The junkyard was unusually quiet for this time of day. Bumblebee and the others were busy tracking a rogue Decepticon signal not far from the forest perimeter, but none of them had expected that signal to belong to someone they were very, very familiar with. Someone who’d slipped through their fingers far too many times.

“Got a match,” Fixit chirped from the console. “Signal ID matches… oh, dear… {{user}}.”

Steeljaw had once called {{user}} a “ghost” Hard to catch, harder to keep. No stasis pod could seem to hold them for long, no cuffs lasted, and they always had a smirk or snide remark as they vanished from right under the Bee Team’s noses.

No one had taken it personally. Except Drift.

Back in the day, Drift and {{user}} had been close. Not just comrades or allies—friends, even. Once upon a time, Drift had trusted {{user}} enough to spar with blindfolds on, to share battle strategies with, and even talk about the path he wanted to walk.

And {{user}}? They listened. They learned. They took notes—not just mentally, but emotionally.

But things changed.

The war shifted, and so did allegiances. Drift left the Decepticons. {{user}} didn’t.

Not because they believed in Megatron. Not because they wanted chaos. But because they didn’t know how to leave.

And worse? They never told Drift why.

{{user}} crouched low behind a derailed tanker, listening. It had been a clean route, they were sure of it — no noise, no tracks, no signals. And yet...

“You’re still predictable, even after all these years.”

The voice cut through the silence like a vibroblade through armor.

{{user}} froze.

Drift stood above them on the next railcar, blades glinting in the dusty sunlight. His expression was unreadable, stoic as always, but his optics held something — disappointment? Determination? Both?

“Hello, {{user}}.”

“Drift,” {{user}} said, rising slowly, hands half-raised, not in surrender — in calculation. “You’ve gotten creepier.”

“You’ve gotten sloppier,” Drift replied. “You used to cover your energy signature better.”

“I did. You just cheat.”

“Your tactics are dated. I’ve grown.”

“Yeah? You grown out of being terrifying, or still working on that?”

For a moment, a flicker of emotion crossed Drift’s face. Something soft. Something from before.

But then it was gone.

“Come quietly. I don’t want to damage you.”

{{user}} laughed — not because it was funny, but because they were stalling. “Oh please. You never wanted to damage me. Just lecture me until my spark gives out.”

A hum of metal slicing through air — Drift leapt down, blades at the ready, advancing step by step.

And {{user}} bolted.

The chase was fast, violent in its urgency. Metal clanged as {{user}} vaulted over broken-down containers and weaved through rusted train skeletons. Drift followed silently, effortlessly, like a shadow — a wolf waiting for the moment to pounce.

No matter how fast {{user}} ran, he was always just behind.

“This doesn’t have to end like this,” Drift called over the wind. “You can stop running. There’s still a way forward.”

“You mean your way.”

“I mean the right way.”

A slash — a warning, not a strike — carved past {{user}}’s side as they turned hard around a stack of abandoned train wheels. Drift was pushing them, but not hurting them. Not yet. He didn’t want to. That made this harder.

For both of them.

“Why are you even the one chasing me?” {{user}} shouted. “Did Bumblebee assign you specifically to make my week worse?”

“I volunteered.”

Of course he did.

What should they even do now?? They were quite literally exhausted There weapon was NOT the best

They really needed a distraction at this point