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Chapter 22: Not Drift

Ratchet woke to the feeling of a hard berth beneath him and a soft tarp pulled up to his chin, tucked carefully into the sides of his frame. An energon feeding line ran out underneath the tarp, and he suddenly realized he had regained feeling in most of his frame again.

Which also meant Ratchet was now in an exceptional amount of pain, alerts filling his visual feed, screaming at him at near constant. Wonderful. At least this meant he was still alive, he supposed.

It took a moment of blinking through the haze to recognize the room he lay in as the one in his shuttle. Their shuttle. The one he'd abandoned planet-side to find Drift.

Drift, who was now dead. Unlike Ratchet. That realization dredged up a deep sadness, leaving Ratchet feeling empty and numb. Drift was dead.

How did he even get back to the shuttle? Someone had to have brought him, but Ratchet came up with nothing in his memory bank. He hoped at the very least whoever it was had brought Drift's body with them. He'd want it prepared a certain way. A Spectralist funeral. Although Ratchet wasn't aware of what that would be. A twinge of regret. He should've taken Drift more seriously.

Unless of course, there was nothing left of Drift to even recover. A horrible thought that made Ratchet's tank lurch. Now knowing exactly who it was that Ratchet had chosen to take Drift away, to torture him, to kill him…

Sickening waves of nausea slammed his sensors and Ratchet only barely lifted himself up in time before the contents of his tank found the floor. Hacking, sputtering, wheezing, Ratchet collapsed back onto the berth, hands- stumps throbbing horribly from the sudden pressure put on them. The sound still echoed in his processor, he could still hear it- could still hear Drift. The shrill, panicked shrieks, as they- as they melted him-

Ratchet didn't make it to the edge of the berth this time, not that he had much left in his tank to begin with. Splitting pain shot through his chest as he heaved, air cutting and stabbing. That wasn't good. He needed to make a diagnosis. The alerts were trying to tell him what was wrong, but Ratchet couldn't make sense of any of it. Everything was in a haze, everything hurt.

A sudden burst of rage hit him. Why save him? Why? There was nothing left for him here. The one most important to him was dead. Because of Ratchet.

His one purpose for functioning at all- gone. No replacement hands could ever work the same. Ratchet was officially useless. Just a hunk of slowly rusting metal taking up space. He should've been left there to die. Continuing to live now would only bring him more pain. He wanted to rest. Just let him rest. Let him be with Drift.

Someone called his name, the voice cutting through the pain assaulting his sensors. It was too much. He didn't want to hear it. Make it stop. No more, no more, please-

"Ratchet! Oh, Primus-"

He didn't want to hear it. Stop. Stop it.

"Just hang on. We're almost there-"

Hands on his frame. The sensation was too overwhelming.

"I've found a hospital, they're going to- Primus, you can't die on me, Ratchet. I swear. You can't."

Ratchet barely caught sight of optics wide and full of panic looking down at him before his visual feed darkened, pulling him back under. Part of Ratchet felt guilty, they seemed to care for him. But there was no reason for him to stay here any longer. He had nothing else to offer anyone.

Sorry. Thanks for trying.

Maybe he'd wake up and see Drift again. That would be nice, he supposed.

---

The first thing Ratchet noticed was the overbearing scent of disinfectant assaulting his sensors. Not very likely to be a staple of the Afterspark. That didn't bring him the reassurance it should have.

It was too bright. Too much. Blinding. Ratchet tried to block out the light around him, but found his frame sluggish and slow to respond. Polished, white plating hovered over him, moving about briskly, reflecting the harsh light of the operating room straight into his optics.

"Drift…?" Ratchet's voice slurred, making him sound as if he were drunk. Maybe he was. It certainly felt like it.

"Oh! Ratchet, you're awake. I apologize, I hadn't noticed." Not Drift.

Standard red and white plating decorated with symbols indicating this was indeed a medic before him. Not Drift.

"Huh?"

A servo hesitantly made contact with his arm. It felt wrong. "You just got out of surgery, dear. You weren't supposed to be up just yet, so it might be-"

Ah, so that's what it was. He was sedated. That's why he couldn't feel any pain whatsoever. Disturbingly so.

