sunchime | [ open post: drift ]

It was a good plan! Grab some weapons, let the weird, unbranded loner distract the slaver creeps while Deadlock made a break for the ship. Not that said unbranded loner knew about the last part, but his grossly shiny-white and red deco sort of screamed use me as a distraction! ~~Deadlock sure found him distracting~~.

It would have been a great plan, except Deadlock miscalculated the strength of the slaver forces and the changing of guard shift on that ship.

He groans audibly, optics coming online to a small, darkened, space. Well, one optic anyway. Spiderweb cracks mar the other and his HUD flickers with static, a rash of red warnings reporting damage filling his view. He minimizes them with a flick of his head - rather wishing he hadn't as it sets his head swimming again - and his hands reach out to steady himself, easily meeting both sides of the tiny room he's in.

Deadlock ex-vents a frustrated growl. His joints feel stiff, like he's been in here a while, and his fuel is pinging low. His rations are gone as are his weapons. The damage to his frame is not extensive somehow, and he wonders just how the frag he ended up captured? All he remembers is pain an blacking out. He can hear muffled voices, the barking of orders and the sound of cargo being loaded.

"This one goes to base Red249 for parting out, load it last!"

Oh, slag. Deadlock tries to stand in a rush, getting his feet under him, but promptly slams his head into the ceiling of the room - no, the crate he's in - and curses vividly.

"Lemme ooout, fragggerszz!!!" His vocalizer breaks into static, obscuring half the words, and in the next moment his earlier question is answered. A hard jolt of energy courses though him then, and he howls in pain before passing out again.

Drift wasn't really sure what he was expecting to find or even accomplish by going back to Theophany. It was eons ago now that he'd met Wing here, that his entire life had changed. Crystal City has long since relocated and emptied again, but...for some reason it had felt important to come back here, in the wake of his exile. It seemed right somehow, to visit the place where his life had been irrevocably changed, where he'd sworn to do good with the second chance he'd been granted.

Except it hasn't felt like he's been doing much good lately. He'd let Prowl put Overlord on the ship -- he'd gone along the plan, even if he hadn't liked it, because Rodimus wanted to do it, and somehow, Drift is sure, that makes it even more his responsibility. He could have stopped Rodimus, maybe. He could have prevented the loss of life, the terror of Overlord's rampage. He could have saved everyone a lot of suffering. He knows he's changed his ways, joined the Autobots, tried his best to embrace Spectralism, but standing here alone, his chest bare, he wonders how much he's really changed. How much that change matters when the end result is still death.

The Circle of Light is gone, but there's still more activity on Theophany than Drift was expecting -- or hoping for. He grimaces when he recognizes the slavers from a distance, their operation apparently rebuilt to be just as robust as ever. Well, if he's going to try and make anything right, he might as well start here. It feels oddly like starting from square one all over again. Drift embraces that feeling and privately hopes that it means something.

Once he gets near enough to see that a fight's already broken up, he's shocked to recognize the instigators as Cybertronians -- he doesn't recognize them, not at this distance, but it'd be hard to mistake them for any other race. Drift shifts into his alt mode immediately, tires squealing as he races over the terrain to join the fight. But he's too far, and not fast enough -- he sees one Cybertronian run the length of his luck and wind up a captive of the slavers. The sudden sense memory of those last few moments before he'd blacked out and nearly been crushed to death his first time around on Theophany rises in his mind, and it distracts him long enough that he doesn't see what happened to the other Cybertronian. Doesn't matter. The slavers have at least one of them, and Drift can't let them just cart him off.

Drift's a lot better at stealth than he used to be, and he manages to get into the slavers' base undetected, tracking the crate they'd loaded the Cybertronian into to the loading docks. He's on his own, and even with his swords and his improved skills since he was here last, he's badly outnumbered. Maybe he can convince the other mech to help him free the rest of these slaves.

He leaps from the shadows and neatly flips over the dock workers to land on the hull of the small craft they're loading the Cybertronian onto. "I'll be taking this delivery, thanks," he says brightly, jumping into the open cockpit as the slavers start to sputter and fire on him. The craft is unfamiliar, but pitch, yaw and roll are universal, and Drift manages to fire up the engines and blast away from the dock at terrifying speed. If he can just lose the slavers and land this thing out of sight, he can free the captive Cybertronian and maybe get back to Drift's ship to regroup, make some kind of a plan. He just has to get that far first.

Deadlock misses most of the action; whatever device the slavers are using for compliance packs a brutal shock that even a Cybertronian system can't withstand. When he begins to come to, he's disoriented, thoughts disjointed and uncertain where he is or what's happened. Did it feel like he was in the air? What happened to those voices? Why are his limbs at such uncomfortable angles and why can't he rouse enough to move them?

He groans, softly at first and then more loudly, as he tries to fight for true consciousnesses.

It takes some maneuvering, but Drift manages to pilot the little cargo craft free of the slavers' pursuit and land -- if a little ungracefully -- in a small valley surrounded by hills. They'd be harder to spot from the air if they keep to the shadows.

Drift kills the engine and leaps out of the cockpit, his feet touching the hull briefly before he nimbly jumps to the ground at the rear end of the craft. It seems like the Cybertronian is the only live cargo they'd loaded -- somehow, Drift is a little disappointed that he'd only manage to save one life.

But it's still a life, and one of a fellow Cybertronian. Drift pops open the hatch and sees the crate shoved inside, some kind of security interface on the front to prevent tampering. "Just hold on," Drift says to the prisoner inside, though he's not sure the other mech is even conscious. "I'm a friend -- I'm getting you out of here."

He drags the crate out of the cargo craft with some effort, stares at the security panel until he's deduced that it's not going to explode if he pokes it the wrong way, then draws one sword to slice the front of crate clean off. It's faster this way.

With a clean slice through its hinges the crate's door falls away...and with it a very prone body that slums onto the ground, face down.

There's another groan, the mech's fingers twitching, shoulder paldrons sagged but shuddering as Deadlock's systems clearly try to compensate for so many jolts of energy in addition to the wounds he already had. The red glass of his cockpit is smashed and much of the kibble on his back is crumpled, old energon dried where someone clearly tried to stop energon loss by cauterizing fuel lines instead of patching them. The restraining bolt on his forearm looks a little worse for the wear as well, a little blackened around the edge.

Oh, hell. This mech looks in a really bad way. Drift could tell at a distance that the fight hadn't gone well, but this mech, he's probably going to need some kind of medical treatment. Drift's own skills in that area are limited. But at least he seems conscious...

"You're safe," Drift assures him, one hand going to his shoulder. He doesn't want to aggravate the other mech's wounds, so Drift does his best to turn him over without jostling him too much. "Don't worry, I made sure they didn't fol-- "

And his vocalizer abruptly sputters out as soon as he sees the other mech's face. Even as smashed up and damaged as it is, Drift would recognize that face anywhere in an instant. His own face, so many years removed. How is this possible? Drift's mind races, leaving him dizzy. In that moment, he is utterly speechless.

His HUD flickers, a field of static, but noises and a voice filter in through his audio. Survival instincts have him struggling towards consciousness now, knowing he's not alone.

For the last few moments his expression had been open, lax in his unconscious state and unmarred by the scowl that seems to hold him together these days, though the lines of suffering and anger are there, mapped to his face from centuries of use. Those features come to life as he groans again, that tiny bit of peace leaving them as he grimaces from his current pains. Red optics slowly come to life, the cracked one flickering fitfully, and the moment the static from his HUD clears and resolves the individual in front of him, he lurches backwards, reaching for his weapons.

Which are very definitely not there.

It all comes back to Deadlock a little too quickly, leaving him dazed all over again, but one thing is clear: he's got no clue who this new guy is.

"--the frag are you!?" He demands, voice harsh with static, mouth and teeth flecked with dried energon as he looks wildly about, trying to access this new situation.

That voice -- that's his voice. Different and the same all at once, still all too familiar. The deja vu is staggering -- but does it really count as deja vu when you're actually seeing yourself? Is this some kind of vision -- some test of his faith? But it seems far too real, from the way Drift's spark constricts in his chest to the heavy weight in his fuel tanks. He tenses automatically as Deadlock moves for weapons that aren't there, and it's still another moment before Drift finds his voice.

