robothell | [ THE "DRIFT GOT HECKED UP BY TARN" CATCH-ALL POST ]

The first night Drift didn’t come back to the place Rodimus picked out, Rodimus is unbothered. They’ve both been in and out - just because he didn’t hear Drift doesn’t mean he didn’t swing by to catch a few hours of recharge. He’s a bit put out that he didn’t even warrant a hello, but he’ll just see him later. Except the hours passed and he didn’t even get one comm; the logical response being to comm him first - from which he went through curious to annoyed that Drift wasn’t picking up.

Could be out of range, he’ll have someone from Team Rodimus look at them later. He does, however, stay up all night waiting for Drift to come back. And when the sun rises and he’s still not back, Rodimus starts to get worried. The logical thing would be to grab Magnus - his Second in Command had recommended teams what with Tarn wandering around—

And then it hits him. He needs to find Drift, just to know he’s okay. Because Drift is fine, right? There’s no way he’d let anything happen to him.

At least that’s what he thinks, but the more he searches the city and comes up with nothing the more fear sets in, digging its claws into his spark until he can’t shake it. It’s going to be fine, he tells himself, Drift’s going to pop around that corner and pick up his great sword and laugh at his uncharacteristic worry and it’s going to be fine.

His great sword. Panic rises in him as he rushes to it, and then the what else he’s seeing registers. Energon, not all that fresh, and oh Primus no. Not Drift. He just got him back, he can’t lose him again. There’s a trail leading away from the city and it takes Rodimus doesn’t think twice before locking the sword to his back before following as fast as he can. Maybe he’s not too late, maybe it’s something else and Drift is fine - just misplaced his prized possession that’s all.

Any hope he has vanishes the moment he sees the light glint off a prone form, white and red and black, covered in energon. He can’t help it, a strangled “No!” escaping him before he even knows for sure it’s Drift. No, no, nononononono—

“Drift,” he says, falling to his knees, hands hovering over Drift’s chest uselessly. “Don’t— you’re not allowed to die, Drift. You can’t.” He feels as if something’s lodged in his throat and he can’t get it out no matter how hard he tries. Helpless, he’s helpless as his friend is— dead? Maybe he’s not too late, maybe Drift will open the one optic he has left and smile at Rodimus through what remains of his jaw and… Rodimus chokes back a sob at the same time he finally realizes he’s hearing something.

Drift. He’s still alive.

Rodimus doesn’t think then, as if he was before. Getting his arms around Drift is hard enough; smearing energon on himself in the process as he tries to swing one of Drift’s arms around his shoulders. Ratchet. Ratchet will know what to do.

He’s not sure how he gets to the clinic. All he can do is focus on the sound of Drift’s systems as proof he’s not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Stumbling at the entrance, and his grip on Drift slipping, it’s all he can do to keep himself upright.

“Ratchet! Ratchet, you have to—” His voice breaks into a sob and he should be ashamed of himself but he can’t find it in himself to be. “It’s Drift.”

Please be there, please come, please save him.

Ratchet might not have recognized the crumpled, leaking form in Rodimus' arms without that clarification--as it is, his optics go wide and pale with shock, but he's already moving, swinging on the rough-hewn crutches he made for himself, hooking one around a slab on wheels and dragging it out from the wall.

"Put him down," he raps out, already starting to gather whatever tools they've managed to scavenge one-handed and depositing them on the berth, knowing Rodimus won't know where they are if he asks. "What the hell happ--"

Ratchet stops, actually stops with a critical patient on a slab, to stare down at the ragged, bleeding cuts gouged deep into Drift's chestplate. "Tarn," he says numbly, but he doesn't have time for anger, not now. He's moving again in a split second, heaving himself back to the edge of the stretcher and leaning hard on his crutches to free up both hands and grab Rodimus'. He doesn't ask.

"Press here," he snaps, pushing them down to one side of Drift's chestplate to shift the crumpled mess of it off a ruined set of tubes and wires, starting to patch leaks as fast as he finds him, his face drawn and and set.

Rodimus does as he's told for once in his life without complaint, no attempt to jerk his hands back. The lump in his throat is still there, heavy even as his spark feels so small and compact it might vanish altogether. Drift has to be okay. He has to be, there's not another acceptable option. But Rodimus nods when Ratchet mutters the name, even though he didn't see it.

"I didn't-- he was gone for two days," his voice is high and staticky. "I thought he was just meditating or something."

Because that's what Drift does. Goes off and meditates and talks about energy and auras and stupid things like that. It's not fair, he thinks, to have him back and then to lose him right after.

"Ratchet--" Rodimus finally looks up from where his hands are, from where the Decepticon symbol is carved into Drift's chest where his autobrand should be, staring at the medic's face. "I just got him back."

