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Deadlock rolled his eyes for what must have been the billionth time as he followed along, staring at the bright paintjob of the not-Autobot he had decided to help out. Only to further his own mission, of course. Starscream had seen to it that he got sent out on the most boring mission Deadlock could imagine, attempting to recruit a group of anti-Zeta Prime rebels in Nyon. He had run into a smaller bot, painted in vibrant golds and crimsons. Despite his first assumption when he saw the unfortunate colors that graced the lithe frame...
"My name is Hot Rod, not 'a tiny Autobot' or whatever you just called me, and I'm a neutral!" the other bot insisted incessantly, "You're the one they're gonna be scared of. Big, creepy Decepticon with guns. Not very inspiring or appealing."
Deadlock huffed. Plenty of fire seemed to be contained in such a small bot. "Just make sure you honor our deal."
He was a neutral, and especially not an Autobot sympathizer. Deadlock had struck a deal with Hot Rod -- the mech would introduce him to a group of Nyonic insurgents, and in return, Deadlock would provide him with something many were in dire need of: energon rations. Now, though, Deadlock was beginning to regret his choice. They had been walking on pede for far too long. At this point, Deadlock probably would have had better luck searching for them himself.
However, he did make a promise. While Deadlock was many things, mostly negative, a liar wasn't usually one of them. And yeah, okay, maybe seeing the grimy and the obviously starving Hot Rod did send a very small jolt of pity through his spark. He did know how it felt, after all. The alleys and backroads of the Dead End were unkind at best.
Ducking under a cracking stone building, Deadlock almost smashed into Hot Rod, who had stopped abruptly in front of him. Deadlock hissed his displeasure, but Hot Rod shushed him with a deftly waved servo in his direction. He was sure the other could feel the rage pulsing through his field by now, because how dare he treat me this way, but watching the golden spoiler wings flutter slightly calmed him. Hot Rod was clearly tense, too.
"Come on," Deadlock's audials strained forward in an attempt to hear Hot Rod's words more clearly, "if we go now, we should make it."
Deadlock couldn't formulate a response in time before Hot Rod dashed off, turning down a dim hallway in the building. Growling, Deadlock followed the other mech down the twisting and winding tunnels.
Hot Rod ducked into a corner and latched a servo onto Deadlock in an attempt to drag him into the hidden alcove as well. Deadlock jolted at the touch -- but of course, Hot Rod was unsuccessful due to the mass difference between them.
"C'mere, now," Hot Rod's voice was urgent. "I don't want them to catch us."
Deadlock knew better than to ask who 'they' were. Giving up, he smooshed himself into the little nook next to the neutral.
Hot Rod yelped when one of Deadlock's spikier kibble caught on a seam in his plating. Deadlock shushed him with a servo over his intake, but recoiled back when he felt something warm and slimy touch it.
"Did you just lick me?" Deadlock questioned in disbelief.
"Hush."
Here, in this small space, Deadlock could feel every inch of Hot Rod's plating pressed up against his own. He was warm.
Outside their area, a patrol of Enforcers stalked past, obviously on the hunt.
Huh.
Hot Rod had good senses; it probably would have come down to a fight if they had encountered him.
Deadlock shifted unconsciously closer to Hot Rod, away from the fading and increasingly distant voices of the other mecha.
Hot Rod seemed even more unusually warm.
Turning to him, Deadlock was about to ask if he had contracted an illness, and if it was contagious, but --
The moment his vermillion optics locked onto the other bot's cerulean ones, Hot Rod yelped, and fire erupted around them.
Caught off guard, Deadlock panicked and tried to back away, only to learn there was nowhere to go, just a dirty stone wall behind him. The heat and flames licked at his plating, and Deadlock could feel important components start to melt.
Then, just as quickly as they came, the flames were gone.
Hot Rod was in front of him, slightly flushed and panting, and Deadlock was pressed up against the wall, as far away as he could get from him.
It honestly looked like they were caught doing something they shouldn't be.
Deadlock mouthed the glyph "woah" unbidden, still a little in awe at what he had just witnessed.
Did Hot Rod carry flame bombs? Was it an outlier? Did they trigger a trap?
"I'm sorry," Hot Rod started, somewhat sheepishly, "I didn't mean to do that. It won't happen again."
Deadlock shook his helm. "I'd like to see that again. Preferably some distance away from me, however."
Hot Rod flushed even further and mumbled something Deadlock didn't care to discern.
