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.
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.