#megadriftweek

The navigation console beeped softly, having no news to report. The ship was on a steady course towards an asteroid field to see what resources they could scrounge up. Drift leaned against his elbow, idly watching the screen. Operating the helm wasn’t generally his job.

The bridge was always quiet on the night shift… or what passed for the night shift in space. Drift didn’t usually work this late, preferring morning shift since he generally had a habit of waking up bright and early. At night everything was also less fully staffed, since there was less to handle while the bulk of the crew slept or goofed off. For the bridge, that meant one member of the command crew—usually Megatron since he liked the quiet—and a navigator. Other crew members could be called up if an emergency arose, of course.

Unfortunately, this time around there had been a mistake in the scheduling. Minimus was down, having caught a particularly nasty case of the sniffles the previous week. Rather than sensibly let either Megatron or Drift do the schedule, Rodimus had taken it upon himself to handle it. However, Rodimus must not have been paying particularly much attention to tonight’s shift as he’d placed two members of the command crew on the roster at the same time. That meant no one would be on duty in the morning, because Rodimus certainly wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t a morning person. Anyway, that would be the captain’s problem in the morning when the crew showed up unsure what to do. Maybe someone would do a double shift to be kind. Maybe. If either Drift or Megatron were feeling generous.

With the silence beyond that annoying beep, Drift almost wished for an emergency. Then he wouldn’t be alone with Megatron. They were hardly strangers—hard to be complete strangers with someone whose legs had been over your shoulders on the regular back in the day, Drift supposed—but being around each other was still awkward. There was always a weird ache in Drift’s spark when they were together. He wasn’t sure if it was lingering misplaced loyalty from before his defection or something else leftover from their unresolved past.

Nevertheless, tonight’s work—what little there was of it—still had to go on. Drift had deferred to Megatron’s relative rank and, without being asked, decided to man the navigation console. Megatron was no good at driving anyway. Drift had plopped himself down into the chair behind the appropriate console without so much as waiting for instructions. It was easier, he had told himself, than risking a conversation. A lot had been left unsaid. So much just wasn’t addressable when fate saw fit to lead their paths back together a handful of months ago. Perhaps it would have been better for them both to… leave those things unsaid.

No.

It was more important to have closure. It would be better in the long run for their mental and spiritual health, especially since now that they were in a new universe with new opportunities. Best to close the book on old issues to make space for new experiences. They had parted company without a clean split ages ago. Deadlock asking Megatron to be transferred to a new unit hardly constituted a straightforward break up. They probably needed to address that, at least a little. That would have been the mature and healthy thing to do. Problems could be carefully considered, evaluated for their respective places in the ex-Cons’ lives, and then put aside, right?

Drift sighed before looking back over his shoulder, letting his hands fall flat on the still beeping console. Nothing to report, it chimed, reliable but not reassuring.

Megatron was seated in the captain’s chair… asleep, head tilted forward, and shoulders down. The way he sat, from the bend of his knees to the way he slumped, all were the mannerisms of someone much older than the captain truly was. He was, in fact, a great deal younger than Drift, but it seemed time had been more physically unkind to him. That and Megatron had a penchant for not exactly taking good care of himself, relying on sheer cantankerous tenacity.

Accidentally falling asleep on watch was something the third-in-command expected of Ratchet. Then again, perhaps it spoke to how much Megatron had changed, that he felt safe enough to fall asleep while alone with a former assassin. It was especially telling that said assassin could very possibly bear the retired warlord a personal grudge. Deadlock would have but Drift didn’t. Megatron didn’t necessarily know that… or maybe he did, given the sense of peace in his aura.

That was weirdly validating.

Drift got up and approached the sleeping lump in the captain’s chair, debating waking him. It wouldn’t have been the first time, if he did. The captain’s field was calm and smooth, at ease, pale blue. Drift couldn’t recall ever seeing Megatron’s field so relaxed before, not even in quiet, private moments. Spotting the badge on Megatron’s chest, he hesitated, arm paused awkwardly in the air where it had reached out for the other mech.

