Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So, question one: are you a Decepticon?”

Swerve stared up at the mech in front of him with optimistic enthusiasm, bouncing one pede against the floor like a hyperactive metronome. He loved doing these little onboarding interviews—Red Alert always acted like it was life or death. Swerve preferred to think of them more like… speed dating with background checks.

The mech across from him—tall, a little broad, with a faceplate pulled taut across his jaw—answered flatly:

“No.”

His heterochromatic optics never left Swerve’s visor. One cool blue. One muted purple. Neither blinking.

Swerve hesitated then glanced down. The remnants of a worn purple insignia on the bot’s chassis begged to differ. 

“Right. Okay. Gonna go ahead and say that looks like a yes .” He laughed awkwardly. “So! Let’s maybe try that again, but this time with a little more honesty?”

The mech’s voice didn’t change, but Swerve caught the narrowing of his optics.

“Defected.”

Swerve shifted. “Right, right… gonna be honest, I think I have to check with the captain on that one.”

⸻

On the other side of the door, Rodimus and Drift stood with arms crossed, watching the exchange unfold through a narrow viewport. The light from inside painted slashes of orange across Rodimus’s plating.

Rodimus didn’t speak for a beat. His optics stayed fixed on the figure inside. He didn’t know what he expected.

“Okay,” Rodimus said at last, optics narrowing. “How exactly did you pick this guy up? What happened at Delphi?”

Drift vented, posture relaxing slightly like he’d expected this. “As you know, we went in for the Pharma situation. Medical malpractice, unethical experimentation, we all nearly died. Classic."

Rodimus cracked a humorless smile.

Drift continued. “We took care of it. But First Aid -one of the medics we brought back- was insistent. Said there was someone else in the facility. He wanted to confirm their status before we left." 

His gaze shifted through the window, landing on the mech sitting ramrod straight in the chair across from Swerve.

“Found him restrained. Torn open. First Aid mentioned he was probably being punished by Pharma. First Aid also maintained he's the one who started poking around Pharma's malpractice. That mech is the reason First Aid found the data that he sent to Ratchet."

Rodimus was quiet again. Processing. His servos twitched once, then curled against his arms.

“And you thought,” he said, voice cool and clipped, “ that’s who we needed to bring on board?”

“He saved lives,” Drift said simply. “He exposed Pharma. There has to be some credit given there.”

Rodimus glanced at him, optics flicking like a data stream. “Yeah. But he’s also a Decepticon. Just because the war is over doesn’t erase what he’s done.”

“Was,” Drift corrected. “He was a Decepticon.”

Rodimus sighed. Then straightened. “Fine. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

He pressed the door panel. The hiss of the seal disengaging made Swerve jump. The door slid open. Both Swerve and the mech inside looked up. Rodimus stepped in, helm tilted slightly, flame-shaped crests casting shadows down the sides of his face.

“You.” He pointed, unceremoniously. “What’s your designation?”

The mech was silent for a second.

“…Rift.”

Rodimus narrowed his optics.

A pause.

“ Real designation.”

Another pause, a longer one.

“…That's my current designation. I don’t see why the others matter.”

Rodimus’s face didn’t change. “Right. Well, Rift. You’ve got about thirty seconds to convince me why you should be on my ship.”

For a moment, Rift didn’t answer.

He just watched Rodimus; unmoving, unreadable. Like a blade left sheathed on the table. Still sharp even in stillness.

Then, finally, his voice flat:

“I tried to do the right thing and got gutted for it.”

Rodimus raised an optic ridge, not unkindly, just waiting, expectant, as if to say and?

Rift hesitated. 

“I don’t want to go back there.”
Another pause, quieter now.
“That’s it.”

Rodimus’s optics searched Rift’s face like he was trying to find a crack, something beneath that calm, expressionless exterior that would tell him this wasn’t a mistake. That he wasn’t welcoming another ticking time bomb onto his ship.

Instead, he found nothing. Not anger, not desperation, or even regret.

Just quiet resolve, etched into every line of Rift’s posture. A mech who had already been judged and sentenced a thousand times before this moment.

Rodimus’s shoulders dropped, just slightly.

He hated the pity that surfaced in his processor. 

“Alright,” he said at last, tone still sharp but with the edge dulled. “You get to stay.”

Drift shot him a sidelong glance, subtle approval flickering in his field, which Rodimus ignored.

He stepped forward, close enough now that Rift had to tilt his helm to keep their optics locked.

“But you’re not here for a free ride,” Rodimus said quietly. “You don’t get to brood in a corner and pretend you don’t answer to anyone. This is a crew. You pull your weight, or you’re gone. No second chances. No dramatic exits.”

“I understand,” Rift said.

Rodimus studied him a moment longer. “Do you?”

Rift didn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Another beat passed. Then Rodimus turned to the door.

“Drift’ll show you the habsuite. You’ll report to Ratchet for a medical eval and then to Ultra Magnus. And-” he paused in the doorway, glancing back, “-you want to prove you belong here? Start by not giving anyone a reason to think you don’t.”

He left without waiting for a response. 

Swerve perked up from where he was seated across from Rift and offered a smile and an outstretched servo. “Well, ‘defected Decepticon,’ welcome aboard.” 

Rift merely hummed in response before turning to follow Drift. The minibot’s smile faltered as he retracted his servo. “Wow. Okay. Rude.” 

Drift leaned against the wall outside, arms loosely crossed as he waited. When the door hissed open, he straightened. Rift stepped out slowly, movements stiff, optics dull.

Drift’s gaze swept over him—quietly noting the faded paint, the pitted armor, the seams that didn’t align quite right. Parts Pharma had likely tampered with.

As well as the missing parts.

“I’m glad we found you when we did,” Drift said, tone light but sincere. “No telling what Pharma would’ve done.”

Rift glanced at him, expression unreadable. “I have an idea.”

Drift reached out -intentions kind- but froze when he saw Rift tense. His servo dropped without making contact.

The smile faded from Drift’s face, replaced by quiet sympathy.

“In any case,” he said gently, “you’re here now. Let’s go.”

The corridor greeted them with its low, familiar hum as they fell into step. Drift kept the pace slow, gesturing toward various sectors with brief explanations. Engine room. Rec deck. Observation platform. He skipped the smalltalk, having a feeling the bot next to him wouldn’t make for great conversation anyway.

When they passed Rift’s assigned habsuite, Drift only nodded toward the door.
“That’s yours. You can come back after the medbay. Getting checked out’s more important than getting comfy."

The overhead lights in the medbay cast everything in sterile white, clean and cold and clinical. Rift hated it, hated the reminder of Delphi.

He sat on the edge of the examination berth, shoulders squared and hands resting on his thighs, as if sheer posture could will away discomfort. It didn’t. The harsh lighting only made everything worse. Made him worse.

What was left of his paint-once grey and white, now dulled to ash and fog-looked almost washed out under the glare. Jagged magenta accents slashed across his plating in uneven patterns, one flaring out beneath a fractured finial, the other broken off entirely. His armor was pitted and scraped, with entire panels mismatched or misaligned, like someone had tried to put him back together from a reference photo they’d only half understood.

His optics flicked toward the datapad in Ratchet’s hands. The medic said nothing at first. Just frowned.

Ratchet finally broke the silence. “You know, some bots at least pretend they’re not walking structural failures when they sit on my slab.”

Rift didn’t smile. “I prefer honesty.”

Ratchet snorted. “So do I. Which is why I’m going to tell you exactly what I see.”

He stepped forward and gestured with the datapad. “Two cracked energon lines. Optic calibration’s inconsistent. Mismatched parts, and it looks like someone sealed them. I'll guess it was Pharma.”

Rift kept his gaze fixed ahead of him.

“You want me to fix some of this before it gets worse?” Ratchet asked, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

The refusal was soft but absolute. No anger, no tension. Just a quiet barricade dropped in place.

Ratchet let out a sharp ex-vent. “Thought so.”

He set the datapad aside and picked up a scanner instead. “Fine. At the very least let me make sure you’re going to function without falling apart. But if you’re going to stick around, you should at least let someone touch up the paint. You’re gonna freak people out.”

Rift’s servos tapped the berth in thought before he answered, “Fine.”

Later, when Ratchet directed Rift out of the medbay, he turned to find Drift lounging against his desk, one leg crossed over the other like he belonged there.

The medic quirked an optic ridge. “You act like it’s your job to lurk around.”

Drift smirked. “What, you don’t want me here?”

“Didn’t say that,” Ratchet muttered. “But I do have a question.”

“Shoot.”

Ratchet’s optics flicked to the door Rift had just exited through. “Back at Delphi… you asked me if I recognized him.”

“I did.”

Ratchet turned toward him fully, arms crossing. “You asked like you didn’t already know.”

Drift’s field tightened almost imperceptibly. “I never said I didn’t.”

Ratchet vented sharply. “So you did.”

Drift shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant.”

Ratchet stepped forward. “‘Didn’t seem -Drift- you brought a former Decepticon onto a post-war flagship under a false designation. How exactly is that not relevant?”

Drift straightened from the desk, tone still even. “Because if I’d told Rodimus who he really was, we both know he never would’ve stepped foot on this ship.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “So you lied by omission.”

“I gave him a shot,” Drift said, simple and firm. “The same way a certain someone once gave me one.”

Ratchet was quiet for a klik. “You’ve known him since before Delphi?”

A pause.

“…Longer than that.” Drift vented softly. “I didn’t know him personally or anything. We worked in separate sectors.” 

Ratchet’s expression flickered. “Rodimus won’t like being kept in the dark.”

Drift nodded. “Maybe. But he doesn’t have to like it.”

Then Ratchet glanced back toward the medbay doors. His voice softened. “He’s not okay, Drift. You know that, right?”

Drift’s optics dropped to the floor for a second before shifting toward the hallway Rift had gone down.

“Neither was I. Especially not that day.” A quiet breath. “But I’m still here because people believed -no, believe - I’m more than the worst parts of me.”

He looked back at Ratchet.

“Why shouldn’t he get that same chance?”

Something subtle passed over Ratchet’s face, the flicker of recalling a distant memory. 

And suddenly, Drift’s quiet protectiveness made a lot more sense.

Chapter Text

Rodimus walked through the halls of The Lost Light at a deliberately slow pace, datapad in one servo, though his optics barely flicked toward it. The content didn’t matter. Not right now. 

He was definitely stalling. 

Ahead loomed Ultra Magnus’s office, imposing, pristine, and unfortunately, unavoidable. Rodimus vented quietly and took a moment to brace himself.

Magnus wasn’t going to like this. Primus, Rodimus wasn’t even sure he liked it. 

But Drift had been persistent, and Rodimus trusted him. 

He rapped once on the door, then stepped inside without waiting for permission.  Magnus sat at his desk, perfectly upright, with an unyielding posture that screamed protocol incarnate.  

“What do you need?” he asked without looking up.

“I wanted to let you know we have a new member.” Rodimus stated flatly. No flair, no flame, no snark. That earned a flicker of attention from Magnus.

“You don’t sound enthused.” 

Rodimus folded his arms, datapad still clenched in one servo. “Before you start - I know. It’s a questionable decision. He claims to be a defected Decepticon, he gave an unofficial designation, and he looks like he crawled out of the Afterspark.”

Magnus visibly stiffened (if that was even possible) and his optics narrowed. “With all due respect, Captain, of the decisions you’ve made of late, this seems to be one made with the least amount of processing.” 

Rodimus threw up his servos, voice lifting into exaggerated dramatics.  “Right, right, okay, thank you for that. I’ll have you know I’m painfully aware of how this looks.” He vented sharply and his expression soured as he continued, “But, that leads me to why I’m here. I need you to find out more. Quietly.. He’s coming to you next for duty assignment. Keep him on solo work. I don’t trust him yet.” 

Magnus opened his mouth, likely to cite a regulation, so Rodimus cut him off with a wave.

“-Yeah yeah. You’re the duly appointed enforcer of all that is order. Do your thing. I’ll leave you to it.” Rodimus turned on his heel and made it halfway through the door. 

“Rodimus.” 

He rolled his optics (a human habit he picked up from Sunstreaker, who picked it up from his time on Earth), before facing Magnus again. 

“What?” 

Magnus paused. “Have you heard of Tailgate’s recent endeavor?”

Rodimus blinked. “No?”

“He’s been… studying faction history. And seems to be considering where his alignment lies.”

Rodimus frowned. “You’re kidding.” 

Magnus’s tone remained even as he continued, “He appears to be partial to the Decepticon cause.”

Rodimus groaned and threw his face into his servos. “Awesome. That’s exactly what we need.”

“All I ask is to keep an optic on him and ensure he isn’t swayed by anything misguided. Surely you’ve noticed his affinity for Cyclonus.” 

“Yeah, I’ll keep an optic. Or something.”

The door to the medbay hissed shut behind Rift.

He stood in the hallway for a beat too long, systems whirring low as he recalibrated—not physically, but mentally. Ratchet’s words still echoed in his processor. Walking structural failure. Touch up your paint. Try not to look like a corpse.

Such encouraging words, he thought bitterly.

He flexed the digits of one servo and started walking.

The ship hummed softly around him, alive with movement behind closed doors. Rift passed crewmembers without drawing attention, though he felt optics on him anyway. The uneven cadence of his steps, the fractured finial, the mismatched plating—they all broadcast what he was too tired to hide. 

He reasoned if he didn’t want to be a walking spotlight, he should take up Ratchet on his suggestion and at least get a cosmetic touch-up. 

He reached the administrative wing sooner than he wanted.

The door to Ultra Magnus’s office loomed ahead, tall and cold and spotless. Rift paused just long enough to ex-vent before pressing the panel.

The door opened with a hydraulic hiss.

Ultra Magnus sat at a desk that looked more like a command station than an office fixture; upright, immovable, every edge aligned like the corners of a regulation manual. He didn’t look up.

“You’re late,” he said without inflection.

“I had a medical evaluation,” Rift answered simply.

Magnus gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit.”

Rift did. Carefully.

Magnus reviewed something on his datapad before continuing. “You’ve been cleared for duty. I’ve been instructed to assign you solo tasks until your capabilities and… loyalties… can be properly assessed.”

He set the datapad down. The click of it against the desk was too sharp.

“You will report daily. You will submit logs. You will not deviate from assignments.”

Rift’s expression didn’t shift. “Understood.”

Magnus studied him, optics narrowing slightly. “You are operating under a provisional designation. If that is later found to be false-”

“Which it won’t be.”

Magnus didn’t blink. 

He slid the datapad forward with a list of tasks. Ship maintenance. Diagnostics review. A supply inventory scan in an unused storage bay. All unremarkable. All intentionally isolating.

Rift skimmed it, then nodded once.

“If there’s nothing else…” he began, tone steady as he rose.

“There is,” Magnus interrupted.

Rift paused.

“You’ll be monitored,” Magnus said. Not a threat—just a fact.

“I assumed as much.”

Rift turned and exited without another word.

The door slid shut behind Rift with a quiet hiss, and he started down the hallway, datapad in hand.

He didn’t make it far.

“Hey! Uh-hey, wait up!”

Rift turned his helm slightly, just enough to catch sight of the white and blue minibot practically jogging toward him, one servo raised like they were long-lost friends.

“Wow, you’re tall,” Tailgate blurted before stopping, optics scanning Rift from helm to pede. “I mean-I heard we got someone new, but they didn’t say you were, like… scary looking. In a cool way.”

Rift blinked once. “I’m busy.”

“Yeah, no, totally-me too! Kind of. Not really.” Tailgate rocked on his pedes, undeterred. “Just, you know, thought I’d say hi. You’re Rift, right? With the, uh… paint thing going on?”

Rift’s optics narrowed slightly. “Yes.”

Tailgate pointed with both servos. “That’s wild. You’ve got, like, battle damage and two different optics. Is that custom or…?”

Rift didn’t answer.

Tailgate didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. “So, uh… were you a Decepticon?”

Rift’s helm tilted slightly. “Not anymore.”

“Oh.” Tailgate nodded like that cleared everything up. “Cool, cool. I mean, I never got the chance to even be in a faction, you know. Things change, I guess.”

