robothell | [ INTRO LOG ]

Entry tags:

[ INTRO LOG ]

You don't know how you got here. One minute you were walking, sleeping, maybe dead -- then you're here, your feet suddenly carrying you down an empty street. Where's here?

Any Cybertronian would recognize this as their home planet, Cybertron, but it's not a Cybertron they've ever known. It has all the familiar hallmarks, but none of the specifics -- the city isn't one anyone here could identify, and even at a glance it's obvious that no one's set foot on the planet's surface in hundreds of years. The city and its surrounding areas all bear the marks of devastating war, of dust and rust collected over centuries. With no one in sight -- right at first, anyway -- there's plenty to explore. In fact, if you start walking, you'll find that your feet may just carry you in one particular direction.

A) The crater.
On one edge of the city is a massive crater left by some wartime weapon that seems to have taken out a large chunk of the surrounding metropolitan area. At the center of the crater it's broken through the surface of the terrain to reveal what looks like it might be a promising energon deposit. There is some strange but native vegetation growing around the edges, too, that no Cybertronian would be able to identify -- small, metallic, brittle-looking sprouts that bear a curiously organic-looking fruit of some kind that doesn't look like it's intended for consumption by any natives of the planet. In one rocky nook of the crater, light catches on the surface of a pool of water, which seems strangely out of place on Cybertron. On closer inspection, it seems that somehow an underground water source has formed a spring in the crater.

B) The center of the city.
If you follow where your feet seem to want to carry you, you'll find yourself in the middle of the ruined city. It seems that the center of the city was once home to a massive forum, and some of the pillars and structures still stand. At the very center of the forum is a massive, elaborately constructed fountain, although it has now long since run dry of whatever used to fill it. One of the low, inner walls of the forum has a terminal embedded in its surface, although it looks curiously ancient, out of place with the rest of the city, and unlike the rest of the technology still left around, there doesn't seem to be any way to power it on or operate it. There are a few scattered pools of water and a few of the strange metallic plants in the city, too, but they're not quite as plentiful as in the crater.

The planet was obviously once home to a massive network of communication relays, but those have all been long since destroyed. However, with the bits and pieces left behind and a few determined minds, it wouldn't be too hard to build a working, if rudimentary, one...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Drift was ready for an acid response, a sniping retort, but...nothing. It catches him off guard, and he blinks, a baffled look flickering across his face.

"That's the question of the day," Drift says, peering at Ratchet with an almost worried look on his face. He hangs back, looking hesitant. "Is...everything all right?"

"What, you mean aside from being kidnapped off the ship and dumped here with no warning and less explanation?"

Ratchet's voice is caustic now, but he doesn't sound angry with Drift, just annoyed in general. "Yes, everything's perfect, why would you ask?"

Ah. Ratchet's only just arrived, then. Drift winces a little at the acid tone of his voice, though something seems a little off nonetheless.

"You just seem a little...nothing -- never mind." Drift feels badly thrown enough already. This isn't worth arguing over, not when there are far more pressing concerns. "You're not the only one. Pretty much everyone here is in the same boat -- and yeah, there are others. Quite a few, actually."

Ratchet frowns a little, at Drift's expression, trying not to look worried.

"Yeah? Care to enlighten me?" He pauses, and his optics narrow. "Anyone dangerous?"

Drift can't help but feel like he's missing something about this conversation, or like he and Ratchet are having slightly different ones altogether. He had expected Ratchet to be in a fouler mood, all things considered -- or at least that Ratchet would be taking it out on him. He usually didn't hesitate to blow steam in Drift's direction.

"You could say that." Drift's optics dim, his expression going grave. "It's mostly Autobots, as far as I've seen, but... I ran into an old ex-Con who tipped me off that he'd seen Tarn around. ...And there's Megatron, who I'm going to put down in the 'dangerous' column for the hell of it, Autobrand or no."

Yeah, Drift still doesn't really get what's up with that, and he ain't happy about it.

Edited 2015-01-03 21:29 (UTC)

"Oh, hell, he's here? Well, at least he's less likely to cause trouble than he was six months ago." Ratchet's mouth twists like he bit into something sour, and he shakes his head.

"Seems like all sorts of people are showing up with Autobrands of dubious origin," Ratchet says, eyeing Drift. "When did you get yours back, then?"

Yeah, okay, now Drift knows something is up. He could wave off Ratchet's blase reaction to the news of Tarn's presence -- although it's surprisingly inoffensive -- even if it leaves a strange feeling in his tanks. The question, though, brings Drift up short, and he looks perplexed, vaguely troubled, one hand going to smooth fingertips over the familiar raised edges of his Autobrand.

"Ratchet -- what are you talking about?"

"I'd've thought you'd remember," Ratchet snaps irritably. "It was me picking your aft up off the deck after--"

He stops dead, fuel turning to icewater in his lines as he stares at the perfect incomprehension on Drift's face, his tanks rolling over once.