Red. Blocky. No threatening sharp angles.

The weight of many wars and histories behind it even predating the planet-shattering conflict they had lived through. This one had the distinction of having a previous owner too.

Bumblebee.

It was still strange to see this badge on this mech. Was it just the same for Megatron to look at him? Did he feel like the world had skewed sideways, like reality was playing a prank on his eyes, whenever he saw the restored Autobrand on Drift’s chest?

Badges were more than for spotting enemies or for unit cohesion. They were a mark of belief, of what you wanted the world to be. Ideally. Of course, so many wore their badges, on either side of the conflict, as means to their own ends. Bad actors operating in bad faith. A shame, given how many Decepticon badges were artisanal crafts, made from part of the spark chamber of the wearer. It was proof of commitment to the Cause to subject oneself to the procedure. Drift had seen many such rites performed and had taken part in several apart from his own.

Drift still had his old badge, tucked away in his subspace where no one would ever find it, a memento. He’d so often been tempted to throw it away or melt it down, but it was part of him. It symbolized something he had to accept had been important in his life.

It was also literally part of him, given its source. Indispensable in a way that superficial, interchangeable armor was not.

Did Megatron still have his original badge somewhere? A carefully sculpted, purple piece of spark casing. Drift tilted his head to the side as he wondered, watching the captain’s sleeping face. A previously familiar sight in private, though the bright lighting of the bridge was new.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low as he slowly but firmly shook the captain by his red elbow joint. It was the safest way to wake Megatron without defaulting him into a combat response. Gently rousing him was something Drift had done so many times before, under a different name. The motion still felt natural, instinctive, just like when morning had come all those countless nights ago and they had to separate for their respective duties. A war to wage. Enemies to remove. All until they were safe again, hands resting on very different badges and…. His spark twinged.

Megatron jerked upright, but otherwise stayed in his chair, combat subroutines apparently staying offline. His aura remained peaceful, a soft blue. It was a shame that, for all his artistry as a poet, Megatron couldn’t sense the fields that surrounded them all. He would have appreciated the romantic imagery if he could.

“What is it?” he mumbled, optics dimly glowing as they still booted up.

“You fell asleep on duty.” Drift’s hand lingered absently on Megatron’s arm. “Not setting a very good example in your old age now, are you?”

As though Drift didn’t have at least a million or more years on him, but Drift did have the bonus of not looking his age. Permanent microfracture lines had formed around Megatron’s optics at some point after they’d found themselves on opposite sides of the war. These couldn’t be removed with a buffer, only by replacing the entire faceplate, something most mechs were loath to do. Too reminiscent of the empurata procedure.

The continued contact seemed to go unnoticed for a moment. Megatron hadn’t yet remembered that it wasn’t really supposed to be there anymore, not after some tough decisions they had made.

“Not everyone can use the combined magics of meditation and favorable code to age gracefully, Drift.” Megatron yawned. Those microfractures crinkled, a reminder of time passing since they’d last been this close, outside of the odd ship-wide emergency. Not really times conducive to noticing things. “Besides, is that any way to address the captain on duty?”

Premature aging wasn’t helped by the fact that Megatron was on his… at least fifth body. He had gone through so many with his hard living… and scheming. That would age a mech prematurely. Drift had changed his armor on numerous occasions but never once his entire frame. Hopefully these ones would last them, Drift thought, since in this new universe they probably weren’t able to source more. That red badge on them both gave him hope that they would last.

“No, but it could just as easily have been you in the navigation chair, driving in lopsided circles and calling me ‘sir’ for twelve hours.”

There was a scoff.

“Certainly not on duty and not in the past several thousand years.” Megatron straightened his posture but didn’t pull his arm free. “Now if you’d kindly stop staring at my badge like it’s some novelty, we can carry on with our incredibly busy shift.”

The mission had gone… poorly, to say the least. Deadlock cursed the sky under his breath when the communications with the rest of the reconnaissance team suddenly cut.

