Drift (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sword_redemption) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
re_alignment_logs2012-09-13 06:03 am
sword_redemption) wrote in re_alignment_logs2012-09-13 06:03 am
Entry tags:
shadows and slip
Who: Drift
What: walkabout
Where: the Junk Pile
When: nowish
Warnings: weeaboo emo
He'd waited until Vandal had left. He'd heard her talking on the Link, and knew it was to Wing; he'd huddled in the oversized sweater she'd given him, the trailer slowly beginning to get covered in petals, like little pink rebukes. And then she'd left. He knew she'd tell Wing. He'd already heard her say too much. It felt like a promise broken. Something had broken, surely, he thought: he'd felt some hardness in his chest groan and crackle like an ice floe.
The trail is invisible for the first two miles, the light breeze stirring the petals, flurrying them far enough apart to not leave a straight trace.
After two miles, the trail becomes bloody. He'd stopped for a minute, staring, as the red ichor welled between the toes--not his toes, he still couldn't think of them that way. They were not him. The Junk Pile's jagged edges had had their way, tearing into the soles of the feet.
And then he'd walked on.
Primus wanted him to suffer; he would suffer. Primus wanted him to be thrust back into everything he hated, everything he'd run from his whole life: smallness, weakness, incapacity. It was like a taunt, that he'd never be able to escape his past: that part of it always hovering behind him, like a reeking shadow he couldn't get rid of, no matter how he washed himself in the light.
After another mile, he throws off the trousers she'd loaned him, the too-long legs flapping around his ankles becoming more and more intolerable. The bare skin was weak, fragile, but the trousers weren't much better.
He would suffer, he would be humbled. But he would not be a burden to anyone. He can't help anyone like this. Not even himself.
He turns his face up to the dark sky, the Lambda seeming to taunt him, unreachable and impassive, like the cities of Cybertron hulking, smug, over the gutters.
He brought no food with him, no water. He'd hated stealing in the gutters; he refused to do it now.
"I wanted her to be happy," he says, his voice raw with unsheddable tears. Because he knows what this is; the moment he saw the dress on the floor, he'd recognized it, knew where it had come from. And knew that someone had twisted his intent. Instead of making Vandal happy, it had made him pathetic and a burden. Primus was a warrior god; his punishments would be harsh and abrupt and awful in the truest sense. This felt like a sign of Primus's rejection; that he didn't want Drift among his ranks, not as a warrior, not even as a Cybertronian.
It was...shattering.
"What did I do wrong?"
Because it had to have been something. He had to have done something to deserve having his little simple wish for another's happiness be so corrupted. His spark wasn't pure, after everything.
The sky doesn't respond, just a breeze fluttering through the petals, mocking and distant and cold.
And he walks on, blood-shod, weak, and answerless.
What: walkabout
Where: the Junk Pile
When: nowish
Warnings: weeaboo emo
He'd waited until Vandal had left. He'd heard her talking on the Link, and knew it was to Wing; he'd huddled in the oversized sweater she'd given him, the trailer slowly beginning to get covered in petals, like little pink rebukes. And then she'd left. He knew she'd tell Wing. He'd already heard her say too much. It felt like a promise broken. Something had broken, surely, he thought: he'd felt some hardness in his chest groan and crackle like an ice floe.
The trail is invisible for the first two miles, the light breeze stirring the petals, flurrying them far enough apart to not leave a straight trace.
After two miles, the trail becomes bloody. He'd stopped for a minute, staring, as the red ichor welled between the toes--not his toes, he still couldn't think of them that way. They were not him. The Junk Pile's jagged edges had had their way, tearing into the soles of the feet.
And then he'd walked on.
Primus wanted him to suffer; he would suffer. Primus wanted him to be thrust back into everything he hated, everything he'd run from his whole life: smallness, weakness, incapacity. It was like a taunt, that he'd never be able to escape his past: that part of it always hovering behind him, like a reeking shadow he couldn't get rid of, no matter how he washed himself in the light.
