"Who's the new guy?" Air Raid asked one day.

A winged mech had just walked past their table. At the time, Silverbolt hadn't known either; an oddity, considering he was the Aerial Commander and there weren't that many flyers to begin with. They watched the stranger get his ration and leave.

But his question would be answered soon enough. Apparently Prime forgot to contact them beforehand - in reality, Prowl told them, he must have misplaced the memo - but it would hardly make a difference if he had.

The mech was assigned to their team.

A newbie? Seriously? Last time Air Raid checked, he and Silverbolt and Jetfire's trine - emphasis on trine - worked just fine. They weren't in the business of training noobs, that was Ironhide's job. Surely there were other squads that could have taken him. Air Raid checked, Prowl must have made a mistake - but no, he didn't. The stoic Second in Command simply told Air Raid when he stormed his office that he assigned mechs where best he saw fit, and that if the bomber disliked it so much, he could take it up with Ultra Magnus.

Naturally this failed to satisfy the testy aerialbot. In life and especially war, there was a certain need for balance; a balance the unknown quantity that was their new "teammate" threatened to disrupt. And then to add insult to injury, Draft was assigned to their trine's quarters.

Thanks to Air Raid, that lasted about a day.

Most mechs were bunked in the barracks at random, but Command had been kind (wise) enough not to randomly assign trines. Silverbolt wasn't sure what Air Raid said to Draft, or what Draft subsequently said to Prowl, but by the next orn they were all forwarded a second memo that detailed Draft would no longer stay in their quarters.

Strange. Silverbolt didn't know where else they had the room to put him - unless it was with the grounders in the barracks (shudder).

But he noticed being booted from their quarters didn't have an effect when it came to teamwork. Draft followed orders the same, whether he was living with them or not. He seemed to care where he bunked even less than Air Raid. In fact, it was actually kind of funny, Jetfire confided in him over energon. How Draft's willingness to be on the team only made Air Raid madder.

"I've noticed it too."

"You have?"

"His...enthusiasm? I'm not sure how else to put it." Silverbolt confirmed, taking a sip of his ration. They were in the rec room. "I can tell he's throwing everything he has into our drills. He pushes himself."

"Maybe he wouldn't push himself so hard if Air Raid wasn't such an aft. Think about it."

Silverbolt thought about it. "This is Air Raid we're talking about."

Jetfire rolled his optics. "Yes, but he's not usually like this. He ignores him half the time, and the other half won't shut up about his accent."

Silverbolt definitely knew what he meant by that. Anytime Draft decided to stick around after practice (which was rare), Air Raid wouldn't. And Draft did have an accent, when he deigned to speak more than two words at a time (which was even rarer). For the life of him he couldn't place it.

It certainly wasn't Vosian.

"What do you think of Draft?" Silverbolt asked.

Jetfire hummed a little. "Well, besides that way he talks, I don't see what's wrong with him. I'm sure he'll make a decent teammate."

"No no, what about him? Doesn't he seem kind of...weird to you?" Silverbolt mentioned. Not that he was taking Air Raid's side. To him the whole assignment felt sort of off.

His Trinemate shrugged. "Maybe. But we hardly see him outside of practice - I don't know where the bloody Pit he gets off to in his free time."

That was another oddity to add to the mystery of "Draft". For all his seeming eagerness to join them, he never hung out with them off duty. Maybe he was shy? If that was the case, Air Raid's attitude certainly wasn't helping. Maybe the mech was simply avoiding him. But that wasn't right - they were teammates!

"So is st-st-stuttering stud coming, or what?" Air Raid laughed at the next practice. Draft would be the last to arrive. Slingshot elbowed him.

"Here he c-c-comes now."

"Knock it off you two," Silverbolt growled.

Air Raid ignored him. "Hey crankcase, you're late!"

"On time." Draft coolly replied, a slight wing twitch the only give away of annoyance.

"Being early is on time and being on time is late, kid."

They were having a joint training session with two of the other aerial squads today. Slingshot and Air Raid tended to egg each other on, much to Silverbolt's everlasting annoyance, and the commander hoped they wouldn't be like this the whole time.

"Alright, let's begin." Silverbolt said, getting all nine mechs' attention. "We haven't sparred in a while, so we'll start with that. Everyone pick a partner."