It was bad enough that they were already tromping through knee-deep snow on an alien planet. There was no need for them to come here themselves. A team of grunts could have been assigned this mission. Megatron hadn’t needed to come and be personally involved.

He also hadn’t needed to wander off on his own to cover more territory. Deadlock had followed him when the warlord split from the group, just in case. As much as Deadlock would consider “self-assured” and “hands on” some of his leader’s qualities, at times like this, it was quite the detriment. Megatron often made himself difficult to protect with his antics and determination to rely solely on himself.

Fresh snow fell from the sky in deceptively gentle flurries, softly at first before taking on a sharper angle. The first gusts of icy breeze were warning enough.

A blizzard.

The atmospheric interference was what cut the commlinks. It would also prevent them from orbital bouncing to safety elsewhere on this uninhabited rock. Freezing to death in search of forgotten technology in the polar region of a planet whose organic populace had long since either died or relocated elsewhere was not something Deadlock looked forward to. He couldn’t shoot the snow. It wouldn’t even be cathartic to try.

Megatron would have a plan, wouldn’t he? He always had a plan. Something that would get them somewhere warmer before the very fuel in their lines froze, starving their components just as surely as a stalled fuel pump.

“What are we—“

“Come, Deadlock,” Megatron said, kneeling in the snow. Only his back and folded up treads were visible above the drifts as he seemingly dug around for something. Was he attempting to dig a shelter out of the snow? Snow was technically insulating but…. “We can’t remain exposed to these temperatures. It’s only going to get colder.”

Well, alright then. That explained nothing. Did he have to cryptic about it?

“With all due respect, Megatron, what are you doing?”

“Listening.”

“Listening?” Listening to what? The wind? The sounds of snow and ice whipping off of their plating as the storm grew in strength?

“To the ground.”

The ground. The fucking ground? He didn’t even have his ear to the ground.

“Of course,” Deadlock replied, keeping his tone as even as possible, despite the absurdity he’d just heard. With the wind picking up though, soon he would have to shout just to make himself audible. The falling snow was also beginning to obscure Megatron’s field from the soldier’s vision. Deadlock couldn’t get a solid read on how his leader was feeling. The color and mood of the aura was scattered, disappearing into the white.

Megatron must have lost it. Just gone absolutely binary from the stress of the war, especially now that it had recently become an interstellar conflict. Their planet had become a lifeless shell, a tomb, guarded—haunted—by the inactive husk of Thunderwing. No longer confined to their damaged homeworld, Cybertonians were now spread out amongst the stars, bringing their war with them. No one could have predicted that. Not even Megatron in all of his prescience.

Deadlock cautiously approached the hunched figure of his leader still doing something, Primus knew what, in the snow. He didn’t want to be on the receiving end of an accidental startle response, but he had to get Megatron out of the snow and… somewhere else. Anywhere else would work at this point.

The snow was coming down harder. The frozen water started to pile up on their armor where it could catch, flecking them with white, a threat to make them part of the landscape.

Reaching out for Megatron’s shoulder with his hand, Deadlock hesitated when the warlord raised an arm and pointed a finger upward.

“Wait.” That finger then swung forward, indicating a direction across the drifts of snow piled up on the plateau. “That way. Come, Deadlock. There’s little time.”

The assassin obeyed without question.

 --

It wasn’t warm in the cave, exactly, but it was warmer than outside in the direct fury of the growing blizzard. Without the howl of the wind, it was far quieter as well. The storm sounded like a far away, its roar reduced to a distant growl by the tunnel.

Following Megatron into the narrow hollowed out rock, Deadlock could begin to feel his fingers and feet again. The fuel in his extremities had started to freeze on the way here. Even the oil had slowed down and started to congeal as it got further away from the diminishing heat of his core.

There was hardly room for the both of them in here. The folded up treads on Megatron’s back scraped uncomfortably on the ceiling in front of Deadlock. The heat of their engines and systems would at least be better concentrated in the constricted environment.