"I'm -- a friend," he says finally, holding up his empty hands, palm-out. There's a weird shiver in his circuits as that only intensifies the surreality of this moment. Hadn't those been Wing's words to him too, all those years ago? "Those slavers had you captive -- I hijacked one of their small cargo craft with you inside and hightailed it out of there. I've lost them, so don't worry -- just rest for now."

Deadlock doesn't look Cybertronian pancake-levels of injured, but his wounds are still pretty serious-looking. The last thing Drift needs is for Deadlock to aggravate them when they're out here alone. He hesitates, unsure if he really wants to ask -- but he has to know. He needs some confirmation that this isn't just some weird trick or coincidence.

"What's your name?"

The sudden movement cost him, the pain of his injuries coming to new life and at least one poorly clamped fuel line leaking anew. He takes a knee rather than rise, trying to stabilize and conserve energy, a hand pressing to his side where the fresh energon slips out a gap in his plating. It's deja vu all right, some other fancy white and red mech said the same thing to Deadlock just recently. When are they gonna get the picture? Deadlock has no friends.

"Tch. You sound like that other guy. He said he was alone. Fraggin' liar." Deadlock spits energon on the ground, his tone derisive. It's easier to focus on that contempt than the list of error reports or the the various pains in his body. His red optics narrow at the last question. He'd given his old name to the first mech - Wing? - because his current name certainly wouldn't gain him any favor if his reputation was known here. But it felt wrong, triggering old memories he'd long since wanted to forget, to put behind him. It was an ugly truth though: he was without a home again. It all felt so unfair, that after all his hard work and die hard loyalty these past millennia, to be shunted back to being that worthless loser and with no real progress to show for it.

"How's asking?" he growls bitterly after a long moment, reticent to accept that fate, hands clenching into fists as if he could fight it off with his bare hands.

"The mech who just saved your life," Drift says, his optic ridge furrowing. He's really hesitant to give his name to the other mech, not when this is all so...it's something. If he really is talking to his past self, or another version of him -- well, as much as he's tried to put Deadlock behind him, he still remembers what he was like back then. If Drift unnerves him too much, he might decide it's time to get the hell out of dodge and away from the badgeless Cybertronian who sounds too familiar and looks at him with recognition in his optics. Or fight him. If Deadlock's feeling cornered enough, he just might attack Drift.

Not that fight or flight is a serious concern right now with Deadlock's injuries. Drift drops to a knee in front of Deadlock, holding out a tentative hand -- those injuries need treating, or Deadlock's going to bleed out eventually. He frowns slightly, a twinge in his spark. That nagging feeling of deja vu persists.

"I'm not with him." There had been two mechs fighting. And if he's finding his past self here on Theophany... Drift feels that twinge again, except now it's more of an ache. "What was his name? What happened to him?"

"Didn't ask you to." Deadlock grumbles. It's ungrateful, but he hates owing strangers anything. Still, when was the last time someone cared enough to do anything positive for his well being? It's not a thought that settles well. This mech will probably want something for his trouble later, and who would have more to offer? An infamous gun toting Decepticon of command rank, or some loser loner nobody? It rankles, but that makes the decision for him it asked for his name again.

Deadlock draws back warily as that hand is extended, as if it carries some kind of goody-goody disease he might get infected by.

"Whatdya want?" he asks, skeptical, his paldrons creaking as they try to rise, making him look larger. Bleeding out is a very real possibility here, given his fuel tanks are near empty as it is. He relishes starving slightly less than going into stasis on some backwater desert planet surrounded by opportunist enemies and weird neutrals with unrealistic motives. Yeah, that's as good as dead really. He has zero supplies or fuel and though mugging this neutral - who keeps looking at him funny and sounds eerily familiar - for his stuff sounds like a great plan it diminishes in appeal when he considers his own injured state. And if this guy has fighting - no, dodging! - prowess like the last one then Deadlock's chances are slim.