After a few kliks of slightly tense silence, Hot Rod wormed his way out of the dingy corner with minimal scraping. Deadlock watched as the other bot brushed off not-so-imaginary dust, then stretched a servo out.
To him, Deadlock.
To help him.
Deadlock snorted. What an idiot.
Ignoring the offer of help, Deadlock got nimbly to his own pedes and gestured on.
"We need to continue. Lead the way, spitfire."
"My name is Hot Rod. Hot Rod. H-O-T R-O-D."
"Whatever you say, spitfire."
Deadlock hissed as a sharp rock caught onto the edge of one of his open wounds. An energon trail was left behind him, splatters on liquid coating the places he had managed to drag himself over in an effort to look for a place to lie low for a while, or even just a quiet spot to die. It seemed Primus, or Unicron, or even both were against him today.
This was humiliating. He hated it. Not being able to stand on his own two pedes, leaking out in a mockery of what should have been a glorious battlefield death, but instead injured as a misfire from his own side? Deadlock had half a mind to leave the war behind altogether.
But war was his reality. Without it, what would his purpose even be?
Eugh. These were far too depressing thoughts to think when he had to set his mind to making sure his spark didn't sputter out.
Dragging himself upwards once more, Deadlock continued his slow crawl across a deserted section of the current battlefield. Behind him, gunfire and cries of fighting mecha could still be heard.
A small rocky overhang caught his eye, and Deadlock let his frame fall wearily under it with an ex-vent. Energon started to puddle under him, but he couldn't muster up the strength to patch up the numerous wounds. Leaning back, Deadlock felt the darkness tugging at him grow stronger. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad...
A crack sounded from outside his hideaway.
Deadlock's finials snapped upwards like a startled turbofox, and he readied one of his guns. A shadow fell across the entrance. Deadlock's optics betrayed him, and his vision went double. Mentally cursing, he holstered his gun and instead readied himself for a physical fight. No sense in shooting bullets without any aim; he could just as easily hurt himself as any opponent.
The intruder made its way closer, and Deadlock wasn't about to take any chances. His struts tensed, and as soon as the blurry figure was in range, he mustered up his remaining strength to explode forward.
He caught the assailant by the neck cables, but was offbalanced by the sheer amount of energon loss he had suffered. Deadlock fell back toward the ground, not of his own volition, and dragged the would-be attacker down with him.
Deadlock's optics met a familiar shade of cyan. He recognized the frame, but...
A flash of warmth and a wreath of flames erupted around him. Deadlock released his grip on the other and watched as he stumbled backwards, visibly flushed. So it seemed it could be triggered on command to get away.
"Spitfire. Become a true 'Bot, now have you?"
The other bot laughed lightly as the last of the flickers died away. His EM field was pulled tight, and Deadlock couldn't discern his intentions.
"I guess you predicted it," he conceded. "But don't worry. I'm pretty sure there's good in there somewhere," here he lightly tapped the plating above Deadlock's spark, who was too exhausted to move like he probably should have. Inexplicably, something about this mech seemed comforting, despite the opposing factions.
"I'm not like some of the other Autobots. I don't think you need to be killed on sight." Hot Rod continued.
Deadlock laughed hoarsely, without any real humor. "Don't you know who I am?" he croaked out.
"Do I need to?" Hot Rod returned. "You were nice to me, back then. Not many were. It made an impression."
"If you would call that nice, I'm worried to see what you would call mean."
Hot Rod shook his helm. "I could tell you were different. Maybe it was just something about you. But I have to pay it back. I kind of owe you. Without those cubes, I probably wouldn't have made it here."
"Just give it up. Consider your favor repaid by leaving me to die a peaceful death," Deadlock argued. He did not want to be dealing with idealistic Autobots at the moment.
"Not gonna happen!" Hot Rod replied cheerfully. Quite the stubborn one.
Against Deadlock's best wishes, the Autobot produced a few medical patches out of his subspace and started to apply them with gentler digits than he would have guessed possible by the other's personality.
After a long silence, Hot Rod spoke, "This is going to hurt."
Deadlock huffed his humorless and dry laugh once more. "I've been through hell and back. I can take whatever you have to give, spitfire."
Hot Rod rapped lightly on one of his frames. "I'm sure you remember my actual name by now. But in case you don't, it's Hot Rod!"
Deadlock offered no response, but simply watched on as Hot Rod lit one of his digits alight with a small flame. The other mech stuck his glossa out slightly while concentrating; it was rather sweet in a naive way.