The cave shrunk as they pushed to the back of it. Deadlock, being shorter, was less at risk of becoming stuck. However, there would be a limit of how far into the cave Megatron could go without stooping or crouching. Even if they had to crawl, Deadlock would follow his leader anywhere. They would probably have to stop before long and—

“This is far enough.” Megatron stopped abruptly and lifted a hand to halt the two-mech march, flinging off some of the accumulated snow. “The wind can’t reach us as easily here.”

Megatron turned before easing himself to the floor, adding a note of finality to his proclamation. The force of impact knocked snow from his frame.

Well, alright, that made that easier. Now Deadlock didn’t have to mention anything about his leader being too big for the cave. Shivering, he shook off clumps of snow from his armor where they joined the piles already on the ground.

Bringing his hands closed to his face, Deadlock stretched his fingers, willing life and feeling to fully return to them. Hopefully none of his delicate components in his hands were damaged by the near stoppage of fuel and oil. The ambient temperature of the cave wouldn’t be enough to fully function but it would prevent permanent injury longer than being exposed. The cave just bought them more time.

“How did you know this was here?” he asked before blowing relatively hot air onto his hands.

“Simple. Sonar pulse.”

When Deadlock cocked his head to the side doubtfully, Megatron continued.

“Old mining firmware suite. It comes in handy, as you’ve obviously noticed, so I never bothered to be rid of it.”

So he really had been listening to the ground, so to speak. Resourceful, something he had always admired about his leader, and, today, oddly convenient. Deadlock supposed that it would make sense to equip miners with tools to find mineral veins or at least give them a better chance of digging their way out of a collapsed tunnel. That would also explain how he had heard Deadlock approach, even with his… less than acute hearing.

Little, insignificant flaws like that didn’t matter anyway. They disappeared in the magnificence of his leader’s strengths.

Oh well, they were here now and they were warmer. The blizzard would let up before too long and Deadlock would guide his beloved leader out of here, safe and whole.

With a sigh, he slid down to sit on the cold cave floor next to Megatron. At least together they would be slightly warmer. Not that Deadlock wanted that. To be close. Proximity to such a large, strong frame was incidental. Not something he sought out on purpose, no, no. Absolutely not.

His love—loyalty—for his leader was pure, chaste, and wholly appropriate.

Deadlock glanced to the side to see how Megatron was doing, trying to ignore how their sides were pressed together. Now without the snow obscuring their fields, he could see that his leader’s field was an unsettled, flickering green. That was usually as calm as Megatron seemed to get. A solid baseline.

His spark spun against his will.

Megatron sat quietly, arms crossed in front and optics offlined as though he were in thought… or resting? Maybe he was resting.

Deadlock thought he saw an involuntary shiver run through his leader’s plating. He had been ignoring the temperature warning in the corner of his HUD ever since they landed in this tundra, but now… if Megatron was cold….

Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself away from the wall before swinging himself over Megatron’s legs. Deadlock wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking. It wasn’t until he was already seated on a warm lap, staring into wide, confused red optics, that it occurred to him what he’d done.

“I—“ What the fuck was he supposed to say? What could he say? This was entirely inappropriate and… now he’d get a reprimand. Megatron would be disappointed in him. That would be the worst part. Deadlock tensed, bracing himself for whatever would come. “I’m… sorry, I—“

“Did you mean to do that?” The voice that called him was soft, not threatening in the least.

He hadn’t been pushed off yet or yelled at or anything he’d seen done to less obedient subordinates. Deadlock chewed his lower lip, relaxing slightly. He’d always received kind, considerate treatment but he was also loyal and did as instructed. Deadlock strove to be the ideal Decepticon. His leader surely knew that.

At last, he nodded.

“You shivered and… it’s my job to keep you functional….” Deadlock’s voice trailed off.

“Hardly.” Hands and arms wrapped snugly around him, pulling him closer until their fronts were pressed together. It was warmer like this, far warmer than the air in the cave alone had been. Larger frames did conserve heat better, he supposed. “It’s my job to keep you functional.”