Rift said nothing. Just turned slightly, datapad shifting in his hand like he was ready to end the conversation.

But Tailgate kept going.

“I mean, I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. The whole... choosing a side thing. It’s complicated, right?” His voice dropped a little, just a hint. “It’s not always about good guys and bad guys. Some mechs just get caught in stuff.”

Rift’s vocals lowered as he shifted his gaze. “You’re right.” 

Tailgate lit up.  “I am?” 

“Both sides did things,” Rift said, almost to himself. “Things that are hard to come back from.”

“What do you mean?”

Rift didn’t respond for a klik. 

“I used to work with the Senate,” he said finally, voice low. “I thought I was helping maintain order.” His optics didn’t meet Tailgate’s visor as he continued, “That wasn’t the case. I was helping keep others under it.” 

Tailgate tilted his helm. “So you switched sides?”

Rift shook his head and began to turn away. “In the end, there aren't any sides. Just consequences.” He then walked past the smaller mech, down the corridor, the fading click of his pedes echoing in the blue bot’s audials. 

Tailgate stood there a moment, watching him go. Then muttered to himself:

“…Okay, that guy’s kind of intense.”

But he smiled, grateful for some new perspective and his decision made.

The lights in Rewind’s habsuite were dimmed, the only glow coming from the projection screen stretched between them. Tailgate sat sprawled across the floor, propped up on his elbows, while Rewind tapped through archive files with clinical precision.

“I can’t believe you said you want to become a Decepticon of all things.” Rewind muttered.

“Well? Isn’t that why you’re showing me this?”

The data mech nodded.

“So you’re really gonna show me all of it?” Tailgate asked, curiosity emitting from his field. “Even the messy bits?”

Rewind glanced at him. “If you’re serious about choosing a side, especially the one notorious for committing war crimes,  you should know what that actually means. Not the propaganda. The history.”

Tailgate nodded, suddenly solemn. “I want to make an informed decision.”

“Good,” Rewind said. “Let’s start with one of the major turning points.”

He tapped a file. SIMANZI: Unclassified Footage – Frontline Recon Feed.

The screen flickered to life.

Grainy, handheld visuals filled the space: a Decepticon assault captured from the perspective of an Autobot scout. Fires burned in the distance. Refugees fled through rubble. Static screams cut through the background.

Tailgate leaned forward, visibly unsettled. “Is this…?”

“Simanzi,” Rewind confirmed. “This is the worst of it. No tactics. No strategy. Just a massacre.” He paused the video so he could speak. 

“I guess, given your circumstances, you couldn’t know. Simanzi was an Autobot refugee site; it housed hundreds of injured bots who got displaced in the war. The Decepticons decimated it.” 

Tailgate didn’t respond, just nodded in quiet understanding. Rewind began the feed again. 

Onscreen, the camera jolted as the scout ducked behind cover. A squad of Decepticons passed by, shadows through smoke, shouting, blaster fire echoing. Then one figure stepped into focus. Clearer than the rest. Closer.

Tall. Magenta streaks slashed through scorched plating. Two blue optics. Finials in a familiar place. 

The figure turned toward the camera.

Tailgate’s spark seemed to stutter. “Wait. Wait -pause it.”

Rewind frowned and froze the frame. “What?”

Tailgate pointed, slowly sitting upright. “Zoom in.”

Rewind obeyed. The faceplate came into sharper focus. 

Tailgate stared.

“...That’s Rift,” he whispered.

Rewind didn’t move at first.

He rechecked the timestamp. Scanned the surrounding footage. Then he sat back, face unreadable.

“I’ll confirm the visual match,” he said tightly. “But… yeah. It looks like the new guy.”

Tailgate’s field flickered with confusion and dread. “But he said… he said he’s not anymore.”

Rewind closed the file with a sharp gesture.

“I need to tell Rodimus.”

Tailgate didn’t respond right away. Because suddenly, the mech who’d walked out of Magnus’s office with a tired “Not anymore” didn’t seem so quietly mysterious anymore.

He seemed dangerous.

Chapter Text

The lights in Rodimus’s office were dimmed low, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk. Rodimus leaned back in his chair, optics focused on the projection Rewind had pulled up. The flicker of aged footage highlighted his expression: narrowed optics, harsh frown. 

He’d been doing a lot of frowning this cycle.

The footage showed smoke, screaming, blaster fire. A bot, clearly panicked, raised his weapon toward a fleeing refugee, and Rodimus winced.

But then- 

“Pause it,” Rodimus said, his tone tighter than before. Rewind stilled the feed and the frame locked.  A tall mech, framed in smoke and flame.

Faceplate. Magenta scoring. Blank expression. 

“Isn’t that…?”

Rewind nodded only once. “It’s him. I confirmed it. 

Rodimus could only stare at the face of the mech who, just a few groons ago, had answered “Defected.” The mech who Drift vouched for. The mech who he let on his ship. 

The silence lingered, until the chime of the office door opened and Ultra Magnus stepped in. His posture was rigid, his field was unreadable. He surveyed the room; Rewind shutting down footage, Rodimus still.

“Per your request,” Magnus said, stepping forward and placing a datapad on the desk, “I have information on your new crew member. Rift is not his original designation.” 

Rodimus rested the side of his helm in one servo and tapped the desk harshly with the other. “Yep. Figured that part out.” 

“His original name was Wirecept,” Magnus continued. “He was assigned as an internal enforcer under Prowl during the late Senate era; covert intelligence. Functionally, he was a spy.” 

Rodimus’s optics narrowed. “You’re kidding.” 

“I rarely joke.” 

The bigger mech tapped the datapad. “There’s more. According to internal logs, he began passing encrypted intel to both factions.” 

“So he played both sides.” 

“That’s the implication, yes.” 

Rodimus scoffed and finally grabbed the datapad, flipping through it with growing agitation. “Is there anything else you want to casually drop on me?”

Ultra Magnus paused briefly. “There’s no detail on what happened after. No record of his defection. Only that he was transferred to Delphi, per high command’s recommendation.” 

Rodimus scowled. “Transferred? That’s all it says?” 

Magnus nodded. “What occurred between leaving Prowl’s command and Delphi has been buried. It’s not accessible even to my clearance level.” 

Rodimus’s field flared as he stood abruptly, chair screeching. “Let me get this straight: this guy was Prowl’s personal shadow, defects for whatever reason, ends up at Delphi, and Drift - Drift - asks me to hand him a room key?”

Rewind said nothing. Magnus straightened. “I would caution against taking immediate action. We don’t have the full picture.”  

“No,” Rodimus snapped. “I don’t need the full picture to see something’s off.” He then turned toward the door. “He doesn’t answer questions because he knows we’d ask the wrong ones. He thinks the war ending bought him silence.”

The door opened with a hiss as Rodimus started stepping out. 

“I’m going to talk to Drift.”

Rodimus didn’t knock.

He stormed in the second the door hissed open, his field flaring like static. Drift barely had time to look up from his spot on his meditation mat he was seated on.

“…Something wrong?” Drift asked, already knowing the answer.

Rodimus held up a tablet. “You wanna tell me why the frag the guy you brought aboard is in Simanzi footage? ”

Drift’s optics narrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “What are you talking about?”

“You brought on a Decepticon spy. A Prowl enforcer who went by Wirecept . And, oh -bonus- he was on-site during the Simanzi massacre. Don’t play dumb, Drift. Did you know that?”

Drift stood slowly, expression shifting into disbelief. “No. Of course not.”

“Then why bring him on at all?”

“Because he was at Delphi!” Drift snapped, optics flaring. “Because he was mutilated and restrained and barely functioning, and he still managed to expose Pharma. He saved lives . That’s why!”

Rodimus didn’t respond right away. He paced, jaw tight, servo twitching with restless energy.

“He was a Decepticon,” he said finally.

“So was I,” Drift said quietly.

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you chose me?”

Rodimus flinched at that.

Drift’s voice dropped lower, tighter. “You think I’d jeopardize this crew? That I’d bring someone aboard who’d hurt us?”

“I don’t know what to think!” Rodimus exploded. “That’s the problem!”

He turned away, optics burning a hole into the far wall. “You told me you didn’t recognize him when we found him.”

“I didn’t say that,” Drift muttered.

“You implied it.”

“I didn’t know who he was!” Drift barked. “Not really. I knew what he looked like. I knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. But I also knew that whatever he used to be, he wasn’t anymore. And that should’ve been enough.”

Rodimus stared at him. “But it’s not. Not now.”

Silence settled over them.

Finally, Drift said, quieter, “You don’t trust me.”

Rodimus’s field flickered with guilt. “It’s not that.”

“It is that,” Drift said, with the kind of calm that comes right before a breaking point. “You think I made a reckless call. That I let my own past cloud my judgment.”

Rodimus didn’t deny it.

Drift crossed his arms. “I gave someone a second chance. The same way Ratchet gave me one. The same way the Autobots did. You’re mad at me because you’re scared of what it means if I was wrong.”

Rodimus vented sharply and turned for the door.

“I’m not scared,” he muttered.

“Sure,” Drift said bitterly. “You’re just ready to throw him out the airlock before you even ask him what really happened.”

Rodimus stopped-just for a moment-then left without another word.

Elsewhere, a blue minibot paced restlessly in a hallway. The footage replayed in his processor as he tried to reason, tried to rationalize, that he spoke to someone involved in something so heinous. Someone he never would have even guessed, based on their interaction. 

His pacing ceased with a clang as he suddenly collided with a wall of purple. Cyclonus stood in front of him, towering, with the quiet weight he always carried.

“Oh -sorry!” Tailgate blurted, jumping away from the bot he slammed into.

“Your pacing,” Cyclonus said flatly. “It’s echoing. Annoyingly.”

“Oh. Erm, right. Sorry,” Tailgate raised a servo behind his helm apologetically. “It’s just, have you talked to the new guy? Rift?” 

Cyclonus folded his arms. “I haven’t had the chance. Why?”

“Well… Rewind showed me something.” His voice dropped. “Footage. From Simanzi.”

Cyclonus’s optics narrowed as he stilled. 

“He was there. Like, there there. I recognized him in the footage.”

“And?”

The minibot flailed a bit. “ And ! I don’t know what to do! Simanzi was a terrible, terrible thing!” His servos waved in the air, panicked.. 

Cyclonus didn’t move, his expression didn’t shift. 

“And do you normally jump to conclusions after observing one frame of footage?”

Tailgate paused. “But I saw him. Rewind confirmed it.” 

“Confirmed what, exactly?” Cyclonus asked, tone even. “That he was present? That he was pulling the trigger?”

“W-Well, in the footage he wasn’t really doing anything. But, it’s Simanzi. Even just being there, as a Decepticon it’s-”

“-It’s what?” Cycnlonus interrupted. “That he’s a threat now? Tell me, Tailgate. What did he say to you when you met?”

Tailgate’s gaze dropped. “Not much. Just that he worked for the Senate. And both sides did bad things.” 

“Did you feel threatened?”

Tailgate pondered for a klik. “N-no. But that’s the problem! How can someone involved in something so awful seem so…” Words failed him. “Normal” didn’t fit. “Okay” certainly didn’t apply either. 

He peered into Cyclonus’s red optics before continuing. “I thought picking sides was about ideals. Good versus bad. I don’t think I understand anything anymore.” 

Cyclonus turned to walk away but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You have much to think about.”

Tailgate didn’t follow, just stood still, processor still buzzing. The footage played again in his mind. So did his interaction with Rift.  

He was sure the Decepticons did terrible things. 

But he wasn’t sure about Rift.

Chapter Text

The hiss of a storage scanner punctured the silence as Rift logged another crated supply unit into the system. He moved efficiently, mechanically, as if not performing a task would have him unravel. 

He picked up on the heavy footsteps echoing behind him. He didn’t look up. 

“Rift.”

Rodimus’s voice was sharp, clipped. Rift let out an ex-vent before submitting another log. 

“I’m working.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Rodimus snapped, stepping forward. “Real busy being cryptic while the rest of us scramble to figure out what you’re hiding.” 

Rift stilled at first, refusing to look at the flame colored mech. 

Then. finally, he turned. Slow and deliberate, optics unreadable. “Is there something you need, Captain?”

Rodimus squinted in agitation. “You want to explain why the pit you’re in footage from Simanzi? Why there’s a file with your name listed as Prowl’s personal spy?”

Rift’s field flickered, but his voice remained even. “I didn’t know this was an interrogation.”

“You’re not answering the question.” 

“Because you’re asking about things you’ll never understand.”

Rodimus stepped closer, anger flaring. Tangible. “Try me.”

“No,” Rift said, tone sharper now, something cracking underneath it. “Because you’ve already decided what you want to believe. Doesn’t matter what I say.” 

Rodimus’s servos curled into his fists. “Then say it anyway. Tell me what the frag you’re doing at a notorious Decepticon war crime. Why you lied. Why you let Drift speak for you and didn’t speak for yourself.” 

“Because you wouldn’t have listened,” Rift bit out. “You would’ve done exactly what you’re doing right now-”

“-Oh, you mean holding you accountable? Not allowing you to hide?” Rodimus barked. “Because we’re not just going to ignore the fact that there’s a mech standing in front of me who played both sides of the war like a game.” 

Rift’s optics flared, voice rising for the first time. “You think I wanted to be there? That I wanted those things to happen?”

There was silence.

Rodimus stared.

“I didn’t,” Rift said. Quieter now, although more harsh. “But you’re not interested in that. You want to kick off the 'bad guy' and play hero for your crew. I know how people like you work.” 

Rodimus clenched his fists tighter before stepping into Rift. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know that you don’t even want to fathom asking yourself what kind of system creates someone like me.”  

Rodimus blinked and stepped back. 

From down the corridor, a door hissed open. Someone stepped out, but paused when they heard voices. More figures joined, along with quiet murmurs. 

Rift noticed. Rodimus didn’t care. 

“I trusted Drift,” Rodimus said. “I let you onboard because I trusted him. But I don’t trust you. Not anymore.” 

Rift said nothing. He simply stepped back, turned on his heel, and walked away. 

Rodimus’s field flared again, but he made no effort to follow. 

He glanced at the small crowd down the corridor, and started down the hallway. 

Later that cycle, Rift emerged from his habsuite against his better judgement. He wanted nothing more than to simply shut in, turn off the world around him, and quietly exist. 

However, he also knew not reporting to his responsibilities would not go in his favor at the moment. 

He started down the corridor cautiously, optics dim as he searched for the supply room he was supposed to be logging in. He hadn’t had the opportunity to even recharge yet. Hadn’t really talked to anyone outside of administration. Yet, despite all of this, he was never alone. Not really. 

Someone was always watching. 

“Oh, hey ! I’ve been looking for you!” a voice rang out, gruff but taunting. “The walking war crime himself.” 

Rift froze. 

Whirl sauntered up, claws clicking, optic gleaming. He moved like he owned the hallway as he approached Rift. Two mechs nearby paused mid-conversation, glancing over. 

“I was wondering if you’d ever leave your habsuite” Whirl said cheerfully. “You know, considering the whole massacre footage thing.” 

Rift said nothing, turning to continue to his station. 

Whirl caught up. “What? No ominous, Decepticon one liner?”

Still no reply. 

“Oh. I get it,” Whirl continued. “Silent treatment. Probably picked that up from your faction. Very edgy. ”

Rift slowly turned to face him. “I have somewhere to be.” 

“Sure,” Whirl chirped. “Somewhere very important, yes. Would you say it’s as important as Simanzi? That was quite the tragedy.” 

Whirl’s optic perked up as he cut off Rift in the hallway. “I think I might call you that. Tragedy. Fitting, don’t you think?” 

Rift’s vents hissed. 

And that was all Whirl needed.

“See? You do have a reaction setting!” He leaned in, his visor almost touching Rift’s helm. “What’s next? Gonna snap?”

Rift stepped back, not in fear. Restraint. His voice was low and cold. “Get out of my way.” 

