dealer that way and as long as he stayed off of the circuit boosters it would be fine. But energon… It would be worth it to do the run, if only for that. He would have done it for free but he hadn’t fried his cortex with drugs enough to turn down food.
“Yeah, I’m afraid it will be med-grade again, but half a cube upfront to put in your tanks. It’s a bit of a haul up that far, and a full sealed cube once you come back with the box.” Ratchet knew he would be tempted to just give the mech the cube if he showed up empty handed but that was dangerous. Like feeding a stray turbo-hound it could go either way, it could become loyal and loving, or it could turn when you weren’t able to continue. (Not to mention that might smack of pity to someone who had failed a job. Dangerous in a different way.)
Medgrade was even better. It diluted easier and cleaner than plain energon did. A whole cube of it? He could split it up and hoard it. And some up front? This seemed too good to be true again. Maybe he was going to get snatched along the way and have his T-cog stolen. It was pretty much the only thing worth anything left in his frame anyway at this point. It felt incredibly risky… But if it was real? He couldn’t risk not going. He had a make-shift knife in his subspace, it would have to be enough. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Great.”
The medic smiled at him like it was that simple and some part of Drift wanted to believe that it was. The other part thought getting off boosters was stupid. They helped in ways someone who didn’t live in the Dead End would never understand. They made him feel good when things were so bad. They helped him keep going when his tanks cramped from hunger. But… He did need more of them than he used to. One had become two which had become three. (And he hadn’t forgotten the medic telling him they had pulled five out of his helm.)
Maybe a break wouldn’t be too bad. It would be a struggle but it meant he would be able to pull the shanix he did get towards other things. He had used to take breaks before… It would be fine.
The next three orns were torture.
Which was to say the first orn wasn’t that bad. He felt a little twitchy maybe. He’s wanted boosters, obviously. They helped with everything down here, but he’d made it through and thought that would be as bad as it could get. The second orn was rough. He’d started to shake constantly and Drift had felt cold all the time too. He was miserable. It was hard to find work like this, never mind do the work… but the medic’s kind face, open and believing in him pushed him through to the next orn.
The third orn was the bad one. Everything ached. Not just his joints and struts, but his very lines felt like they were brittle. He needed it. Needed the boosters. He had cried to Gasket, begging for him to bring him a booster. Booster’s made everything better. Bearable.
Gasket had even offered to get him some, but reminded him why he was suffering like this. (Gasket didn’t trust any medic, but if Drift could cut back on how many boosters he used in an orn because of this, he wasn’t going to complain. He used too, but not as heavy as the younger racing frame did.)
And Drift had bitten into his glossa and given in. He was almost there. Just a few more joor really. He would be fine.
(He was not fine.)
Things had reached the point the other orn where he couldn’t do anything at all. He’d needed people to drag him here and they had dumped him half a block away. Staggering to his feet so lurch towards the clinic, like a desperate Empty. But he had made it.
The medic looked surprised to see him and Drift felt triumphant for a moment. It was quickly overshadowed by him purging at the medic’s pedes. His plating clattered and his systems felt raw but it was fine. He had been sick before and shaky and awful and he wanted to boost so badly. And he’d still done it! He’d stayed clean and made it.
Only to do to that in front of the nice medic.
There was a sound of disgust from further in the clinic and shame clawed its way through Drift. He should just go – but then the medic, with his nice plating, and sturdy shoulders was completely blasé about it all. Like it didn’t bother him. Like it wasn’t disgusting or wrong.
The medic simply got him settled into a patient intake chair, set a drone to clean the mess and then himself and just… carried on like nothing had happened at all. Like he wasn’t a clattering mess in his seat. A stiff breeze away from collapsing and fading away.
He was treated like a person. Like he mattered. Given something to ease his tank. More medgrade. Other medications that were explained briefly to him as the medic treated him and helped him not only feel better but understand why he felt like he did.
Drift didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that not having boosters was what was doing this to him. (Especially when he felt so great right now. Medical grade boosters were amazing – not that the medics had called whatever he had given him boosters, but he was pretty sure that was what they were.) Part of him and known that’s what it was, but having a medic confirm it was something else entirely.
It was probably a sign from Primus that he needed to stop using them totally. (Though if Primus wanted him to stop using he was going to have to do something more for him than a measly cube of medgrade and a kind medic.)
Ratchet measured out what would be half a cube and handed it over, as well as a data pad which Drift took with a confused look on his faceplates. “What’s this for?” He had to fight the urge to subspace the energon, he was sitting comfortably at just under half a tank. That was practically full for someone like him. He didn’t need the energon… But he would be so close to full and with quality energon no less. He sipped at it slowly to stop himself from knocking it back once the heavy, cloying texture hit his glossa.