What?

Deadlock glanced up in confusion before hesitating. They’d never been quite this close before.

“My goal was to get you out of the storm, Deadlock,” Megatron said, “but it’s touching that you were worried about me.”

This? All of this? The search for the cave? Finding a warmer section to huddle in? This was all for him?

This new universe, where death no longer hung over Megatron's head and reminded him of borrowed time at every turn, had been a gift. Now he had all the time he could have ever wanted. However, chasing ghosts of the past for closure was probably not what most mechs would do with this boon.

In their home universe, he imagined that he would simply wait in his cell for the inevitable and take the words with him into whatever oblivion would come next. Now? With a new, more welcome unknown awaiting him, Megatron had a chance to say something he'd kept to himself all these years.

That still meant actually doing it, following through with his intentions.

Megatron tapped the access panel on the door in front of him. The panel flashed green with a cheerful beep as the door to one of the sparring rooms slid open. There was a chance that he had chosen the wrong sparring room. However, given that it was the one records indicated Drift used the most frequently during his downtime, the odds of a mistake were low.

His guess was correct. The noisy static of a practice blade colliding with and passing through a holomatter dummy filled the room. Drift swung high, leaving himself open if the avatar had been instructions beyond standing still. This looked less like practice and more like self-indulgence. Normally, these dummies tended to look like generic medium-sized Cybertronians with indistinct kibble unless programmed otherwise. This one had the misfortune of bearing a strong resemblance to Turmoil, large and broad with dark, heavy plating.

Megatron, willing to be patient this once, waited just inside the doorway. About half a minute of presumably gratifying blows later, Drift froze when his optics finally caught sight of the captain. The speedster’s arm was still in the air, part way through what would have been a decapitating swing had the interruption not broken the arc. Drift’s blue optics went wide with embarrassment.

Blue. For so long, when they belonged to Deadlock, they had been red, a burning scarlet, and now instead… they reminded Megatron of the sky on a clear day.

“Have I interrupted you?” he asked, a mockery of an innocent look on his face. He knew very well that he had, in fact, disrupted Drift’s “training.”

“Looking for Rodimus? I think he’s in the medical bay getting his ankle looked at.” Ah, yes, of course, after that botched somersault earlier that morning. Of course it had taken Rodimus all day to go have it looked at. He hadn’t even let Megatron perform basic first aid on the injury. No matter, that wasn’t what the captain had come here for anyway and his foolish friend was getting assistance.

“No, as a matter of fact, that is not the purpose of my visit.”

Drift went silent, lowering both his guard and the practice blade he’d been using to assault the holomatter dummy. Turning away, he pointedly dropped his cerulean gaze to the floor.

Megatron glanced from Drift’s evasive posture to the homonculus of Turmoil that had been on the receiving end of Drift’s earlier venting. An idea percolated its way through his mind.

Calmly, he walked to the wall panel that controlled the practice dummy. There were options for AI programming for more realistic training, adjusting the appearance of the opponent for practice against different frame-types, how many copies of enemies and where in the room to place them, and so on. These sparring rooms were equipped with all manner of options. However, Megatron only needed one. He pressed the button powering the entire software suite down.

“Turmoil” vanished with a soft buzzing noise. By the time Drift turned to see what happened, Megatron was standing where Turmoil had been. He held his right arm up in a guard with his left pulled back and low, ready. Both palms were open. An unspoken request to be the holomatter dummy’s replacement.

Drift’s optics narrowed at him, suspicious. Megatron had no idea what it was like to be sensitive to electromagentic fields, but he did know when Drift was struggling to interpret someone’s intentions through one. As Deadlock, he had often complained to him, in private, when someone’s field—“aura” he’d called them back then—was opaque, unreadable to him.

“You’re unarmed.”

