☼ 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_logs2012-12-08 01:31 pm
winged_knight) wrote in re_alignment_logs2012-12-08 01:31 pm
[NARRATIVE/OPEN] Still loving what's gone...
WHO: Wing, Drift's remains and anyone who happens by.
WHERE: Mostly at Vector's Temple in the altar room, but he might be encountered carrying the body between there and Tankceptor's lab.
WHEN: A little while after this. (Ultra Magnus's announcement.)
WHAT: Wing recovers the body of his lover, friend and partner then treats is accordingly.
WARNINGS: Exploring stage 1 and 2 of grief here, so a some Very Sad Things to follow. Reference to character death by burning, reference to canon character death, grief, denial, anger...If you're skevved by integration with dead bodies you might not like this?
NOTES:This is mostly a narrative ficlet (TL:DR I know, it's cool) but if people want to tag it they are welcome to. (took it down for a bit while I worked out some continuity concerns, but it's back now!)
SOUNDTRACK: Redemption | Aurora | I Grieve
It's a gruesome set of tasks, but Wing does it all lovingly.
Regardless of formality, Drift was a Knight, and he--his frame, his memory--deserved to be treated as such. He'd been doing his duty to his commander, and doing right by his friend. He deserved better than to linger in the cold, dark of some lab, forgotten and alone. Not for Wing's beloved, no.
And so the other Knight walks, stoic with purpose, the charred and mangled form cradled in his arms as he returns the body to the temple of their patron Firstforged. Vector Prime had saved Drift once, perhaps he could again? Or perhaps Drift's own stubborn tenacity would prevail. Somehow. Wing lays the body on the altar, reverently, gentle in ways one might not even expect for a living mech. He shuns away any Acolytes that approach unless they are very express with their intentions.
The Knight lays Two Pure For This World at Drift's side for now, considering the Great Sword for a moment. It feels different than his own, younger version of the sword, heavier with the wisdom of Drift's experiences. And brighter, he imagines, with whatever part of Drift stayed with the sword, same as Wing had, the Wing that gave his life for Drift and Crystal City. Now he considers, at least they were together again.
He sets to work then, preparing the body for a more graceful rest, or a more pleasant return, as Wing would like to hope. He performs it all with an active stoicism, a veil of calm afforded by the ritual, covering over deep wells of emotion. Deft hands move about cleaning the frame, wiping the soot away from the blackened plating, scrubbing away charred energon and blistered paint. He misses nothing for he knows this frame intimately. Nothing can be done for that which is melted and deformed by heat, but he can touch up paint and pose the body as if Drift were simply...resting.
Wing sings a lament as he works, an old, traditional tribute for which the Warrior's Gate in Crystal City was named, one that speaks of sorrow at the end of a long journey but pays homage to the peace one finds beyond it. The release from duty, the reward for long service.
He manages his task fine until he gets to the helm. The face, inanimate; the optics, dark and cold. Air hitches in his vents and he reaches up, lovingly, attempting to smooth way the ghosts of pain that linger on the silver features. Even now he tries to coax a smile from Drift's face, his own self appointed-duty, since the very day they met. Wing's own helm dips then, heavy, his forecrest meeting Drift's as quivering fingers stroke the sides of the pale face. Several soft kisses land on the still features, the last upon the slack mouthplates before he finally draws away.
The jet sits back then and stares, long moments stretching into even longer ones, thinking, hoping, the light in those optics might simply flicker back on again. As if he could will it into truth with the power of his own spark. And there's a moment, a brief flash of anger at the Great Swords and their creator, that he could use his own spark to hurt and not to heal, to take life instead of give it. How is that fair?!
As the moments pass with no such favor, no faith rewarding miracle, the more final it feels: Death.
Four days. It'd been four days, maybe...Drift wasn't coming back. Perhaps...perhaps Vector's state, falling in battle to Ramjet, would prevent him from saving the swordmech...
He chokes on the thought, realization creeping into the cracks of his denial, breaking it down into pieces too small to keep hold of. Wing falls then, sagging slowly over the ragged chassis with a pitiful sound, his cheek coming to rest over the Autobrand as he presses against the cold chestplate, willing, praying for some warmth beneath, some glimmer of hope.