"Hell," he says, almost softly. "Drift. What's the last thing you remember?"

Drift's spark goes cold in his chest at the way Ratchet looks at him, at the soft tones of his voice. Something about all of this feels critically wrong.

"I was talking to Rodimus. You'd just finished rebuilding his arms after the whole sparkeater fiasco." Drift frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, I already know I've...missed some things, or I'm behind, or -- there's time travel involved, I get it. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"What," Ratchet says, his voice very cold now as suspicion and a kind of frozen anger blossom under his windscreen in tandem, his optics narrowing slowly, "exactly did Rodimus tell you, then?"

Ratchet, please, you're actually unnerving Drift a little there. Drift raises his hands as if in defense, huffing air out through his vents.

"What are you getting so worked up for? Rodimus told me everything! I mean -- the important parts, anyway, and it was a little, you know, incoherent..." Okay, not sounding like a major vote of confidence for Rodimus. "I know about Megatron's trial, and that I...left, and that you came to get me. And he told me about Brainstorm being a Decepticon, which -- uh, wow. None of it really made a lot of sense, honestly, but it sounds like a lot's going on."

Ratchet dims his optics and takes a slow, cooling vent of air in, still looking a little stunned.

"Incoherent," he says, icily. "Excellent. I'm going to strip the paint from his plating. Then you don't remember anything about Fort Max, or--"

Ratchet actually falters a little, looking up at Drift again with uncertain optics.

"...you don't remember Delphi. Pharma, or Delphi, or--" One hand comes up involuntarily, wrapping around the opposite wrist and looking helplessly into Drift's face, almost entirely at a loss. "Oh."

Okay, now Drift is getting a little alarmed, and it shows in the way his optics brighten and sharpen on Ratchet's face, his shoulders going a little slack. Since when does Ratchet talk to him like -- like this? All Ratchet ever has to say to him is biting commentary, usually unprovoked, and Drift's used to that.

"Ratchet?" There's a disconcerted note to Drift's voice, and he actually elects to take a half-step toward Ratchet. "What's wrong? Will someone just tell me what's going on?"

"Rodimus did not tell you everything, Drift," Ratchet says acidly. "You missed... months. You nearly died at least twice. We--"

He stops, quieting, his optics sliding away.

"...a lot happened."

Drift's getting a little tired of everyone telling him he's missed so much without telling him what he'd missed. But more than that, he's growing increasingly alarmed by the way Ratchet's talking to him, the look on his face -- and he nearly died twice? He's had near death experiences before, though. That doesn't account for the look on Ratchet's face.

Oh, Primus. Drift feels the energon go cold in his lines, his optics flickering in a helpless stare.

"Oh, god. I'm dying." Drift looks at Ratchet entreatingly, as if pleading to give it to him straight. "That's it, isn't it? That's what Rodimus didn't tell me. Ratchet, I..."

"No! No, hell, Drift, you're not dying, you're fine." What had Drift said, right outside the doors on Messatine? That one day Ratchet would say something nice to him, right before he told Drift he had a terminal illness. Ratchet rubs at the back of his neck, looking suddenly very tired.

"We were just in some fights, is all. You're all right."

"Oh -- oh. Good, then." Drift looks momentarily relieved, but it's not long before the daunting worry overtakes it again. A few fights is nothing -- it doesn't explain that weary look on Ratchet's face or the strange compassion, however slight, that he's finally showing to Drift.

"Are you dying? Just tell me, Ratchet."

"No, I'm not dying. I--"

Ratchet stops, staring down at his hands, his expression closed and unreadable for a long moment, but whatever else has passed between them, he owes Drift this, at least, doesn't he? The truth about his own actions, whether he's carried them out yet or not. When Ratchet looks up again he looks calmer, and his voice is very level, but he's still rubbing the ragged, welded seams in his wrist absently.

"We went to Messatine, you and Pipes and I, to investigate some oddly consistent patient deaths. It turns out that the commanding officer there was murdering patients to harvest organs for the DJD, and had engineered a virus to kill everyone on the base so he could get off clean. We all contracted it, you asked me to kill you before you could be captured if it was the DJD's doing, I told you to go to hell. I went after Pharma and got the antidote to the virus, but not before I nearly rusted out. He was hanging off the edge of the roof about to shoot me to death when you somehow managed to haul your disintegrating chassis out of a medical slab and up to the roof and chopped his hands off, sent him over." Ratchet holds up his hands, painted red now, but faint smudges of blue are visible through the chipped red if Drift looks closely. "Mine were failing, so I took them. I would have had to stop practicing months ago if you hadn't done what you did, even if I had managed to survive being shot point-blank by Pharma's cannons."

Ratchet drops his hands and shrugs, a little helplessly, his optics focused on Drift's face, watching for his reaction.

"...you saved my life. Twice over. So, no, I'm not dying. Not anymore."