Whirl’s claws twitched. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t?” he asked sweetly. “Call your old boss? If you were a spy… I reckon that was Soundwave.” 

Rift shoved passed him. Slow and measured, unbothered on the surface. But his field flickered, faint and fractured, trailing behind him like static. 

Whirl called after him, louder this time. “Oi! Tragedy! Don’t ghost me now! I’m dying to know what kind of freak show Prowl had on payroll!”

More heads turned, and whispers continued. Rift kept walking. 

The buzz of overhead lights flickered with white noise. Rift stood alone among half-unpacked crates, mech fluid pooling beneath one that had been damaged in transit. He logged inventory numbly, one servo steadying a datapad while the other sorted through an amalgamation of supplies. 

It was mindless. Which, as Rift understood, was the point. 

He couldn’t bother anyone here. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t be something dangerous. 

He slid a crate back into its slot and crouched to scan the label. His optics caught a serial number, shrouded by scorched metal as it curled around the edges. Almost like it was caught in an explosion. 

Something about it made him pause. 

And suddenly, he was back there.

The smell of fire.

The red haze of smoke. 

The sound of screams.

His vents stuttered. 

Simanzi. Smoke everywhere, comms jammed, having no clue if his tip off to Prowl got through. Screams of refugees filled his audials. Almost as if they were saying-

“Rift.”

His optics dimmed. They wouldn’t stop.

Rift. Rift.RiftRiftRiftRift-

A servo on his shoulder. “Rift.”

His name, clearer. Present

He jolted, straightened too fast, nearly dropping the datapad. His optics refocused to find Drift watching him from the entryway, his expression unreadable, but concerned. 

“You alright?” Drift asked. 

“Fine,” he said. Too quickly for Drift to believe it. He didn’t move at first, just watched. 

There was a soft, “You don’t look fine.”

Rift didn’t answer. He turned back to the crate he had been scanning, but his servo hovered over the datapad without touching it. Drift stepped closer, careful not to crowd him. 

“I heard about what happened earlier,” he said. “With Rodimus.”

Rift’s vents hitched again. He didn’t respond. Drift let the silence settle for a moment. Then added, “And Whirl.”

That finally earned a reaction. Rift’s servo clenched around the datapad, the screen flickering from the pressure. 

“...Is this what you meant by a second chance?” Rift asked at last. His voice was quiet. Faint. But the bitterness beneath it seeped through. 

Drift blinked. “What?”

Rift turned his optics to Drift; he didn’t look angry. Or upset. Just tired. So deeply tired. 

“You dragged me out of Delphi. Put me on this ship. Insisted I was worth it.” His voice soured. “Why?”

Drift looked at him for a long moment. “Because you are.” 

Rift scoffed. “Doesn’t feel like it.” 

“You’ve barely been here a full cycle.”

Another scoff, smaller this time.

Then, after a moment, Rift spoke. His voice low, almost like he didn’t really mean to ask. 

“Why did you even bring me here?”

Drift’s face softened. “Because everyone deserves a second chance.” 

Rift shook his head. 

“Clearly not everyone.” 

Drift didn’t argue. He just stood beside him in silence, a steady presence. Not demanding, or pressing. Just there. 

Rift wouldn’t show it. But Drift probably knew how much he needed someone to just be there.

After a moment, Rift returned to scanning, focused on his task with rigid precision. 

Drift lingered, then said gently, “If you’re up for it…  stop by my habsuite later. I want to show you something.” 

Rift didn’t respond, just kept working. 

Drift didn’t push. He just gave Rift a small nod, then turned and quietly left. 

____

The medic stood in front of his abrasive captain’s office. He knew this conversation was going to go anything but smoothly. 

He ex-vented sharply before knocking.

The door hissed open to reveal Rodimus. “Yes?”

“We need to discuss something.” 

Rodimus frowned. “Let me guess: tall, broken finial, ex-Decepticon?”

Ratched let out a grunt. “No, actually. It’s about you.” 

The brightly colored mech quirked an optic ridge. “ Me ?” 

Ratched softly pushed his way into the office. “Yes, you. You need to get a grip.”

Rodimus stared in disbelief. “Woah, woah. I need to get a grip? What are you on about?”

The red and white bot frowned in response. “You’ve been stomping around the ship, radiating enough anger to short a circuit board. Everyone’s talking.” 

Rodimus scoffed. “Yeah? Let them. Maybe they should be worried.”

“No,” Ratchet said sharply. “ You should be worried. You’re the captain, not some gossip-drunk mech looking to abuse power.”

Rodimus flinched. “Did you see the footage? Did you read the file Magnus found?”

“I did. And you know what I didn’t see?” Ratched leaned forward, voice low. “I didn’t see you ask anything real before deciding he’s guilty.” 

Rodimus’s optics narrowed. “He was at Simanzi.” 

“And you were at Clemency. Should we go get that footage too?” Ratchet shot back. 

Rodimus reeled slightly. “That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Ratchet demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, the only difference is who got to write the story.”

Rodimus didn’t respond, his jaw tightened, his fists clenched into his sides. 

Ratchet vented, tone easing just a fraction. “Look, I get it. You feel burned. You trusted Drift. You let this mech onto your ship. And now you’re scared you made a premature wrong call.”

“I’m not scared,” Rodimus muttered. 

Ratchet gave him a look. “You’re always scared when you don’t have control. I know you, kid. And Rift? He doesn’t exactly fit into a neat little box.”

Rodimus looked away. “He lied.” 

“No,” Ratchet corrected. “He didn’t tell you everything. Not quite the same.”

A pause, but then the medic continued. “You’ve seen what war made of us. Rift’s not clean -- Pit, none of us are. I'm not defending him, but this, what you're doing, isn't what we stand for.” 

Rodimus’s optics dimmed, expression unreadable. 

Ratchet leaned in slightly. “You want to be a good captain? Then act like one.” 

Rodimus didn’t respond. 

Ratchet turned to the door but stopped just short of stepping through. “Don’t turn this into another war, Rodimus. Don’t be the bot Rift thinks you are.” 

Then he left. 

Chapter Text

Drift was on his meditation mat when there was a knock at the door. He stepped up and opened the door, which revealed a tired looking Rift. 

Drift’s lips quirked into a smile. “Hey, come in.” He stepped aside and let Rift enter. 

The taller mech took in the room around him. The faint smell of incense filled his olfactory sensors. Pictures decorated some of the wall; him and Rodimus, pictures of the crew. Oriental swirls were painted on the walls, a style Rift was unfamiliar with, but didn’t mind. 

Drift led him to the meditation mat. The lights dimmed to a soft amber glow, the hum of the ship barely audible beneath the gentle flicker of flame in a small lamp. Drift sat loosely on the floor with his legs crossed and arms resting on his thighs. He gestured for Rift to do the same. 

Rift sat down rigidly, legs folded awkwardly beneath him, arms tense as they tried to find their place on his own thighs. 

“We can stop if you’re not into this. Just try,” Drift assured. “Close your optics,” he said gently. “Focus on the sound of your vents. Let the thoughts come. And let them pass.” 

Rift’s optics shuttered, but his vents hitched almost immediately. His processor refused to quiet. The moment he tried to focus on nothing, everything pushed in. 

Screams. Smoke. Optics on him. Rodimus’s voice, accusatory. Whirl’s nickname, Tragedy, echoing like a curse. The way everybody looked at him now. As if they know something Rift hadn’t even said. Hadn’t even done. 

He winced and shook his head, gripping his thighs in frustration. “I can’t do this.” 

Drift opened his optics. “You don’t need to quiet the thoughts. Just stop drowning in them.”

Rift stared at the floor. “Every time I close my optics, I hear everything. All at once.” 

Drift leaned forward a little, his voice low. “Then don’t try to silence it. Just sit with it. You spent a long time trying not to feel anything; you don’t have to fight. Not here. Remember: don’t silence, just don’t drown.”

Rift didn’t answer, jaw tight. But he offlined his optics again, and this time, the tension slowly, barely, uncoiled. 

Unbeknownst to either of them, the door to the hallway had slipped partially open. Rodimus stood outside, quiet, unseen, peering. His optics caught the sight of Drift seated closely across from Rift, the soft murmur of his voice reaching only in pieces. 

He watched as Drift gently placed a servo on Rift’s forearm, grounding, not pushing. Reassuring. 

Rodimus’s expression tightened. Something strange and sharp twisted in his spark. Not quite jealousy, but not quite guilt either. But something unnameable that burned in his chest plate.

He left without saying a word. 

___

The silence between Drift and Rift stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but quiet in the way that meant something had shifted. Rift sat a little straighter now, vents finally even. The tightness in his shoulders hadn’t vanished, but it had eased. 

Drift blew out the slow ex-vent and leaned back on his palms. “See? It wasn’t so bad.”

Rift gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t even manage five kliks.”

Drift shrugs. “Still counts.”

A moment passed. Then, Rift asked, voice low, almost casual. “Do you… know anybody who can do paint touchups?”

Drift looked over, surprised. “Yeah. Why?”

Rift hesitated, optics flickering to the dark metal of his forearm. The mismatched plating. “Just thinking… I want something that feels less like Delphi.”

Drift nodded and went to open his mouth before Rift beat him to it, “And Ratchet said I’d ‘freak people out’ if I didn’t.” 

Drift snorted and his lips quirked up into a smirk at the mention of the medic. “I do paint jobs all the time. Especially when Roddy does something stupid.”

Rift raised an optic ridge. “He lets you do that?”

“Lets me?” Drift laughed. “He pouts until I do it. I swear, the minute he chips his spoiler, he’s acting like he’s been mortally wounded.”

Rift huffed a sound that was almost a laugh. 

Drift looked at him for a moment too long before saying, “He’s not a bad person, you know.”

“I don’t recall saying he was.”

“You didn’t have to,” Drift said gently, ignoring the slight bite in Rift’s previous comment. “I know he came at you hard. And he’s handling all of this about as well as a drunk Sharkticon in a maze, but… he’s trying. He has a really good spark.” 

Rift didn’t look convinced. 

Drift continued anyway. “He makes bad calls sometimes - frag, a lot of the time. But when he cares, he really cares. That’s why it hits him hard when he thinks someone’s betrayed that.” 

Rift’s optics dimmed slightly, thoughtful.  “So he thinks I betrayed him before I had the chance to prove I hadn’t.”

Drift didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. Or maybe he doesn’t know how to ask the right questions.”

A pause. 

“If you want the paint,” Drift added quietly. “I’ll help you.” 

Rift gave a small nod. “Thanks.”

___

Half a cycle later. 

The corridor was dim and quiet, as most of the crew was on standby rotation. Rodimus should’ve stayed in his office. Should’ve buried himself in reports or pretended he had something urgent to do (like normal). Instead, his pedes carried him straight to Drift’s habsuite before he could think better of it. 

He didn’t knock. 

The door hissed open and Drift looked up, one servo mid-cleaning a sword. His optics flicked to Rodimus’s posture. Very stiff. Very fidgety. 

“...Roddy,” Drift said warily. “You look like you swallowed a power cell.”

Rodimus ignored the jab and stepped inside. “I saw you. Earlier. With Rift.”

Drift set his blade down. “Okay…?” 

“You were meditating.”

“I often do.”

Rodimus scoffed. “Yeah, well, you didn’t used to invite him. ”

Drift blinked. “Seriously?” 

Rodimus threw his servos up. “You’re spending a lot of time with him, that’s all I’m saying.”

Drift stood slowly, expression unamused. “Do you have a point, or are you just going to keep circling whatever this is?”

Rodimus hesitated. His mouth open, then closed again. “You just trust him, completely? After everything?”

Drift’s expression didn’t shift. “No. I believe in him. That’s different.” 

Rodimus huffed, optics narrowing. “You don’t even know the whole story.” 

“And neither do you.” Drift snapped. “But that hasn’t stopped you from running your mouth.”

Rodimus faltered. “I’m trying to protect the crew-”

“-By cornering him in front of others? By letting Whirl harass him while you stand back like it’s not your problem?”

Rodimus’s mouth thinned into a hard line.

Drift stepped closer. “You’re not mad about what he did. You’re mad because I didn’t ask for permission to help him.” 

Rodimus looked away. “...You didn’t tell me anything. We tell each other everything.”

Drift’s tone dropped low, and Rodimus noticed how it softened. “I didn’t think I had to. Not this time.” He reached out to clasp his amica’s servo in his own. “You said to trust my instincts. I did. And I still do.” 

Rodimus stared at their intertwined servos. 

Drift spoke, “You saw him in my habsuite, and you lost it. Why?”

Rodimus looked away, ashamed. An expression Drift rarely saw from him. 

There was a brief moment of silence before Rodimus broke it. “I thought I was the one trying to figure him out. I’m the captain. It’s my responsibility.” 

“But?” Drift prompted.

“You got there first,” Rodimus muttered. “Like always. Didn’t screw it up.” 

The room went quiet. Drift blinked, taken aback by Rodimus’s vulnerability and honesty.

Rodimus ex-vented hard. “I saw him actually talking to you. Letting you in. Meditating. Pit, even asking you about paint, like you’re his… I don’t know. Anchor. And I-I’m out here on a slagging witch hunt. Looking like the villain.”

“You acted like the villain,” Drift said quietly. No trace of unkindness. Just the truth.

Rodimus winced. “I know,” he said. “I know I did. I screwed up.” 

Drift ex-vented slowly. “Then fix it. Don’t stand here projecting onto me because you’re not willing to admit you misread him.” 

Rodimus looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. 

Drift waited for him to continue.

“It’s not- It’s not that you were with him. No. It’s that…you handled it so much better than I did. He let you in. He won’t even look at me now. And I don’t blame him.” 

Drift squeezed his servo. “Then show him he’s wrong.”

Rodimus nodded. He barely had time to brace before Drift stepped in and pulled him into a hug. The shorter mech tucked his helm into the crook of Rodimus’s neck cabling with practiced familiarity.

“You’re not a bad person, Roddy.” Drift murmured.

Rodimus offlined his optics as his frame melted into his amica’s embrace. 

“You just made a mistake,” Drift continued, “A big one, sure. But it’s not too late.”

There was a pause. Rodimus’s voice, when it came, was small and unsteady. 

“What if he doesn’t forgive me?” 

Drift pulled back just enough to meet his optics. His gaze was steady and kind. 

“Then you make peace with that,” he said. “But you still try. Both of you deserve it.”

Rodimus nodded slowly, guilt heavy but tempered by something steadier. Resolve, maybe. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah… okay.” 

Chapter Text

Rodimus stared at the datapad in his lap. It had at least five different drafts of the same apology. Each definitively worse than the last. 

I realize I may have been… harsh. And wrong.

You deserve to be seen for who you are, not where you’ve been.

Sorry I was a glitch. 

Rodimus groaned and tossed it aside, letting it clatter to the floor. 

This wasn’t working. He had never drafted a speech before. Definitely never an apology. He muttered a curse before standing up, ignoring the thrumming of his spark in his chestplate. 

Rodimus made his way to Rift’s door. 

The door chimed. Once. There was a pause. Then again. 

Inside, Rift stirred from recharge. He hadn’t expected company, especially now. He figured it was probably Drift dragging him to work on the paint job they discussed. 

He opened the door slowly. 

Rodimus stood there, awkward and out of place, like he’d wandered into the wrong room and was trying to act natural.

“...Hey,” he said. 

Rift stared,

Rodimus rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh. I had a whole thing. Speech. Really wordy. Very noble. You’d have hated it.”

Still no expression.

Rodimus vented hard. Let it go. 

“I screwed up,” he stated plainly. “I let my fear make decisions for me. I heard what I wanted to hear and ignored everything else. You didn’t deserve that. Or the fallout.”

Rift didn’t look away.

 “I’m not good at this,” Rodimus went on. “Not at… admitting when I’m wrong. But I was. About you.”

A pause. “I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed was long. The ship hummed around them. Rodimus felt like his spark was going to jump out of his plating if Rift didn’t say something.  

Then, Rift’s voice pierced the silence. His voice was quiet, controlled. But not cold. 

“Then prove it.” 

