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Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
“Even in death, he chose life,” the Lunarian said. “Not my words, but the words of his long-time conjunx endura. So please, let us join Drift in paying our final respects to Ratchet of Vaporex.”
Drift gently deposited a vial of innermost energon next to the others at Ratchet’s grave. There were so many vials, vials from mechs he hadn’t seen in centuries. Ratchet would’ve brushed off the affection with a wave, but he would’ve been touched.
Drift missed the good times.
He missed soaring through the galaxy, barely escaping one disaster only to run headlong into another. He missed Rodimus and his ruthless optimism, Magnus and his stability, hell, he even missed Megatron.
He didn’t want the roof of Swerve’s to be torn off the Lost Light before they were done. He wanted one more day. A few more hours to sit at the bar and laugh with the mechs that had finally given him a home and loved him with everything they had.
He’d had a good life with Ratchet. They’d settled down on Cybertron, in a little apartment on the outskirts of Carpessa. Ratchet had set up another drop-in clinic — he couldn’t just retire; it wasn’t in his coding. Drift had helped however he could, which usually involved using his swords.
The rest of the funeral was almost a blur. He talked to Whirl and Rodimus. He promised to keep in touch, he thought… but it was hard to remember. It was hard to do much of anything with Ratchet gone.
He made his way back to Carpessa in silence. He didn’t want to take a shuttle — he couldn’t stand the interference of other mechs’ auras and EM fields right now — so he drove. His axels complained of the uneven and often dangerously sharp ground beneath his tires, but he didn’t care. He wanted to feel something.
It took him a few days to reach the run-down city. The lights in the clinic were off and the door was shut, a flickering datapad on the door professing the news of Ratchet’s death to his patients. It looked empty, so unlike the bustling, overflowing place it had been not a few weeks prior.
More vials of innermost energon lay at the doorstep from mechs who couldn’t make the trek to Rivets Field. Energon, spark flowers, datapads with extensive thank-you notes… Drift couldn’t bear to move it. It belonged there, like a memorial.
He transformed to make his way to the apartment by pede. His funeral attire billowed around him, the city eerily quiet. He hadn’t seen a single mech yet, almost as if the residents had known of his return and prepared to give him space. It was a nice gesture, but it was so unlike Carpessa.
The door to their apartment gave an ominous creak as he pushed it open. They’d needed to fix it for months, but with Ratchet’s condition failing, it had gone unnoticed.
Everything was how they’d left it. Excess medical supplies piled in the entryway, ready to be taken to the clinic. The weapons locker stood resolute, dusty and untouched since Ratchet had locked up their guns when they arrived. “We won’t need them here,” he’d said.
They hadn’t. The threat of Drift’s swords was enough to keep most mechs in line.
Drift didn’t want to touch any of it. Everything still smelled of Ratchet, of the clinic — medical grade energon, sanitizer, grease for aching joints — mixed with Drift’s incense. He didn’t want that to fade.
He took tentative steps towards the couch, as silently as he could, and sat. He removed the cloak over his shoulders and draped it over his arm, folding it with utmost respect, before placing it beside him. And finally, after nearly a week of silent mourning, he let himself sob.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
Drift cried his optics dry. He hadn’t had any energon since Ratchet had passed and he desperately needed to refuel. If Ratty knew I hadn’t eaten…
That kicked his aft in gear. He stood and grabbed a stray cube of medical grade, gulping it down and ignoring the bitter taste. There. Now Ratchet couldn’t complain.
He can’t complain anyway, you dumb leaker, the voice in his head reminded him. He’s dead.
Drift shook his head violently and walked to the only window in their apartment. The rest of the city was in the same state of disrepair it had been in since the war. He could see mechs beginning to return to work, construction crews repairing bridges and buildings, small trading hubs popping up at street corners.
Wind whistled on the other side of the transparasteel, soft ash falling from the clouds. This weather had always been Ratchet’s favorite. The ash blanketing the streets absorbed the sound of the city, bringing quiet to the medic's constantly assaulted audials.
