#rodidriftceptor

He and Perceptor were doing everything they could to find Hot Rod’s Nobody, to reunite him with his Heartless - an act that Perceptor theorized would make him whole once more.

Finding him was the difficult part. Until recently, Drift hadn’t had much luck. Every lead seemed to end nowhere. Every clue he found gave him nothing. It seemed as though Hot Rod just wasn’t meant to come back. But Drift wasn’t giving up; not until he had his best friend back. His perseverance paid off in the form of a Nobody that took a similar shape to Hot Rod.

Convoy, as the Nobody was calling himself, was a darkly colored mech, all blues and purples where Hot Rod had been all brights, orange and red. The contrast in colors between the two weren’t the only differences between Hot Rod and Convoy - Hot Rod’s optimistic, carefree nature was nowhere to be seen in Convoy, who hid himself away in shadows, reluctant and negative. Drift had his doubts that this mech was really Hot Rod, but perhaps the time spent as a Nobody had broken through Hot Rod’s self.

Drift followed Convoy for several days, waiting for a chance to take the other mech, drag him back to Perceptor’s lab so they could bring Hot Rod back to his whole self.

In following him, Drift made a discovery that he needed to report back to Perceptor.

“What do you mean, there’s two of them?”

- - - - -

“Which one of them is really Hot Rod?” Drift asked later, back in the lab with Perceptor. He’d gathered as much information as he could on Rodimus and Convoy, bringing still images and video feed, energy signatures, anything he could that might help them figure it out. “They can’t both be him, can they?”

“I have my doubts,” Perceptor replied, attention focused on his screen. Displayed in front of him was a comparison of the two Nobodies, analyses running on the data Drift had brought him. “I have every reason to believe that Rodimus is our Hot Rod, but there’s something odd.” He gestured Drift closer and pointed to a particular dataset. “Look here. Both Rodimus and Convoy have the same energy signature as Hot Rod, but Rodimus’ signature seems to be fading.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m certain nothing good. I want you to bring him to me as soon as you can.” Perceptor leaned back in his chair, removing his reticule to wipe it clean with a cloth. “I’d rather not lose either of them when they could both be important. If Rodimus is fading, we need to get him here and stabilize him.”

Drift nodded. Whatever it took to get Hot Rod back.

- - - - -

He’d realized days ago that the mech was following him, trying to tail him, potentially to where he and the others made their home base. Enough had been enough and Convoy had called him out, challenged him to a fight. He didn’t care for being followed and he’d put a stop to it by taking the other mech out

Convoy held his own against the swordsmech that lunged at him. Their Keyblades clashed with each swing, his defensive tactics equal to the other mech’s offensive maneuvers. Though he fought well, Convoy felt cornered and it steadily chipped at his confidence in his skills - he was always lesser, always the weaker fighter, full of insecurities and doubts that ate away at his concentration.

What if he couldn’t beat him? What would happen if he was forced to retreat and the mech followed him back to the base? Would he punished, turned into the lowest form of Nobody for his failures? The threat had been hanging over him from day one, his superiors unimpressed with his performances in the missions they’d been running. The only time he seemed to be of any worth was around Rodimus and the other Nobody had fallen ill as of late.

If he could defeat this mech, would it give his superiors reason to praise him for once?

He couldn’t guess. The other mech swung hard in a sudden strike that blew the Keyblade from Convoy’s hand and, in the next moment, lunged forward, twisted, and struck his spinal strut, forcing him to collapse. Convoy fell in a heap.

“Not too bad, but you’re no Hot Rod.”

Those words might as well have been another blow for the damage they did to his mind. Convoy wasn’t sure who Hot Rod was, but it was bad enough his superiors belittled him for not being like Rodimus - this was just adding insult to injury. “Who are you and why are you following me?”

The mech didn’t give his name, walking past Convoy and picking up the Keyblade that had clattered to the ground. “To get my best friend back,” he replied, looking over the weapon in his hand. A thoughtful hum escaped the mech and he threw the Keyblade over his shoulder. “You really can’t fight fire with sparks, a fake Keyblade is useless.”

Convoy bristled. “My Keyblade isn’t fake!” He reached for it, pushing himself up and running at the other mech. “I’ll show you!”

He swung the Keyblade at the other mech, who merely stepped aside and caught hold of Convoy’s arm, twisting and throwing Convoy to the ground. Convoy’s Keyblade hit the ground next to him and disappeared in a flash of light for him to summon later.

“Take my advice,” the mech told him. “Stay out of the way. All I want is my best friend.”