Edited (EHH EDITING AGAIN) 2015-02-03 06:19 (UTC)

Ratchet adjusts Rodimus' hands again, working methodically, mechanically, knowing that he needs to get energon back into Drift's systems as soon as possible and knowing he can't do that until he's sure it's not all going to end up on the floor in five minutes.

"You couldn't have known," Ratchet says, barely paying attention as he starts pulling at Rodimus' wrist to help him lift plating, pressing out deep welts and gouges so they're not pressing against critical lines anymore, then easing them back into place. He heaves in a shaking vent of air as his hands touch the center of Drift's chest plate, almost hesitating, before he forces himself to start sealing over the cuts, burning the shape of the symbol into his plating. His teeth clench and his optics sharpen, voice a raw rasp when he speaks again, though he still doesn't look up into Rodimus' face.

"Yeah, you did. And he's not going anywhere. Not if I can help it."

Ratchet saying it doesn't make it better, even though he knows it should. Drift is still his crew, and more than that, his friend. If Rodimus can't prevent this then what good is he? Guilt curls up in him and he winces as the sigil become sharp against the white. There should be something else there. There always should have been.

He knows that he's not on the best terms with Ratchet. Not... back on the Lost Light, not with what he didn't tell Drift before. But he knows Ratchet, he's known him for years and he's the best there is - if anyone can save Drift, Ratchet can. "I know," Rodimus says. "He can't die." His voice doesn't waver as much when he says it this time, as unsteady as it still is.

If he repeats it over and over again something will happen that's unrelated to the panic and the fear that he feels. Drift can't die, Rodimus won't let him. Ratchet won't let him.

And maybe that will be enough.

Edited 2015-02-03 07:27 (UTC)

Ratchet shivers a little, still focused on his work, unable and unwilling to look up into Rodimus' face. He can't die. The weight of that trust presses down on him for a moment until he aches all over, his optics dimming where they're focused on struggling to straighten and reassemble the delicate, destroyed mechanisms of Drift's wrist so his self-repair can get to work--until he shakes it off, taking a sharp breath and finishing one arm, then straightening up.

"Move. We're switching sides," he says, putting hands slick with energon and oil back on the handles of his crutches so he can limp around the slab, his mouth drawn taut as he jerks his chin at Rodimus. "I know you're not used to assisting, but we haven't got all day, let's go."

When Drift wakes up, the first thing he recognizes is the pain.

He comes to slowly, in fragmented gasps of consciousness, so slowly that he can't even really be sure he's awake at all. He dimly remembers his last moments, Tarn's terrifying visage, the message burned into his spark -- muddled and confused in his half-conscious mind, but there, a constant background hum. Consciousness comes to him in waves, ebbing and flowing in synaptic tides as his body and mind struggle to reconcile. And then comes the pain, not in waves but a flood, firing through every circuit at once, and Drift doesn't even notice as his pained groan only comes out as static. His optics snap wide open at the burning rush of sensation, not really seeing, not recognizing the room he's in. His spark constricts weakly in his chest and his body stiffens on the slab as he tries to move but finds he can't, every joint and limb sparking with pain and too heavy for him to lift.

"Hell. Kid, calm down, you're all right--"

Ratchet is across the room when he hears Drift stir, earlier than anticipated--earlier than Ratchet would have really liked, honestly. He moves to Drift's bedside as quickly as he can, hand settling on Drift's chest as he leans over him, optics aching and intent.

"You're safe. Drift. Relax. ...I've got you."

Edited 2015-02-03 13:06 (UTC)

Drift doesn't know what it says that his kneejerk reaction to Ratchet's reassurance is only more dread, a sickening certainty that this is as bad as it feels and much, much worse. The pain is overwhelming to begin with but that aching look on Ratchet's face is even worse, somehow. Drift doesn't think Ratchet's ever looked at him like that, not that he can recall. His venting is shallow, and he's too tired, too beaten down to keep the raw, pained terror from showing in his optics, artifacts left behind by Tarn's punishment.

Ratchet, he tries to say, but it only comes out as static. He tries again, trying to engage his vocalizer but it only responds with a muted click before giving way to more static, and light in Drift's optics falters, nauseated frustration spreading over his face. He can't speak, can barely move -- but he still tries to lift his hand to cover Ratchet's, weak and shaking.

"Don't try to talk," Ratchet says firmly. "Tarn did a number on your vocalizer and I'm trying to give your self-repair time to do as much as it can. It'll go faster if you don't strain it. You're on the mend otherwise, even if it doesn't feel like it."

He reaches out immediately, curling his fingers around Drift's and settling into his crutches so he can press Drift's palm between both of his own.

"You're going to be all right."

Drift stares back up at him helplessly, at a loss for what to do with Ratchet's quiet reassurances, the hands clasped warm around his own, and his spark falters in his chest, air hitching in his vents. He doesn't know what it means that Ratchet's looking at him like that and he's not on his deathbed.