Rodimus straightened. He didn’t argue. “Okay,” he whispered. “I will.” 

Rift looked at him for a long moment. Rodimus glanced away nervously as two different colored optics observed him intensely. 

Then, Rift stepped aside, just enough to let Rodimus into the room. 

Rodimus hesitated only for a moment before stepping inside. 

The door hissed shut behind him.. He glanced around at the bare walls, the stripped-down decor, the absence of anything personal. He realized Drift was right; Rift hadn’t even had the time to put roots down yet. 

“So, “ Rodimus said, mostly to fill the quiet, “love what you’ve done with the place.” 

Rift raised an optic ridge. “Really?” 

Rodimus cringed. “Bad opener. Sorry” 

“You said your piece,” Rift replied, tone even. “Why’d you come in?” 

Rodimus fidgeted. “Because I want to prove it. I meant what I said. Coming here felt like a place to start.”

“You don’t have to force it.” Rift said. “That’s how we backslide.” 

Rodimus frowned. “I’m… new to this.”

“New to earning forgiveness?” Rift asked.

Rodimus shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Rift hummed quietly. Not in agreement, but not dismissive either. 

It was enough.

The conversation lingered in Rift’s processor as the door closed behind him. He didn’t classify it as closure. It wasn’t even an absolution. But it was a start. 

Later that cycle, after finishing his assignment, Rift stood outside Drift’s habsuite, datapad in hand. He didn’t knock right away, and he even considered leaving. Drift would understand if he was still thinking about the design. 

But he remembered the kindness. The understanding. Drift deserved for him to show up. 

So he knocked. 

The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing Drift seated at a low bench surrounded by carefully arranged jars of pigment, tools, and clean cloth. The scent of polish hung in the air.

Drift looked up with a small, calm smile. “You came.”

Rift stepped in slowly. “Is now a bad time?”

Drift shook his helm. “Not at all. You know what you want?”

Rift passed him the datapad. The design was simple: sleek lines, a sharper contrast of greys and white with magenta where darker Decepticon colors used to be. No sigil. No faction. 

“Minimalist. Serious. Definitely you,” Drift remarked, setting the datapad aside. “Go ahead and sit. This shouldn’t take long.”

Rift settled on a low bench, the metal cool against his plating. He kept his optics forward as Drift gathered the materials he needed. 

They worked in silence for a while. The soft scratch of a fine brush. The clink of a jar. The quiet hum of the ship. 

Drift’s servos were steady and careful. At one point, he brushed near a thin scar along Rift’s upper arm; one etched deep into his plating. 

Rift tensed. Just slightly. 

Drift noticed, but he didn’t comment. He simply shifted, adjusted, and gave the area space. 

“You ever consider adding a little more color?” Drift asked lightly, after a while. “I’ve still got that ridiculous gold Rodimus made me paint to his knee joint.” 

Rift huffed. “That tracks.”

“I had to use a microbrush. Said it was for ‘accent.’ I think he just wanted to say he had gold plating.” 

There was a brief silence. Then, Drift continued, “I hope you can figure things out. He’s trying.” 

“I know.”

Drift glanced at him. Rift’s optics were lowered, gaze unreadable. He tapped the brushes on the jar, excessive clicking indicating he was finished. 

Rift looked down, optics brightening. The new colors dulled the harsh edges of his frame, replacing traces of the past. “Thank you,” Rift said. 

Drift simply nodded. “Any time.”

Chapter Text

The first time Rodimus tried to show up, Rift wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Dull lighting bathed the lower maintenance bay as Rift crouched beside a bench, fussing with a malfunctioning diagnostic scanner. Inventory was already behind, and the tool’s constant flickering wasn’t helping. Magnus would not be pleased with his lack of progress. 

Rodimus leaned against the doorway, holding a boxed component. “Heard you’ve been wrestling with the calibrator,” he said with a grin. “Figured I’d save you the trouble and bring you a new one.” 

Rift didn’t look up. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why it’s impressive,” Rodimus joked, stepping closer and offering the box. Rift finally looked up, hesitating before taking it. “...Thanks.” 

Rodimus rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to remain casual. “Also, uh, noticed the new paint job.” 

Rift’s optics narrowed faintly. “Did you.” 

The flame colored mech cleared his vocal processor. “Yeah. It looks good. Sleek and less… ‘I’ll kill you during recharge,’ and more ‘I could kill you during recharge, but I won’t unless you really deserve it.’”

Rift blinked. “...That’s a compliment?”

Rodimus threw up his servos. “I’m trying! I mean it looks good. It suits you.” 

Rift turned back to the component muttering, “You’re not very good at this.”

Rodimus smirked faintly. “Nope. Still gonna keep doing it, though.” 

___

The second time Rodimus tried, Rift still wasn’t sure what to make of him.

Rift had stationed himself in one of the quieter observation decks, running a systems check on long-range sensors. It was quiet. Predictable. Two things he valued. 

What he didn’t predict was for Rodimus to walk in carrying two energon cans. 

“I figured maybe you needed a break,” the captain said, walking in as if it was normal. As if he definitely hadn’t been pacing outside of the door for three minutes before working up the nerve. 

Rift looked up from the console, optics dim. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, I know.” Rodimus crossed the room anyway. “But now you don’t have to do it on empty.” 

Rift stared at the energon. He didn’t touch it. Rodimus lingered beside him a moment longer, then slid down to sit on the floor, back against the same console Rift was working at. “I wasn’t really sure what blend you like. Took a guess.”

Rift didn’t respond. His optics flicked to Rodimus, then back to the console. His vents cycled just a little faster. The gesture wasn’t unwelcome. Just… unexpected. Too much like something that could be kindness. Maybe even forced kindness. 

He finally spoke, voice neutral. “You don’t need to be trying so hard.”

“Yeah. But I want to.”

That was somehow worse. Rift didn’t answer, didn’t quite know what to say. He turned back to his work, typing too slowly now. Didn’t touch the energon. 

But he didn’t tell Rodimus to leave either.

___

The third time felt like too much.

Rift was finishing a recalibration cycle as faint light cascaded down on his plating. He was settled into the silence of the observation deck. 

Then came footsteps, too fast, too loud, too familiar.

“ Riiiift,” Rodimus sing-songed, voice bouncing off the walls like an unwelcome echo.

The bot didn’t turn. “Busy.”

Rodimus sauntered across the room, sliding up to him in a gesture he wanted to feel natural. They both know it didn’t. 

“It’s movie night,” he announced. “Not sure what Tailgate’s picked, but odds are it’ll have a convoluted plot no one understands.”

“No.”

Rodimus didn’t falter. “You always say that.”

“Because I don’t want to go.” His servos continued to key in code, never glancing over to the flame colored mech. RIft didn’t know how to tell Rodimus to go away without being overtly cruel. 

“I’m just saying,” Rodimus started, casually leaning on the console. “You might like it. Even if the movie sucks, wouldn’t being around the crew be… I don’t know. Good?”

Rift stopped. “Why are you doing this?

“Doing what?”

Rift gestured vaguely between them. “This constant outreach. The invitations. The gestures. You’re trying so hard to believe everything is fine.” 

Rodimus’s grin faded. “It’s not pretending.”

“It feels like pressure.”

“I’m trying to include you.”

“I didn’t ask to be included.”

The silence between them stretched a little too long. Rodimus looked away and separated himself from the console. He rubbed the back of his helm awkwardly. 

“Right,” he muttered. “Okay. Got it.”

Rift didn’t respond, just continued working. For once, Rodimus read the room, turned on his heel, and left.

___

Rodimus found Drift in the training room, mid-kata with one of his practice swords. The captain lingered by the entrance, awkward and uncertain. Two things he was not known for.

Drift didn’t look over as he spoke. “If you’ve come to challenge me to another spar, I’m still recovering from the last ego bruise.”

Rodimus scoffed. “Very funny.”

Drift finished the sequence and finally turned, arching an optic ridge. “So?”

Rodimus crossed his arms, tapping a finger against his bicep plating. “You’re too good at reading people.”

“Kinda my thing. But go on.”

Rodimus ex-vented. “I’ve been trying. Really trying. To do right by Rift.”

“I noticed.” Drift bent to place his sword back on the rack. “Hard not to. You’re putting in more effort than you did when you tried to race Blurr.”

Rodimus pouted. “That race was rigged.”

Drift smiled faintly. “Sure it was.”

Rodimus rolled his optics. “I mean it. I brought him tools, gave him space, and brought him energon. Just because. And I still managed to screw it up.”

“He’s not upset,” Drift said mildly. “When you’ve been in the dark long enough, even light can feel like a threat.”

Rodimus frowned. “Don’t go age of enlightenment on me. What do you mean?”

Drift shrugged. “I mean… you went from shutting him out to showing up like he’s part of your inner circle in the span of a couple cycles. It doesn’t feel safe .” He glanced at Rodimus, voice even. “It’s not the light that’s scary. It’s the one holding it that he’s still unsure of.”

Rodimus looked away, optics dim in thought. “But I’m trying.”

“I know. And he sees that. But trust doesn’t come just because you offer it.” Drift leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. “Just stop trying so hard to impress him. Show up, yes. But don’t perform. He’s not a crowd.”

Rodimus vented. “You make it look easy.”

Drift chuckled. “You’ve got the enthusiasm of a sparkling with a jetpack. Try toning it down to, I don’t know, baseline charm ?”

Rodimus gave him a mock-glare. “I am very charming, I’ll have you know.”

Drift patted his shoulder as he walked past. “Sure, Roddy. Just maybe less ‘ta-da’ and more ‘I’m here if you need me.’ Trust me, he’ll notice.”

Rodimus didn’t respond right away. But his expression softened.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Drift smiled without turning. “Anytime. Just don’t ask me to paint anything that ugly gold again.”

Chapter Text

The corridor was quiet this late in the cycle. Just how Rift preferred it. 

No side glances. No whispered theories. No forced camaraderie hiding behind false smiles. There was only silence and the soft humming of the ship’s systems. A noise Rift had not been anticipating to find comfort in. 

Comfort had never come easy. Not during the war, and not even before. He’d found it once in Prowl, in the belief his usefulness mattered. That someone like Prowl needed him. Not just feeling wanted, but essential.

But he saw it for what it was. A love he would never receive, no matter how much of himself he gave. A Senate system that disciplined innovation and questions of authority, and applauded compliance.

Then he found comfort in the Decepticon cause. The ideology was intoxicating at first. He appreciated the clarity. The orders. His purpose .

And Soundwave shattered that too.

Now, there was The Lost Light. A place he wanted to find comfort in, but no matter how hard he wanted it, it wouldn’t come. 

But there was Drift. Grounding, understanding. Trusting Drift came easy.

But then there was Rodimus. 

Loud, bright, and incredibly reckless. All the things Rift could never afford to be. A walking contradiction to everything Rift had understood about survival. 

But, Rift understood that he was trying. With gestures. Too big to feel genuine - too contrived to feel real. He should’ve accepted it quietly. Been grateful, even. He’s endured much worse things than kindness. Yet, kindness always had a way of hurting the most. 

Because this didn’t feel earned. It came from someone who was hellbent  on making sure Rift knew he was unwelcome, untrusted, and didn’t belong. Did he expect energon and new tools to erase that? As if friendship could be transactional. As if trust could be bought. 

Rift frowned in thought. Was Rodimus doing this for RIft? Or for Rodimus ?

But the former Decepticon couldn’t deny the way it made something in his chestplate clench. Not in pain. Not in  hope, either. Just the unfamiliar feeling that came with the realization this was the first time anyone had ever apologized to him, and wanted to fix it. He didn’t know what to do with that. 

The sound of Rift’s pedes echoed in the corridor, slow and deliberate. The quiet still wrapped around him, with thoughts spiraling too quickly to catch. Maybe that was why he didn’t hear the other mech’s approach until he felt the sharp bump of the shoulder snapped him back to the present. 

His frame tensed on instinct. 

“Watch it,” said a cold voice, already half  past him. 

Rift stilled as he recognized the blue and gold plating. Sunstreaker. 

The golden mech paused mid-stride, barely glancing over his shoulder. “Oh. You.” 

Rift didn’t respond, didn’t feel he had to. The implication was always there.

Sunstreaker looked him over, gaze lingering just a fraction too long on his new paint job. His mouth twitched, as if he wasn’t sure to scoff or comment. 

“Surprised to see you out stalking the hallway.” 

 “Didn’t realize this hallway had a patrol schedule.” Rift replied flatly. 

Sunstreaker quirked an optic and shrugged. “And I didn’t realize you’re the social type.” 

“I'm not.” 

“Explains the ghost shifts.” He paused. “You talk more than I expected.” 

Rift’s optics narrowed slightly. “Is there a point here?” 

Sunstreaker tilted his helm. “Hm. Maybe. Maybe I’m just wondering what a former Decepticon is doing wandering around unattended.” 

Rift’s posture stiffened. “I don't need a handler,” he said sharply. “I’m not an animal.” 

The gold mech raised up his servos in a  dramatic shrug. “Could’ve fooled me. I guess in the end we're all leashed by the past.” And then he turned and left. 

Rift stayed stagnant with the reinforced understanding that once again, he still might not be welcome here. 

He ex-vented softly, trying to shake how the interaction made him feel. 

He didn’t get far before the hiss of a door opening caught his attention. 

“Rift?” A chipper voice called out. 

He turned, bracing himself for more cryptic banter. 

Instead, Tailgate waved from the doorway of Swerve’s, holding an energon cube in one servo and waving excitedly with the other. 

“You’re out!! That’s rare. Are you doing okay?” 

Rift blinked, the whiplash from his previous conversation to now near physical. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“Oh! Good!  ‘Cause I was gonna ping you about it but then I figured you’d ignore it and block me again,” Tailgate said with no trace of bitterness. “But you’re here! And I can ask now!” 

Rift stared, uncertain what the minibot was on about. 

Tailgate rocked on his heels. “I officially made a decision; I’m getting my Autobot symbol soon! Right here,” he said, proudly pointing to the middle of his chassis. 

“And I want you there. For the ceremony. “ 

Rift’s field faltered, ever so slightly. 

“You want me there?” he finally asked. 

“Yeah!” Tailgate beamed. “You’re one of the only people who didn’t treat me like a sparkling when you first met me. And what you said to me that day… It helped me understand. Even if you were super quiet and kinda scary.” 

Rift didn’t know what to say at first. Then, a quiet “I’ll come.” 

Tailgate’s field somehow shined brighter. “Awesome! Okay. Great. This means a lot.” 

And just like that, he turned and reentered Swerve's, leaving Rift standing in the corridor. The mech stood stationary, unsure if he felt warmth, or simply the absence of cold. 

Either way, his pedes didn’t feel as heavy as they did when he first set out. 

Chapter Text

Rift continued down the corridor long after Tailgate disappeared back into Swerve’s. The minibot’s invitation weighed heavily in his processor, unfamiliar and warm. He wasn’t used to being wanted somewhere. Not without some condition. 

His thoughts stirred. A ceremony. 

Rift continued, optics dimming and absorbing the low pulse of the hallway lights. If he went, what would it mean? By now, the whole ship knew of his previous affiliation. Did he really deserve to go to an Autobot branding ceremony?

He didn’t get a chance to finish the thought as he heard the first gunshot. 

Rift froze. The sharp sound of blaster fire echoed down the hall, followed by the unmistakable hiss of scorched metal. Then came the shouting, panicked, loud. 

His plating tensed on instinct. Without thinking, he sprinted toward the sound, systems cycling into combat readiness for the first time in years. It came back with frightening ease.

He rounded a corner near Swerve’s just in time to see the chaos unfold. Smoke curling from the barrel of a still-charged weapon, energon staining the floor in vivid streaks. A bot was slumped against the wall, one servo pressed to a scorched wound that leaked purple energon across his deep blue plating. He recognized him, he was with Drift and Ratchet when they investigated Delphi. His name escaped Rift. 

Across the way, First Aid was frantically dragging another mech into the medbay, another one he hadn’t gotten the chance to meet.  