He left with that, leaving Convoy on the ground, disoriented from the last blow, furious at the other mech’s dismissals, and disappointed in himself for his own failures. He slammed a fist into the ground and yelled up at the sky.

Drift took a shaky step forward. “But you’ll lose your spark! And we don’t know if there’s a way back from that!”

“I know.”

Drift’s gaze finally breaks from Hot Rod to the still form of Perceptor laying on the floor, optics dark and unseeing. His spark was in Hot Rod, as they’d just learned, escaped to protect itself by finding the safest place to hide away while his body recovered from the attack on them. There was only one way to release Perceptor’s spark and Hot Rod literally held the key in his hands. Drift’s spark pulsed painfully in his chest – what if this didn’t work? What if Perceptor didn’t wake up and Hot Rod was sacrificing himself for nothing? What if Drift was about to lose them both?

“Please, Hot Rod – ”

“I’m sorry, Drift,” Hot Rod interrupted. He turned the Keyblade in his hands, pointing the tip against his chest, above his spark. “Tell Percy I’m sorry for me.”

Drift couldn’t even get a response out before Hot Rod pulled the Keyblade hard against his chest. The blade slid through his armor like it wasn’t even there, causing no physical damage to the plating, but clearly impaling through the younger mech. A blinding light erupted from Hot Rod’s chest and Drift had to cover his optics to protect them from the intensity, even as his own spark clenched so tightly in his chest that he couldn’t stand it. Even as the light began to fade, he didn’t want to look – he didn’t want to see Hot Rod as still and lifeless as Perceptor.

And yet, he lowered his hand anyways, unable to bring himself to look away, to go without seeing his best friend for just a few moments more. Hot Rod stood for a moment, the Keyblade of Heart still impaled almost gruesomely in his chest. Two bright blue sparks floated in the air in front of the younger mech, casting their glow over Hot Rod’s red armor. Hot Rod’s optics were on Perceptor, a pained, wistful expression on his face - one that Drift recognized; it was the look one gave the person they loved when they knew they’d never see them again.

The Keyblade fell from Hot Rod’s chest, clattering to the floor, and startling Drift. Hot Rod fell a moment later, as the Keyblade released the sparks that had created it. In the corner of his vision, Drift could see one of the sparks that had been released from Hot Rod move, floating towards Perceptor, but he couldn’t bring his gaze away from Hot Rod. He tried to move towards him, but his feet felt as though they’d been welded to the floor. His entire frame was heavy, his spark seeming to have stilled in his chest when Hot Rod fell to his knees and Drift wanted to reach the other mech, wanted to run to his side, hold him up, beg him to stay with them. He’d watched Perceptor lose his spark, now he’d watched Hot Rod do the same. He couldn’t lose his friend – he couldn’t lose Hot Rod, please!

Hot Rod looked up at Drift and, for a moment, it seemed like he was going to be fine. A proud smile crossed his lips and he laughed, even as optic fluid fell over his faceplates. Hot Rod’s laugh, even pained as it was, had Drift’s spark pulsing again. Drift took a step forward –

- just as Hot Rod’s body began to dissipate into fragments of light.

“Hot Rod!!”

Drift’s spark pulsed wildly, fear and loss overtaking him, and his intakes seized up. No, no!! He had to do something, he had to reach him! He screamed his best friend’s name again and again, trying to get his body to move, frozen as it was from the shock of seeing Hot Rod beginning to disappear. Hot Rod’s name echoed in the small chamber they’d stood in.

It wasn’t until he saw Perceptor running for Hot Rod that he even realized the other mech was awake.

It wasn’t until he saw Perceptor’s mouth moving that he realized, also, that it wasn’t his own voice echoing off the chamber walls – it was Perceptor’s.

“Hot Rod!” Perceptor tried to grab Hot Rod, but the last after image of the young mech’s body disappeared, the tendrils of light he’d faded into floating upwards and disappearing. Drift was finally able to move and he stumbled towards Perceptor to wrap his arms around the awake and distressed sniper as he continued to call for Hot Rod to come back. “Drift, what did he do? What happened?”

Drift’s mouth opened and he tried to speak, but his vocalizer refused to work. He closed his mouth and shook his head, and as Perceptor broke down in his arms, it took everything he had not to follow suit. Hot Rod had saved Perceptor, but the price was far too much. It hurt so much and Drift was barely holding it together, Perceptor was already falling apart, and there was still danger all around them. There was no time to mourn the loss – just as there had been no time to mourn Wing, no time to mourn Gasket.

Why was there never time to mourn the ones you loved?

Drift pulled Perceptor to his feet. “We need to go. We’ll bring him back. There has to be a way.”