He doesn't need to wait for the memories to come back to him, because they're already there -- the sickening tangled mess of shame and defeat and terror and anger on behalf of everyone else that Tarn had left with him is still there, has been all along, hadn't gone anywhere while Drift had been unconscious. It knots low in his tanks, settling in and dragging his spark down with it. Drift can still feel where Tarn had etched the brand into his plating even if he can't see it, a weight pressing down hard on his chest.

Drift shifts his hand in Ratchet's grip, palm-to-palm, tries to thread shaking fingers with Ratchet's, his thumb pressed to Ratchet's wrist. He doesn't know if Ratchet's chirolingual, it's never come up, but he has no voice, no other way to speak. Drift swallows and it burns, but his optics are still fixed on Ratchet's face as he presses in to stimulate the nervecircuits in Ratchet's hand.

How long?

"Huh?" Rodimus is shaken out of the thoughts he'd spiraled into to nod, pulling his hands back so he can move, and then he actually looks at Ratchet and his tanks lurch. Crutches. Ratchet's missing a leg and he didn't even know. He stares for a minute before he suddenly remembers what he's here for and moves - stepping around the chief medical officer.

"What happened to you?"

Tactless and crass, but he needs to know. Ratchet is a member of his crew, and as much responsibility he has to Drift, he has the same to Ratchet.

He's not sure when he fell asleep, only that one moment he's helping Ratchet and the next he's been shaken away by the medic who's telling him that Drift is stable but still out and that he better go clean himself up and sleep. Relief floods through him at first - Drift's going to make it. That's the important thing.

But he watches Ratchet propel himself away and rage curls through his tanks again. Tarn. Losing an arm to the psychopath wasn't a big deal, that could be reattached and his ability to curl his hands into fists is proof he's fine. But he touched his crew and that's-- Rodimus can't stand that. There is a line and Tarn didn't just cross it, he jumped over it - probably while laughing evilly. Because, you know, Tarn.

Something has to be done. And there's only one person he knows who can answer for this. Pulling up Megatron's comm, his message is short and terse: "Center of the city. We need to talk. Now." Because he won't let this happen again, he can't let it happen again.

He ignores the useless feeling churning in him in favor of the rage, the anger. That's something he knows what to do with; if Rodimus is responsible for his crew, then Megatron is responsible for Tarn. He knows he is. And it's time something's done about it instead of just making Tarn bow to him and letting him run off to do this again.

If Megatron beats Rodimus to the meeting point, he'll be able to get a general idea that something might be afoot. Rodimus covered in dry energon carrying Drift's great sword on his back isn't an every day occurrence. Even accounting for the madness that happens on a regular basis on the Lost Light.

Ratchet snorts, jerking his chin down at Drift as he settles in again so he can keep working, ignoring the ache starting to settle under his arms.

"What do you think? Tarn came by looking for a t-cog and someone to install it and I told him to shove it up his tailpipe. He didn't like that too much." He keeps his optics on Drift's limp, prone form, hands curling carefully around Drift's ruined wrist. "I got off light, seems like."

There's an uncharacteristic silence as Rodimus fights to keep his hands where they are and not curl them into fists as rage slams into him. Tarn.

"He's not going to get the chance to do this again, Ratchet." Rodimus isn't going to let him. And as much as he feels helpless and useless in the face of someone, he's not going to let him touch any other member of his crew. Thinking outside of the box, making hopeless situations work for him is his strength. Something will come up and nothing will happen to his crew from that point on.

Ratchet's optics widen in surprise as Drift's fingertips shift against his playing, but recognition flares in his face.

"A few days. Three. Not too long, considering." His fingers are still against Drift's, loose, patient. "You're not all the way rebuilt yet--you lost a lot of plating, and some of it I couldn't save, but we're moving as fast as we can with the resources we've got."

"Nobody has the time to worry about that right now," Ratchet snaps, optics flicking up to Rodimus for a moment, anger flaring there. "I have better things to do, and I need you to focus. Hold this."

He grabs Rodimus' hands and fits them against Drift's breastplate, making Rodimus help lever it up to bare Drift's spark chamber. His hands come down, slow and careful as he checks critical systems, smoothing wires and ensuring there's no serious trauma, his face bathed in soft blue light as he leans in.

Exhaustion is finally settling into his joints, and every step Rodimus takes feels like he's just being dragged down further. Yelling at Megatron, while cathartic, hadn't done anything to really alleviate the weight he feels. Seeing Tarn dead would go a long way, he thinks, but he doesn't know if the sense of satisfaction from that would really help until he sees Drift awake again.

It occurs to him that he doesn't even know where he's going. He could go back to the place he's staying, but without Drift it just seems pointless and empty and he doesn't want to be anywhere Drift isn't. Not right now. Clinic it is, even if Ratchet throws him out of it again. At least he'll be there.