Deadlock shrugs and looks away at the last question. "Dunno. Wing maybe? Lost him in the fighting." Intentionally. But Deadlock is not going to admit that unless he has to. "You sure look like him though. Could be his spark twin or conjunx or something." GROSS.

"A good friend of mine once told me that helping others is the highest cause you can aspire to." Has Deadlock already heard those words by now? Is it just going to make him more wary? No more than his name would, surely.

When Deadlock says Wing's name, Drift goes utterly still. This isn't how things had gone before -- does it mean something that they're different now? Drift pulls his hand back when Deadlock shies away, hackles raising, but his optics sharpen into a new kind of intensity.

"I'm not -- any of those things. What do you mean you lost him? Did you see him get captured?"

Okay, now things are getting surreal, too surreal, for Deadlock's taste. Did he get his helm bashed in? One too many angry headbutts? It's like things are happening all over again but with the details different. Deadlock presses a palm to his shattered optic, helm aching, as he wobbles a little. The catacylin had been pumping when he first woke, but it's starting to fade and the weariness is setting in. Energon seeps from between his fingers at his side, not as warm as it should be.

"Yeah, yeah whatever. Just go on your merry, aspiring way, I got nothing you want." He's got nothing anyone wants, as far as he knows. Deadlock shoves that thought brutally to the side though along with the very intense emotions that well up along with it. This mech has something he wants though. A ship. Maybe it has supplies? His survivalist instincts are trying to work a plan while his lesser self slowly churns with emotional turmoil.

"I don't know! He probably bailed when I--GUH.' Deadlock shakes his head, teeth gritted, trying to marshal together some composure, a story to take advantage of this mech, to get access to that ship, but he loses out to the storm of emotion. "Why don't you go find him instead, if you fraggin' care that much!"

Just abandon him like everyone else has.

I will, Drift almost says, the words almost leave his mouth, but he looks down at his past self -- still no name, but there's no denying it now -- sees the cooling energon puddling beneath him, his broken optic and the dozens of other aggravated wounds from the fight. He glances back in the direction of the slaver station, hidden by the hills around this valley. He has no idea if they really have Wing or not -- or if Wing's even still there. They could have shipped him out by now. Or not. Maybe he's still there. Maybe...

But Deadlock is bleeding out. Does he risk his past self's life on a gamble to maybe save Wing's? Or does he take the sure thing and hope he can catch up to Wing later? What would happen if he let Deadlock die? Would he cease to exist somehow -- would this paradox be resolved?

It's paralyzing, having to choose between himself and someone who never should have died in the first place. Drift would give his own life for Wing's own, no questions asked -- but this is different. Drift turns his gaze back on Deadlock, his face serious, but there's nothing hard about his expression.

"You asked me before what I wanted. What I want is to get you out of here and patched up before you bleed out on the ground." He holds out a hand again, this time an offer to help Deadlock up. "That cargo craft should carry us close enough to my shuttle. Come on."

Edited 2017-11-10 22:07 (UTC)

There's obviously some kind of dilemma this mech is struggling with. Deadlock's not too keen on they way the stranger is looking at him, but he watches warily for any signs of hostility, glad at least for the time to think, to regroup his thoughts, weight the options. Which are...very slim.

He looks warily from the stranger's face to the outstretched hand and back again. That face, oddly familiar despite the static in his HUD, with its cool,but not distant expression. Deadlock wants to ask why again, to prod for an answer more real than just charity, but if he pushes his luck the stranger may change his mind.

And then Deadlock really will be alone.

With a disgruntled rattle of his vents he grasps that outstretched hand, his grip stronger than the rest of him feels, and hauls himself up with an audible grunt. He wavers a little, trying to steady himself on uncertain feet, gyros spinning.

"Yeah? And then what?" Not one but two ships. Interesting.

Drift helps to pull him to his feet, holding on just an extra fraction of a second -- making sure he's steady, and just...trying to confirm that this is real. But Deadlock's hand is solid in his grip, just as real as the ground beneath their feet. Drift shuts the cargo hatch in the back and waves him over to the two seats in the front. Knowing himself, his past self, Deadlock would probably refuse any help, but Drift stands by just in case.