They'd had precious little time together; there was so much left they could do, so many things they could be for each other. And why like this!? Was it some sick form of irony, balance righting itself: Drift, always branded the traitor, killed by his own commander. This wasn't how heroes were supposed to die!
And himself. Why had he waited? AGAIN. He'd never bared his spark to anyone before, none of his previous relationships had felt deep enough. He'd thought maybe, this time. This was the one. And now, the chance was lost. He regretted not acting before the battle at Crystal City, and Drift spent millenniums never knowing he'd been loved because of it. Now it was Wing's turn to bear the burden of missed opportunities, a future unrealized.
He sobs under the weight of it, air rattling angrily in his vents as powerful hands clench around emptiness. It shakes him, figuratively and literally, for a long while. The effort saps what remains of his energy, but he can't go back to his room, cold and empty as it is. Not with the memories of the time spent together. So he levers himself up onto the altar, heedless of propriety, and curls himself around the still white frame, one wing stretching protectively over Drift, and lies there, shuddering, until recharge overtakes him.
WHERE: Mostly at Vector's Temple in the altar room, but he might be encountered carrying the body between there and Tankceptor's lab.
WHEN: A little while after this. (Ultra Magnus's announcement.)
WHAT: Wing recovers the body of his lover, friend and partner then treats is accordingly.
WARNINGS: Exploring stage 1 and 2 of grief here, so a some Very Sad Things to follow. Reference to character death by burning, reference to canon character death, grief, denial, anger...If you're skevved by integration with dead bodies you might not like this?
NOTES:This is mostly a narrative ficlet (TL:DR I know, it's cool) but if people want to tag it they are welcome to. (took it down for a bit while I worked out some continuity concerns, but it's back now!)
SOUNDTRACK: Redemption | Aurora | I Grieve
It's a gruesome set of tasks, but Wing does it all lovingly.
Regardless of formality, Drift was a Knight, and he--his frame, his memory--deserved to be treated as such. He'd been doing his duty to his commander, and doing right by his friend. He deserved better than to linger in the cold, dark of some lab, forgotten and alone. Not for Wing's beloved, no.
And so the other Knight walks, stoic with purpose, the charred and mangled form cradled in his arms as he returns the body to the temple of their patron Firstforged. Vector Prime had saved Drift once, perhaps he could again? Or perhaps Drift's own stubborn tenacity would prevail. Somehow. Wing lays the body on the altar, reverently, gentle in ways one might not even expect for a living mech. He shuns away any Acolytes that approach unless they are very express with their intentions.
The Knight lays Two Pure For This World at Drift's side for now, considering the Great Sword for a moment. It feels different than his own, younger version of the sword, heavier with the wisdom of Drift's experiences. And brighter, he imagines, with whatever part of Drift stayed with the sword, same as Wing had, the Wing that gave his life for Drift and Crystal City. Now he considers, at least they were together again.
He sets to work then, preparing the body for a more graceful rest, or a more pleasant return, as Wing would like to hope. He performs it all with an active stoicism, a veil of calm afforded by the ritual, covering over deep wells of emotion. Deft hands move about cleaning the frame, wiping the soot away from the blackened plating, scrubbing away charred energon and blistered paint. He misses nothing for he knows this frame intimately. Nothing can be done for that which is melted and deformed by heat, but he can touch up paint and pose the body as if Drift were simply...resting.
Wing sings a lament as he works, an old, traditional tribute for which the Warrior's Gate in Crystal City was named, one that speaks of sorrow at the end of a long journey but pays homage to the peace one finds beyond it. The release from duty, the reward for long service.
He manages his task fine until he gets to the helm. The face, inanimate; the optics, dark and cold. Air hitches in his vents and he reaches up, lovingly, attempting to smooth way the ghosts of pain that linger on the silver features. Even now he tries to coax a smile from Drift's face, his own self appointed-duty, since the very day they met. Wing's own helm dips then, heavy, his forecrest meeting Drift's as quivering fingers stroke the sides of the pale face. Several soft kisses land on the still features, the last upon the slack mouthplates before he finally draws away.
The jet sits back then and stares, long moments stretching into even longer ones, thinking, hoping, the light in those optics might simply flicker back on again. As if he could will it into truth with the power of his own spark. And there's a moment, a brief flash of anger at the Great Swords and their creator, that he could use his own spark to hurt and not to heal, to take life instead of give it. How is that fair?!