Or that's the plan before he stumbles and almost lands flat on his face. So leaning up against a wall it is, at least until he can regain his footing and the ability to walk in a straight line again. He can't protect them, some tiny voice tells him, he can't protect anyone. Pressing the heel of his palm into his optics, Rodimus shudders. No. No, he can.

He has to.

Drift lets out a shuddering sigh of air from his vents, a small trickle of relief dripping into his optics when Ratchet understands him. Bedrest has never sat well with Drift, but he knows Ratchet is working with limited resources, and he knows -- he trusts that Ratchet is doing everything he can. Drift's optics flicker slightly, looking Ratchet over for the first time, and he sees the crutches, the way Ratchet is leaning heavily on one side. He can't see below the waist, but dull alarm flickers over his face, his slackened mouth pulling into a frown.

What happened?

"Ah." Ratchet withdraws his hand and takes up his crutches again, taking a step back so Drift can see the lower edge of his pelvic block, where there's just... nothing, where a leg should be. He steps back in after a second, taking Drift's hand again comfortably.

"Same as you," he says, not sounding particularly bothered. "Tarn wanted a t-cog transplant from an Autobot medic, for old times' sake, I'm assuming. I was... not polite in telling him no. Don't look at me like that, kid, I'm fine. I got off easy, apparently."

At least Drift's spark still burns, and while Rodimus' face is set in a frown he does as he's told. But he doesn't need Ratchet yelling at him, not for this. Focusing on that gives him a chance to work that lump in his throat down, shove the the panic and the fear for Drift's life into a part of him that will deal with it.

"Look at him," he says, his voice cracking somewhere partway through the sentence. It's a pointless thing to say when Ratchet's got his face close to Drift's spark chamber (and Rodimus sees that part of the casing is missing - he knew it would be but it's different to see it). "And it's not just Drift, it's you and Trailbreaker and--"

Too many. One is too many, but this is enough. This is too much.

"Rodimus," Ratchet says, his voice almost a snarl. He remembers First Aid bringing Trailcutter in, even less recognizable than Drift, the wet, mangled mess of the thing that used to tip into his medibay at three am, still drunk and laughing and leaking from some superficial wound he'd insist on telling Ratchet how he got, despite Ratchet's protestations that he didn't care as long as Trailcutter was careful next time--Ratchet's hands slam down onto the slab and leave wet palm prints they tremble slightly before he presses them flat and cycles his vents roughly.

"Focus or get the hell out," he says, his voice ragged as he leans on his arms, taking the opportunity to ease some of the weight off his crutches, staring blindly at the flickering light of Drift's spark for a second before he reaches in again. "I can't right now. I need to work. I can't."

It doesn't take long for Megatron to put it together, when he sees him. His expression... tightens, his optics narrowing, his mouth pulling into a frown.

"What happened," he says brusquely, looking Rodimus up and down as if he'll be able to read the answer in the dried energon streaking his armour. Underneath his curt tone is a quiet, simmering anger – if this is what he thinks it is, he's going to be furious.

Flinching back, Rodimus drops his gaze from Ratchet back to Drift's chest. His hands curl into the metal he's holding and it's only when he comes back to himself does he relax his grip - catching himself before he puts more dents into it.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." But that just means the feelings he wasn't thinking about crawl back, settling deep around his spark. His frown turns more and more hopeless the longer he has to stand in silence. Drift has to be okay, he has to he has to he has to. "What did he do?"

Tarn that is, because while Rodimus know Tarn destroyed Drift, he just wants to know how bad. It's something to talk about, right? And get his mind off of-- of everything else.

"What happened?" If he sounds slightly shy of hysterical, Megatron is free to blame it on the stress and fact that there's some poor sod covered in his best friend's energon. He's too angry to focus on Megatron's own reactions, on the fact that he's not the only one absolutely livid about this entire thing. "What do you think happened?"

Tarn, who made it abundantly clear when he murdered the entirety of the Lost Light that he could, and would, murder everyone in his path as far as Rodimus was aware.

"Your psychotic fanboy--" A deep, shuttering intake of air should give him pause, but Rodimus works through it. "Decided that ripping off arms was just a warm up."

Edited 2015-02-03 19:00 (UTC)

[ THE "DRIFT GOT HECKED UP BY TARN" CATCH-ALL POST ]

FOR RATCHET

KEENING WAIL

you were warned in the post warnings

MY BODY WAS NOT READY

WELL NOW YOU KNOW

i am justly punished

ALSO FOR RATCHET

HES A MIGHTY POPULAR FELLOW THESE DAYS

APPARENTLY SO

no subject

no subject

we all make mistakes it's okay

FOR MEGATRON

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

FOR JUNE

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject