They'd gotten separated in the chaos of the battle. The things had been driven back. Or their group had retreated, led out amidst a nightmare daze, Wing is not entirely sure which. He remembers thanking Rose for her help and then insisting on finding Drift. He won't return without him, and Wing won't charge someone else with the risk either.

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?"