☼ Wing ☼ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
winged_knight) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
re_alignment_logs2012-09-22 03:51 pm
winged_knight) wrote in re_alignment_logs2012-09-22 03:51 pm
[Semi-Closed] Shine Your Light On Me
WHO: Wing, possibly others: see notes below
WHERE: The Brave Police Headquarters
WHEN: A 1-2 week period, starting near the end of the pages event. Following this which follows this.
WHAT: After stalking Vandal and Drift in the Junk Pile, Wing wrests control back from his evil self and insists on being confined. He's been holed up in a holding cell in the Brave Police headquarters ever since. Even after returning to normal he insists on staying, and is there at least a week, refusing visitors (with only a few exceptions) and limiting Link activity.
WARNINGS: Dark, depressing things? Very mild references to implied/potential mental and physical abuse, dubcon/noncon, murder and other violence.
NOTES: This is mostly a narrative since Wing states he's accepting no visitors except Drift, though he can be convinced to see Ratchet and Blurr, and any of the Brave Police members can attempt to converse since it's their headquarters, (someone needs to make sure he refuels. D:). ;) If you want to find a way to tag into this though, just ask.
Feel free to tag on a specific day or anywhere in between, but give me an idea which since his mental state varies. ;)
Soundtrack: 1 (all mood, less lyric), 2, 3.
Day 1
He huddles, shed of weapons, in a cell of his own choosing. Tall flood lights stand outside the metal bars, creating endless artificial day. The light is harsh, but he welcomes it, because he feels undeserving of gentle things right now. He's curled in the corner, his helm in his hands, shaking with uncontrolled horror and revulsion at the storm of memories that swirl through his mind.
When it's late and the building is quiet, and he assumes--hopes--that there's no one around to be bothered, that's when he keens his distress. High and dissonant, it sounds like suffering, a sound he'd wish upon no one. But he must, it's a purging, because if he does not it'll only sour and poison him.
It's not that he hasn't seen darkness before. But now, it feels like it's in him. And though he's always known that all individuals have a little bit of darkness in them--are potentially capable of immoral things--being faced with his own living persona of that very thing in all its extremity...is beyond disturbing. It shook him to the core and he felt toppled, his grip loosed and his center lost.
Remorse? He has plenty over what he'd done. But beyond that, horror over what he knew he'd been capable of. What he wanted to do. Each time he came back to himself after an episode he remembered more and more. And the thoughts, the memories, wormed around within his mind close enough that they felt like they were his own.
The gleeful fantasies of Prism's murder... Fraternization with Overlord... Eagerly corrupting Kagerou... Taking advantage of and taming Blurr... The easy way he labeled Vandal expendable in the face of his torrid obsession with Drift, and the very things that obsession would have led him to do had Drift been himself...
Each is like a demon he has to face, not only because they haunt him, but because he knows it's the only way to be free.
Day 3
He sits near the window, staring through the bars at the falling snow, his communicator nearby. Wing's never seen snow before. He wishes he could be out in it, but right now, that would be a hollow, temporary joy. It's happenstance, running across Alpha Trion's message, given how little he'd used the Link in the last few days.
So now he knows the how of it all, which even for its frustratingly simple source, was still a comfort. McCrane had been good enough to field Wing's request to fetch his page and return it to the First Forged. (Wing was beyond being embarrassed by its contents now, all things considered.) The page returned, he's physically himself again at least, but the pall of darkness remains, like a shroud that's just been temporarily pulled aside.
Much later he feels the oppressive gloom finally lift, and when he asks for his Great Sword, he then knows it's true. The weapon's resonance feels pure and clean now, not laced with agitation and foreboding.
He's been told he can go, yet he stays. Wing needs his center, his Self, to be stable and ready, before he can put any kind of true strength behind an apology. And so he sits curled around his Great Sword, the gem warm in one palm as it presses against his cheek, his other thumb tracing the glyphs in the blade's fuller. This alone is some comfort, knowing the blade hasn't rejected him. This, at least, he hasn't broken or frightened away.
He still quakes with emotion sometimes, but it's no longer crippling. Each of the demons he faces, he pulls their ugliness into the light, and though he then knows them fully for what they are, they are diminished in the face of their own truths. He slowly takes each, recognizes it for what it is, tries to accept and then puts it its place. Because it's all a part of him now--that can never change--but to let these things flow freely through him, unmanaged, could corrupt in time, seeping into his foundations.
Day 6 - ??
He kneels, the Great Sword standing against the wall before him. His spinal struts are straight and tall, shoulders back, his helm bowed. Not even his pinions move as his cooling system passes slow, steady breathes through his vents.
The flood lights are now off, for he shall remain here, like this, until he fears the dark no more. Because despite all that we fail to be, all the mistakes we make and the regrets we have, in the end what matters is how we exercise the good in ourselves to make things right.