"Th' medical report." Ratchet interrupted the medic with his own words still melting together. Damn, just how big of a dose did they give him?

They hesitated, looking back at him in surprise. "The- the medical report?"

"Yes. Give it here. I want to see it." Ratchet tried to command authority through his voice, but only sounded ridiculous with how drawn out his words were.

"Uh, right now?" He was met with a bewildered expression. "You only just woke up from the procedure, we can discuss the report after you-"

"Let me see it."

The medic shot him an exasperated look before sighing and handing a datapad over to him, placing it carefully in his lap. Ratchet grabbed it with his hands.

He froze, staring down at the white digits. Those weren't his. Of course they weren't. His were long gone. The pad slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor.

The bot bent down to pick it back up. "It might take some time to fully integrate into your new hands. It would be best to avoid using them for the time being- especially given you just got out of surgery-"

"I know how this works." Ratchet snapped at them, immediately cringing at himself. They were only doing their job.

"Right… Of course you do." The berth shifted as the medic began pushing it forward. "Let's get you situated in one of the recovery rooms, it should be more comfortable for you." They rolled him past a row of berths, only a few having occupants. "Would you like me to call the one who brought you-"

"Stop-!"

They came to a sudden halt, reaching a hand out towards him. "…What's wrong? Are you in any pain-?"

"Drift?"

The white mass in the berth across him wheezed and whimpered. It was Drift. It was Drift, he knew it was. He was in pain. "Drift?" Ratchet tried to sit up in the berth. He could see the crystals jammed in Drift's abdomen.

"Ratchet, please- lay back down! You're in no condition-"

"Drift… Drift- he's in pain." Ratchet murmured as he pushed the medic off of him. He had to get over there. That was Drift, he was sure of it.

There was a cry of pain. It sounded like Drift. Why was he unattended? Was no one going to help him?

He could see Drift twitching violently, could hear the pained cries as he pried his plating open. If no one here would help, then Ratchet would have to do it himself. A quick motion had his legs swinging over the side of the berth and he felt something shift, a horrible wrongness in that movement. He forced himself up regardless. Maybe if they hadn't sedated him into next week, he'd be feeling the consequences of his actions.

Drift suddenly let out a scream. A horrible, desperate scream. Ratchet threw himself forward, stumbling into the berth, and trying to ignore the lack of response from one of his legs. An incoherent mess of words streamed from Drift as he thrashed and clutched the berth.

"It's alright. I've got you. I've got you." Trembling hands, unfamiliar hands held on to Drift's face. He only began hyperventilating harder at that.

"Ratchet… help me. Please. Help me. He's coming. I can't. I can't-"

"You're going to be fine. There's- there's people here that can help you. It's safe now-"

Drift shoved his hands away. No. Not his hands. Fake hands.

"I want you, Ratchet. Help me, help me please."

"…I can't. Not anymore." The white hands attached to him shook so violently. Ratchet didn't know what to do with himself.

"How could you?" The words were spat with such venom it cut straight to his spark. "How could you, Ratchet? He's coming for me now, and it's all your fault." Drift's legs were gone, stumps mangled and macabre, still reeking horribly of burnt metal and protoform.

"Of all the monsters you could've chosen, you picked him? Or maybe it's just you that's the monster. After all, we both know your precious forged hands are the only thing on your processor, aren't they? The only thing you truly care about."

Ratchet's vision glitched and warped, he couldn't think- couldn't focus. Drift seemed to glitch right along with it, a horrifying display right in front of him.

"He's coming for me, Ratchet-!" Drift's voice was laced in panic now, hands reaching up to grab him. "Don't let him take me! Ratchet, please!"

"I won't, I won't- I promise!" Ratchet held on to Drift's hands, clutching them tightly in his own.

"It's a bit late for empty promises now, Ratchet."

Ratchet clutched the tarp, tangled up in his hands. Drift was gone.