After another mile, he throws off the trousers she'd loaned him, the too-long legs flapping around his ankles becoming more and more intolerable. The bare skin was weak, fragile, but the trousers weren't much better.
He would suffer, he would be humbled. But he would not be a burden to anyone. He can't help anyone like this. Not even himself.
He turns his face up to the dark sky, the Lambda seeming to taunt him, unreachable and impassive, like the cities of Cybertron hulking, smug, over the gutters.
He brought no food with him, no water. He'd hated stealing in the gutters; he refused to do it now.
"I wanted her to be happy," he says, his voice raw with unsheddable tears. Because he knows what this is; the moment he saw the dress on the floor, he'd recognized it, knew where it had come from. And knew that someone had twisted his intent. Instead of making Vandal happy, it had made him pathetic and a burden. Primus was a warrior god; his punishments would be harsh and abrupt and awful in the truest sense. This felt like a sign of Primus's rejection; that he didn't want Drift among his ranks, not as a warrior, not even as a Cybertronian.
It was...shattering.
"What did I do wrong?"
Because it had to have been something. He had to have done something to deserve having his little simple wish for another's happiness be so corrupted. His spark wasn't pure, after everything.
The sky doesn't respond, just a breeze fluttering through the petals, mocking and distant and cold.
And he walks on, blood-shod, weak, and answerless.
/RUINS THE MOOD HERE
And there she was, returning home with an extra can of peaches. Her last can of peaches that she'd stashed away to give to Drift as a thank you for being so patient.
She's gonna punch him in the mouth.
Okay maybe not. Especially not like this.
What if Prism got to him? The thought makes her sick. Fortunately he left a rather obvious trail. She stomps over the pink petals with a sense of purpose.
"Fuckin' dumbass samurai fucker..." She snorts, a little out of breath, "Can't sit still for like. Five minutes. Fuck fuck fucking fuck."
A pause, and-
Is that blood?
"FUCK!" One brief 15 minute sprint later, she sees him, off in the distance.
"DRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFT!"
no subject
"Vandal, you shouldn't have come after me."
no subject
Is he fucking kidding?
"Are you fucking kidding?!"
Drift doesn't really get any say in the matter, Vandal marches right up, grabbing him and throwing him over her shoulder with the intent of carrying him home by force.
"Seriously, what the fuck! I left to go see Wing, because he's one of three people that don't look like a mass of- of pus and shit and you bail?! Look what you did to your poor feet! And I'm not even gonna ask where your pants went!"
Uhg she just wants to shake him. She won't but the urge is there.
"How much will it take to get you to realize that you know. People love you and worry about you and if you just fuck off somewhere- looking like this, you're bleeding! God. I. Can't even."
She's literally shaking with a mixture of anger, worry and relief that at least she'd found him.
"Why?"
no subject
"I walked," he says, simply. That's what happened to his feet. He could feel the air stinging in the open cuts, his feet far above the ground.
"Vandal. This. I know what it is. It's a punishment. It has to be. I'm being punished." He squirms over her shoulder, then stops. It doesn't matter. "It's my punishment, though. I don't want you to risk yourself."
no subject
"Punished for what? You haven't done anything wrong. Except, you know. Fuck off like this and worry me out of my goddamn mind."
It's not terribly long to get back with her brisk pace.
"Who would even be punishing you? There's no such thing as-"
Well. Is she really in the place to say that now? Here? Given everything that's happened. But she was eager to embrace her loss of faith. Bitterness, maybe.
no subject
"I've done a lot wrong. From the first time I held a weapon. And if not Primus, who? Who even has the power to do this?" He gestures pathetically at the thin body, nearly lost in the sweater, the bony knees bent over Vandal's arm.
no subject
Vandal bristles. She's really not good at this. Her's is tough love. She's not really good at being soft.
"What about whatever brought us here? Or those fuckers who own the temples? Besides, you're not the only one. I don't think this has anything to do with you. For now, you need to calm the fuck down, let me take care of your feet and get you some new pants. Or maybe a more comfortable dress if you really hate pants that much."