To Drift, it just felt eerie. Like spirits were watching.
Maybe they are, the voice in his head reappeared. You don’t know.
“I do know!” Drift shouted to the empty room. “He’s gone. Leave me alone!”
The wind quieted to a gentle breeze, carrying less and less ash on its tendrils. It was abrupt and odd, like someone from the higher realms had heard him and calmed the weather.
“I’m sorry,” Drift muttered, turning away from the window to recharge on the couch. “I miss him.”
—
Drift tossed and turned in his recharge, much more than normal. He couldn’t get Ratchet out of his processor. His optics, his sarcastic grin, his authoritative shouts in the clinic, his soft touch on Drift’s servos and faceplates, his body as his spark faded, Drift’s processor ran through all of it. What was he trying to find?
— meeting halfway — his processor spit out in Ratchet’s voice — halfway —
“What the frag do you want?” he mumbled, flipping over, grabbing for another mech who wasn’t there. “Where are you?”
— half — half — his processor crackled. — what happens next — special — prove me right — I know — better person now —
Drift’s optics fluttered open. His spark pulsed hopefully, but he knew his processor was likely messing with him.
“Hold on, let me get something,” he muttered, stumbling to his desk. He grabbed a stick of incense, the scent Ratchet had always favored, and deposited it in the burner on the windowsill. He sat on the ground, facing the haze of dusk, and meditated.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
Drift opened his optics in a hazy, dream version of Necroworld, staring up at a statue of Deadlock. Spark flowers waved around his ankles. He always ended up here in meditations, but normally his consciousness didn’t remind him of his own mortality so soon.
“I guess I am dead in my own kind of way, aren’t I?” Drift said, dropping his optics to his pedes and ex-venting.
Not as dead as me, kid
Drift spun around, expecting to see Ratchet. All he saw was the wind, toying with the spark flowers once again, almost chuckling. What else had he expected?
Come on, kid, I’m right here. Just look.
The wind abruptly halted, almost staticky in its finality. Ash flickered around him, blipping into existence like pixels on a datapad, falling silently on non-existent wind.
“Ratchet, if this is you, please —” he started, but cut off as he stumbled backwards, his vision warping and shifting as the spirit played with his processor.
Drift, open your optics.
Drift hadn’t even realized he’d shut them. Acid rain seemed to fall around him, but he didn’t feel any telltale stings on his armor. He was on the street outside the clinic, but it was different. No datapad hung on the door. No memorial stood on the step. The light in the office was on — and someone was inside.
Drift’s engine lurched. If this was Ratchet’s way of communicating through the veil, he was one hell of a dramatic spirit. Not like Drift had expected any less.
He opened the door.
“Ratty?” Drift called, his vocalizer resetting and knotting in his throat. “It’s… it’s time to go home.”
Hold on— Ratchet’s voice grunted, carrying the way spirit’s voices always do, warbling and surrounding Drift from all sides.
Drift stood rigidly still as the spirit wandered out of the office, into the hall, towards the doorway — until Ratchet appeared from around the corner, flickering and transparent, but there.
Hey kid, I’m trying to figure this out, Ratchet said, approaching Drift as if nothing was wrong, tapping at the datapad in his hand. I’m trying to find a way to reverse this— this age-related burnout. There’s gotta be something. I know I’m probably on my way to the scrapper or the Well or what have you, I don’t know and I don’t care, but I figured if you were as spiritual as you always said you were… if I reached out, you’d hear me.
Drift stared at the specter, speechless.
Is that really how you’re gonna greet your conjunx, Drift? Tsk, I expected better of you, Ratchet teased, a playful glimmer in his optics. That broke him.
Drift rushed to the medic, pulling the whispery figure into his arms as tight as he could, sputtering a sob into his shoulder.
“How in Primus’ name did you figure out how to call me?” he cried, hugging the not-quite-there armor under his grasp as if it would fade if he let go — and, to be fair, it could.
