/insert Linkin Park lyric here

[sword_redemption]

Who Drift and open?
Where badlands
What NDE
When Day 3 of badlands trip
Warnings none 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.

Comments

[winged_knight]

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?"

[eternallove]

It hadn't taken long for her to get used to being shoved suddenly by a force she couldn't see as the battle continued. It actually had helped in a lot of ways as it allowed her to move much more quickly then if she had only her own feet to rely on. It also had sadly helped her learn about just what exactly injuries look like on her new metal neighbors in this place.

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.