"Good thing there's an even number of us." Air Raid commented loudly. Silverbolt and Jetfire glared at him in unison, while everyone else found a sparring buddy, but Air Raid just gave them an innocent look. Of course he hadn't meant it like that. If course he had.

Jetfire purposely paired up with Draft.

"Please don't actually try to kill each other," Silverbolt snorted before they all got started. "Or Ratchet's going to kill me."

That got some chuckles around the room. Draft's optics got comically huge as he and Jetfire circled each other, and he blurted, "What?!"

"He doesn't mean literally. Oh, I forgot, since you're new and all. Ratchet's based in Iacon - if you haven't met him yet, don't worry, you will." Jetfire chuckled. Did Draft seriously think that?

He feinted but the other had enough sense to block. Once more looking for an opening, Jetfire decided to press his luck. He was a scientist, Draft was an enigma. Scientists tended to solve those kind of things.

"I take it you're a transfer? Prowl wasn't too specific on the details."

That was probably it, as anyone green wouldn't be put on the leading aerial squad. But what he really wanted to ask was why the mech's public file was empty.

One thing at a time, Jetfire, Jetfire thought to himself, as Draft swiftly evaded another attack. He doubted the guy was the kind to spill his life's story. The empty file thing was curious, though. No one (that he knew of) had a completely empty file. What, up until now did he not exist? Jetfire bet there was an interesting story behind that.

Draft frowned. "S-Something like..th-that."

"I'm hearing a lot of talking from you femmes and not much fighting." Silverbolt called to the room in general, though he was looking at Slingshot and Air Raid when he said it. Jetfire nodded to himself, and immediately began a flurry of offensive kicks and punches in earnest.

Amazingly, he found he couldn't land a single hit. His shorter opponent made dodging his grabs look easy; it was more like they were doing a jerky dance than fighting. How was this little slagger so fast?

"I see you're skilled in the ways of dodging," The scientist joked amiably. "But lets see you attack."

...Perhaps he shouldn't have said that. Jetfire distinctly remembered thinking 'oh-no' at the mech's sudden shy, excited expression (it was kind of adorable), and the next thing he knew he was on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

Alrighty then.

"Hey hey, what did I just say?!" Silverbolt snapped, the loud BANG from Jetfire colliding with the floor making several people pause.

"A rhyme?" Someone else said.

An orange and grey mech that had been grappling with his partner next to them eagerly clapped his servos. "Whoa, that was so cool! Will you teach me how to do that? Do it again!"

Draft just blinked at the unsolicited request as his sparring buddy got off the floor. "Let's...maybe not do that again...Fireflight," Jetfire wheezed, catching his breath.

"No no, I'm with Fireflight on this one." Skydive, who'd partnered with Fireflight, said. He was always one for new techniques, new tactics. They looked expectantly at Draft who started to look uncomfortable at the attention.

Sensing this, Jetfire got back into his fighting stance. "I was joking mech, it's fine," he said. "Lighten up."

Less eager to fight than before, Draft nodded. "I, uh, s-sure."

Draft got back in position. At an unseen signal, Jetfire attacked him again, this time going for a quick uppercut. Only to be unceremoniously tossed back on the floor.

Oww.

"Interesting." Was all Skydive said, though he was very interested. What fighting style was that?

"Nice one!" Fireflight praised at Jetfire's expense. "How did you get him to fall over you like that?"

"Umm," Draft nervously laughed, rubbing the back of his helm. "His w-weight. I used...against h-him."

Draft's smile at the compliment somewhat faded, and Jetfire wondered if it was because he was aware he had talked kind of weird just now. Now that was a thought, the jet pondered. No wonder Draft didn't talk much, if it embarrassed him. Could he not control his weird pattern of speech? Was it some kind of glitch?

Fireflight didn't seem to notice it. "Ooh, ooh, spar with me! Do you mind, Jetfire?"

"Not at all." Jetfire said, while in the background Skydive hung his head. Really, Fireflight?

Draft and Fireflight sparred the rest of the time, but Fireflight was nowhere near getting the strange technique down like he'd hoped when Silverbolt called it a day. He had to have been tackled/thrown down like a hundred times!

