Yeah, the Leading Light has seen better days. Drift's been taking care of it about as well as he's been taking care of himself, which admittedly isn't all that well, and close up, now that they've stopped, Deadlock might notice the scratches and small dents Drift hasn't bothered to buff out. His mouth almost twitches into a reflective smile at Deadlock's huffing, because it's so odd, catching Deadlock -- himself -- being so predictable, but he suppresses it to just a flicker of light in his optics. He opens the shuttle hatch and heads in, gesturing for Deadlock to follow him.

"You telegraph it, you know," Drift says, and this isn't a lie but it is a misdirect, because he doesn't think this is quite the best time to mention who he is just yet. "It's all in your body language and your aura. You're alone and injured, and it makes you feel vulnerable, and it's not a feeling you like, so you're hostile and looking for the quickest exit."

He comes just shy of saying you're predictable, and maybe he said too much -- maybe he let himself wander a little too close to the truth, because this is just so fragging weird and disorienting, and he doesn't understand what's really going on, what's the point of this. He thinks about Wing again, captured by the slavers, and he pulls a small first aid kit and some of his admittedly limited energon rations out from a compartment.

"I can't do anything about your optic, but I can close up that fuel line and weld over the breaks. Then you'll at least be able to stabilize and get some fuel in you."