sunchime | [ open post: drift ]

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.

Drift keeps the silence as he works on Deadlock, trying to shake the strangest form of déjà vu he's ever experienced as his hands touch plating that's been familiar to him for years. It's like reaching into an old photograph, somehow, and he's glad for the silence, because right now, he really doesn't know what to say, especially not with Deadlock hugging the chair like that. Drift still remembers, painfully clearly, what he'd felt back then, what it had been like for him all those years ago.

He's no Ratchet, and the work is a little crude, but the welds will hold, at least until Deadlock gets to see a real doctor. When that might be, Drift's not really thinking too hard about. He patches up the cut fuel line, makes sure it's no longer leaking, and then finally hands Deadlock the energon cube.

"You're all set for now," he says, sitting back as he starts to put the tools away. "You'll need to get your fuel levels back up. You lost a lot of energon back there."

It's easy enough for him to endure the repairs. Deadlock's had worse, and the physical discomfort is easier to deal with than the awkward, surreal nature of this situation. The sting of the welds going into place provides a strange clarity in a mental sense, and in a physical sense it helps to clear away some of the error messages staining his HUD with red and yellow. His optic is still cracked and cockpit glass shattered, back kibbled mangled in a way that will make transforming painful if he has to do it, but he feels more stable than he has in hours.

Not that he can transform, with the restraining bolt still clamped to his arm. Thanks but no thanks,Turmoil.

He'd tuned out the ping of the low fuel notification - something he has far too much practice at - but the moment the cube of fuel is pressed into his hand reminds him how ravenously hunger he is. It's gone in a matter of seconds, in part due to that hunger and in part because Deadlock always consumes it fast, as if savoring it and taking your time just begged for someone or something to take it from you. When he's finished, he contemplates asking for a second, staring down into the glass.

"...thanks." He says quietly, as if the words are innately awkward.

God, Drift remembers being that hungry. He remembers it with painful clarity, the days where he'd chug down any scraps he could find before anyone else could take it from him. Things had been a little better for awhile with Gasket, they'd looked out for each other...but Drift knows how vulnerable Deadlock must be feeling right now. Sense memory takes hold, sometimes.

"You don't have to thank me," Drift says, equally quietly. In a way, there's an inherent selfishness to this act; a desire for self-preservation, in case this is some kind of time paradox. He watches Deadlock for another few moments before he retrieves another energon cube and holds it out to him without comment. "How are you feeling?"

A'right." Deadlock shrugs. He's perfectly fine with no more thank yous, the first one was awkward enough. And so is the silence, as the the other mech just looks at him pensively, as if staring into his very soul.

Weirdo.

"How much of this you got, Hips?" Deadlock accepts the second ration and peers at it, then takes a long, slow draw, as if hesitant until he finds out what kind of supply there is. It seems like a more productive question than his current companion's. "How do you think I feel?"

"With that broken optic and those fresh welds? Not great, I'd imagine, but hopefully a little better than an hour ago."

Drift suppresses any reaction to that nickname, a mostly-involuntary smile, and he wonders with just a touch of secondhand embarrassment if this is what Wing had felt like, when they'd first met. But that just reminds him that Wing might be alive again, somehow, that he might have been captured by the slavers, and Drift has to force himself to focus on the now. He tilts his head to the side with a slight, noncommittal shrug.

"Enough for now. Don't worry about it." Drift leans back against the wall and crosses his arms to mask the growing restlessness in his mind. He needs to talk to Deadlock, Deadlock needs to talk to him, so he can start unraveling all this, get the answers he needs, but it means sharing some of his own, too. He doesn't think lying to Deadlock would pay off in the long run, but then...he's not sure how his past self will react to the truth, either.

But he can't dance around it forever. He takes a moment of stillness to center himself, watching Deadlock with quiet, unreadable optics, and then finally asks, "So, do I get a name yet?"

Deadlock grunts a affirmative; the closest he'll get to a thank you, hand ghosting over the new welds on his side. He still aches all over, his back especially, and he silently regrets the show of bravado when he threw himself into this chair. Moving a little more gingerly might be wise given he's only got battlefield triage and autorepair to rely on as far as getting himself fixed up.

"Don't worry about" Deadlock rolls his optics; it's far from reassuring. His autorepair will burn through fuel plenty faster than normal though, and that logic fights with his paranoia as he stares down at the second ration packet.

Speaking of paranoia, he's still not loving the idea of giving his name. But if he's known at all, if there's any bounties, he'll be loving the outcome of that even less.

"Drift." He finally grates out, same as he did for the other white and red mech, his voice harsh from an underpowered vocalizer. As much as he hates to admit it, the name is true again; he's on his own, cast aside, with dim prospects for his future. As if to wash the taste from his mouth, Deadlock takes another draw from his ration packet.

Maybe he shouldn't be surprised that his younger self introduces himself as Drift -- after all, that's what he'd done when he'd met Wing -- but it shows on his face nonetheless. He realizes now, in this moment, that he still doesn't have any idea exactly how to break this to Deadlock, or just how quickly it might go south.

"Drift, huh?" He tries giving Deadlock a faint smile, but it comes out awkward, and he wonders if a serious approach would be better instead. Right now he just looks...a little uncertain. "Funny thing, you know...that's my name, too."

Well, now it's out. He's going to have to explain it to Deadlock now.

He rolls his optics a little at his rescuer's initial reaction; yeah sure it's a dumb name, he knows, but all the good ones are--

Wait.

What?

Deadlock chokes on his energon, fuel flecking against his chin as he looks wildly up at the white and red mech.

"--THE FRAG YOU JUST SAY!??"

Drift's not really sure what he was expecting. No, actually, this is more or less what he was expecting -- he remembers how he was back then, how hostile and defensive he could be, and how very quick to anger he was. He raises both hands in a disarming gesture, still smiling.

"Calm down," he says, trying to channel soothing energy into his voice. Is it working? He hopes it's working. "It's alright. I'll explain if you want -- as much as I can -- but I need you to understand that I don't mean you any harm."

Is smiling all this cybe ever does? It's entirely unsettling, most mechs either quake in fear or rise up and challenge him when Deadlock gets aggressive. This experience is utterly alien and disconcerting to him. But then, so is meeting someone with his same name. Despite the unsettling circumstances, he doesn't escalate, and his optics flick suspiciously over the white mech instead.

"Why not?" he asks, as if it's down right foolish not to mean him harm. Most do, and not all of them Autobots. Is it too late to change his name? He's pretty sure he doesn't want to share one with this weirdo.

"Because..." The smile slips off of Drift's face as he tries to find a way to answer that question delicately, but nothing really comes to him. This is just inescapably awkward. But he has to keep things disarming, has to react like water, not stone, leaving nowhere to strike. "Because...you're me."

Well. So much for not making himself a target.

Inescapably awkward is one way to put it.

"I'm WHAT?!?!?"

It's a good thing they aren't hiding or fleeing pursers or anything of the like because Deadlock definitely would have just given away their location. "Are you high?!? Brain module fried??" And Deadlock would certainly know what that feels like, even if he's been clean for ages. He'll never go back to being the the wretch he once was, drug-addicted, impoverished and full of self-loathing. If this mech's name is Drift, maybe he's just as messed up.

"What makes you think we're anything alike??" He demands, rising from his chair regardless of how the shuttle lurches, except that's his balance, his injured hip gimble giving way and he flails a hand out to make a grab for the back of his chair with a frustrated curse.

[ open post: drift ]

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