"Then..." Then what indeed. Go after Wing? Get Deadlock to the Circle of Light? Can he even do that without Wing to vouch for either of them? "Then I think you and I have some things to talk about. Let's go."

It's true. Deadlock would only accept help as a last resort, if he couldn't manage otherwise. And even then his pride would demand he try. Just because he doesn't relish the idea of solitary life, doesn't mean he doesn't know how to live it. He's had to develop a stubborn functional independence through the rigors of life. <

The way this mech looks at him, holds on a little too long, has Deadlock wondering what kind of new trouble he's getting himself into here.

Deadlock hobbles past the cargo crates, using them as support and taking a little longer than necessary to look for labels, trying to find out if there's anything useful in all these crates. Maybe there's a cargo manifest here somewhere? That might be giving the slavers more administrative credit than they're due though. He drops heavily down into the co-pilot's chair, leaving a small trail of energon behind.

"Yeah? Better be some energon and patch tape in there somewhere or it'll be a short conversation."

"I wouldn't be taking you back to my shuttle if I didn't think I could fix you up." He almost says save you, remembers just how much his past self would have resented something like that, and gives a quick shake of his head -- mostly to himself. He starts up the cargo craft and as soon as the engines hum to life, he's taking them out of that valley, a more roundabout circuit across Theophany to avoid being spotted by the slavers.

He's largely quiet for the duration of the ride, and relief washes over him once they come to his shuttle -- just where he left it, untouched and apparently undiscovered by anyone else.

"I've got some fuel and first aid supplies in my shuttle." Drift looks at his younger self, as guarded and paranoid as always, and he says lightly, "And if you're thinking about hitting me over the head and stealing it, I'd appreciate it if you didn't. I'm a lot faster than you are right now, and I'd really rather not add to your injuries."

He is trusting you, Deadlock. Weird, right?

Deadlock's optics flick over at his unexpected companion, his gaze uncertain and wary before they shift back out the window. This guy doesn't look like a medic but that didn't necessarily mean anything, even he himself had a few battlefield triage skills. It was just a basic survival skill in a war that lasted this long.

He holds his comments though, focusing instead on lowering fuel pressure and pressing down on that ruptured fuel line. His one working optic dims, diverting power to his autorepair, the weariness overtaking him.

Deadlock jerks back to attention when Drift speaks, cursing softly, because he'd never willingly go into stasis in a periless situation such as this, which means he's on the edge of his body forcing it. He turns a shocked look onto his 'rescuer', caught out immediately by the reaction, a flicker of panic surging in his field.

"How the-- What!?" He's not sure what's worse, being so predictable, being caught, being trusted despite being caught, or that this mech seems to know exactly what he's thinking. Deadlock bristles with discomfort, huffing and looking steadfastly back out the window. "Whatever! Shuttle looks like garbage anyway!"

Because damn...that thing's been around the galaxy block a few times.

Yeah, the Leading Light has seen better days. Drift's been taking care of it about as well as he's been taking care of himself, which admittedly isn't all that well, and close up, now that they've stopped, Deadlock might notice the scratches and small dents Drift hasn't bothered to buff out. His mouth almost twitches into a reflective smile at Deadlock's huffing, because it's so odd, catching Deadlock -- himself -- being so predictable, but he suppresses it to just a flicker of light in his optics. He opens the shuttle hatch and heads in, gesturing for Deadlock to follow him.

"You telegraph it, you know," Drift says, and this isn't a lie but it is a misdirect, because he doesn't think this is quite the best time to mention who he is just yet. "It's all in your body language and your aura. You're alone and injured, and it makes you feel vulnerable, and it's not a feeling you like, so you're hostile and looking for the quickest exit."

He comes just shy of saying you're predictable, and maybe he said too much -- maybe he let himself wander a little too close to the truth, because this is just so fragging weird and disorienting, and he doesn't understand what's really going on, what's the point of this. He thinks about Wing again, captured by the slavers, and he pulls a small first aid kit and some of his admittedly limited energon rations out from a compartment.

"I can't do anything about your optic, but I can close up that fuel line and weld over the breaks. Then you'll at least be able to stabilize and get some fuel in you."