Not even a flich was produced outside of the Decepticon mercenary as the welding began, despite the long and gruesome process.
Deadlock was even nodding off by the time it was finished. Or, maybe that was due to the energon loss.
Hot Rod tapped gently at his chinguard, and Deadlock re-onlined his optics to glare at the other.
A cube was promptly pressed to his intake. Deadlock stiffened.
He guessed medical treatment could be excused under repaying a debt, but fuel? In a time like this? That seemed excessive.
"'S it poisoned?" Deadlock mumbled.
"Of course not," Hot Rod sounded indignant. "Why would I spend all that time fixing you just to poison you..."
Good enough logic for him.
Deadlock tilted his helm backwards and accepted the fuel gratefully as it poured down his intake. The numbers on his fuel gauge ticked up.
63.53 %.
65.37 %.
68.84 %.
He hadn't had so full a tank in a long time. That felt good.
Deadlock mashed his back into the rocky wall. The frigid air surrounded every other part of him, and he shivered.
Hot Rod seemed to take this as an invitation to curl up close to him.
He would have pushed him off, but... the warmth did feel nice. Deadlock wasn't going to give up having a living furnace that easily. Though -- maybe it was just the delirium influencing him.
Deadlock would be gone before the other emerged from recharge come first light.
"Oi!" Someone called out to him just as he ducked into the shelter of one the barracks. Drift pricked his glossa on his fangs and turned around slowly. He hoped it wasn't some Autobot who recognized him and came to pick a fight.
He took in the sight warily -- red and gold paintjob, spiky accents, and unusually blue biolights and optics. All in all, a typical 'Bot. Okay. Now, what could he possibly want with Drift? A no-name Decepticon defector, not even recognizable as Deadlock after being stripped of the heavy mods and armor he wore as a mercenary and Decepticon agent.
"Did you get your ration yet?"
Huh?
At Drift's probably obviously confused look and EM field, the Autobot took it upon himself to explain further.
"Okay... don't laugh but I just got here and I'm like. Really hungry but I can't figure out for the life of me where the dispensers are here."
Drift couldn't help it. Out of all things, this was why he was being approached. He threw his helm back and laughed.
"Hey! You promised you wouldn't laugh."
"I did no such thing," Drift replied, when his mirth died down. "But. To be level with you, I have no idea where they are either. I was wandering around hoping I would find them eventually."
The other bot shook his helm. "Mech, that's an even worse plan then the one I had. Although I guess it ends in less humiliation. Well, come on, guess we have an adventure to go on together."
The other bot reached for his servo, and Drift jerked it away on reflex.
"Sorry," he muttered. Gotta come off with a better impression.
But to his surprise... "Nah, 's cool! I'm Rodimus. You are...?"
"Drift."
Rodimus turned to him attentively as they made their way down one of the dim halls. "Ooh, I like that! Race much?"
"Not in recent times," Drift admitted. "I'd like to try again sometime soon."
"Let's race!" Rodimus said immediately. "Even if you're rusty you look like you'd provide a good challenge. I'm still gonna win though."
"You're on!" Drift challenged back, punching the other bot lightly on the side. "It may have been a while, but my skills are still sharp!!"
"We'll see about that!" Rodimus laughed.
The other bot tugged him along, and Drift found he didn't mind all that much. He thought finding someone to hang with would take way more effort than this, but Rodimus just kind of found him. It was nice.
Skidding to a stop, Drift almost crashed into the other Autobot when he stopped. Peering around Rodimus' frame, Drift's sight was graced with a mech who was an absolutely hideous shade of green. He just barely stopped himself from making a face.
"Tectonic." He heard Rodimus acknowledge the bot, with more vitriol then Drift had heard in another's voice in a long time. Usually, it was directed at him. This was a slightly refreshing change.
"Rodimus," the other bot purred. "It's so nice to see you. Been a while.”
”Wish it had been longer.” Rodimus muttered. “What do you want?”
”Oh, who says I want something from you?”
Rodimus leveled them with a deadpan glare. “Uh huh.”
”You caught me,” Tectonic put their hands up in mock surrender, “I want to know — how’s the Decepticon doing?”
Drift startled, thinking for a second they may have been referring to him. Rodimus’ engine rumbled beside him, and Drift connected that the other bot didn’t see him or care about him, and was instead insulting Rodimus.
”You know I’ve never been aligned with the Decepticons.” Rodimus replied quietly. “It’s juvenile that you continue to refer to me as one.”