Wing is not certain he feels worthy to be with people yet, but he knows that when put in perspective what he feels and what is true are two different things. And that in itself leads to a revelation on many other levels, but especially when it comes to a very special person in his life. Now that he's climbed from the pit and stands at the edge, in a way he's thankful for this, the experience, because it brings him perspective he did not have before. He's not certain what to do with all these various other bits of new insight, but time will hopefully tell. And as horrible as Drift's experience as a human girl had likely been, Wing is thankful for that too, being well aware that it spared the one he cares for most from some of his dark counterpart's more dreadful and depraved intentions.
Healing is something that requires time, more so for the mind and spirit than the body. And though Wing still has much of it to do, and many amends to make, the stregnth to do so is gathering in him now. It's illuminated by hope and love and the simple desire to do better.
WHERE: The Brave Police Headquarters
WHEN: A 1-2 week period, starting near the end of the pages event. Following this which follows this.
WHAT: After stalking Vandal and Drift in the Junk Pile, Wing wrests control back from his evil self and insists on being confined. He's been holed up in a holding cell in the Brave Police headquarters ever since. Even after returning to normal he insists on staying, and is there at least a week, refusing visitors (with only a few exceptions) and limiting Link activity.
WARNINGS: Dark, depressing things? Very mild references to implied/potential mental and physical abuse, dubcon/noncon, murder and other violence.
NOTES: This is mostly a narrative since Wing states he's accepting no visitors except Drift, though he can be convinced to see Ratchet and Blurr, and any of the Brave Police members can attempt to converse since it's their headquarters, (someone needs to make sure he refuels. D:). ;) If you want to find a way to tag into this though, just ask.
Feel free to tag on a specific day or anywhere in between, but give me an idea which since his mental state varies. ;)
Soundtrack: 1 (all mood, less lyric), 2, 3.
Day 1
He huddles, shed of weapons, in a cell of his own choosing. Tall flood lights stand outside the metal bars, creating endless artificial day. The light is harsh, but he welcomes it, because he feels undeserving of gentle things right now. He's curled in the corner, his helm in his hands, shaking with uncontrolled horror and revulsion at the storm of memories that swirl through his mind.
When it's late and the building is quiet, and he assumes--hopes--that there's no one around to be bothered, that's when he keens his distress. High and dissonant, it sounds like suffering, a sound he'd wish upon no one. But he must, it's a purging, because if he does not it'll only sour and poison him.
It's not that he hasn't seen darkness before. But now, it feels like it's in him. And though he's always known that all individuals have a little bit of darkness in them--are potentially capable of immoral things--being faced with his own living persona of that very thing in all its extremity...is beyond disturbing. It shook him to the core and he felt toppled, his grip loosed and his center lost.
Remorse? He has plenty over what he'd done. But beyond that, horror over what he knew he'd been capable of. What he wanted to do. Each time he came back to himself after an episode he remembered more and more. And the thoughts, the memories, wormed around within his mind close enough that they felt like they were his own.
The gleeful fantasies of Prism's murder... Fraternization with Overlord... Eagerly corrupting Kagerou... Taking advantage of and taming Blurr... The easy way he labeled Vandal expendable in the face of his torrid obsession with Drift, and the very things that obsession would have led him to do had Drift been himself...
Each is like a demon he has to face, not only because they haunt him, but because he knows it's the only way to be free.
Day 3
He sits near the window, staring through the bars at the falling snow, his communicator nearby. Wing's never seen snow before. He wishes he could be out in it, but right now, that would be a hollow, temporary joy. It's happenstance, running across Alpha Trion's message, given how little he'd used the Link in the last few days.
So now he knows the how of it all, which even for its frustratingly simple source, was still a comfort. McCrane had been good enough to field Wing's request to fetch his page and return it to the First Forged. (Wing was beyond being embarrassed by its contents now, all things considered.) The page returned, he's physically himself again at least, but the pall of darkness remains, like a shroud that's just been temporarily pulled aside.
Much later he feels the oppressive gloom finally lift, and when he asks for his Great Sword, he then knows it's true. The weapon's resonance feels pure and clean now, not laced with agitation and foreboding.
He's been told he can go, yet he stays. Wing needs his center, his Self, to be stable and ready, before he can put any kind of true strength behind an apology. And so he sits curled around his Great Sword, the gem warm in one palm as it presses against his cheek, his other thumb tracing the glyphs in the blade's fuller. This alone is some comfort, knowing the blade hasn't rejected him. This, at least, he hasn't broken or frightened away.
