Wing's one small cautionary thought--that this might be a trick of the Badlands, a trap to capture and lure him away--dissolves with that agonized keen.

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.