*IN DEBT / FREED FROM

While the damage is ultimately superficial, the presence of the mercenary cruisers is a rapidly intensifying concern. He banks the majority of his power to his thrusters and races for the edge of the system—if he can outpace them to the exit route, they won't be able to track his drive signature through the trade traffic as he warps away.

It's then that he notices the marooned Cybertronian vessel, and his spark runs cold. At his current rate, he'll pass them within moments, and then they'll be at the mercy of the hunters on his tail. Another mech might have left the stranger to their fate, seeing them as a potential diversion. Not Hadal.

He cuts burn, adjusting course so the waylaid ship is scooped straight into his open hangar. It's far from a gentle grab; the high gravity manoeuvre slams Drift's ship into the docking arm before it clamps down to secure it.

The impromptu rescue has cost him precious distance between himself and the pursuing cruisers. A fight it is, then. He keeps a number of sensors trained on their approach as he scans the ship, filtering the automated signals until—there. A comms signature. Whether or not he receives a reply, at least he can broadcast his message to his new passenger.

Concussive maintenance, Perceptor had once said to him with that stifled amusement when he'd caught the Chief Scientist kicking the Lost Light's engines out of frustration. His spark aches for that ship briefly until he tamps it down, hard and forceful.

The unexpected save startles him at once, hands clutching onto the sides of the cockpit as he's scooped into a hangar. The slam sends him to the ground hard, grip slipping at the rough docking. The following voice is resounding, as though it's coming from everywhere in the ship. Oh.

He thinks he can feel the magnetic field of another pressing against his.

Oh.

It can't be a titan, it's too small, but there's that unmistakable weight of life he feels coursing through the ship.

Hekaton? He's not familiar with that Polity, either way he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, as humans say. Upon the warning, he pulls himself into his seat and straps himself in, prepared for the high-G transport, opening his own coms channel that, thankfully, mercifully still function.

Smokescreen is already setting up the games, a jingle coming from a small projector, along with a warning about wrist straps that gets ignored.