sunchime | [ open post: drift ]

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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