As the moments pass with no such favor, no faith rewarding miracle, the more final it feels: Death.
Four days. It'd been four days, maybe...Drift wasn't coming back. Perhaps...perhaps Vector's state, falling in battle to Ramjet, would prevent him from saving the swordmech...
He chokes on the thought, realization creeping into the cracks of his denial, breaking it down into pieces too small to keep hold of. Wing falls then, sagging slowly over the ragged chassis with a pitiful sound, his cheek coming to rest over the Autobrand as he presses against the cold chestplate, willing, praying for some warmth beneath, some glimmer of hope.
They'd had precious little time together; there was so much left they could do, so many things they could be for each other. And why like this!? Was it some sick form of irony, balance righting itself: Drift, always branded the traitor, killed by his own commander. This wasn't how heroes were supposed to die!
And himself. Why had he waited? AGAIN. He'd never bared his spark to anyone before, none of his previous relationships had felt deep enough. He'd thought maybe, this time. This was the one. And now, the chance was lost. He regretted not acting before the battle at Crystal City, and Drift spent millenniums never knowing he'd been loved because of it. Now it was Wing's turn to bear the burden of missed opportunities, a future unrealized.
He sobs under the weight of it, air rattling angrily in his vents as powerful hands clench around emptiness. It shakes him, figuratively and literally, for a long while. The effort saps what remains of his energy, but he can't go back to his room, cold and empty as it is. Not with the memories of the time spent together. So he levers himself up onto the altar, heedless of propriety, and curls himself around the still white frame, one wing stretching protectively over Drift, and lies there, shuddering, until recharge overtakes him.
THUNDEROUS POUNDING OF A STAMPEDE OF TEAL DEER
But this time, he hears singing, painfully beautiful and sad. His spark seems to ache in response, as though pulled on to some destination that he realizes he so desperately wants to go.
He can't speak, he can't move: he can only lie, under the sweet poignancy of the song, the voice that haunted him like a bright thread of gold glimmering in the fog. It seemed to quench the maelstrom of memories: burning betrayal, heat and failure and loss. They wouldn't swing into focus, always darting just out of the edge of his understanding. But they were wild birds, fleeing before his slow progress, as he moves, or seems to move, toward the music, the melody a sweet, glowing path before him.
....
....
And slowly, he wakes, and instead of light and music and warmth, he finds only cold and dark silence. It feels like despair, cobwebby and damp, like he's done something wrong, missed the mark.
He struggles to rise, his limbs slow and heavy and unresponsive, as though weighted under sand. A word works to form in his vocalizer, so distant from the song, but a soft, plaintive note, pure longing, pure want, as he stumbles down the steps of the dais.
/GRABS IT BY THE ANTLERS AND...get's carried away. Oops?
And now wearily he returns, his steps even heavier than before, the weight of another death clinging to him, that of a mech who could have achieved greatness. He moves through the foyer of Vector's tower, regretting for the first time the choice of a room so far up in the heights of the building. There's nothing preventing his flight...other than the hollow of joy's lack that secretly powers it for Wing. And so he walks, eventually passing through an archway, intricately crafted, and looks up, confused. His feet have carried him back to the altar room, and he realizes it was his destination all along.
Long blades of starlight stretch over the darkened room from tall, vaulted windows. One cuts the dais in two, blanketing the flat surface of the altar, cold and...empty.
It's then that Wing hears it, a plaintive sound, calling, the resonant note reaching to wrap around his spark. His gold optics widen, brighten as they cycle open to penetrate the darkness. Then, movement on the shadowed dais, flecks of orange accompanied by two of a brighter blue: not the reflection of glowing stars but the silhouette a living, moving Cybertronian body.
A keen slips out of Wing, chasing a gasp, and tentatively he moves forward, hoping, praying that this is not his woebegone imagination.
teal deer rodeo?
He pulls himself upright, even though he's still wobbling, and forces something like a lopsided grin on his face.
"...told you I had a reason to come back."
If that's the case I think I'm the clown. XD
When the figure shifts and a shaft of starlight falls on Drift's helm and that lopsided grin, it's the most brilliant thing Wing's ever seen. An incandescent joy blooms within him, spreading across his face like a sunrise. Tentative steps become broad and then hurried strides as his feet hasten to close the distance.