It wasn’t that hard, Ratchet shrugged. All I had to do was reach out and you knew.
Drift laughed between the sobs.
“I told you to believe,” Drift pressed his helm to Ratchet’s, staring deep into his empty, hazy blue optics. “How can you not believe in higher realms now?”
Still don’t, still won’t convince me, Ratchet shook his helm. I know I’m dead, but your theories are still far-fetched.
“They’re not—!” Ratchet shut him up with a kiss, gentle yet insistent. Like normal. Drift ex-vented. “Okay. What are you trying to do?”
Ratchet grinned, narrowing his optics.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
Drift awoke tucked into their shared berth in the wee hours of the morning, a heat tarp resting on his armor. He bolted upright — this isn’t where I fell asleep, I wanted to leave this the way it was, the way it was before Ratchet — until his optics rested on the doorway to the living room, where a wavering, transparent Ratchet sat at their desk.
“R-ratty?” Drift whispered. “How—”
The medic turned around, flashing a mischievous grin.
You didn’t really think I’d stay dead long, did you? I’m too stubborn for that.
“You didn’t tell me what you were trying to do,” he stood, thankful that not-entirely-there-Ratchet had been kind enough to leave his swords resting near the berthroom door. He always ached when he slept with them on.
I was trying to figure this out while I was online, too, Ratchet said, still tapping away at a datapad. When have any of the Lost Lighters let death stop them?
Drift stood a few steps away from his conjunx, trying to compute what was happening. He believed in higher realms, spirits, and a lot of other things Ratchet often dismissed as junk, but this was something he hadn’t dealt with before. Normally, the spirits he met in the higher realms stayed in the higher realms, but Ratchet… Ratchet was still here.
“I mean… we’ve seen a lot, that’s for sure,” Drift shrugged, still trying to figure out how the hell Ratchet was here. “But this is definitely… new.”
What do you mean? Ratchet raised an optic ridge. You talked about communing with dead mechs and spirits all the time. Don’t tell me that was a lie.
“No, no!” Drift said, meeting Ratchet’s questioning gaze. “That’s not it at all. I just… normally, the spirits I meet stay… y’know, in the realm they came from. How did you?... What happened?”
Ratchet leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
Let’s see. I woke up in the clinic. I thought I had just had a long night, but when I went back home, you were holding my body. Guess I passed in my sleep. I tried to get your attention, but you couldn’t see or hear me. I went back to the clinic and kept researching, trying to find a way to reverse age-related burnout. I figured I had to replace parts or something, I just had to find what.
Drift nodded. Ratchet hadn’t seemed perturbed by his diagnosis when he’d found out, only shrugged and sighed, muttering a word that escaped Drift’s audials. He’d secluded himself in the office of his clinic, going over datapads and digging through files to find answers for a question Drift didn’t know. Whenever he hadn’t been locked up in the office, he had been treating patients and cuddling Drift.
I saw you come back from the funeral and figured maybe you’d be able to hear me if I tried again, so I followed you back home. I don’t know what I did that got your attention, but I sat in front of you while you were meditating and you mumbled responses. At some point, you collapsed onto me because you hadn’t recharged for a few cycles too many. I brought you to berth and started researching again while you slept.
“So, you… you weren’t in Necroworld? Or the clinic?... You were here the whole time?”
Yeah, I was here. Necroworld? What the hell are you talking about? Is that why you mumbled about being dead?
Drift stuttered, heat rising to his faceplates. He’d never mentioned how his meditations went with Ratchet before, the medic would’ve waved him off as insane.
“Y-yeah… I usually end up seeing Necroworld when I meditate. The spirits like to show me Deadlock’s statue. That’s when I started being able to hear you,” Drift scuffed his pedes on the floor.
You never mentioned that to me before. Why didn’t you tell me?
“… thought you’d think I was crazy.”
I always thought you were crazy. But you’re *my* crazy mech and I love you.