“It’s the delivery notice for the package. A courier will meet you at the top, outer level near where the Dead End starts to mix with the Docks, he needs to sign it.” Ratchet tapped the data pad, showing the grey mech how it worked and where the other courier would need to sign.
Eventually sipping at the mostly empty cube was teetering towards stalling and Drift tipped the glass cube to finish it off. He was sure he would be able to slip away if this turned out to be just a complex hoax to get him somewhere he could be grabbed easier. Especially with a near full tank. He could spare the energy to transform into his alt-mode, even if he got stiffed on the rest of the payment. He recited the address one more time before he subspaced the data pad as well and took off.
There were a lot of back ways and he stuck to a most of them. Not just because of the possible organ theft but to skirt around certain areas that were contested. It wouldn’t help him any to be run through by a gang member looking for something to prove. Not to mention it would keep him away from the areas he normally frequented.
He wanted circuit boosters in the worst way possible. A little bit of syk to help him sleep the night before when he’d been twisting up with how much he just needed a booster. Syk wasn’t at all the same in his mind. Yeah it was drugs but not the hard kind that could kill you if you messed up. Like sure, syk could kill you but you had to take such a stupid amount that you would have to be trying to overdose. Not like circuit boosters anyway.
It took him two joors to make it to the assigned meeting point and he couldn’t stop himself from hanging back and scoping it out a little. Just to make sure there wasn’t anything obvious anyway. And there didn’t seem to be anything… He crept around the corner before he tried to straighten his frame out in a more casual way that didn’t seem like he was being weird. The courier stood out like a sore digit. Clean and well painted, and not low quality stuff either. Maybe it wasn’t full on ritz but it may as well be this low levelled.
“Hey. You have something for me.” Drift brought the data pad out the moment the courier caught sight of him. A quick and easy exchange. Or at least it should have been.
“I don’t have anything for you.” The courier sneered, tilting his chin up ever so slightly so that Drift knew he was being looked down on.
“Look mech, you’re going to be waiting a while if you don’t give me the box you have for the Free Clinic.” He didn’t know what he was going to do if the courier didn’t want to cooperate on this. Ratchet hadn’t told him what he should do and he was pretty sure that fighting the courier wasn’t what the medic would want. “Just look at the data pad.”
The sneer got deeper and the yellow mech stepped back away from the obvious leaker in front of him. “You probably stole that off of the runner that was supposed to be meeting me.”
Drift bristled at that. He might be a lot of things, and a thief was one of them, but to have some uppity higher caste mech accuse him of it when he hadn’t actually done anything rankled especially deep. “Just look at the pad.” He tried to shove it at the yellow mech again and bit back a curse when the courier refused. “Call the clinic if you don’t believe me.” He was so tempted just to say frag it and leave. But a whole cube of med-grade…
“Don’t think I won’t!” The courier snipped and didn’t turn away from him – probably the only smart thing he had done this entire interaction. He took the pose that every low-caste mech knew meant he was making a comm call. For all the bluster and shine, this mech wasn’t really any better than they were down here.
The Dead Ender was tempted to just leave. Frag this mech and the stupid box of supplies. Energon was valuable, but so was his time. Who knew how much shanix he had lost just by doing this favour for the medic. (That it wasn’t a favour but a job was ignored by his cortex’s complaints.) It wasn’t a wash just yet, but it almost wasn’t worth the effort required to follow through.
He was cleanish looking, practically fully fueled. Drift would be able to find a much better corner to work or other jobs to canvas. He didn’t have to finish this one. But… that half a cube had filled him up. It had been part payment and part bribe. He didn’t have to put up with this. The medic probably expected him to flake out and not actually get the delivery. Would teach him not to trust mecha like him.
But… But then Drift was just proving to him that Dead Enders were thieves. That they couldn’t be trusted. (And a lot of them couldn’t. Drift couldn’t always be trusted.) But that medic had saved his life. Probably saved a lot of other people’s lives too. Would even save Gasket or one of the older mecha in the cadre if he brought them to him. Hard to save anyone’s life if there wasn’t any supplies to do that with.
As if to reward him for reaching such a conclusion, the courier scowled as he dropped the call and held out his hand in a demanding way. “Well the medic said you were the other courier and I’ve decided I don’t get paid enough to stop him from getting scammed. So give me that stupid data pad and I’ll sign off and get out of here.”
Drift held off a snort and stretched his arm out so the other could take the data pad from him and do whatever it was he needed to do. From there it was quickly given back to him and the package followed. The other mech looked smug when the racer frame realized he didn’t have the subspace capacity for something so large – unlike the professional courier.