And there, in the center of it all, stood Fortress Maximus. Blaster in hand, unmoving. Optics burning bright. 

Rift froze for a moment longer than he intended. He recognized Fort Max from Delphi; comatose, unresponsive. A shell. He hadn’t known he had recovered. 

But now he recognized the look in Maximus’s eyes: not present.

He wasn’t seeing this hallway, not really. He was somewhere else entirely.

Rift pushed it down and turned his attention to the wounded mech on the floor. He crouched down, field tense. “Can you stand?” 

The bot winced in distress. “I-I think,” they stammered. “I just -just need help getting up.” Rift nodded and wrapped his arm around the bot’s frame, and used his legs to push both of them up. 

“We’re going to the medbay. I’ve got you.” Rift tried his best to keep his optics trained on the medbay doors and not on the energon steadily streaming out of the bot. The scorched plating tainting his once pristine finish. He tried not to focus on the smell of gunfire. How it made him remember. 

Ratchet immediately attended to them as soon as they stepped into the medbay. “I’ll handle this one,” Ratchet barked, pulling the bot into his own frame. “Check the others - if anyone’s mobile, get them moving. Go.”

Rift nodded sharply. “Understood.”

He turned and moved without hesitation.

Even when optics turned toward him, some wary, some startled, he helped. Even when he knew he still might not be trusted. He kept going.

____

The medbay buzzed with quiet tension. Both Ratchet and First Aid moved between the berths, voices low, movements brisk. The faint scent of scorched plating lingered beneath the smell of stabilizers.

Rift stood off to the side, close enough to offer help if needed, but far enough to stay out of the way. He didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Not while his spark still thrummed too fast.

The voices of the medics pulled him back into the room. 

“How come there’s only five?” Ratchet said, stepping back from a berth to look over the line of wounded. 

First Aid gave him a sharp look. “ Only five? Were you hoping for more?” 

“ For the love of- No. Of course not.” Ratchet huffed, dragging a servo down his helm. “Just- isn’t it weird?” Ratchet frowned. “Most were with someone else when Fort Max shot them. Which means there should be more injuries. Collateral damage.” 

First Aid stiffened, catching on. “Unless… they weren’t who he was targeting. But why?”

Ratchet didn’t answer right away. Then, grimly, “They all reminded him of Overlord.”

Rift shifted, the name stirring something unfamiliar in his mind. He stepped closer, voice low. 

“Overlord?” he asked. 

Ratchet looked up, surprised. “You don’t know who that is?” 

Rift hesitated. “I know the name. Phase Sixer. I never had any reason to interact with him.” 

Ratchet's optics narrowed slightly. “Consider yourself lucky.” 

First Aid glanced between them. Ratchet continued, “ he was the one who took over Garrus-9. Turned it into a slaughterhouse. Torture, experiments, fighting pits.”

Rift went still. The image painted was grotesque and horrific; that wasn’t what he believed in. Not what he signed up for. Not what Megatron promised back when the cause still had meaning. Rift could feel the thoughts in his processor wandering, what exactly had he been fighting for all those years? Was any of it worth it?

“I knew we did terrible things,” he said, voice low. “I think there’s a lot I chose not to see.” 

Ratchet didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered. 

First Aid kneeled silently next to one of the patients to check vitals. Ratchet softly ex-vented and tapped his comm to contact Rodimus.

"There’s too many fragged up bots on this ship," the old medic muttered.

First Aid stood up from kneeling beside a berth. “In any case, thank you for your assistance today, Rift.” First Aid’s helm turned to his direction. “I believe we can take it from here.” 

Rift nodded in response. “Yeah.” He turned and left without saying anything else.

After the door hissed behind him, First Aid turned to Ratchet and waited for him to finish his comm to Rodimus. “Maybe if Rung makes it out of this, that’s his next case study.”

Chapter Text

Rift hadn’t expected to be summoned. He figured command would still be handling the fallout of Fortress Maximus’s attack: Rung getting shot, 5 mechs in the medbay, and the question of what to do with the attacker himself.

But the message came anyway. No subject line. Just a ping: 

come to my office

When the door slid open, Rodimus didn’t look up right away. He was seated, arms folded, helm tilted back against the wall as if he hadn’t moved in a while. The stillness felt uncharacteristic for the bright Autobot.

“You needed something, Captain?” Rift asked cautiously. 

Rodimus straightened slowly. “Yeah, I heard about what you did during the attack.”

Rift said nothing.

Rodimus clasped his servos together, resting them on the desk. “You didn’t have to step in. But you did.”

“I was there,” Rift replied simply. “Did what needed doing.” 

Rodimus nodded. “Still. You didn’t look away. Which… Says a lot.” 

Rift glanced away, unsure how to take that. It wasn’t quite praise. But it wasn’t nothing.

Rodimus shifted in his seat, suddenly restless as he tapped a pede. “Tailgate’s ceremony is next cycle.”

“I know.”

Rodimus hesitated. “You going?”

Rift tilted his helm slightly. “Why?”

Rodimus shrugged one shoulder, less casual than it looked. “Figured maybe it’d be easier to walk in with someone. I’m the one branding him, anyway.”

Rift studied him for a moment. “Are you offering?”

Rodimus’s grin was small, but real. “Only if you want me to.”

Rift didn’t answer right away, but for the first time since stepping on board, the silence didn’t feel loaded. 

Rodimus stood, motioning toward the door with a tilt of his helm. “No pressure. I know Tailgate’s excited, though.” 

Rift expected more; begging, pushing, pressuring. But it never came. Rift simply nodded in acknowledgement before walking out of Rodimus’s office. 

___ 

Rodimus sat still for a long moment after the door hissed shut. 

No loud quips. No bold decorations. No “welcome to the team!” speeches with confetti. 

He scrubbed a servo across his face and ex-vented hard, slumping back into his chair. 

His mouth twisted into a pout. He hated being quiet. What’s the point of having a vocal processor if you weren’t using it? A lot? Loudly?

But this wasn’t about him. For once, he understood that. He just wanted to be someone Rift didn’t have to brace himself around anymore. Someone who didn’t make him flinch.

Maybe because - what? That’s what being a good captain was about? Primus, he didn’t know. He just knew it mattered. More than it should’ve, maybe. But the way Rift looked sometimes, just waiting to be someone’s punching bag…Rodimus couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t shake that he had a part in that. 

So yeah. He was trying. Quietly and carefully, two things he was wildly unfamiliar with. 

He tilted his helm back and stared at the ceiling. 

He hoped Drift was proud of him.

Rift didn’t know what made him turn left instead of right when the corridor split, only that he kept walking, drawn more by wandering than intention. His steps slowed as the familiar hum of voices reached his audials, bleeding out into the hallway from an open doorway ahead. 

He hesitated. 

This wasn’t his kind of place, not really. Too many optics. Too much noise. But Drift’s sage advice emerged from the back of his processor, “ You can’t just sit in your habsuite every cycle. Just try to get out more.”

So he did. And it was louder than Rift expected.

It wasn’t packed, it normally wasn’t in the middle of a cycle, but the hum of overlapping conversations and whirr of mixed engex buzzed his senses. He hovered near the entrance longer than he meant to, adjusting to the dim lighting and shifting energy of the room. 

A few mechs glanced up, but most didn’t. 

That alone surprised him.

From behind the bar, Swerve looked up and grinned, wide and knowing.

“Well well,” he said, drying off a cube with exaggerated flourish. “Look who finally showed up. The defected Decepticon who wouldn’t shake my servo.” 

“You remember that?” 

“Oh, I remember everything. It’s part of my charm.” Swerve leaned in on the bar, gesturing grandly to the empty stool in front of him. “You gonna keep lurking like you’re gonna get thrown out, or are you actually gonna sit and let me pour you something that doesn’t taste like engine coolant?”

Rift stepped up with measured steps and  gently rested against the bar. “That depends. Is it actually not going to taste like engine coolant?”

“No promises,” Swerve said brightly, already reaching for a clean cube. “But I’ll try not to poison you. Scout’s honor.” 

“I doubt you were ever a scout.”

“Yeah, well, I also doubt you’re really as big and scary as everyone's making you out to be. But! Here we are.” 

Rift’s optics brightened in surprise.

“So,” Swerve started, “Do you want something? Or are you just here to brood?”

Rift glanced over to the back of the bar. A quiet corner near a window. 

“I’ll take a cube,” he said. “So long as it’s not disgusting.” 

Swerve let out a cackle. “Okay, so not my special then. Got it.” 

He poured something faintly luminescent and slid it down the bar with practiced ease. “Welcome to Swerve’s,” he added, with just a hint of sincerity beneath the showmanship. 

Rift caught the cube without looking. He didn’t say thank you, but he made his way to the corner. 

He took a small sip of the engex through an opening in his faceplate. Not bad. But not good either. Not engine coolant, though. 

The weight of being in the room suddenly fell on him. He could feel tension in his cabling. The lingering fear that it would always be there. Could he truly settle here? Would this ever really feel like home?

He only stirred from his thoughts when he felt a weight on the other side of the booth he was seated at.  

“‘Sup, Tragedy.” 

Rift immediately stiffened as he focused on the bot in front of him. 

“Saw you here and thought I was hallucinating.” 

Rift shrugged in response. 

“Seriously,” Whirl continued, leaning back into the seat and resting both arms against the back of it, “You pick now to crawl out of your mysterious, emotionally complex cave and hit the bar? After I survived a psychotic episode at the hands of a G-9 survivor?”

Rift ex-vented softly. “Do you want me to leave?”

Whirl paused . “No, no. This is fascinating. I wanna see if you short circuit from too much social interaction.”

Swerve set a cube down by Whirl. “Play nice,” he muttered. “Or I’m banning both of you from Karaoke night.” 

Whirl snorted and took the cube. “Don’t think that’d be a problem for ol’ Tragedy here.” Then, he downed the engex with ease. 

Rift expected more jabs and banter, both things he wasn’t in the mood for. Right as he made the decision to leave, Whirl spoke. 

“Tailgate mentioned you helped. With the whole Fort Max thing.”

“A lot of people did.” 

“Yeah. But you’re the only one doing it with a tragic backstory and a PR nightmare.”

Rift’s optics narrowed. Whirl’s optic quirked. “Chill, I’m not here to beat you down. Not today, anyways.” 

There was a moment of quiet. 

“I guess you wouldn’t be so bad to have around next time someone decides to have an episode.” 

Rift hummed. “Good to know.” 

Whirl nodded like that settled it, then stood and marched to the bar, shouting something about surviving trauma entitling him to free drinks for life. 

Chapter Text

The room was bustling with quiet murmurs as Tailgate’s invited bots filled the room. Rift stood at the edge of the room, back near the corridor entrance, where the lighting dimmed just enough to cast him in soft shadow. He hadn’t planned on staying long, Just enough to see the branding and not the proceeding pleasantries. Rodimus would probably seek him out, questioning why Rift had passed on walking together. He was just unsure if the offer had been genuine or if it was Rodimus being… Rodimus. 

Tailgate stood center stage, bouncing slightly on his heel struts, visor bright and hopeful. Rodimus stood by him, hands clasped loosely in front of him, trying to look ceremonial. 

Footsteps padded softly up the corridor. 

“Hey,” came Drift’s voice. “Why’re you way back here? Come take a seat with the others.” 

Rift hesitated. “I’m… not sure it’s my place. I’m just here for Tailgate.” 

Drift clicked his glossa. “Tailgate’ll want you to see the whole thing,” Drift added as he led the way. “We’re trying to get to the Crystal City after this. Might be a lead on the Knights of Cybertron.” He smiled and gestured toward the seats, walking slowly enough to give Rift the choice to follow.

He did, reluctantly. 

He ended up in the back row next to Whirl (perhaps against his better judgement), who had his arms spread on the back of the bench like he owned the whole row. He leaned over just enough to tap the back of Rift’s helm with a claw.

 “Aww, look at that. Our brooding boy came over to cheer. Getting soft on us already?”

From the other side, First Aid elbowed Whirl lightly. “Hush.”

Up ahead, Jackpot, Rift believed was his name,  whipped around in his seat, visor gleaming.  “Alright guys, your times, please.”

The bots surrounding Rift began to toss out various lengths of time, ranging from a couple kliks to several minutes. Drift leaned in, voice low and soft. “Roddy has this… saying. Says it all the time. They’re betting how long it’ll take him to say it during the ceremony.” 

Rift let out a small, amused huff. Then, a little louder, Drift asked “Wanna place a bet?”

Too many optics flicked to him at once. Rift straightened subtly, retracting. “I’m good.”

Jackpot shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

“You all are ridiculous.” Ratchet murmured, taking his place next to Drift.

The room gradually hushed as Rodimus stepped forward and began to speak. Truthfully, Rift didn’t catch all the words. His focus drifted to Tailgate, glowing with anticipation, almost vibrating with energy. 

“... For all are one -”

“Five seconds! There it is!” 

Rift looked over to see Brainstorm, triumphantly raising a servo from a row up. Ratchet huffed while Drift shook his helm, faintly amused.

Rodimus barely faltered at the outburst and then continued to talk about his own Autobot branding, how it felt, what Optimus Prime had said to him. 

Rift let out a soft vent. He truly felt out of place. 

Eventually, Rodimus turned toward Tailgate, who puffed out his chassis in anticipation. Rodimus took the branding tool and worked briskly, until Tailgate yelped and jumped back.

“Rodimus?! What is this?!” His voice pitched into a panic as he tried to look down at the marks on his chassis. Everyone turned to see what was very clearly not an Autobot insignia burned into Tailgate’s finish. 

“Er… did I do that? I don’t remember doing that,” Rodimus laughed nervously. 

Rewind rushed up to the front to examine the mark as Tailgate started to flail. 

Drift stood and began to follow. As he passed Rift, he offered a crooked smile. 

“Nothing’s ever simple on this ship, huh?”

Rift stayed seated, but his audials tracked the voices up front. He caught snippets -Rewind’s mention of ancient Cybertronian , Drift mentioning possession and Ratchet’s dry response. 

Then, the comms flared to life. Rodimus turned as MainFrame announced the hail.

“The Intergalactic Council?” he repeated. “Oh, perfect.”

A figure appeared on screen, sharp, angled, alien. Definitely annoyed. “Of course it’s a Cybertronian ship,” they hissed.

Rodimus scowled. “Yeah, yeah. Of course it’s an ugly fleshling in a stupid hat interrupting us. What’s your business?”

Arguing ensued. The council insisted the Crystal City was uninhabited and that they’re trespassing. Magnus stepped forward, launching into a battle of legal speak Rift knew very little about. 

Finally, “Alright, Ultra Magnus. You’ve made a compelling argument,” it said coolly. “I’ll ready the teleportation.” 

“Alright!” Rodimus turned on his heel and made his way toward Rift. “Wanna come? Drift says it’s lovely.” 

Rift quirked his optics. “I’m not so sure that-”

A blinding light filled the room.

They were gone before he could finish. 

Rift’s systems screamed in recalibration as his pedes slammed into unfamiliar ground. He staggered, adjusting to the teleport, as he took in their surroundings. The city loomed ahead in the distance, jagged and wrong.

Rodimus stumbled over beside him, one servo braced against his helm. “Guess you didn’t get much of a choice, huh?” 

Before Rift could respond, Drift surged forward, cutting between them. “The city shouldn’t be too far,” he said, clipped. Then he transformed and sped off, leaving the group in a swirl of dust and silence.

Ratchet squinted after him. “He’s upset.”

Chromedome transformed with a snort. “Let’s just go.”

One by one, the others followed, engines humming. Rift transformed after Chromedome, speeding up to Drift, who was already at a ledge overlooking  the city. Rift shifted back into root mode, pedes crunching quietly on loose gravel. 

He hesitated, then asked, “Are you okay?”

Drift snapped his helm toward him, field flaring, sharp and uneven. “Okay? Okay? Use your optics--do you think the city is supposed to look like that? ” He gestured violently towards the skyline: buildings collapsed inward on themselves, spires twisting at impossible angles. It was a fraction of the city it once was. 