It's practically a leap--in fact a bystander might even call it that--and is fairly careless of Drift's current wobbly state. The jet makes a passing attempt at keeping them upright, quite possibly failing, because really he's more concerned with throwing his arms tightly around Drift's neck with a chirr of delight so loud and bright it could light up the room.
His wings flutter loose from their fold mountings as he buries his face in the other's neck, loosing in incoherent sob. "You did."
No I think that's Drift.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. It's...it's not how I wanted it to be."
It might be them both...
If Wing could embrace Drift with every limb he has, then he would, and the squirming, wiggling thing he's doing seems an awful lot he's trying, making balance a precarious thing. His hands pull back to grip the sides of Drift's white helm: Wing wants to see the light in that face and place a hard kiss on that mouth. He pushes his helm against Drift's in a hard nudge with another pleased chirr, while his hands roam Drift's frame, swift feathering touches, but demanding, needing reassurance, that all the horrible damage is gone and everything is as it should be beneath his palms.
It's like an assault of felicitous affection. Possibly a little ticklish, maybe a bit improper, very probably looking altogether ridiculous. But Wing has not care in the world for such things in this moment.
"No...but you're here now."
no subject
"I am." And he wants to prove it to Wing, and to himself, through every possible sensor array, touch, sound, smell, sight, everything.
He doesn't know what else to say, so he says nothing, knowing how fragile every moment is between them.
This could turn into porn real fast. ;)
Wing finally calms a little, realizing he's making a scene with his exuberance, not that there's really anyone around to witness. He laughs at himself then, a merry sound that rings through the vaulted room without a single micron of regret.
He settles into the perfect circle of Drift's arms, one hand over the broad chestplate. Wing wants it proven as much as Drift does, trailing kisses down the buccal armor and jawline.
"Missed you," he whispers between kisses, "it's only been five days, but...felt like forever."
i think almost every interaction of theirs can x_x
"Five days...," he murmurs, his hands stroking down the flightpanels. "It's so long. I can't imagine..."
I confess it's a reoccuring game: "How many ways could this thread become porn?"
The jet chirrs quietly into Drift's neck at the strokes to his wings. "I...I hope you're well," There's a soft chuff of warm air against the dark neck cables as he smiles. "You certainly feel well."
that would be a big number
Accurate to the amount of sex they probably have.
"Are you sure?" He knows Drift likely isn't fine, who would be? But then he's not really looking for a serious answer, he's just trying to lighten the mode and should his appreciation. He grins, mouthplates warm against Drift's cheek. "Maybe I need to check again."
LOL obviously this is BEFORE Drift starts the rodeo XD
Thundercracker was out hunting. Finally, he was in his element. Finally he had purpose. For pretty much the first time since arriving on this forsaken rock. It wouldn't last long, he understood that, and he fully respected the horror that surrounded what was happening. He couldn't relate to any of it . . . but he did recognize it. For both the Glyphless and for the Marked who had friends among the Glyphless.
Still . . . it had to be done. Even the First-Forged knew of no way of "saving" these people, so why prolong everyone's suffering? To avoid too much conflict with the likes of Ultra Magnus (and, not that he'd admit it, out of deference for Blurr and wanting to work with him instead of against), he'd cuffed some of those he'd come across. But he'd killed more than he'd cuffed. It was his way, the way of Decepticons, but just as importantly in this case? It was, plain and simple, more humane in his mind.
His hunts had been taking him far and wide, alert for anything out of the ordinary. And the sight in the distance of one mech carrying another with such solemn and heavy grace was definitely out of the ordinary. He approached, wary . . . until he saw who it was. He couldn't begin to identify the charred, twisted mess, but identity - and the obvious, deep grief - of the other actually made his spark sink.
He closed the distance further, maintaining a respectful space, before attempting to get the mech's attention.
"Wing."
~<3!
The sound of another flyer is hard to miss, but even so it takes him a bit to notice the seeker's approach, as lost to numbness as he is. He looks up, thankful for the sound of his name in passive greeting: he's not certain he could deal with confronting an enemy.
"Thundercracker." His face shifts in a pleasant way; it's not a smile, but it still shows a certain gratification at seeing the seeker. He is, understandably, not as talkative as he usually is.
