Chapter Text
The storm raged outside, rain hammering against the metal walls of the outpost like a barrage of tiny bullets. Inside, the dim glow of the medbay’s emergency lights cast long shadows over the four unconscious bots Ratchet was tending to. They were stable—for now—but with no one else to help, he felt stretched thinner than a fraying wire.
Then came the knock.
Ratchet stiffened, his tired optics narrowing as he reached for the gun holstered at his side. Nobody should be out in this storm. No one should even know this outpost was here. But desperate bots did desperate things.
His servos flexed around the grip of his pistol as he strode to the door. He pressed against the metal frame, listening. Nothing. With a sharp ex-vent, he slid the door open and snapped his gun up—
—At nothing.
The storm howled outside, the rain nearly horizontal in the wind. For a moment, he thought it was a trick, paranoia borne from exhaustion. Then he looked down.
There, sprawled in a heap of mud and energon, lay a mech barely clinging to life. His plating was a mess of gashes and scorched metal. His left arm was gone, severed just above the elbow. A gaping hole in his side leaked energon at an alarming rate, staining the ground beneath him. But what made Ratchet’s fuel pump nearly stall was the mech’s face.
He knew that face.
Years ago, he’d seen it contorted in pain as he flushed an overdose from its system. A washed-up, broken thing barely conscious on his operating table. A bot who had been given a second chance—one he’d sworn to make something of.
Drift.
Only now, a gleaming Decepticon badge sat dead center on his chest.
Ratchet cursed under his breath, holstering his gun and crouching beside the wounded mech. "Dammit, kid. What the hell did you get yourself into?"
No time to hesitate. Decepticon or not, Drift was dying. And Ratchet wasn’t about to let that happen—not here, not on his watch.
With a grunt, he hooked his arms under Drift’s frame and dragged him inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The storm muffled once more, but the scent of rain and scorched metal clung to the air. He hauled Drift onto the nearest medberth and immediately went to work.
The damage was worse than it looked—deep energon loss, multiple severed fuel lines, possible internal trauma. Ratchet’s servos moved on instinct, sealing ruptured lines and stabilizing Drift’s vitals. His optics flicked back to that cursed badge more than once.
"Figures," he muttered as he worked. "First time I see you in years, and you’re trying to bleed out on my floor."
The hours dragged by, filled with the hiss of welding torches and the quiet hum of monitors. It was touch and go, but eventually, Drift’s vitals evened out. He wasn’t out of the woods, but he’d live—if he woke up.
So Ratchet waited.
Rain continued to patter against the walls as he settled onto a stool, arms crossed, watching the unconscious mech. His optics lingered on that badge again, a scowl creeping onto his face.
"You better have one hell of an explanation, kid."