Tectonic shook his helm. “Oh, no, no. You see, I’ve recently come upon some very interesting bits of information that seemed relevant to your loyalty to the cause.”
Rodimus seemed uneasy beside him, and Drift let a warning hand slide down to where his guns were usually holstered — only to flick a finial in annoyance when he remembered they were no longer there. Instead, he settles for feeling the pulse of Wing's Greatsword against his spinal strut.
"Were you, perhaps, involved in the destruction of Nyon?"
Drift recoiled back slightly. He had heard when Nyon had fell, the ember's of it's destruction spread near and far. He spent a short moment in silence, grieving for Hot Rod, who had too kind of a spark to be subjected to that fate. Melting alive in a burning city.
Did Rodimus have something to do with it?
As soon as Drift absorbed the state of Rodimus into his processor, all thoughts of interrogation left. The other mech was frozen, spoiler-wings tilted downward in an imitation of wing cant. Drift was probably the only one close enough to see the minute trembles that wracked his frame. Anger? Or maybe another emotion?
Outside of their little bubble, Tectonic laughed. "What, no answer?" they taunted. "Guess I was right --"
Drift cut them off with a punch to the faceplates. The blow cracked along one of the protruding kibble on the other mech's helm. Drift's engine growled loudly, a warning, and he felt vindicated as Tectonic stumbled backwards, clearly caught off guard.
"You wanted a Decepticon?" Drift smiled, fangs on full display. "You'll get one, if you aren't careful."
Tectonic seemed to value their spark and fled at the first chance they got. Good riddance.
"Hey," Drift turned to Rodimus, who had apparently recovered his faculties. "Um. Sorry you had to see that."
"Hot."
"What?"
"What?"
Rodimus decided to burst into flame.
"Ah!" Drift stepped back, shielding his optics in surprise.
Suddenly, the puzzle pieces seemed to make a lot more sense.
"Spitfire?" Drift called incredulously.
"My name is Rodim- " Rodimus cut himself off. "Wait. Deadlock?"
Drift laughed. "Not anymore."
"Holy slag, it's you! I hope you don't find this weird but I was keeping track of Deadlock's movement and bounties, so when you went dark I got worried."
"No," Drift shook his helm, "I thought your spark went out with Nyon or I would have come looking earlier."
Rodimus still seemed tense at the mention of Nyon. It seemed that was a story for another time. "Ha ha, nope. I'm glad you're here, though! You're different from most other mecha. It's refreshing. Now, come on, let's go find those dispensers.
Drift yelped as the sword swung past one of his finials, missing it just barely.
"Watch it!" he called to Rodimus, who of course grinned and took another clumsy swing at him.
"Do we have to go back to the basics?" Drift taunted with a laugh.
"Nope!" Rodimus chirped. "I'm doing just fine. It seems like you're the one struggling here."
"I would not consider that 'just fine'."
With a running start, Drift leapt at Rodimus, who brought his training sword up in a mockery of a block. Exactly as planned. Drift grabbed the blunted edges of the sword with both servos and pushed down, using the momentum to fling himself up and over his best friend in a graceful flip.
"Gotcha." Drift poked at his unbalanced captain with one digit to the backstrut. Rodimus promptly fell over, collapsing in an indignant heap of disheveled mech.
"That's totally cheating," he mumbled from his pile. "No fair."
"Completely fair," Drift countered. "Now, show me how you plan to prevent that from happening again."
Like clockwork, Rodimus seemed to perk up. The flame colored mech scrambled to his pedes and assumed a messy defensive stance. Drift gently reached out and corrected it with a few movements.
"Ready?"
"Come at me."
Rodimus dodged Drift's first swing with his quick reflexes, but was caught by the follow up attack on his side. To his credit, however, it did not slow the fiery slew of slashes that came directly after it. Drift found himself using more effort than he probably should need to dodge those.
"Give up yet?" Rodimus' question was accompanied by a training sword that hit directly into a seam in Drift's leg.
Caught off guard, Drift tried for a quick recovery by slamming his weight into Rodimus, but it only succeeded in pulling both of them to the ground. Hey, at least Drift ended up on top.
Venting heavily, Drift's yellow-blue optics met Rodimus' matrix-blue ones. A beading drop of coolant dripped down his faceplates to land on his upper derma, and Drift traced it's path with his gaze.
"Roddy... I win" he managed to get out, vents still labored.