Oh, well that's -- oh. It's a lot. Even as ordered and coherent as it is, it's a lot to take in. Drift doesn't know what to say for a long time, just stares back at Ratchet, his face slowly overcome with some unnamed emotion.

It'd sound like a far-fetched tale, all this Autobot doctor murdering patients for the DJD stuff, if Drift hadn't heard a whole bunch of way more improbable crap from Rodimus. And this disease, this near-fatal degenerative virus that according to Ratchet had nearly killed Drift -- the thought makes his tanks churn, his spark waver. But the last part -- that he'd saved Ratchet, that he'd pulled himself out of his deathbed to do it -- he doesn't have such a hard time believing that. He'd save Ratchet's life, given half the chance. Of course he would.

Drift's tempted to find somewhere to sit down, but recent practical experience has taught him that sitting down does not, in fact, make bizarre and heavy news any easier to bear, so he stays right where he is, his face wrought with startled emotion.

"Oh," Drift finally manages. It's kind of a weak response, all in all. "Is that why you're...?" He gestures vaguely, unsure of how to articulate less of a complete asshole in my general direction tactfully.

Ratchet snorts a short, helpless laugh, his mouth twisting self-deprecatingly as he looks away and shakes his head.

"No. Well, not entirely, anyway. We've... been through a lot, since we started out." His optics light a little, almost warm as he looks at Drift. "Let me tell you, though, it didn't exactly hurt."

Drift feels his spark contract in his chest when Ratchet looks at him like that. He's not sure he can ever recall Ratchet looking at him quite like that. Drift doesn't quite manage a smile, but he looks a little less weary at least, his optics brightening with a warmer light.

"You're going to have to catch me up on all that sometime," Drift says, spreading his hands a little helplessly. "This is all a little...it's different."

Weird. It's weird. He means weird, Ratchet.

"Yeah, tell me about it. Though, I haven't been randomly kidnapped in at least a few months. I suppose I was due."

Ratchet shakes his head, all the warmth draining out of his expression to leave a kind of resigned weariness.

"Take your time. But--yeah, I'll fill you in. When you're ready. Just let me know."

Oh god this is so weird.

Drift isn't exactly complaining, though. He'd always hoped Ratchet would come around eventually, that he'd let go of whatever stupid grudge or guilt he'd been harboring and actually treat Drift like a person -- but even so, Drift had never really imagined it'd happen, not anytime soon anyway. To actually have it happen is...well, it's strange. But it's good.

"Ratchet -- thank you," Drift says, and he's surprised by how sweet the sincerity of it tastes in his mouth. His optics dim, though, and he rubs his fingertips over the Autobrand on his chest. "I just have on question for now, though. Before, you said -- you asked me when I'd gotten my Autobrand back. What did you mean by that?" He meets Ratchet's gaze, his own entreating. "There's too much I've missed. I need to know, Ratchet."

"Don't mention it, kid," Ratchet says, shaking his head a little--before he freezes.

He aches, bitterly, and he's briefly, poisonously resentful of Rodimus for somehow squirming out of explaining this to Drift when this whole situation was his responsibility in the first place. Ratchet watches Drift for a long moment, but prolonging this wasn't going to help.

"Overlord escaped," he says shortly, his voice scraped flat with exhausted resignation. "He killed Pipes, but not before Pipes sounded the alarm. He nearly stormed the medibay, but you and I held him off long enough for reinforcements to arrive. ...you told me to lock myself in with my patients, but I refused.

"In the end, Rewind sacrificed himself to reseal Overlord in his cell and get him off the ship so nobody else died. You let Rodimus pin the whole thing on you for some completely inconceivable reason and he stripped your badge and exiled you. He told everybody about it a while later when we all nearly died on Luna-1 or I'd have no idea, except for the fact that you putting Overlord on board makes literally no sense and was a stupid cover story to begin with." Ratchet stops, pressing his lips together hard and venting slowly for a moment, staring off to the side as he struggles for composure and then looks back at Drift, optics burning.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why you did it, but I know what it must have cost you, and I'm sorry."

Drift's optics go flat the second that Overlord's name comes out of Ratchet's mouth and a practiced denial hovers on his lips until the rest of what Ratchet's saying finally registers and he feels the bottom drop out of his tanks and fall away, endlessly.

It hits him like a like a heavy blow to the chest, like getting rammed by a truck, over and over again, his spark catching in his chest and tangling, constricting. There were risks, there had always been risks, but these were not consequences Drift was prepared to deal with. He's no stranger to consequences, not in this life or any other -- but he wouldn't have been on board with the plan if he hadn't thought it was going to work. Whatever was left of his poised expression crumbles away and leaves him bare, his optics pale and his mouth slack in shallow-breathed horror. He looks sick.

Drift's vocalizer crackles with static, false starts and aborted attempts at words. "...What?" he finally a manages, and his voice sounds distant to his own audials, small.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject