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_logs2012-12-13 08:52 am
sword_redemption) wrote in re_alignment_logs2012-12-13 08:52 am
Entry tags:
Symbols and Signs
who: Drift and anyone who wants to?
what: Drift doesn't really do grief
when: After departing for the badlands again
where: the Arena
warnings: none
Megatron had always been one for symbols. He'd always understood that language was one weapon, but that symbols, physical and tangible, were another, one that spoke at a deeper register than mere words.
Mere words. What had Megatron done with 'mere words'.
Drift shakes his head, standing in the churned up ground of the Arena. He didn't know what he'd thought he'd find here. He didn't know what he'd thought he'd find out in the Badlands, either. Closure, peace, something.
All he'd found was bits of metal, stains of energon, and char.
The site where he'd been killed had been easy enough to find: he remembered their basic departure vector, and driven on, his tires finding the path with a haunting ease, until he'd come to the end: the ground torn up, bits of it blackened and blasted. This is where he'd died. This is where...it ended.
He didn't know--he couldn't remember--who had done it. Rodimus? Ultra Magnus? Each of them unbelievable, for different reasons. Rodimus was his friend--he'd thought. Ultra Magnus didn't kill. All he knew is he'd died here. Rodimus had died here.
Everything had died here.
He'd found what he'd thought he was looking for: a tiny scrap of metal, chromium gold. But it said nothing to him, felt only like metal and nothing more.
So he'd come here, next, where Megatron had died. It made sense: he'd died where it had all, in a sense, started--in an Arena, fighting for his life, his honor.
He found another scrap of metal, the matte titanium he remembered from all those ages ago, when Megatron had singled him out, picked him out of a crowd and given him a focus and a name and a destiny.
Two scraps of metal, one in each hand, leaders he'd followed, perhaps blindly.
It wasn't just a myth, that Decepticons, at least in the beginning, when they were recruited, not created, had their insignia formed from part of their spark casing. He remembered that, all too well. You forgot pain, but you never forgot that you felt it: he remembered that he'd sworn he wouldn't cry out, he wouldn't show pain.
He had. He'd screamed, fighting against the restraints, his body convulsed with white-hot agony as the small panel had been excised from his spark chamber's casing. And then he'd told himself that it was the end, the bleeding off of final weakness. That Drift had screamed, writhed, but that Drift had died there, and Deadlock had been born.
He'd thought at least Ambulon would have understood what he'd meant to do: an honor, a symbol, keeping part of Rodimus's armor, making it part of himself. Symbolism, probably childish. 'Till all are one' a little too literally. But no one understood and he had to wonder why he was the one out of phase.
This hurt, but in a different way, a pain that seemed to tear and gnaw, worse than the random flashes of fire and pain he had when he tried to recharge. And he had no idea who he was becoming, this time.
what: Drift doesn't really do grief
when: After departing for the badlands again
where: the Arena
warnings: none
Megatron had always been one for symbols. He'd always understood that language was one weapon, but that symbols, physical and tangible, were another, one that spoke at a deeper register than mere words.
Mere words. What had Megatron done with 'mere words'.
Drift shakes his head, standing in the churned up ground of the Arena. He didn't know what he'd thought he'd find here. He didn't know what he'd thought he'd find out in the Badlands, either. Closure, peace, something.
All he'd found was bits of metal, stains of energon, and char.
The site where he'd been killed had been easy enough to find: he remembered their basic departure vector, and driven on, his tires finding the path with a haunting ease, until he'd come to the end: the ground torn up, bits of it blackened and blasted. This is where he'd died. This is where...it ended.
He didn't know--he couldn't remember--who had done it. Rodimus? Ultra Magnus? Each of them unbelievable, for different reasons. Rodimus was his friend--he'd thought. Ultra Magnus didn't kill. All he knew is he'd died here. Rodimus had died here.
Everything had died here.
He'd found what he'd thought he was looking for: a tiny scrap of metal, chromium gold. But it said nothing to him, felt only like metal and nothing more.
So he'd come here, next, where Megatron had died. It made sense: he'd died where it had all, in a sense, started--in an Arena, fighting for his life, his honor.
He found another scrap of metal, the matte titanium he remembered from all those ages ago, when Megatron had singled him out, picked him out of a crowd and given him a focus and a name and a destiny.
Two scraps of metal, one in each hand, leaders he'd followed, perhaps blindly.
It wasn't just a myth, that Decepticons, at least in the beginning, when they were recruited, not created, had their insignia formed from part of their spark casing. He remembered that, all too well. You forgot pain, but you never forgot that you felt it: he remembered that he'd sworn he wouldn't cry out, he wouldn't show pain.
He had. He'd screamed, fighting against the restraints, his body convulsed with white-hot agony as the small panel had been excised from his spark chamber's casing. And then he'd told himself that it was the end, the bleeding off of final weakness. That Drift had screamed, writhed, but that Drift had died there, and Deadlock had been born.
He'd thought at least Ambulon would have understood what he'd meant to do: an honor, a symbol, keeping part of Rodimus's armor, making it part of himself. Symbolism, probably childish. 'Till all are one' a little too literally. But no one understood and he had to wonder why he was the one out of phase.
This hurt, but in a different way, a pain that seemed to tear and gnaw, worse than the random flashes of fire and pain he had when he tried to recharge. And he had no idea who he was becoming, this time.
no subject
Larger mechs didn't faze him: Turmoil used to dwarf him. Still there was something he felt compelled to respect in the mech.
"I'm too late for...a lot of things."