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Drift came to awareness slowly.
The first thing he noticed before onlining his optics was the smell.
Disinfectant. Medical grade. He was in a med-bay? There are no proper med-bays in Kaon.
The next thing he noticed was when he onlined his optics.
The lights were flickering, but it was definitly a med-bay of some kind. The room was empty save for some plain medical berths and a few cabinets. Drift sat up, wincing as his struts creaked.
He had some clue as to how he got here, wherever here was. He had been stabbed, in an alley, by an old customer he had robbed before. Not pleasant.
He checked over his wounds. They had all been welded shut, but not the messy welds he had done himself in the past. These had been done by a professional.
Drift’s helm whipped up when someone entered.
Standard medic build. Probably an emergency vehicle alt. Orange and white plating. Large servos. Broad pauldrons. Stern faceplate. And the most gorgeous blue optics Drift had ever seen.
“You didn’t offline while recharging,” the medic commented. Their voice was gruff, and sent tingles down Drift’s spinal strut. “Good. I don’t like when my hard work goes to waste.”
Drift’s mouth moved, but he couldn’t get his vocaliser to work as the medic moved around the med-bay, gathering what looked to be a bottle of disinfectant.
He finally found his voice as the medic began wiping down the welds with careful servos. “How did I get here?” he asked, scrunching his olfactory at how hoarse he sounded. He must have been out for a while.
“You are in a clinic in the Dead End,” the medic told him, setting down the disinfectant to pick up a cube of energon that Drift hadn’t even noticed. “Someone found you bleeding out, and brought you to me. I patched you up.”
Drift cycled his optics and then his audials as he took the offered cube, not drinking from it yet. He had learnt his lesson millenia ago about accepting fuel from mecha when he hadn’t seen in been prepared. Never again.
“Why?” he asked. The medic raised a brow ridge. “Why what?” “Why this!” Drift gestured around the room with a servo, then gestured to the medic. “I– you’re clearly a high-caste medic; forged or not you shouldn’t have ever willingly stepped a pede into Kaon!”
The medic sighed, irritation clear on their good-looking faceplate.
“There are no clinics around here. Mecha aren’t getting the treatment they need. When I have the time, I get a groundbridge to Kaon to do what I can. There are always too many patients, and not enough trained medics. That answer your question?”
Drift nodded, dazed. “So, what, you’re doing this out of the goodness of your spark? Is that it?”
The medic glared at him, and Drift had to abort an engine rev. Slag, they were attractive. No, bad Drift, don’t think that about the medic that just saved your aft!
“I am following my programming.”
Drift waved a servo, grinning now. “Sure, justify it however you want. Say, how would you feel about finding a way to get more trained medics around here. Would definitly take a load off, right?”
The medic leveled him with a cool, calculating look. “I’m listening.”
Drift leaned forward on the berth, careful to not jostle the cube that was now resting on his lap. “Say there was a group of mecha, looking to go to the Council. They have proof of systematic corruption, and even have a Prime backing them up. But they are mostly lower-caste mecha. They need a trained medic, one such as yourself, to keep them alive until they can set a date.” Drift bared his fangs, and watched with glee as the medic’s optics flicked to his derma to back to his optics.
“Would you be willing to provide that medical care?”
The medic stalked closer, moving with a grace that defied their build. “I would say that I require a meeting with this group to know more.” The medic smiled then, a feral grin that had Drift’s spark spinning faster. “But I would be amicable to joining such a group. I am Ratchet.” The medic, Ratchet , held out a servo.
“Drift.” Not Deadlock, never Deadlock, that wasn’t him anymore, Megatron said so, he could choose for himself, he could choose his own designation.
They shook servos firmly, both grinning.
“Welcome to the Decepticons, Ratchet.”