Mabaya 30: Regen (epilogue)

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW Mabaya AU
Deadlock/Drift, Perceptor, Springer
no warnings.
So, here it is, the end of the road for this story. Thanks for reading.

[Epilogue]

“Going to have to strap you to that fraggin’ berth, aren’t I?”  Springer frowned, as Perceptor moved, on shaking legs, past him. 

Perceptor said nothing, concentrating on the movement.  He knew his prognosis—he would recover. A few more treatments, a few more flushes of his systems would drain the last of the harmonic toxicity from him. It was just a matter of pushing through. 

And he had to see Drift. From the moment he’d awakened, in the repair bay of the Axion, he’d asked—or tried to—about Drift.  Even before his vocalizer worked, he’d tried to ram the syllables through, optics darting desperately around the room.  No one would tell him, and it was…killing him. How to live with that much failure?  What would be the point, to live, weak, defeated in spirit?   So he’d forced himself up, jerking two of the leads from his chassis, yanking a catheter from his coolant line, and forced himself down this hallway.

So different, everything, from his last memory—the Axion was clean and bright, buzzing with the chaos of the Wreckers.  Mabaya had been dark, dim, fogged with menace.  And through both, he walked, leaning heavily on the wall, hoping.  Hoping.

He stilled in the doorway to the CR chamber, his spark spilling over.  There, floating in the tank, head bowed as if in submission, limp, lax, hung Drift.  The tank’s nutrients had cleaned him, bathing off the stains of energon and coolant and lubricant, softening the edges of black char to a faint ghost of grey.  The systems were reknitting themselves, slowly, and as he watched, a fabricator slid down the outer edges of the tank, shooting a quick laserflash grid to record measurements for some new part. 

The damages were horrific, and Perceptor felt a flare of relief that he hadn’t had a chance to catalog all of them before.  He might have been crushed under the weight of despair.

But Drift, hanging, the vitals on the monitor pulsing steady and regular: it was the most beautiful thing Perceptor could ever remember seeing. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”  Springer, his rough voice mollifying, gentle. “He’s alive. You don’t need to see any more.”

“I do,” Perceptor whispered. “I do.” He wanted to see everything, to sit by the tank, to study Drift from all angles, record every movement, no matter how remote.  He’d stare at the steady pulse of the vitals, for that matter, taking strength from their sure rhythm, throbbing alive, alive, alive.

And free.  Both of them.

“When does he come out?”  Perceptor braced his feet, pushing away from the wall, balancing, carefully. The message clear: he would stand here, immobile, unmovable, until he got an answer.

“Supposed to come out yesterday,” Springer said.  He frowned. Drift wasn’t his favorite mech.  And repairs were not his forte.  He was going by the manual—the only time Springer ever went by the book.

“Let me look,” Perceptor said.  He pushed into the room, moving closer.

“Perceptor. I don’t think—you’ve done enough.” 

“No.” A flat hardness to his voice, a tone he hadn’t had before…before Mabaya. 

“You broke enough rules going after him on your own,” Springer said, throwing an obstacle at him.

Perceptor, if he’d had the energy to laugh, would have laughed the threat off.  Turmoil had broken that, too.  “Later,” he said.   He forced energy into his legs, moving to the tank.  He stared down at the readouts, and then up, Drift’s form floating, serene, in front of him.  Please, Drift, he thought. Please.  It will all be worth it, everything, if you live.  Come back to me.

Springer stepped closer, tapping the readouts. “See? Vitals say he’s fine, but….” He rapped the side of the tank with a knuckle. “Nothing. No response.” 

No response.  “To you,” Perceptor said, quietly.  Drift had responded, even in the depths of despair, in the torture chamber.  He turned his gaze to the tank. “Drift,” he said, his voice raw with emotion, laden with the memory of everything they’d been through.  He raised his hand, laying his palm on the cool glass, the barrier between them. “Drift.”  Nothing more. Just the name, calling, summoning Drift back from wherever he was.

And the optic shutters twitched, red lights glowing in the nutrient blue, blind, seeking, finally finding, focusing, on Perceptor’s face.  One hand moved, slowly, sludgily, a feeble, weak gesture, armor blown off, stripped so that Perceptor could see the actuators fire, reaching out, palm open. 

He heard a soft whine, realizing too late that it was his own voice, as the hand tapped the other side of the glass, shadowed against his palm. And when he looked up, the red optics glowed with mute, gentle gratitude.

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*GLOMPS THIS ENDING*
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