#keepingtheflamealive

He'd expected to be required to swear to keep the City's location a secret, and had done so solemnly.   Drift was proud of how seriously Rodimus had taken the vow.

Being able to wander the City with his mate had been an experience Drift would never forget, no matter if he lived for a million vorns more. 

They'd visited the shops he remembered Wing taking him to, explored the City together.  Drift committed every moment to memory.

This morning, they'd both been hustled off to wash, polish, and detail.  The young mech that had escorted him to the washrack, had led him to the garden entrance and explained that Rodimus's escort would bring him shortly.

He was nervous.  Nervous and excited, and feeling a little bit foolish with his plating so brightly polished.  It was the first time he'd been repainted since being rebuilt.  Drift knew Roddy would appreciate it though.

Catching sight of his mate and the escort, Drift grinned widely.  "Hey, beautiful."  Rodimus was just /gorgeous/, and Drift could barely take his optics off the mech.  His mate.  His sparkmate, soon.

At worst, Drift expected to have another chunk of metal tossed at him, a repeat of what had happened as he’d left the Lost Light.

He hadn’t thought he’d be outright attacked, something smashing into the back of his helm hard enough that his vision dissolved into static; his gyros reeling as a dozen error messages scrolled across his HUD.

The racer drew his swords, staggering as his attacker hit him again.  He lunged on instinct, sweeping the blade in front, hearing the shriek of metal and feeling the resistance on the sword.

Pedesteps rapidly headed away, and Drift just hoped he’d given as good as he got.  He felt it now, energon trickling down the back of his neck, the cracked plating.  Looked worse than it actually was, he hoped.  Helm injuries bled profusely, right?

Sheathing his swords, he staggered, his balance still fragged up, and felt blindly for the wall, steadying himself against it.  Standing still, he could keep himself upright.  Walking wouldn’t be a good idea, and transforming would be even worse.

keepingtheflamealive

He'd endured hours of scanning, diagnostics, and questions from the medics, and he was tired of it.

Tired of being asked the same questions, tired of sitting in the medbay.  He almost flopped onto the berth, refrained from doing so because it'd set off the ache in his medical ports again.

Sitting on the berth, he gingerly leaned his helm back, pleased it hadn't triggered the return of the godawful ache.

Leading the Wreckers is easy, because you’re all just about wrecking everything anyway! Leading the Lost Light takes charisma and finesse!