Whatever. It didn’t matter, he could just carry the box. It wasn’t like it really weighed anything. Though having it in his servos like this meant that it was at a greater risk of someone ripping it from his servos. He would just have to be quick, that’s all. Maybe take some of the less travelled back ways… It was riskier, but it would be faster.
The box was big and awkward. Not quite able to be tucked under his arm and against his side, but it felt stupid to carry it in front of himself where it would be so much easier to pluck and run off with. In the end, Drift settled for propping it against his hip and making his way back to the clinic like that.
Somehow, no one saw him or confronted him. It felt like a minor blessing from Primus almost. Even more shocking, when he got back to the clinic, Ratchet didn’t look surprised to see him and that made his spark do something strange. Like maybe this wasn’t pity. Like maybe he could and was being trusted to do something like this.
The medic handed him his cube (not half?) of med-grade and Drift snuck a sip of it just to confirm that’s what it was. Thick and rich, with all the minerals he never got, it was as amazing as ever and he was quick to hide it in his subspace. It would be diluted several times and go a lot further than the medic probably wanted it to, but that was his business, not the medic’s.
“I can’t thank you enough Drift. This means the world to a clinic like this.” Ratchet told him as he opened the box and started to place the bags of… tubes? Or whatever they were only a cart and in different drawers. It was almost fascinating watching him work. He was so sure of himself.
“Whatever.” Drift felt uncomfortable with the attention and fidgeted. He should leave but something about the medic tugged at his very spark. He didn’t want to go just yet.
“Really, getting supplies is one of the regular challenges we face.” Ratchet was earnest as he finished up and collapsed the box down. Nothing down here was wasted or taken for granted. “In fact… If you’re free in another three orn, I could use another package brought down. If you would be interested in something like that?”
“For energon again?” It was tempting to demand shanix. Shanix could get him things the energon couldn’t. But Drift like every other Dead-Ender was well aware of how they were perceived if they left their little hovels for the upper levels. No one wanted them in their shops. Too worried about thefts that never happened.
“Mhmm.” Ratchet hummed out as he sat back down at the desk to do whatever work it was the medics did when they weren’t saving leakers and skivs. “The next one wouldn’t be quite as big, but we go through a lot of inter-linear tubing, so that one is a frequent delivery.”
“Right. Well… I guess, I’ll see you in three orns?” Drift shifted awkwardly when he wasn’t chased out. He wasn’t exactly welcomed, but there was no doubt the medic was busy. He didn’t see either of the underlings from when he’d been here before.
“Absolutely.” The medic smiled at him and for a moment the Dead-Ender was sure that must have been what it felt like to see the sun. It left him feeling a little disoriented but Gasket was going to be thrilled to see the med-grade and an offer of more… Well, it wouldn’t just be Drift keeping himself on the straight and narrow with that on the line.
The second time was almost worse – Drift knew what was coming this time. Knew he was going to suffer and it was harder for it. Still, between him and Gasket, they managed to keep him functional and off of boosters. There was more dross and some syk, but that was fine. Overdosing on dross was next to impossible and the worst thing it was going to do to him was leave him processing at half speed for a bit.
There was some embarrassment at the clattering of his plating, of the manic look that must have been on his face-plates as Drift made his way back to the clinic. Like the time before, he shrugged off his help and made the last bit of the journey under his own power.
Ratchet did the same too – treated him rather than be exasperated that he was tweaking out so hard. Drift liked it. Liked that this mech cared. Not just about him, but about others down here. Part of him still expected that there was going to be some unseen catch, but at this point he was pretty sure he wouldn’t even care.
It took joors for his frame to settle and that, Drift didn’t like. He was here to do a job and his stupid frame wasn’t cooperating. Things like this were why he needed those boosters. It wasn’t just helping him mentally, but physically as well. His frame just ran better on the subpar fuel that Dead-Enders had to eat if he had something to balance it out with.
After that it really was exactly like the time before. Take the pad to the edge, meet the previous courier, get the pad signed and return. The courier still sneered at him, but signed the pad and handed over the box with no real protests. There was some obligatory smack talk about Dead-Enders, but Drift just tuned it out.
This box was significantly heavier and just the teensiest too big to fit in his subspace. Frustrating but workable. Drift hefted it onto his hip and was off, back to the clinic. He thought about checking this box – surely whatever it was, was far more valuable that some tubing? How many boosters could he get for something like this?
The thought was harder to shake off this time and Drift found himself thinking about boosters almost the entire way back. He made it though, and once more Ratchet handed him his energon. Another full cube of medgrade. At this rate, if Drift could do this a few more times, he would have enough energon that they wouldn’t have to cut it nearly as much as they were right now.