"What's so funny?" Silverbolt asked Jetfire as they exited behind everyone else. Normally after an exercise involving several teams, everyone would stampede to the rec room to hang out and generally be a nuisance.

Jetfire nodded towards the front of the group, where Fireflight was animatedly talking to (more like at) the clearly more conservative Draft. The difference in their demeanors was astounding.

"I think Fireflight just made a new friend."

It was getting late. Draft sighed, putting his datapad away. Time among his fellow Cybertronians seemed to move more slowly; he felt like he'd been gone a couple of months, yet according to his calculations, it was only Christmas time back home. Maybe that was because the people here didn't sleep as often.

Christmas.

The thought depressed him. How were his parents doing? His sister, Haley? Or his friends at the university? They wouldn't even know he'd been taken off world. Were they searching for him? He would definitely miss the big going-away party Beck hosted every year the day after finals, before everyone left for the holidays.

/Where are you? It's getting late./

/Do I have a curfew now too? I'll sleep when I feel like it./ Draft spat at his "guardian" over the comm, in English, just to spite him.

/If you want to recharge in the hallway, be my guest, because I'm locking the door in a quarter of a joor. And what did we talk about?/

Draft had to admit, he was tired. Today's training had been fun but rigorous.

/Fine/ Draft growled, signing off and getting up. Oh how he hated him. If he wanted to stay up all night sulking, it was nobody's business but his own. He made it the long way back to the officers' quarters and absently knocked on the appropriate door, forgetting Cybertronians didn't slap doors with their knuckles to signal their arrival.

"That's not how you ask." Came the muffled reprimand through the door. Scowling at its polished surface, Draft sent the room's occupant a ping like he knew was wanted. The door opened. Ultra Magnus fixed him with a stern look.

"You're late."

"I'm on t-time."

"Being on time is late." The Autobot's official unofficial fourth in command said as Draft slipped past him. Draft thought he remembered Air Raid saying something like that earlier.

"I was busy."

"You do not use that language in these quarters," Ultra Magnus corrected, narrowing his optics as he lumbered after him. "Busy doing what?"

"The readings?" Draft said, defiantly still in his native tongue. He held up the datapad Ultra Magnus had given given him as homework. It contained history documents, math lessons, and other such things a mech his age should know by now.

Ultra Magnus sighed. "The more you use that primitive language, the more difficult assimilating Standard will be."

"It's. Not. Primitive." Draft hissed, flopping down on the main room's couch.

Ultra Magnus stood in front of him, equally as stubborn. At least they had one thing in common. "Yes, it is." He growled. "It's so simple a scraplet could learn it."

"Your language is just complicated."

"It's your language too! Just like Cybertron is your home. Forget what those meat-sacs taught you, you're where you belong now, and you'd better start acting like it. That was deal."

Draft abruptly rage-pitched the datapad at Ultra Magnus, who neatly caught it, before hopping over the back of the couch to get away from him. Not the most polite conversation stopper, but he hadn't exactly had a good day. First dealing with the likes of Air Raid (God that guy just wouldn't quit!) and pretending like he knew what he was doing, and now another lecture about how he wasn't trying hard enough? Please. He shouldn't have to be trying at all.

"You do not throw things at people. Get back here."

"No!"

Draft stomped to "his" room, locking the door behind him. He knew he was being childish and only proving Ultra Magnus's point, but at the moment he was too irked to care. This may be his room for now, but it would never be his home. His war.

"Open the door, Draft." Ultra Magnus's muffled voice drifted through the door.

"Go away!"

"Youngling, I order you to open this door."

Draft scowled at the wall, determined not to get off his berth and let him in. He wasn't a fucking youngling either. He was twenty years old, for crying out loud!

Eventually Ultra Magnus gave up with a stern and muffled warning that he would learn to respect his elders. Draft laid down on his berth, for the millionth time aching (literally) for a mattress or at least some pillows or a blanket or something. Not that he technically needed them. He wasn't that soft. And since he was made of metal, his frame didn't need a cushy material to sleep on like his family did. But it was what he was used to, and he missed it. Regardless of necessity, any mattress would have beat the metal slabs Cybertronians called a bed by a mile.

And he fell asleep, aching for home.

Hello! Just had this little plot stuck in my head.