Drift haphazardly smiled, ex-venting a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held in.
“Love you, too.”
I am in the flowers that bloom.
I am in a quiet room.
“So, what have you found so far? Is this reversible if we find you a body?”
Possibly, yes, Ratchet said, turning back towards the desk. Check out this datapad. I downloaded most of my research onto it before I passed. Hoped you’d find it when you went through the clinic, but you never did. I'm still around anyway, so — Ratchet waved the datapad in Drift’s general direction — here.
Drift took the datapad and opened it. There were hundreds of bytes of data, ranging from medical studies and police cases to rumors and religious ramblings.
“Ratty, there’s stuff on here from Crystal City Mystics… what—”
I know, I know, don’t start, Ratchet grumped. I was trying to compile everything, regardless of what I thought. I had hoped you’d be able to make sense of those.
“I mean, I can try,” he opened a file at random. “I never talked to any of those mechs, our ideals didn’t exactly… align…” His vocalizer gave out as he read the statements. The recording had the usual mystic speak about astral travel and higher realms and life after death, but there was one psychic who mentioned this exact situation — half a conjunx endura pair dies of age-related burnout, retains sentience after offlining, makes contact with his partner — but the report never finished. It hadn’t been updated in solar cycles.
“Ratchet, this… someone else has experienced this,” Drift re-read the file. “But they didn’t finish the report. We have to go find them.”
Ratchet raised an optic ridge. Or we could continue researching and find the answer here. Why do we have to get other mechs involved?
“Because…” Drift wasn’t sure. He was pulling this proposition out of his aft. “Because it’ll be like we’re on the Lost Light again! It’ll be an adventure!”
How do you know these mechs are still online? You said they haven’t updated the report.
“I just know it,” Drift said. “I can feel it in my circuits.” He could see Ratchet’s form vibrating and pixelating in and out of existence from annoyance.
I will agree to this ridiculous… quest… Drift snickered. On one condition.
“Anything for you, Ratty,” Drift cooed, sickeningly sweet, purposefully annoying his conjunx at this point.
You can’t tell anyone else you can see me. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up before we can find a solution. You know how Rodimus would feel if he found out I was still around — I don’t think anyone else can see me.
“Of course,” Drift nodded solemnly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Drift stuffed the remaining datapads in his subspace. He’d purchased a small shuttle for the journey to Crystal City, just big enough to fit himself, the datapads they needed for research, the spare medical supplies Ratchet demanded he bring, and enough energon to last him a orbital cycle or so.
That everything? Ratchet leaned against the wall near the door of their apartment. You’ve already wasted three cycles packing. Let’s get a move on.
“Yeah, I just want to do one last check…” Drift looked around the room. He had no idea when he’d be back — and if he’d be back with his conjunx still in tow. “We don’t have Magnus venting down our necks with everything already prepared this time. It’s all on me.”
Correction: it’s all on us, Ratchet pushed off the wall and grabbed Drift’s servo. C’mon, Crystal City isn’t getting any closer with you standing there.
Drift nodded hesitantly and followed Ratchet out the door. Drift had already finished packing the shuttle. All there was left to do was leave.
The weather had been particularly beautiful that morning. Carpessa had shone in the brilliant light of dawn in a way Drift hadn’t seen in many, many solar cycles. The small memorial in front of the clinic had seemed almost joyous instead of a solemn remembrance of a mech who had reshaped the community. It encouraged Drift, in a way, but he couldn’t help a nagging feeling at the back of his processor.
“… I don’t know if I’m ready to leave yet,” Drift slowed his pace. “Maybe you’re right, maybe we should research here first.”
Drift, Ratchet ex-vented. Stop worrying about whatever it is you think you’ll find in Crystal City. We’ve both already been through the worst that could possibly happen. What more do we have to lose?
Drift pondered for a minute before nodding in agreement.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It will be okay.”
The mechs boarded the small shuttle and prepared for take-off.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.