It was interesting, watching the medic open the box to reveal medical grade grinding wheels and welding rods. Stuff that might have real value if you knew the right mecha to trade to. It made Drift’s spark feel warm to be trusted with something like that.
He left feeling a bit high just on that. It carried him all the way through to the next orn. It didn’t do much for the orn after, where the shakes had started to get more pronounced instead of farther away.
Still, he persisted. The energon was real and good, it left him and Gasket able to focus on trying to find steadier work for when this chance inevitably disappeared. Drift thought more and more about boosting each orn, and was prouder of himself for resisting each joor.
The third time felt impossible, but once more Drift made it back to the Free Clinic. The thought of that medic’s face and that little quirk of his lip-plates made his spark skip a rotation. (Or maybe it was how his frame seemed to be doing it’s level best to try and vibrate itself apart.)
Either way, the medic treated him and the Dead-Ender was struck by the knowledge that he trusted this medic. This fancy top-sider who was broad and no-nonsense. Handsome in an older, rugged sort of way. Idle chatter unfortunately turned back to the reason the speedster was in the clinic and Drift was once again struck by the small things the medic continued to do for him.
“You can use the shower if you like? I know it’s not as good as a real washracks, but it might be nice just to rinse off.” Ratchet offered after he finished up with Drift. The medic wiped his servos off with a cloth before he sanitized them lightly. “You don’t have to, if you aren’t comfortable of course.”
Another offer that felt too good to be true. Drift almost felt bad when he nodded, a little dazedly. He would love a rinse off. The medic kept giving him energon, taking care of him. He was kind but in a sort of no-nonsense way that meant the speedster didn’t feel like he was being pitied… but at the same time, didn’t feel like he was taking advantage. It was… nice.
The washrack wasn’t like any Drift had seen before, it was wide – clearly meant to accommodate more than one mech. There was a bench and multiple detachments. It wasn’t fancy, but it was more than he had seen in… Well, he couldn’t even rightly remember anymore.
He was quick and grimaced at the amount of filth that sluiced off of his frame. The grey hid a lot of dirt, something that was a bonus for a mech like him. It did mean though that when he had a chance to really get clean, it was almost gross. Part of life as a Dead-Ender, but gross none the less.
After that, the rest of it was routine. Have a little energon, go up a few levels and retrieve the package. Return to the Free Clinic and exchange the package for a full cube of med-grade. The third time was the charm and Drift couldn’t help but reward himself for all of it. He deserved something nice, something enjoyable.
Surely the medic wouldn’t know if he had boosted just once. Especially if he did it right away. It would be out of his systems, he would get to feel good and he could do some other work to bring in some shanix rather than struggling through another round of withdrawals.
Unfortunately for Drift, that was not the case. One booster became a second, became another the orn after and the orn after that. From there it was just easier not to go. He couldn’t go – one of the requirements had been to stay clean. And then it was just back to things had always been.
When three orns passed and Drift never showed up, the medic was worried at first. Had something happened to the speedster frame? It certainly wouldn’t have been outside of the realm of possibilities. Mecha got killed down here all the time. Whether it was from violence or something more systematic, it was a risk of being a Dead-Ender. On the other servo…
Ratchet shouldn’t have been surprised. And maybe a small part of him wasn’t. Mecha like Drift didn’t just change overnight. Getting clean took work and a mech had to want it more than they wanted the drugs. Or at least more than how good the drugs made them feel. That was a hard thing to fight when they lived in places like the Dead End. Where life was one miserable event after another. It wasn’t even all their faults. A lot of it was systemic failures from society and how did one medic fix that?
Still, he hoped that the racer frame would come by. That something had held him up, and he was sorry he couldn’t have made it sooner. In the end that wasn’t what happened and Ratchet was forced to send one of the interns up to get the delivery. It would be so much easier if the couriers would come down here. They were so afraid of the gangs and all of that, when none of them would bother them. (At least not if they didn’t say anything.) The Free Clinic treated too many of them – it was why it held such a large neutral zone around it.
Off and on, the medic worried about the smaller mech and what had become of him. Hackjob was quick to blow off his concerns, which only made Ratchet snappier and more dour about the whole thing. He wanted, no, needed to believe that even if Drift had fallen off of the wagon, that he was alive and would do better for himself.
After all, medicine wasn’t just about treating the frame, and Ratchet prided himself on being one of the best. Not because he maintained the top levels of society, but because he cared about everyone. Even these forgotten and derided folks of the Dead End. He only hoped that one day he would see Drift again, and he would be able to help him in a way that lasted.
As for Drift… The medic’s attempt at kindness wasn’t something he was ever going to forget.