He still quakes with emotion sometimes, but it's no longer crippling. Each of the demons he faces, he pulls their ugliness into the light, and though he then knows them fully for what they are, they are diminished in the face of their own truths. He slowly takes each, recognizes it for what it is, tries to accept and then puts it its place. Because it's all a part of him now--that can never change--but to let these things flow freely through him, unmanaged, could corrupt in time, seeping into his foundations.
Day 6 - ??
He kneels, the Great Sword standing against the wall before him. His spinal struts are straight and tall, shoulders back, his helm bowed. Not even his pinions move as his cooling system passes slow, steady breathes through his vents.
The flood lights are now off, for he shall remain here, like this, until he fears the dark no more. Because despite all that we fail to be, all the mistakes we make and the regrets we have, in the end what matters is how we exercise the good in ourselves to make things right.
Wing is not certain he feels worthy to be with people yet, but he knows that when put in perspective what he feels and what is true are two different things. And that in itself leads to a revelation on many other levels, but especially when it comes to a very special person in his life. Now that he's climbed from the pit and stands at the edge, in a way he's thankful for this, the experience, because it brings him perspective he did not have before. He's not certain what to do with all these various other bits of new insight, but time will hopefully tell. And as horrible as Drift's experience as a human girl had likely been, Wing is thankful for that too, being well aware that it spared the one he cares for most from some of his dark counterpart's more dreadful and depraved intentions.
Healing is something that requires time, more so for the mind and spirit than the body. And though Wing still has much of it to do, and many amends to make, the stregnth to do so is gathering in him now. It's illuminated by hope and love and the simple desire to do better.
no subject
He wants to examine Wing as he climbs, but he decides to accept the offered hand anyway. His main goal is the face, which Four wants to get close to to see what he can see there. Nimbly, he jumps off Wing's hip onto the hand, and stands near the center of the palm. He holds his arms up and makes a 'gimme' motion with his tiny fingers. Someone's eager to examine your face, Wing.
;u; Four! Y U so CUTE
Wing stops at the top of that chevron panels, the slope of which is gentle enough to stand on given the way the jet is sitting. Four should easily be able to make the rest of the way from here.
"Better?" Wing smiles, stronger this time than last. He's charmed by this little fellow, an odd contrast to recent events. Wing welcomes the change, however temporary it might be.
He just can't help it :<
The idea that someone might not actually want a dusty garden glove crawling into their mouth doesn't even occur to him. The idea that he might accidentally be swallowed or otherwise crushed doesn't occur to him either.
Sorry Wing, he just finds your teeth to be incredibly interesting.
NEVER STOP! ~<3
"Ahh--" is as much as the jet gets out before Four has upended himself in Wing's mouth.
He freezes, momentarily going stiff and still for fear of hurting or swallowing the tiny creation. And then he's momentarily struck by the intense amount of trust Four must have in him to do this. He supposes it might also be naivety, and then he also wonders suddenly if creations like Four had the same sense of self preservation as others did.
He hums two notes under his breath, the only sound he feels safe making, as it's granting permission in a way. As strange and awkward as this is--and wow, he never knew the curved plate of his dentae had much in the way of sensory surfaces, not to mention he's certain there's residue from the energon he consumed the previous day--he feels strangely honored to be the subject of such curiosity.
He'll just sit very, very still, hoping Four doesn't venture too far.
no subject
The teeth, or whatever it was that Cybertronians called them (he decided he'd ask later) were flatter and straighter than ordinary human teeth. What drew his attention was the tiny droplets of glowing liquid. Was this the energon that he had seen other robots talk about before? It must be, he couldn't imagine what else it could be. Curious, he scooped up a tiny drop in his finger and started examining it. Absolutely fascinating.
Deciding that he'd continue this examination another time, he tapped on Wing's teeth to let him know that he was about to crawl back out. There was nothing strange about any of this at all.
no subject
His jaw had relaxed slightly while Four went about his curious business, the tapping on his dentae making him realize this. He opens up again, trying not to twitch his glossa--no small feat since Four's movements are a bit tickly--so the small creation and climb out.
no subject
Like anyone with no sense of personal boundaries, Four reached out and poked Wing in the eye.
no subject
The roundness of his mechanical optic flicks towards Four as the stickpunk settles on his cheekplate, the petals of metal irising to focus on the object so near. It's a darker, round shape moving beneath the halo of golden light that surrounds it, the smooth amber plastiglass of the lens covering it marked with minuet chips and scratches. Beyond the sheen of the lens's reflective surface and the shine of the optic's steady glow lies a deeper, more intense, throbbing light, as if a reflection of Wing's very spark.
Something so close to his eye makes Wing a wee bit nervous. But he trusts Four, or at least trusts him not to be able to do any reasonable amount of damage. The poke is a bit startling and the jet goes rigid--halting the twitch of his frame and overriding the closing of his optic shutters.
"Do you like what you see Four?"