It's difficult to seem completely disinterested in your rescuer while still checking them out at the same time. NOT LIKE THAT! Deadlock is just trying to figure this guy out, why he's familiar yet not, how he's so perceptive and why he cares enough to help a notorious Deception rather than leaving him to die.

Following the other mech up the shuttle ramp is one way to do that - and Deadlock does notice the lack of proper maintenance on a frame that otherwise seems very modern. It's certainly no design he's ever seen before. Also, hips shouldn't sway like that.

Deadlock is momentarily distracted enough that he almost misses what the other mech is saying, but the word 'aura' catches his attention. Not to mention what comes after that. Say what!? He makes a clipped, garbled noise, the sound of his pride catching in his throat.

"I'm not the only one who's telegraphing!!!" Deadlock snaps and looks away with a growl, which is probably the last comment he really intended to make because it sounds a lot less like trying to point out this mech's flaws and more like attention is being paid to his assets. Who situates tires on the backs of thighs anyway? That's just begging for...

"It’ll heal! Auto repair will take care of it. Just need fuel." Deadlock huffs grumpily and drops heavily into the nearest seat, knowingly full well that the statement only really applies to his optic and the majority of the minor wounds. He's just not sure he wants this stranger touching him. Especially not until he can UNSEE certain things.

"It won't heal fast enough." Drift's been treading lightly, but his voice is surprisingly firm. He doesn't think he can bear to watch himself, however far in the past, just bleed out in front of him. How's that for allegory...

He picks up a small hand-welder from the first aid kit, but he doesn't encroach on Deadlock's personal space just yet. He holds up his free hand, palm out.

"I know you're confused. I know you don't trust me. But I get it. Just -- let me help, and I'll explain everything. I promise. Alright?" He gestures at Deadlock just slightly with the welder. "There's no point in putting any more energon in you until that fuel line is patched up. You'll just leak it right back out."

Deadlock knows it's true. His too obvious bluff called, he moodily stares out the window, resigned to the necessity but in no mood to be gracious or grateful about. It's petulant, but when was the last time someone expressed gratitude to him? It's overated.

He can't pretend he's not listening though, because even if the pointy white mech is not to be trusted, the promise of more information, a clue as to what's going on here, is something of value he wants. And living through this might be good too, even if it means letting some weirdo do his repairs.

"I can patch up plenty on my own," he says blithely, half a bluff, because though he has the skill, the areas that need attention aren't easy for him to attend to himself. "But fine, go ahead. If you think you're puttin' me out for any of it though you're crazy. Don't care how much it hurts."

"I wasn't planning on it," Drift says placatingly, approaching Deadlock with the welder in hand. This requires a light touch, he knows, but it's surprisingly difficult. "And even if I were, I don't have any sedatives on me. The first aid kit's on the basic side."

He crouches near Deadlock, turning on the welder. "It'll go a lot faster if you just let me help, and you'll lose less energon in the process." He tries to make his voice sound warmer -- comforting, even, if he can get that far with his past self. "I didn't bring you all this way just to hurt you. I'm trying to help."

All things with Deadlock tend to require either a light touch or a firm hand, and the former is a rare thing indeed in the majority of his experience.

"Good." he says gruffly with one last squinty look, then he obligingly rotates in his chair to allow better access to the wound in his side and whatever is making his back ache like he's been pummeled by a giant fist. Because oh right, he has. He presses his good side to the back of the chair and wraps his arms around it, a convenient gesture to keep them out the way but it feels undeniably nice to have something in the circle of his arms. There's a shiver of emotion in his field before he pulls it in tight to his plating, and he lets his chin settle on his upper arm, relaxing slightly for the first time since this whole encounter started.

Maybe it's the weird way this mech talks, that voice that sounds even less familiar now with that gentle warmth in it, but it kindles old, old memories of the first mech that was ever kind to him. His arms circle a little more tightly around the chair back, warm air sighing ruefully from his vents, optics dimming as he keeps a pensive silence.

[ open post: drift ]

/slides this bad son in here

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:3 :3 :3

uhuhuhu

drum roll please

CYMBAL CLASH

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