Rift flinched at his tone. “ I just-” 

“-Just what?” Drift stepped forward, field buzzing. “ Do you even know why we’re here? What this place meant?” 

Rift stepped back. He didn’t lash out, though the instinct burned in his spark. He just turned away, jaw clenched almost painfully tight.

“Okay,” Rodimus said, breaking the silence as he caught up behind them. “Let’s all just take a second.”

He looked to Rift. “You’ve got recon training, right?”

Rift nodded once. 

“Good. You and Cyclonus observe only. Get a read on the layout, any signs of activity. In and out.”

Cyclonus said nothing. He transformed and launched toward the city without hesitation. 

Rift lingered for a moment, optics flicking back to Drift, who hadn’t moved. 

Then he shifted into alt-mode and followed.

__

The city unfolded beneath them like a forgotten wound.

Rift kept a few paces behind Cyclonus, systems on high alert. Even in alt-mode, the terrain felt off. Slightly unstable. Very unnerving. 

They reached the outer edge in minutes, transforming in near unison as their pedes hit cracked crystal. No words passed between them. Cyclonus moved with practiced efficiency, gaze sweeping from spire to shattered traces of the city that was once there. Rift focused lower: fractures in the ground, scorch marks akin to what you’d see in a battlefield 

He crouched near a gouged section in the ground. Fairly recent. He ran a digit along one edge and felt the chill hum of residual energy against his plating.

Behind him, Cyclonus didn’t speak. 

They stood for a moment, surrounded by the soft groan of metal settling in the distance. The air was heavy with memory. 

Rift’s field twitched, flickering like it had at Delphi. His instinct screamed that something had happened here-- something intentional. 

He looked toward Cyclonus, but the other mech had already moved ahead, vanishing around a corner without another word. Rift followed, slower this time. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: how wrong the city felt, or if Cyclonus had understood without exchanging a word. 

___

The two bots said nothing to each other as they returned to their group. They really didn’t need to. 

They settled at the ledge where the others waited. Drift hadn’t moved from his spot, still staring into the distance, posture wound tight. 

Rodimus looked up first. “Anything?” 

Rift shook his head. “There’s evidence of a battle. But no evidence of bodies.”

Drift’s voice broke the silence, voice brittle. “I wish I knew what happened.” 

Rewind stepped forward hesitantly. “Well, isn’t there a way? Can’t your sword link with Dai Atlas or something? Get a read?” Rewind asked from beside him.

Drift turned toward him sharply. “How about I take my sword and link it with-”  He caught himself mid-sentence. His optics widened slightly as he realized who he was talking to. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice low. “I’m used to Ratchet’s cynicism.” 

Rift noticed the way Chromedome placed a quiet servo on Rewind’s shoulder. Steady. Protective.

Then, inevitably, Whirl chimed in.

“What happened to hippy Drift? Happy clappy Drift? Peppy steppy-” 

He wasn’t able to finish before Drift’s fist connected with his jaw.

“Wanna keep going?”

Whirl stumbled backwards onto the ground and took a claw to his face. “Ah. There he is.”

Drift unsheathed his sword as he angrily stepped higher onto the ledge. 

“I refuse to believe this is where it ends.” He drove his sword into the ground, and then the ground dropped from underneath them. 

Chapter Text

Rift didn’t have time to process -just a flicker of gravity reversing before he was falling, optics flooded with light and motion. 

His systems screamed with warnings he couldn’t parse. He twisted mid-air, stabilizers firing too late to catch himself. For a terrifying klik, it felt endless, like the city was entirely hollow. 

Then, he hit hard. His plating scraping across something smooth and curved. THe shock rattled through his frame. He groaned, rolling onto his side. Nearby, he heard the others hitting the ground, letting out their own grunts and curses. 

“Frag,” he heard Whirl wheeze out. “I think I broke like, my everything. ”

He pushed himself up slowly, optics adjusting. As he looked at what they landed on, he came to the realization that it had once been alive .

“I can’t believe this,” Drift called out, disbelief lacing his voice. “All this time they had a metrotitan.” 

“Um,” Skids chimed in, raising a servo from the ground, “For any potential amnesiacs we have in the group, what’s a Metrotitan?” 

“They’re the Knights of Cybertron’s method of transportation,” Drift said, still dazed. “They had super-charged sparks. They were even said to have been able to communicate with the divine .” 

“Right. Yes, of course,” Ratched snorted, arms folded. “We’re on a divine communicator that the Knights of Cybertron themselves used. Totally believable.” 

Drift narrowed his optics and stepped toward him, voice sharpening. “Show some respect. Your atheism isn’t some sort of medal to flaunt.” 

“I’m not flaunting anything, kid.” Ratchet’s voice dropped to a low growl. “I’d rather believe in nothing than everything - than be an ex-Decepticon carrying the weight of every soul you snuffed out - hoping the gods are listening.” 

Rift didn’t even realize he’d tensed until his fingers curled into a fist. He took a step forward before he caught himself. Not enough to make a scene, but enough for Ratchet to notice. 

“Is that how you see us?” Rift asked, voice low. Quiet enough to ignore but sharp enough not to.

The medic looked at him for a moment.

“I didn’t mean you,” Ratchet said, after a second. “Not specifically. ”

Rift gave a humorless little laugh. “Right.”

Drift glanced at him, something unreadable in his expression, but said nothing. 

The tension was there even as Rodimus stepped in. “Okay, we’re not doing this here,” he said sharply. “Drift, Rift, take a walk with me. Now. ” 

“Oh, and Chromedome,” Rodimus, said. “Do your thing. Get into the titan’s brain and find out what happened to the Circle of Light.”

Drift grumbled something before begrudgingly  following after Rodimus, Rift soon after. 

The corridors they found were quiet - half-lit and humming with low, residual energy from the dead Titan beneath them. Rodimus led the way with his arms folded, stride stiff and agitated.

Drift followed at a slower pace, helm slightly bowed, field still charged from the argument. Rift was behind them both, saying nothing. 

The three walked in silence for several kliks, until Rodimus let out a heavy ex-vent. 

“You two are going to make Ratchet implode if this keeps up.” 

Drift huffed a humorless laugh. “He started it.” 

Rodimus didn’t respond. He paused walking to lean against a wall, arms still crossed.

Suddenly, Drift sharply asked, “Do you even believe in all this? The Guiding Hand. The Knights. All that.” 

Rodimus blinked. “I mean, yeah. Of course.” 

Drift narrowed his optics. “Really?”

Rodimus quirked an optic ridge. “What? Thought I was too shallow for faith?”

Drift hesitated. “Honestly? I thought you were more… performative. Like you wanted people to think you believed so they’d follow you on the ship.”

Rodimus didn’t respond right away. Rift watched him shift his weight like the words sat heavy on his frame. 

Then Drift turned to him. 

“What about you?”

“Do I believe in ancient beings who allegedly shaped Cybertron and left behind Titans in their wake?” Drift’s field flickered with agitation at the sarcasm, but he didn’t react. 

Rift looked away. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I’ve seen a lot of things that didn’t make any sense. And what happens when you believe in something with no merit.” 

He paused. “So… I don’t know. It’s not a yes. It’s not a no.” 

Silence settled between them. Rodimus pushed off the wall with a vent. “Good talk,” He said dryly. “Let’s get the frag out of here.” 

___

Getting off the Metrotitan had been… complicated.

Back at the brain chamber, the group couldn’t even agree on what to do with the Titan. Rodimus had a minor meltdown over their survival somehow depending on Swerve, of all people. Brainstorm, fired off his mass displacement gun (because of course he had it). And in the end, that somehow managed to wake the titan and get them out of there.

Later, Rift overheard Rodimus rattling off half-formed theories to Ultra Magnus about how the Lost Light had managed to evade the Intergalactic Council’s wrath. None of it sounded particularly convincing to him.

Rift didn’t care.
He was just glad they were back.

____

Rodimus lingered in the hallway outside the bridge, helm tipped back against the wall. The buzz of activity had dulled to background static, tech reports hull scans, someone yelling about something. He welcomed the comfort after what happened at the Crystal City. 

That’s when Ultra Magnus approached. 

“Captain.”

Rodimus cracked one optic open. “Yikes. My title. That’s never good.” 

Magnus didn’t respond to the joke. Just stood there, arms folded beneath his back, posture perfectly level. 

“I read your…report. There was tension on the mission,” he said finally. “Between Drift and Rift.” 

Rodimus’s lips quirked into a frown. “You think Rift was the problem?”

“I think Rift has a reputation,” Magnus said evenly. “And one such as his can be… difficult to overlook.” 

Rodimus pushed off the wall. “Drift’s the one who lost it, Magnus. Rift didn’t raise his voice. He barely moved.” 

“Even so. His restraint may not reflect his intentions.”

Rodimus narrowed his optics.

“He didn’t defect, if that’s what you’re implying.” he said, quieter. “Whatever you think he was going to do, he didn’t. He followed us the whole time. He followed orders.”

Magnus straightened. “What orders?”

“I had him scout with Cyclonus.”

The enforcer’s optics widened and he raised his voice. “You sent Cyclonus and Rift off? Alone? Do you know the amount of Autobots they’ve killed between the two of them?” 

Rodimus didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.” 

Magnus opened his mouth, then closed it again, caught off guard by the answer. 

“They came back, Magnus. That’s what matters.”

Rift was about to enter his habsuite when he heard footsteps approaching. He didn’t turn. 

“I owe you an apology.” 

Rift didn’t respond right away. He kept his optics on the keypad to his suite. 

“You said a lot of things,” Rift said finally. 

Drift ex-vented from behind him. “I know. And most of it wasn’t fair. I--look, that city meant a lot to me. The people meant a lot to me. Seeing them gone… It messed with my head. I lost control.”

Rift’s shoulders shifted, but not quite a shrug. “You made it sound like I didn’t deserve to be there.” 

The truth was quiet and honest. Just like Rift. He hadn’t meant for it to sting, but Drift felt it anyway. 

He stepped closer, carefully. “That wasn’t what I meant.” 

“It’s what you said.”

Drift rubbed the back of his neck. “The Lost Light’s mission is to find the Knights of Cybertron; that’s why I came. That’s why Rodimus started this.” 

He paused. “But most bots here? They’re here for another reason: running from something, looking for something, starting over.”

Rift didn’t speak, his field remained unreadable. 

“I invited you onto this ship,” Drift went on. “Because I thought you deserved a second chance. Not because I thought you had to prove anything. You had every right to be there. You have every right to be here. And I’m sorry I ever made you feel otherwise.”

Rift finally turned, gaze steady. “It felt personal.”

“I know.” He paused, and gently put a servo on the soft grey of Rift’s plating. He flinched, but he didn’t push him away. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Rift looked down at the servo. He nodded.

“...Thank you.” 

Drift offered a nod and a smile, saying how Ratchet was next on his list of bots to apologize to. 

The door closed behind him with a soft hiss, but Rift didn’t move.

The apology landed like a weight, not necessarily a burden, but a presence. Heavy in his chest, lodged beneath his plating like something foreign he had never felt before.

Drift’s words echoed louder than the ones he’d used to hurt him. You had every right to be there. 

It shouldn’t have mattered. Rift had survived worse than pointed words; he’d been called worse, accused of worse, and even done worse. In spite of it, he’d taught himself not to need permission to exist. But somewhere deep inside, buried beneath the weight of the regret he carried and the shame, he had needed to hear that. 

He hadn’t come on the Lost Light to chase the Knights of Cybertron. He still didn’t fully understand why they were. He wasn’t searching for enlightenment or answers or the key to restoring Cybertron. He was just trying to stop running. 

Trying to see if maybe there was more to him than what he’d done. 

And Drift--bright, righteous Drift-- had been the one who said yes, you can come .

So when that same mech had looked at him with disappointment in his voice and something bitter in his spark, it had cut deeper than Rift expected. Because maybe, stupidly, he’d wanted to be someone Drift would believe in. 

And he really hoped he still could be.

Chapter Text

Rift hadn't meant to stay.

He’d come to Swerve’s for one cube of engex and a bit of silence. Not quiet silence, but the kind you find in the back of a crowded room where there’s white noise and background laughter. With no one paying attention to you. 

He’d barely made it to the shadowed booth in the back when Swerve caught him in his crosshairs. 

“Rift!! You’re out of your room!!” 

Rift squinted his optics in irritation. So much for silence. 

Someone at the bar laughed, loud and sharp. Shining how he normally did when he’s the center of attention. He was gesturing wildly with one servo while (probably) telling some overblown story. 

He looked bright.

Rift looked away. 

Then Rewind waved him over from his seat in Chromedome’s lap. “We have space!”

Rift almost didn’t move. But saying no would probably draw him more attention. More teasing. So he went. 

He slid into the edge of the group; present, but not included. He sipped his engex quietly as he soaked in the conversation around him. 

Rodimus noticed him halfway through a story -something about Earth- and blinked. Then, too quickly, he smiled.

He waved off whoever he was talking to and slid next to Rift. At first, too close. But he adjusted himself further away. 

“Hey! I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Rift offered nothing in response. 

Rodimus tapped his engex cube. “Rough mission, huh?”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” 

Rodimus’s grin faltered slightly. 

He cleared his vocal processor. “I, uh, meant to say. You handled Drift better than a lot of people would’ve. Thanks for not slugging him.” He added to himself, “I think Ratchet wanted to…”

Rift kept his optics trained in front of him. “I didn’t do it to prove anything.” 

Rodimus blinked. “I didn’t say you did.”

He fidgeted, one digit tapping the counter. For a moment, it seemed he might just give up and leave him alone. 

Suddenly, the slightly taller mech broke the silence. “You’re not doing all this to get on my good side, are you?”

Rodimus made a strangled noise, somewhere between confusion and offended. “What? No.”

“Good.” Rift fished his cube, and turned fully to Rodimus. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Rodimus stared. Then huffed a laugh, quiet and caught off guard.

Rift stood up and turned to leave. “Thanks for the engex.”

“I didn’t-” Rodimus started, but Rift was already gone. 

He lingered in the empty space Rift left behind. Still smiling, if only just a little. 

It finally felt like progress.

The shift change caught rift severely off guard. Normally Rift would be logging inventory in a quiet storage bay, unbothered. And yet, Rift stood at the edge of the briefing room, arms folded across his chassis, posture unreadable. He wasn’t the only one who seemed surprised at the latest mission pairing. 

Rodimus, for his part, just kept talking. 

“-so Magnus thinks if we throw the two of us at a quiet recon op, we’ll either kill each other or learn to work together.” He clapped a servo to Rift’s shoulder -too enthusiastically, too familiar- and then quickly removed it. “You know. Team-building.”

“Was that your idea or his?” Rift asked. 

“Let’s just say it wasn't a collaborative decision.” 

Rift said nothing.

Rodimus cleared his vocal processor. “Anyway. It’s low risk. Abandoned outpost, some weird signal Mainframe picked up. No hostiles expected.”

“They rarely ever announce themselves,” Rift muttered.

Rodimus grinned. “And that’s why you’re coming.”

Rodimus tried to hold onto that feeling of progress he felt earlier at Swerve’s as he walked through the abandoned hallway, barely able to see anything.

What little lighting they had flickered overhead, weak and dying. Dust clung to the air. Rift scanned the corridor ahead, optics narrowed, steps practiced and careful. 

Behind him, Rodimus muttered, “Y’know, when Magnus originally said ‘prove you can work together,’ I thought he meant, like, with charts. A team-building exercise. Maybe a trust fall. Not spooky hallways and fragged comms.”

Rift didn’t respond. 

Rodimus sighed and tried to match the former spy’s pace. “Just saying. I’d rather fall backwards into Drift’s arms than whatever the hell this is.”

A soft clunk echoed down the corridor. They both froze.

Rift’s arm came up instinctively, signaling Rodimus to stay put. Rodimus ignored it and stepped forward. 

In a blur of motion, Rift shoved him aside just as a low-powered plasma shot rang out. 

It caught Rift across the side, sparks flaring from his armor. 

Rodimus’s optics went wide. “Rift?!” 

“I’m fine,” Rift said, voice tight. “It was a graze.”

Rodimus stared at him, processing, before his lips quirked into a smirk.

“What happened to subtlety?”

Rift winced as he adjusted his stance. “I ran out.” 

Rodimus blinked, then huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Frag, you’re annoying.” But it was softer than usual. Almost grateful. 

Rift huffed and straightened his posture as best he could. “We need to get moving.”

They continued down the corridor, Rift constantly scanning the area around them. Whatever hostiles were still lurking in the outpost had scattered after Rift’s injury, whether out of fear or strategy, neither of them could say. 

The source of the strange signal turned out to be a half-buried relay node, corrupted but pulsing with fragments of old Decepticon code. Rift dismantled it without comment. Rodimus didn’t ask how he knew what to look for. 

And Rodimus realized why Magnus was so insistent on pairing the two for this particular mission. 

They fought off a couple more stragglers as they made their way back to the shuttle. Rift handled looking out ahead of them, Rodimus paid more attention to their flank. Neither of them would ever acknowledge it, but something about it worked. 

When they finally boarded the shuttle back to the Lost Light, Rodimus dropped into the pilot’s seat and ex-vented like he’d been holding tension in his shoulders for days. 

Rift stayed standing, leaning against the wall, plating scorched and optics dim. 

Rodimus glanced back at him as he prepared the shuttle for takeoff. “You sure you’re okay?”

Rift didn’t answer right away. After a moment, “You didn’t follow my signal to stay back.” 

Rodimus scratched the back of his helm. “Yeah. Not used to slinking in the shadows. Not my thing.”

Rift’s optic met Rodimus’s, his expression flat. “You’ll get us killed if you keep pulling stunts like that.”

Rodimus grinned. “Only if you stop catching plasma shots for me.”

That earned him the briefest flicker of amusement. Then, Rift turned away, crossing his arms again. “I don’t plan on making it a habit,” he grumbled.

Rodimus would take it. It wasn’t a no.

Ultra Magnus said nothing when they docked. Just handed Rodimus a datapad, probably expecting the report within ten minutes.

Rift didn’t wait for the debrief. He just nodded once before heading toward the medbay. Rodimus nodded back.

Not quite friends. But they didn’t feel like strangers anymore.

Chapter Text

Rift stepped into Swerve’s just as someone let out a nervous laugh that quickly trailed off. The crew was spread around the room in a familiar, uneven sprawl. Rung’s stiff, motionless frame sat close by. 

He frowned. “Sorry I’m late.”

Rewind turned in his seat like he’d been waiting for him to show up. “Perfect timing, actually!”

Rift paused, unsure if that was good news. 

Rodimus, half-slouched on a stool, gestured loosely to Rung. “We’re trying to wake him up. Chromedome said telling a long story might jog something.” 

Rift looked unamused. “A story will activate his brain.”

Rodimus waved a servo dismissively. “Brain stuff. Chromedome said so.”

Chromedome gave an empathetic nod. Rewind chirped from beside him. “Go ahead, Domey.” 

The broader mech held up a digit in thought. “Right, right.  Prowl told me Pax had been pestering him to get access to the Prima Basilica security intel. Said he needed it to break in and switch the ‘matrices.’” 

He looked toward Rewind. “By that point, Prowl didn’t want me involved anymore. He told me he had a contact; a top level spy. I never got a name. I always figured he was bluffing to keep me out of it.” 

Rewind looked optimistically toward Rift. “He wasn’t. That’s where Rift comes in.” 

Rift, for his part, blinked. Slowly. “...Excuse me?”

All optics were on him now. He hated that. 

Rewind spun his chair around to face him fully. “You were Wirecept back then, right? Elite Guard Intelligence?”

Rift’s optics narrowed. “Who told you that?”

“You just did,” Rewind said, entirely too pleased with himself. “Also: walking archive. Duh.”

Chromedome stared at Rift through his visor intensely, as if studying something he had never seen before “Wait. Wait. You’re saying you’re the one Prowl used to pass the intel to Orion Pax?”

Rift simply looked at Rung's body. Before he could answer, Tailgate piped up,visor gleaming. “Can you tell us the story?”

Rift let out a soft ex-vent. 

“It started with a message from Prowl.”

The lights in the data room were dim, tinted by the cool glow of half a dozen open screens. The air buzzed faintly with static.

Wirecept stood at attention, arms folded behind his back, faceplate in place. Prowl stood across from him behind his desk, presence as imposing as ever.

“Orion Pax wants to break into the Prima Basilica,” Prowl said. “To prevent a tragedy based on a conspiracy theory.”

Wirecept didn’t speak. He knew better than to interrupt.

“He came to me for security intel. I said no.”

“So what am I doing here?”

“I’m authorizing you to acquire that data,” Prowl replied. “ Quietly. No traces. You don’t have clearance, so don’t get caught. If you do, I’ll deny everything.”

“How reassuring.”

Prowl gave him a look. “You’re my cleanest operative,” Prowl said, stepping closer. “ Get the floor schematics, guard rotations, entry protocols. I don’t care how--just don’t be seen.”

Wirecept shifted on his weight. “So you are helping Pax.” 

Prowl’s mouth twitched “No. You are.”

He handed over a coded key. “This gets you past the mid-level firewalls. The rest is on you.” Prowl gestured toward the door. “Don’t contact me once it’s done. Give the intel directly to Pax. No one else.” 

Wirecept accepted the key silently and turned toward the door. 

He was nearly through it when Prowl said, quietly and barely audible, “And Wirecept? Don’t get yourself killed.”

Wirecept paused. “...Is that an order, Commander?”

Prowl didn’t answer. 

But he didn’t have to. 

“Wow,” Chromedome chimed knowingly. “Had no idea you were so… close with Prowl.” 

Rift turned away. “I wouldn’t call it that,” he muttered bitterly.

“But what about getting the intel?! And Pax! I want to hear about that!” Tailgate exclaimed from across the bar, practically bouncing in his seat. 

“That? I mean--it’s not too exciting… That was my job. Pax was thankful. That’s it.”

“Ah, ah,” Rewind teased. “None of that. We need to keep the narrative flow going. For Rung.” 

Rift let out another ex-vent. “Seriously?” 

“Keep going.”

“ Fine. Okay. But I’m not going into how I got the intel.”

The handoff happened in an old substation beneath Iacon. Quiet, out of place, out of range. Dark enough that only two mechs would ever notice the other was seen there. 

Wirecept stood in the shadow’s first, frame tense but composed, faceplate still in place. The intel was stored on a compressed drive tucked in a narrow compartment under his plating. 

Orian Pax arrived five minutes late. Larger frame, broad silhouette, optics scanning sharply before softening when he spotted him. 

“You’re Prowl’s contact?” Pax asked. 

Wirecept didn’t answer. He just stepped forward and handed over the drive. Pax accepted it carefully, squinting as he examined the encryption markings. 

“Elite Guard encryption. No name and no trace.” He paused. “You’re good.”

“That’s the idea,” Wirecept said flatly.

Pax looked up. “Thank you. This will help prevent something catastrophic.”

Wirecept gave the faintest tilt of his helm. “Then if it helps, it’s worth it.”

There was a quiet pause. 

Pax shifted, almost like he wanted to ask something else. “Prowl didn’t tell me your designation.”

“He wouldn’t,” Wirecept said.

“I’m Orion Pax. You probably already knew that.”

“I did.”

“And you are?” 

Wirecept hesitated before responding with his name.

“You don’t have to be involved beyond this. But if you want to be… There’s space for people who believe in something better.”

The spy stiffened. “I believe in results.”

Wirecept could tell Orion smiled despite his faceplate. “Then maybe we’re not so different.” 

Another moment of silence passed between them. Then Wirecept stepped back, one pede already angled toward the exit. 

“Stay safe, Wirecept,” Pax said, voice quieter now. “We’ll try not to waste what you risked getting us.”

Rift went quiet, optics unfocused, still half in memory. 

The others around the room didn’t speak right away. Even Rodimus, for once, seemed unsure of what to say.

Then, from across the table, Whirl broke the silence with an exaggerated scoff. “Okay, but is anyone gonna talk about how Pax was already a walking inspirational quote four million years ago ?” 

“Optimus,” Rodimus corrected flatly. 

“Whatever,” Whirl waved a claw. “Still gave the ‘there’s still space for people who believe in something better’ speech like a pro.”

“He meant it,” Rift said before he could stop himself.

His comment got everyone’s attention again. Rift’s voice was quiet, sure, but there was no bitterness to it. Just reflection. 

Chromedome tilted his helm. “You believed him?”

Rift kept his optics trained on the floor. “I should’ve.”

The silence lingered for a moment. Then Rewind clapped his servos together. 

“Okay! That’s how Pax got the intel. Who would be with him after that…?”

The shift in attention was instant. Rift isn’t even sure whose voice answered Rewind and continued the story. 

He took the opportunity to slip from his seat and move toward the door with practiced stealth. No one noticed. Almost no one. 

__

The hallway outside Swerve’s was dim and quiet, lit only by the low hum of emergency panels. Rift leaned against the wall just around the corner, helm tilted back, expression as if he was far away. 

Rodimus didn’t speak right away. Just stopped a few paces away, hands in the seams of his hips, unsure what to say. 

“...You really were his guy, huh?” he said eventually. “Prowl’s.”

Rift didn’t move. “I was a tool,” he said quietly. “That’s what he liked about me.”

Rodimus looked at him, then down the hall. “Yeah, well. Tools don’t usually get told not to die.” 

Rift ex-vented, but didn’t answer.

“But, I also know Prowl. How he is.” 

Rift gave a noncommittal shrug. 

“I didn’t know you were part of all that,” Rodimus added after a moment. “Apart of the guard. Pax. The Basilica. You kinda feel… I dunno. New.”

Rift’s optics flickered toward him. “I’m older than you think.”

“Yeah.” Rodimus’s voice softened a bit. “I’m starting to understand that. I think.”

Rift appreciated the silence that followed after. Then, Rodimus cracked a lopsided grin. “So. You gonna sneak back in or keep brooding out here in the shadows?”

Rift shot him a flat look. 

“Hey-I’m just saying--Oh. Wait, hold on.” Rodimus held up a digit, glancing down at an incoming comm. His smile turned sheepish.

“Oh. Awesome. Gotta go. Something’s wrong with Red Alert. Per usual.” 

Rift gave a nod of acknowledgement. 

Rodimus lingered a second longer, then said, “I’ll see you around, Rift.”

Rift hesitated, then finally looked toward him. 

“See you later, Captain.”

Chapter Text

Rodimus knew he wouldn’t always make the right calls. That was part of the deal, wasn’t it? When he signed up to lead this ship, the mess of personalities, the trauma, what came with it, he accepted that. He told himself he could handle it. 

But this? Red Alert?

It didn’t make sense. 

Ultra Magnus said he was deeply unwell; paranoid, unstable, beyond help. And Rodimus agrees, but it still didn’t make sense.

Why would someone on his crew do something like that?

This was his ship. His mission. The Lost Light was supposed to be a fresh start. A vessel for them to restore culture and order to their home on Cybertron. Rodimus wanted to make sure of it. So if Red Alert looked at all that, looked at him, their Captain, and still chose to die?

What did that say about him?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps. 

“Rodimus,” Drift started, voice soft. 

“Oh, great.” Rodimus snapped, turning sharply. “Just what I needed.” 

Drift halted mid-step, surprised. “I was just checking on you-”

“Why? Gonna tell me to ‘center myself’ or whatever spiritual journey you’re on today?”

Drift’s optics narrowed, but his voice remained level. “I thought you might want someone to talk to.”

Rodimus barked a bitter laugh. “Yeah? You’re going to help me rationalize how one of my crew just threw himself into an oil reservoir? Please, enlighten me, Drift. Tell me how to spin that into inner peace.”

“That’s not fair.” 

“No, it’s not!” Rodimus shouted, field flaring. “None of this is fragging fair! He was my crew. My responsibility. Now he’s gone and I’m supposed to what? Move on because he was ‘mentally unwell’?”

“No,” Drift said firmly. “No one expects that. But that still doesn’t change the fact it wasn’t your fault.” 

“Oh, isn’t it?” Rodimus spat. “I’m the one who said this is how we rebuild Cybertron. Provide us a second chance. But apparently Red Alert would rather die than live with that second chance under me. So yeah--tell me again how that’s not on me.”

Drift was quiet, his mouth tight. 

Rodimus kept going. “You know what? Save the wisdom. You can’t fix this with a mediation quote.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to-”

“Then stop pretending you understand!” Rodimus stepped closer to Drift and shoved a digit into his chassis. “You’re not the one in charge! You don’t wake up every cycle knowing that you’ll never be good enough to please everybody.” 

Drift stared at him, the silence suffocating.

Rodimus faltered slightly, about to continue. But he bit back whatever was boiling next.

“Just leave.” 

The swordsmech didn’t argue. 

And when Rodimus finally sank back against the wall, alone again, his voice cracked with the weight of it. 

“...I don’t know how to do this.” 

Drift’s room was dim, filtered with warm ambient light and the faint scent of energon and polished metal. Drift sat cross-legged near the center of his mat, servos resting on his knees, optics dimmed. His vents moved in slow, measured patterns. 

Rift mirrored him. Or tried to.

His frame was rigid, posture tight in all the wrong ways. Optics dimmed but not unfocused. No matter how many times he tried this, it never felt natural. The quiet never stayed in his head. 

A minute passed. Then two. 

Finally, Drift ex-vented. Long and drawn out, not meditative. Frustrated. 

Rift oped his optics. “Normally I’m the one struggling with this.” 

Drift didn’t answer straight away. He rubbed his palm over his face and leaned back slightly, helm tilted toward the ceiling. 

“It’s Rodimus,” he said finally. “He’s not handling Red Alert well.”

Rift didn’t respond, just simply gave him the space he needed. 

“He’s spiraling. Won’t talk about it. Won’t let me help.”

“Maybe he just needs space.”

Drift looked at him then, something bitter behind his optics. “You don’t know him.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they landed hard anyway. Rift stiffened, just barely. He kept his optics on Drift. “No,” he said after a pause. “I don’t.”

For a moment, the air hung heavily between them. 

Rift ex-vented. “I wasn’t trying to--I just meant some people need time.”

Drift’s expression softened. Not quite apologetic, but less bristling. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just sucks I can’t reach him.”

Rift hummed before they resumed sitting together. The incense still burned and the candle still flickered, but neither of them was meditating anymore.

Rift broke their silence as he began to stand. “Have to go,” he muttered. “Shift’s starting soon.”

Drift looked up, servos braced on his thighs. “Alright.” Then, more quietly, “Thanks for listening.”

Rift paused before stepping out the door and looked back to offer a nod. Then he turned around and left.

The hallway outside the main storage bay was dim and humming with idle energy. Rift worked meticulously, as always, and was grateful for the quiet the storage bay offered. Normally the only bots who found themselves back here were the ones on patrol. 

He walked through the quiet holding a supply crate, until a voice cut through the silence. 

“Hard to believe we trust you with anything other than maintenance logs.” 

Rift didn’t stop at first, but his stride faltered. He turned slightly, just enough to glimpse Sunstreaker leaning against the wall with arms crossed and optics gleaming. 

"Sucks that's not your call to make then.” Rift said flatly. 

Before Sunstreaker could retort, another voice snapped through the corridor, louder, sharper.

“For frag’s sake--do you have to pick fights with everyone on this ship?”

Rift blinked, turning to see Rodimus striding toward them, jaw tight, expression drawn. His usual flair was absent, replaced by something brittle and fraying at the edges. 

Rift straightened. “I wasn’t--” 

“-I don’t care,” Rodimus cut him off, throwing a servo in the air. “I’m not in the mood to untangle who started that. I don’t want to hear anything from either of you so long as I’m in this hallway.”

Sunstreaker raised his servos in a mock gesture of innocence, lips curled into a smug little smile. “Guess we’re all a little tense.”

He pushed off the wall and walked away without another word. 

