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_logs2013-07-31 04:25 pm
sword_redemption) wrote in re_alignment_logs2013-07-31 04:25 pm
Entry tags:
/insert Linkin Park lyric here
Who Drift and open?
Where badlands
What NDE
When Day 3 of badlands trip
Warningsnone lol wtf am I saying, OF COURSE THERE'S ANGST
The stillness of this place makes it hard to tell how much time has passed. A klik? A cycle? Every time he blinks--which seems to take forever, too--the sky is the same murky color, barely distinguishable from the dark, jagged terrain of the badlands.
He can feel it, too, in his audio, in his mind, the whispers scuttling like turbo rats used to, back in the gutters. All those voices, identical and different, like a whole host of enemies, strangers, friends, leaning in close to breath on him the rank breath of his failure.
Because that was what it had been: another failure. Another and another and another. It seems every good thing he'd tried to do since he'd gotten here had failed, had gone awry. Everything except...Wing.
And Primus knows where Wing is, now, and he hurts too much to move, the drain of the Sword has taken too much from him. He can barely lift his head, and when he tries to shift, his hand slips in the puddle of energon spilling from his rent chassis.
He wasn't afraid of dying. He'd never been afraid of dying. But now, even at the last, the part that hurts more than most of those is how this--his death--will hurt Wing.
The jet deserved so much better than that, so much better than him.
"...I was just...trying to help." And this is what it's come to, in the end. Trying to help. And failing. He lets the lids close over his optics, falling into the darkness.
Where badlands
What NDE
When Day 3 of badlands trip
Warnings
The stillness of this place makes it hard to tell how much time has passed. A klik? A cycle? Every time he blinks--which seems to take forever, too--the sky is the same murky color, barely distinguishable from the dark, jagged terrain of the badlands.
He can feel it, too, in his audio, in his mind, the whispers scuttling like turbo rats used to, back in the gutters. All those voices, identical and different, like a whole host of enemies, strangers, friends, leaning in close to breath on him the rank breath of his failure.
Because that was what it had been: another failure. Another and another and another. It seems every good thing he'd tried to do since he'd gotten here had failed, had gone awry. Everything except...Wing.
And Primus knows where Wing is, now, and he hurts too much to move, the drain of the Sword has taken too much from him. He can barely lift his head, and when he tries to shift, his hand slips in the puddle of energon spilling from his rent chassis.
He wasn't afraid of dying. He'd never been afraid of dying. But now, even at the last, the part that hurts more than most of those is how this--his death--will hurt Wing.
The jet deserved so much better than that, so much better than him.
"...I was just...trying to help." And this is what it's come to, in the end. Trying to help. And failing. He lets the lids close over his optics, falling into the darkness.
no subject
He's overextended himself though, and it's caught up with him.
His restless feet pull in the direction his spark leads, weary like every other inch of him, the pulse of that spark slow and erratic, weakened by the Great Sword's use. He's not sure how he's doing it, walking. He's just focused on that one little prickle in his spark, a stitch of pain coming through the old sword's link. Drift's pain. He uses it like a tether, pulling him along one step at a time, the rake across his spark keeping him awake. The call has no way to compete, not now, not with his mental fortitude and meditative discipline so focused. It's a different, deeper, calling that draws him to Drift, and Wing will answer no other until his love is found.
He doesn't know how long it's been. Time here is deceptive, a lie, like the way the sky mimics the gray of the ground. It's not until he gets close, the tip of his sword dragging on the ground, that he looks up. The mass of white on the ground stills him and his vents catch, he wobbles, clinging to the sword, trying to see through the haze.
His vocalizer crackles, but out comes a name regardless, "...Drift?"
no subject
He stirs, briefly, optics fluttering open. It's a mirage, a delusion, that thing you see that last moment before you die, he thinks, the apparition of Wing, almost luminous in the darkness.
But he wouldn't imagine Wing looking like that--exhausted, drained, hurt. And he tries to say the other's name, but the only sound is a soft whine of pain, a hand twitching toward the jet.
is he on his back or belly?
His feet find speed, somehow, inspired by a fierce dedication shaped by love, and he rushes to Drift's side, staggering slightly as his balance goes. He falls to his knees beside the fallen swordmech, grateful to let gravity do some of the work, into the purple spill of vital energon. His hands shake and his flight panels rattle as he takes in the sight, the damage, a hand covering Drift's outstretched one with a squeeze. The other searches for his face, fingers gentle on the faceplates, "Drift. ...Drift please! Are you with me? Please. Please say you are..."
Part of him says he'd know it, if Drift were gone. But he wants, needs, to hear the realness of it, to give him hope. Because hope makes miracles.
sideish? bc why decide
"....fine," he breathes. It's not entirely a lie: now that Wing's here, he pushes himself to feel better. He tries for a smile, which fails. "Sorry." For everything. He's tired of failing, at the only thing he's good at. Or thought he was.
I read that as sidedish... and that sounded porny?
"Shh, don't. Perils of life." Especially in this place, though he leaves it unsaid. "You tried where others wouldn't have." Wing had seen the other swordmech run off after Dirge. It's the reason he hadn't followed, that and the monster he'd been engaged with at the time. He doesn't know what's happened to the other flier, but it's far from his mind now.
He's not sure where the medics are, slightly separated from the group as they are. He's more worried about the spill of energon and that it's growing still. If he could get that stopped it'd buy him some time to find someone with more capable hands.
"Let me take a look," with a gentle hand on Drift's hip and one under his elbow, he rolls Drift slowly onto his back, trying to stifle the catch of air in his vents at full sight of the wound.
no subject
So when she managed to pick herself up and noticed the spilled energon she was already worried and fretting to herself as she had learned as well that her magic didn't have as much of an effect on them as it did on Laharl. She just hoped that what little she could do would help in someway and that whoever it was she was going to run across would be able to hold on until they could get them to someone like Mister Knock Out.