Rodimus flustered under the attention, and was able to reign himself in for a total of three kliks before the flames came. Heat burst off his frame in waves, and Drift leaned away and shifted his servos so that they were no longer resting on the hot frame.
Seemingly unable to let their gazes meet once more, Rodimus wiggled out from underneath him and shakily got to his pedes.
"If anything's cheating, it's that," Drift tried to joke lightheartedly.
"I have to go," Rodimus sputtered out, and Drift felt his spark fall. "Important... Captain business... yeah. Safety issue. Gotta go now. ASAP."
Drift didn't point out how, if there was in fact a safety issue, he would also need to know about it as third in command. Instead, he sighed as Rodimus made his hasty retreat, and let him go.
Why was this happening, even now? Drift could understand why Rodimus would have used his flames as some sort of defensive mechanism against Deadlock, but even now?
They were friends. At least, Drift would consider Rodimus his closest friend. So why was Rodimus feeling the need to use his outlier to create distance between them?
Was it possible… that he was scared of Drift? Still? Ouch.
Drift would get to the bottom of this. He swore it.
Rodimus had been avoiding him for long enough, with zero explanation as to why. Drift was tired of it, a bit hurt, and more than a little confused. This cycle, he decided, would be the one he got down to the truth during.
Drift stalked through the halls of the Lost Light with purpose and determination. Other mecha did their best to steer clear of him, which he was silently appreciative of. Guess they could sense the mood rolling off of him in waves.
Finally, he reached his destination: Rodimus' office. The doors loomed in front of him like a warning.
Instead of calling ahead like he usually would have, Drift pinged the doors with a request to meet, just like any other crewmate. This way, Rodimus wouldn't have time to call up an excuse or wave him off.
The doors slid open and Drift stepped through, lightly. Rodimus was sat at his desk, reclined in a strange position as usual, and started to call out to him without looking up from his doodling.
"Welcome in, have a seat and let me know what the problem might --"
"Roddy."
"Wha -- Drift?"
"You've been avoiding me." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.
"No, I haven't," Rodimus lied.
Drift sighed. He walked closer, around the side of the desk, and watched as Rodimus backed up until his spoiler wings tapped against the wall.
"See? That right there, you're avoiding me." It felt a little like a told-you-so moment.
Rodimus held up his servos placatingly.
"Okay, maybe a little. I'll stop, I swear."
Drift made a face. "I'm not sure how much I believe you. But still," he walked closer, and Rodimus squished himself into the wall like a space barnacle, "I want to know why."
"Uh, no reason?"
Drift came within EM field range. "Rodimus, you're a terrible liar."
The mech in question still wouldn't meet optics with him, so Drift positioned himself over Rodimus, clawed servos slamming down onto either side of his helm with a clang.
"Tell me," he growled. Now, Rodimus couldn't run. And, maybe, if he used his outlier, Drift would get his answer.
As predicted, it took only a few short moments before the familiar heat rose up and Drift had to hiss and let go.
Trying to hide the wounded expression he knew painted his faceplates, he turned away from Rodimus. "I can't believe you still have to use that on me. You could just ask me to move away."
"Move-- what? Drift?"
Drift wasn't pouting. Probably.
"Wait, Drift, what do you think it means?" Rodimus continued, apparently not one to let it lie.
Drift turned back to him, finials downturned. "You use your outlier when you fight, especially to create distance between you and your opponent. It's the same here, right? I don't know, I assumed you couldn't control it well in these situations and it acted off your emotions, based on my knowledge of other outliers."
Rodimus seemed to shrink with every word. "Well, you got it right that I can't really control it super well when my emotions come into play. But, uhm..." he trailed off for a moment, and Drift watched as his faceplates flushed darker. "IthappenswhenIgetembarassedorflustered."
Drift blinked. "What? Say that again, slower."
"You are a very attractive mech. You know that."
Did he???
Rodimus continued, "And sometimes, when you get in my personal space, it can be a bit much! In a good way. You know?"
Drift did in fact know. He felt the same way when Rodimus was near him. So, wait...
"You flame up because you think I'm hot?"
"Well, when you put it like that..." Rodimus whined. "I just didn't want you to think it was because I hated you or something dumb like that." Drift was never telling him that was exactly what he thought.
"Don't worry," Drift assured Rodimus, "I think you're pretty fiery hot too, spitfire."
"That was so bad," Rodimus deadpanned, but made his way over to Drift anyway. Drift happily accepted the offered kiss. This was so much better of a turn out than he expected. A win in his book.