"Ratchet…?" A hand gently touched his shoulder. Ratchet flinched away. Someone was crying. The medic? It took him a moment to realize what he heard was himself, crumpled at the side of an empty berth, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Come on, let's get you back in the berth, alright?" The white bot touched him again but Ratchet smacked their hand off of him, curling in further on himself as he held on to the berth. It was stupid, he knew it was. He was hallucinating. And given the dosage of pain killers they had him on, he knew that.

Drift was dead. And nothing would change that fact.

Yet Ratchet clung to the empty berth as if that would bring Drift back to him, mumbling his name over and over through the sobs wracking his frame.

The medic hovered nervously behind him, as if unsure of what to do. Good. Just leave him be. Leave him here. Ratchet didn't want to go anywhere else.

The sound of shuffling pedes and hushed voices picked up in his audials. Someone crouched down beside him. Ratchet refused to look. He was being immature. Behaving like a slagging newspark. He didn't care.

"Hey, Ratch..." He recognized that voice. Ratchet felt his vents start to even out somewhat. "Will you let me pick you up?"

What was he, a wild mechanimal? There was no need to act as though Ratchet would lash out and attack at random. Still, he found himself nodding without much thought.

Ratchet was scooped up and cradled in familiar arms, laying his helm against a familiar frame. The feeling of being touched still made his plating crawl, and yet at the same time felt… safe.

The familiar voice exchanged words with the medic, spoken in a low and soft tone, before starting to walk off. They got further and further from the empty berth and Ratchet felt a bout of panic spring up.

They were leaving Drift behind. He couldn't leave Drift. Not like this. Ratchet gripped the arms holding him, dizzy and disoriented as he continued to mutter to himself.

"Hey, hey. I'm right here. I've got you. We're just going to the recovery room, alright?" The voice spoke so soft, so gentle. What did he do to deserve to hear that voice again?

Ratchet was set down in the berth and met with a nervous face looking down at him. Drift.

Of course it was, because his processor hadn't been cruel enough yet, had it? And despite knowing the hallucination was occuring, Ratchet still felt his chest begin heaving with the pain of it all once again.

He felt nauseous and weak, he couldn't think and everything was just too much-

"Ratchet… Ratchet, it's alright. There's nothing you need to apologize for." Drift clasped his hands over Ratchet's. Not Ratchet's. Fake.

…Had he been apologizing? Ratchet couldn't make any sense of the string of muttering coming from his vocalizer.

"I'm… I'll go get the doctor. They said something about the medicine having an adverse effect on you. I don't like leaving you like this." Drift- not Drift- stood up, wringing his hands nervously. This couldn't be Drift. He had legs. Drift didn't have legs. Not anymore. Drift was dead.

"I'll be right back. I promise." Not Drift gave one last look back before leaving Ratchet alone.

Ratchet watched him leave, trying to push down the horrible empty feeling taking over him.

This wasn't Drift.

---

Not Drift remained by his side, refusing to leave for any reason. Ratchet tried to get rid of him. He didn't listen.

Why continue to torture him like this? Drift was dead. Just let him grieve in peace.

Ratchet stared blankly at the ceiling. He was exhausted. But sleep would only bring more memories. Memories he'd rather forget. Especially with this demon sent to torment his every waking moment.

"Ratchet." Not Drift's voice was soft, barely heard in the silence. "You should sleep. You need rest."

Ratchet ignored him.

A hesitant touch to his hand. Fake hand.

Ratchet pulled away.

"…I know you probably hate me, so I'll leave you be as soon as you recover."

Please do.

"But," Not Drift shifted awkwardly. "I just wanted to thank you. For what you did." His hand had moved to rest on his finial, tracing it absently. "It wasn't much. But it meant more than you know."

Not Drift stood and Ratchet felt the panic from before settle in his chest, but remained silent. This wasn't Drift. And the sooner he left and didn't come back, the sooner Ratchet could be left to grieve properly.

And yet… it didn't stop the aching pain in his spark, watching Drift walk out that door, possibly for the last time, maybe to never to see that face ever again.

Ratchet remained silent.

Not Drift. He had to remind himself. Not Drift.

…Maybe he would come back tomorrow.

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