\o/
And Thundercracker is not normally a talkative mech on a good day, so that works. With the recognition, and no obvious rejection of his company (wanting to be left alone, for instance), the Seeker closes the rest of the distance, drawing up by his . . . yes, by his friend. And this close, he can make out enough of the other mech to hazard a guess as to who he was. Thundercracker had never personally actually met Drift, but he knew of the mech . . . and of his close relationship with the noble flyer.
He vents a heavy sigh from his cooling fans, shaking his head. He won't offer condolences – he knows how empty they are, especially when the grief is this fresh. "What happened?"
no subject
Wing's gold optics shutter and reopen slowly, cycling a restive sign through his vents. "One of the glypless, his...former commander. Rodimus. I...don't know many details." Not specifically, not with clarity, only what the experience was like. The pinions flanking his nacelles twitch with the memory.
no subject
no subject
He changes his grip slightly, arms stiff and the flow through his lines sluggish, yet he's still careful to shift so the white helm lolls against his shoulder. "It's quite far..."
no subject
no subject
Even before everyone started their unfortunate habit of ditching him in some way -- Kiriskai, Deckerd, Knock Out, Ratchet, whoever -- Gunmax has never been very good at comforting or coddling. He's too rough, too wild. He believes in standing on his own and letting it be that.
But that doesn't mean he ever turns his back on those that need it. It's just that he's not good for much else, and it doesn't help that he feels immensely bitter in general anyway.
Still, he eventually approaches, stepping into the temple. Gunmax peers down the hallway to the altar, watching Wing's mourning.
He clenches a fist. Somehow, he and Drift ended up just not communicating much anymore. Maybe things just have been harder since Deckerd left, or. Or something. But it hits that Drift's dead, too.
At best, he can see him and say something.
"Yo, Wing," he calls out, watching how the Knight is laying protectively over the charred, unmoving body.
no subject
For one delirious, sleep-filled moment he thinks maybe it's Drift calling his name. But immediately after he knows it's a wish and not reality, Gunmax's manner of speaking easily recognizable.
Wing shifts, drawing himself reluctantly away from the body, the fantasy of warmth touching the plating where he'd been in contact with it. He slips off the altar, composing himself as he turns to the detective.
"Gunmax." Wing nods, surprised to him but not reluctant, his gesture inviting the other forward.
I hope this is alright. And not too late. TTATT The Muse kind of demanded he be here...
Oh, sure, there were all those cartoons and comics and movies, yeah. But nine times out of ten, those things never delved into things like this. And really, he wouldn't have trusted them to give any true insight into the way things really worked, anyway.
His inadequate knowledge was what held him back at first. He wanted to help, it wasn't right that the bot had to perform the task on his own, especially not when everything he did had the obvious weight of someone who was mourning one of the most important people in their lives. There was a reason so many cultures across the Universe had set aside roles specifically for the preparation of the dead. It allowed those closest to the deceased to separate themselves from the unpleasant tasks and mourn properly.
But at the same time, he knew that it was foolish to step in and make assumptions on something like this based on his own and the other cultures he'd studied. Did the Cybertronians prefer to allow those in mourning to care for the deceased personally? Was it a task reserved for one individual? Was he even supposed to be here for this? He just didn't know, and it frustrated him.
He was almost about to turn and leave, distance himself from the ritual lest he overstep some unknown cultural taboo, but then the large mech began to sob, and curled up next to the body, and it was just more then he could take. He stepped forward, concern on his face as he stopped at the foot of the alter. He never could leave well enough alone when someone was suffering.
"Let me help." And almost reluctantly, "I mean...if it's allowed?" Bloody Hell, it was hard enough just admitting he didn't know. He was supposed to be the clever one!
Bring me all the muses!
Wing is a bit too lost in the moment to notice the newcomer, until the words are spoken. His helm lifts off Drift's chest, and for a moment he's uncertain as to the source of the voice. Shifting away from the altar, he sees him, the human called the Doctor, concern plain on his face.
There's something comforting in the offer. It's not the assistance he values the most, but the offering of it. Helping another is the highest calling one can aspire to. Wing had lived by those words for multiple millennium and it's a comfort to find, in a moment such as this, the favor returned.
And, because it's something to dispel the creeping feeling of being alone.
"Yes." His weary face warms a little. "If you like."
It might be a little bit difficult for the Doctor to ascend to the top of the altar, so Wing puts out a hand. Obviously he's done this before.