Rift stood still, frame tense, watching Rodimus, For a moment, Rodimus thought he was going to talk back, and offer him a flat quip like he usually does.

Instead he said, quiet and clipped, “Understood. Captain.”

Rodimus didn’t reply. He ex-vented sharply, running a servo down his face before turning away, shoulders rigid. 

Rift lingered for a moment longer in the hallway, the air humming dully around him. 

He adjusted his grip on the supply crate and continued the other way.

Normally he would find comfort in the quiet, but now it was just the type that enabled thoughts to start spiraling. 

He hadn’t even done anything wrong. 

That’s what stuck with him. 

Not Sunstreaker’s comment, not the tension in the hallway. Not even Rodimus’s tone. Just that-- he hadn’t done anything wrong. And still, he got the brunt of it. 

Just like when he first stepped on the Lost Light. 

Chapter Text

Rodimus threw himself onto his berth, elbows resting on his knees, servos hanging limp between them. The lights in his habsuite were dimmed low, casting long shadows across the floor. The hum of the ship felt louder than usual, like it was pressing in on him from all sides. 

He hadn’t had a decent recharge in--frag, he wasn’t sure how long. 

Red Alert’s face kept flashing through his mind, even though he hadn’t seen it. He’d only seen his body. The confusion he left Rodimus with. The guilt. 

And Rift’s face too, lingered in his memory; tight, unreadable optics, stiff shoulders after being snapped at like he’s the problem. Just standing there, taking it.

You didn’t deserve that.

You weren’t the problem.

I just didn’t know where else to aim the fragging guilt. 

And Drift. How he treated his amica weighed heavily on his processor. 

Rodimus groaned softly and scrubbed both servos down his face. He hadn’t even said anything after snapping at either of them. Didn’t know what to say. 

His comm buzzed. 

“Rodimus,” Ultra Magnus’s voice filtered through, crisp. “”Report to the launch deck. Briefing begins in ten.” 

Rodimus closed the comm without responding. He stood up from his berth.

He was still the captain. No matter how much he felt like anything but.

The briefing room aboard the Lost Light was quiet, save for the tapping of Tailgate’s pedes on the floor. 

“Temptoria is not an ideal entry point,” Magnus began, projecting a holographic map of the Decepticon facility. “But my reconnaissance suggests there’s a possibility the Circle of Light might have been taken there.”

Rodimus stood with his arms crossed, helm low, posture tight. He hadn’t spoken much since they docked. Drift lingered near the edge of the room, watching him with quiet worry.

“You--Rift, Tailgate, and Swerve--will be tasked with breaking into the facility to find evidence of the Circle,” Magnus pointed to the potential location on the projection. “The rest will take care of the cons.” 

Tailgate perked up. “Yesss! Wait--does this mean I’m, like, a spy now?”

“No,” Magnus said flatly. 

“So,” Swerve chirped, “Like, sneak in, poke around, and don’t die. Got it.” 

Rodimus’s optics flicked toward him. “You do know how to keep your vocalizer off, right, Swerve?”

The words came out sharper than necessary. Not biting, just tired, stretched thin. Swerve’s grin faltered, then lowered his servo without another word. 

Rift didn’t comment, but his optics lingered on Rodimus for a moment longer. 

“You are dismissed. I need to brief the offensive unit. We take off in 10.”

Rift nodded silently. Swerve gave a half-salute. Tailgate nodded enthusiastically. 

The interior of the Leading Light was bustling with Autobots (and Rift) excited at the opportunity to kill Decepticons. The cabin lights flickered slightly with turbulence, casting an intermittent glow over the mechs seated inside. 

Swerve was tapping his pede anxiously. “You ever notice how shuttle rides feel longer when you’re not talking? ‘Cuz I’m noticing.” 

“No one’s stopping you,” Rift muttered, helm tilted back against the shuttle wall. He looked calm, but his optics tracked every shift of motion. 

“I’m trying to be stealthy,” Swerve whispered loudly. “Y’know. Spy stuff.”

Tailgate leaned in, visor gleaming. “Do we get spy codenames? I wanna be--”

“--You’re not getting a codename,” Rift said flatly.

Across the cabin, Whirl lounged back in a crash seat with his legs kicked up, spinning a blade idly in his claws. 

“Hey, Rewind,” he said suddenly. “Record all of this, would you? This could be historic. Or hilarious. Either way, I want footage of me kicking aft.”

Rewind blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I mean, come on, you’re basically the ship’s camera drone with better narration,” Whirl said, still spinning a blade in his claw. “Plus, if we all explode, someone’s gonna want a play-by-play.”

“I’m not--” Rewind started, then ex-vented. “Fine. But I’m not narrating it.”

From beside the minibot, Chromedome shifted. 

Rewind looked over to him. “C’mon, Domey, don’t be like that.” 

The broader mech didn’t say anything, just focused on the wall. 

Silence held for a moment. Then Whirl leaned over and whispered loudly, “Y’feel that tension, or is that just me?”

Rift didn’t answer, but his optics flicked toward Rodimus, who sat across the cabin, arms crossed, helm down, unusually quiet. 

Whirl noticed the glance. “Yeah. Him too.” He tilted his helm toward Rodimus. “Yo. You good Captain Hot Rod ?”

Rodimus didn’t lift his gaze. “Rodimus,” he corrected sharply. “And just focus on killing ‘cons.”

Swerve let out an awkward huff. “Ooooookay. Vibes in this shuttle are immaculate. ”

Ultra Magnus turned from the cockpit. “ETA: three minutes. Everyone prep.”

As the team began checking weapons, tools, and comms, Rift stayed still a moment longer, optics lingering on Rodimus. Then without a word, he reached into his side compartment and handed Tailgate a slim data spike. 

“What’s this?”

“Floor plan,” Rift said. “I marked the escape routes.”

Swerve blinked. “Wait. Are you actually worried?”

“No,” Rift replied. “But we’re bringing you. So.”

Whirl howled with laughter beside him. “Oh Primus-- Rewind, please tell me you were recording. I think we just witnessed Rift’s first joke in history. ”

Rift and his team landed shortly after the offensive unit touched down.

Gunfire sounded around them, They’d barely made it anywhere before Tailgate paused, awe-struck. 

“Primus, look at that! Did you see Drift just double-jump off than overhang?” 

“This isn’t a highlight reel,” Rift snapped, already scanning their immediate surroundings. “Keep moving.”

Tailgate lit up and jogged to catch up, still glancing back at flashes of lights on the battlefield. “I just think it’s kinda cool. You know, seeing everyone fight like that. Rodimus looks like he’s on fire. ”

Rift’s step faltered just briefly. He turned his helm toward the battle. 

Rodimus was in the thick of it, guns drawn, striking hard and fast, throwing himself into every movement like momentum was the only thing keeping him upright. His form was precise, but there was a recklessness beneath it--like he didn’t care if he got hit, so long as he hit the other person harder.

“...Yeah,” Rift murmured. “He does.” 

“Hold on!” A voice called out. “Let me tag along.”

Rift turned to see Rewind carefully making his way over, occasionally turning to record the chaos around them.

“Are you sure?” Tailgate asked “Chromedome probably wouldn’t be too thrilled if something happened to you.”

“Well, good thing he’s not here right now. Let’s go.”

Rift didn’t respond, he simply adjusted his stance, subtly positioning himself between the minibots and the frontline. 

The team moved swiftly through the shattered outer wall of the Decepticon outpost. Tailgate and Rewind lagged behind Rift, the latter clearing the area ahead of them. 

They passed scorched metal and cracked doorframes, the distant pulse of blaster fire echoing from the main battlefield. 

“Wait,” Rift said, holding out an arm to still the bots behind him. He glanced behind the group. “Where’s Swerve?”

“Ah-- frag, ” Tailgate cursed. “I-I don’t know!”

Rift let out a heavy ex-vent. “Okay. We get what we came for, then we find him.”

Tension clung to the group as they pressed forward. Up ahead, a sealed corridor branched off the main hallway: an observation panel was embedded in the wall above a door rigged with a crude but deadly looking bomb. 

Rift stood on the tips of his pedes to glance inside, but the angle was poor, and the glass too dirty. “I need optics up high.” 

“Rewind,” Tailgate called softly, already waving him over. “Get a shot through that panel.”

Rewind stepped forward, careful with his footing. “You want a visual?”

“I’m going to boost you up,” Rift knelt, offering a servo. 

Rewind climbed efficiently, perching on Rift’s shoulder struts. He aimed his visor into the window, lens clicking into focus.

“...No Circle of Light,” he said after a moment. “But these are organic lifeforms.” 

“What?” Rift asked, setting him back on the ground. “What do you mean?”

“I believe they’re organic Temptorians,” Rewind began. “I think the Decepticons were harvesting them for pink alchemy .” 

“Yeesh,” Tailgate shuttered. “That doesn’t sound good.” 

“It’s not,” Rewind replied. “They use their flesh to make energon cubes.” He walked over to the bomb in the corner of the room. “We need to help them. It’s the right thing to do.”

Tailgate looked over the bomb. “This is attached to the doorframe -- if we mess up, we all go.” 

“That’s not our objective,” Rift said, low but firm. “We were told to locate the Circle. That’s it.” 

Rewind turned on him sharply. “So we just leave them?”

“This isn’t a rescue mission.”

Rewind’s visor glinted. “It’s the Autobot thing to do.”

The words landed like a jab. Rift’s frame stiffened, his field suddenly coiled. 

“Something you’d know nothing about,” Rewind added coldly.

Rift didn’t respond. He just took a step back and nodded toward the doorway leading outside. 

“If you’re doing this, keep it fast,” he said. “The fight’s getting closer. I’ll cover the door.”

Then, without waiting, he turned and posted himself by the exit.

Tailgate glanced at Rewind, then raised his arm. Printed on the metal was the words BOMB DISPOSAL. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Leave it to me.” 

Chapter Text

Tailgate’s digits hovered above the bomb’s casing, optic ridges furrowed in concentration. Rewind knelt beside him, providing quiet instruction. 

Rift stayed by the door, listening for movement. His optics constantly scanned the surrounding area. 

“Y’know,” came a drawling voice from behind, “this is a dumb idea.” 

Rift turned just as Whirl swaggered into view, rotor arms twitching. Cyclonus followed behind him.

“Really dumb,” Whirl added. “But hey--at least you’ll die doing the noble Autobot thing, right?”

Rewind glanced over. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Just passing through.” Whirl tilted his helm. “Cyclonus and I took care of the ‘cons.”

“Hold on,” Rewind said, stepping back from the bomb. “Rift! Cyclonus! Whirl! I need some help in here!” 

Rift and Cyclonus stepped in, Whirl lingering in the doorway. Inside, Tailgate was a mess of panic and motion. “It’s started counting down! I can’t disarm it in time--there’s still propex inside!”

“He won’t leave!” Rewind exclaimed. 

“I can’t! ” 

Cyclonus didn’t waste time. He shoved past them, grabbed Tailgate by the arm, and threw him out the door.

The minibot hit Rift square in the chest. The force knocked them both out the doorway, and Rift slammed into the floor as his arm caught in the doorway with a sharp metallic crack. Pain shot up his side as his audials hissed with static and his optics glitched. 

“Was hoping to get rid of two Decepticon sympathizers today,” Whirl muttered as he pressed the button to shut the door. 

Clang.

The door slammed shut on RIft’s arm. Searing pain shot through his limb as metal crushed metal. His vocalizer glitched out half a scream. Frantic sparks flared from the joint where the door had pinned him. 

Inside, Rewind’s voice was frantic. “ Open the door! ”

“Doesn’t look like it wants to,” Whirl said lazily, starting to walk off. “Guess I’ll shoot it open in a bit. Maybe.”

Rift’s optics widened. He twisted, trying to yank his arm free, cables fraying as he pulled. The agony was blinding. 

Then, the explosion tore through the hallway, blinding light and smoke swallowing everything. 

The door was gone. So was Rift’s arm. 

And so were the two trapped inside. 

The hangar was loud with post-mission chatter, mechs being patched up, reports filled, armor scraped clean. Rodimus barely registered the noise. His helm pounded. 

Admittedly, being able to kill and take a bunch of Decepticons had made him feel better about Red Alert. In some twisted way.

He stood in front of the landing platform, arms crossed, proud of what they had accomplished. 

Chromedome was the first to sprint across the threshold, field panicked, clutching Rewind in his arms. 

“Medbay--now!” he barned to no one in particular, his voice breaking into static.

Rodimus blinked. “What happened?”

But Chromedome was already gone, vanishing down the corridor.

Then came Tailgate, staggering while dragging Cyclonus’s limp frame. There was energon smeared across his chassis, but it wasn’t his. 

Rodimus stepped forward instinctively. “Tailgate, what the frag happened down there? Why’s Cyclonus offline?”

“I-I don’t know,” Tailgate panted. “It was the bomb--he pulled me out and then the door shut and--Whirl was supposed to--” His voice cracked. “Rewind was inside, too.”

Rodimus’s tanks sank. “Wait- what?!”

“He tried to tell me it wasn’t safe,” Tailgate sobbed. “But I wouldn’t listen.”

Rodimus pressed a servo to his helm. “Where’s Rift?”

Tailgate hesitated. 

Rodimus looked up, sharp. “Tailgate. Where’s Rift?”

“I--he was with us but--Cyclonus threw me, and then I think--I couldn’t see through all the smoke--I don’t know!”

“ You don’t know?!” Rodimus’s voice rose, harsh and hoarse. “What do you mean you don’t know?!”

“I--I’m sorry--I have to get him help,” Tailgate stammered as he continued to drag Cyclonus’s frame to the medbay. 

Right as he left, someone else entered the hangar. 

All heads turned. 

Rift. 

His plating was scorched black along one side. His gait was uneven, dragging one pede behind him with a sickening scrape. And his arm--his entire right arm-- was gone. Shorn off at he shoulder. Exposed wires dangled from the joint, sparking weakly. 

He didn’t say anything. Just kept walking. 

Rodimus froze. 

Rift’s optics locked onto his, steady, even through the pain. And something in Rodimus’s chest twisted. 

Rift reached the edge of the platform. Paused. Then simply slumped against the wall, servo braced to keep him from falling. 

He swayed once. Then his legs gave out.

Rodimus surged forward. “Rift--!”

But Drift was faster. He caught Rift halfway to the floor, pulling him upright as gently as he could.

“Ratchet!” Drift shouted. “I need help here!” 

“I’ve got half a dozen bots with exposed internals,” Ratchet snapped, finally looking up. His optics locked on Rift’s collapsed frame and narrowed. “Is his spark stable?”

Drift hesitated. “...Yeah.”

“Then he waits.”

Rodimus reeled. “Wait? Wait?! He’s barely functional!”

Ratchet didn’t flinch. “And neither are the rest of them. He’s conscious, his spark’s fine, and I’ve got bots bleeding out in both corridors. Even First Aid’s overwhelmed.”

Rodimus’s vents flared. “But--” 

“But nothing!” Ratchet barked. “Either help keep him online or get the hell out of the way.”

Rodimus stared after him, jaw clenched. His vents hitched, sharp with frustration--but it wasn’t at Ratchet anymore. 

He looked down. 

Rift was barely conscious. His optics flickered, faint and unfocused, like he wasn’t fully registering where he was. 

Rodimus dropped to his knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly. 

“...Hey,” he said, voice low. “You look like hell.”

Rift didn’t respond.

Rodimus let out a shaky ex-vent. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. Back in the hallway.” His voice cracked around the edges. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Still nothing. Just the soft pulse of Rift’s field, dulled but steady. 

Rodimus let his helm drop forward, resting his servos carefully near Rift’s side. Close, but not touching. 

A shadow shifted beside him. Drift stood just a few paces back. “He’s stable,” he said softly. “Just let Ratchet get to him.”

Rodimus tapped his knees with a digit. “Yeah.” 

He felt Drift kneel beside him. He pressed softly into Rodimus’s side and gently laid his helm against his shoulder. 

“He’ll be okay,” he whispered. 

Rodimus just loosely curled his digits into his servo.