Deadlock grunts a affirmative; the closest he'll get to a thank you, hand ghosting over the new welds on his side. He still aches all over, his back especially, and he silently regrets the show of bravado when he threw himself into this chair. Moving a little more gingerly might be wise given he's only got battlefield triage and autorepair to rely on as far as getting himself fixed up.

"Don't worry about" Deadlock rolls his optics; it's far from reassuring. His autorepair will burn through fuel plenty faster than normal though, and that logic fights with his paranoia as he stares down at the second ration packet.

Speaking of paranoia, he's still not loving the idea of giving his name. But if he's known at all, if there's any bounties, he'll be loving the outcome of that even less.

"Drift." He finally grates out, same as he did for the other white and red mech, his voice harsh from an underpowered vocalizer. As much as he hates to admit it, the name is true again; he's on his own, cast aside, with dim prospects for his future. As if to wash the taste from his mouth, Deadlock takes another draw from his ration packet.