“Yes.” As far as carrying a separate weapon was concerned anyway. That didn’t mean he was divested of his skills. Besides, besting Drift in combat was not his goal, so much as the match would be a vehicle for communication. “I’m ready.”

“I know.”

That was all the consent either of them needed to begin.

The blunt sword whipped up and across Megatron’s front in a tight arc, the air whistling as it just missed his plating. A warning that Drift had not gone soft in his time with the Autobots, even if he had changed his preferred tool from blaster to blade. Winning would not be easy, but, luckily, for once Megatron didn’t want to “win.”

They separated briefly before Drift continued his assault, seemingly determined to be on the offensive.

That was fine. That was what he wanted. All according to plan. Drift spun and slashed while Megatron stepped away or leaned out of reach. If the “blade” made contact with a vital location, he would lose.

This “match” wouldn’t take long. There was no malice in it, unlike Drift’s “practice” against “Turmoil.” All he needed was the right opening. If Megatron remained on defense, if he edged inside the blade’s reach, the opportunity would present itself. Normally, one wanted to stay outside of a weapon’s blood circle, but if he got inside, the weapon would become difficult to wield effectively.

That opportunity came when the blade swung upward and Megatron sidestepped outside of the arc. The swing of the blunted practice blade was turned aside with a nudge from his forearm, breaking the illusion of danger.

“I thought about you every day.”

Every day since Deadlock became Drift once more, Megatron’s thoughts had lingered on the mech that had steadfastly stood by his side through the war until one day it was too much. The thoughts only grew in power since he was placed on the Lost Light, finding out that not only had Drift been on this ship but that he’d purchased it. The entire ship was a memento of his presence, even if he’d disappeared before Megatron had ever stepped foot on board.

It had been hard to suppress his anger at Rodimus for banishing Drift. Rodimus wouldn’t have understood nor would it have solved anything, a lesson he’d finally learned. Worse, if he’d spoken up, Megatron would have revealed a number of things that clearly Drift had meant to conceal. In a rare move, he had opted to respect that decision. It had been instrumental in letting that anger go, especially in conjunction with Rodimus’ obvious regret about what had happened.

“Every single day, Drift.” He slid his palm down the flat of the blade to the hilt, carefully closing his fingers over Drift’s hand.

Optics meeting, they both froze. An uncomfortable, heavy silence stretched out between them for several, seemingly endless seconds before Drift finally spoke.

“Did you?”

His spark sunk in his chest. Megatron hadn’t expected a positive response. He didn’t deserve one, but he still wanted to at least address it before—The sword fell away, Drift having decided to drop it. The blunt instrument clattered to the floor, forgotten and unnecessary.

The guard was no longer in the way of a comfortable grip on the smaller mech’s hand. He brought up his other hand to join the first, enveloping Drift’s fingers between his palms.

“Incessantly.”

Even when he’d been in the midst of battle against Autobots. Even in his nonconscious, fragmented coma dreams. Even stalking the halls of a base full of unfortunate, desperate mechs so starved they had turned to cannibalism. Even when he’d been trapped, frozen in place in Wheeljack’s machine.

Megatron had wondered about Drift. Where he was. How he was. If he was alive. If they would ever meet again. If he was lost to Megatron forever. He had remembered the sound of the assassin’s voice in quiet moments. He had remembered the works of written art they’d created together. He had remembered the touch of a familiar frame, warm and close.

All to the point of distraction.

He had started making mistakes and doubting. Everything had gone downhill in a blaze of failure.

“And,” he started, taking a moment to ventilate deeply before he forced a heavy phrase from his vocalizer. It was his fault that Drift had become Deadlock, that Deadlock had all-too-readily committed atrocities in his name, that they’d flouted the chain of command, that Deadlock broke apart to rebuilt into Drift again. “I’m sor—“

Drift’s hand escaped his grasp before reappearing around his back, joined by its twin as Drift embraced him.

“When you stopped believing in me, I stopped believing in myself and—“

“You’re ruining the moment. This isn’t a poetry reading.”

“So it isn’t….”

“Save it for later.”