shadow_vector | Parallax, part 2

PG-13
IDW Parallax AU
Drift, Wing, Perceptor
still no smexin'. ;_;

Drift dreamed, and he knew it was a dream, because Wing was with him. He lived for these dreams. Every night he hoped for one, and each night felt blessed when one came, like a gift, a glimpse of the life he could have had.

He and Wing sparred seemingly endlessly, the gold optics lighting on him, warm, adoring, delighting in teaching him, training him. He woke up from these dreams feeling stronger, better, purer in his resolve. And after the sparring...quiet, tender moments between them. Like this one: Drift watching the simulated sunset cast red gold lights over the glittering spires of the underground city, elbows resting on the silver railing of Wing’s balcony. And Wing’s arms wrapped around him, from behind, pressing his chassis against the weight of the Great Sword he wore. It was a dream, after all, and he could have his sword between them.

Wing’s audial flares sleeked over his cheek armor. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Drift nodded. It wasn’t real, and it wasn’t his, but he allowed himself to enjoy it in his dreams. These dreams stayed with him, during his waking hours, warm glow in the darkness, hope in what seemed sometime to be an endless uphill journey. It was the life he had thrown away, and it fed his resolve to have these glimpses, to wake up, hands and spark empty.

Wing sighed against him, a sound of more pure contentment than any words could express. Drift lifted one hand, letting his fingers brush over Wing’s around his chassis. Wing craned his neck, placing a light kiss, like a sacrament, on Drift’s helm. “I love you,” Wing breathed, the vibrations of his voice tickling against Drift’s armor, dancing over his sensornet like some wild current. Words no mech had ever said to Drift, words that Wing had never said while alive. It was just a dream, something his cortex cooked up to comfort him.

And Drift knew that. And because he knew that, he let himself lean back into the embrace, turning into the warm kiss, his optics dimming, hazing the moment. “Love you,” he answered, as his mouth met Wing’s, feeling the truth like a rippling echo through him. He could hear Wing’s surprised whimper, feel the hands clutch around him, clinging to him, Wing’s glossa finding his, the kiss deepening, before Wing drew away.

His optics were lidded, mouth still parted from the kiss, nearly trembling with emotion. “No, Drift,” he whispered. “You should love the living.”

And the illusion tore itself like fabric, with a wrenching scream, before him, a reminder of the truth he tried so hard to forget in these rare, bright moments. “Wing!” he cried out, desperately, but Wing was gone, fading, the whole bright, gold-red sunset darkening like a stormcloud’s face.

And he jerked awake, on his berth, surrounded by darkness.

“Drift?” Perceptor’s voice, Perceptor’s arm, a comforting weight over his chassis, where he’d fancied Wing’s had been. Blue optics split the darkness. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he murmured, reaching desperately after the shredded dream, his spark burning hollow. “I’m fine.” He managed a smile, somehow, turning into Perceptor’s gentle embrace. Unlike Wing, Perceptor’s arms never clutched at him, but invited, shyly, afraid of rebuff.

“Yes,” Perceptor said, absently, his gaze shifting, distant, resting, Drift noticed, on his Great Sword, hung on the wall, the blue gem swirling, an echoed trouble of his own spark.

[***]

It ate at Perceptor. He knew he had seen something. If it were some…phantasm, he wouldn’t have seen a face, optics, a tentative, almost worried smile. If it had been overwork, a hallucination, he would have hallucinated, surely, something he’d seen before?

He’d never seen that mech before. Never seen armor like that, armor almost like…Drift’s.

Worse…he’d seen it since. Never clearly, never as cleanly as that time. Just flashes of white and red from his periphery, quick motions. As though it were hiding from him. A few times he’d seen it in his lab, and called out, “Who are you?” No response.

One time, he’d sworn he’d seen it in Drift’s quarters, the white figure seeming to vanish behind the sword.

He wasn’t working too hard. No matter what they said. He’d pushed himself harder at Kimia. His own up-modifications had been more stressful. He was not that weak.

But…what?

There was only one way to find an answer.

He lay the heavy mass of the Great Sword down across his workbench, carefully, as if even from here, any noise or jar of the blade would wake Drift, alert him to its absence. He stood back, for a long moment, staring at it, shaking his head. If Drift caught him at this, he’d have no excuse, no answer.

No. He had to know. He had to prove to himself that he wasn’t crazy. Or he was—the image of Kup and his cy-gars floated to his cortex. No.

He steeled himself, sitting down before the Great Sword. “Show yourself,” he said, feeling foolish, pitching his voice low. He cast a quick glance behind him, making sure the door was closed. He tapped on the gem. “I know you’re there.” I hope you’re there, because if not…. “Show yourself.”

Nothing. The gem was flat and quiet under the high-key light of his workbench. Perceptor deflated.

Nothing. He was wrong. It was some glitch, must be something wrong. He felt his mouth pinch, tight and hard, biting on bitterness and failure.

No. Try harder. You have to know. You have to settle this. He activated one of the microtools in his hand, a laser cutter, holding it over the swell of the gem. “I will destroy this if you don’t show yourself,” he said, the threat coming awkwardly from his vocalizer. He hated to destroy things, and he knew that it would be…a wedge between he and Drift. He hoped it was merely an empty threat, a gambit. The white light of the laser flared from his finger, a fine scalpel edge.

“Please, no.” A voice so soft, like an echo, that at first Perceptor thought he was imagining it. He looked up, to see a white shape, blurry, indistinct, before him, one pale hand reaching desperately for the gem.

“Please,” the voice pleaded, optics glowing gold, “it’s all I have.”

Perceptor released a hard chuff, warm air gusting over the table. He turned his head and the image disappeared. Turned again, and there it was—a white armored mech, red flashes, face intense, earnest. He could, he realized, only see it through his reticle optic. Odd . It was real, though. He hadn’t been imagining things. “Who are you?” he asked, trying to make it a demand. “What do you want?”

“I-I,” the translucent form seemed to quail back, optics flicking warily to the laser cutter, still hovering over the gem. “I mean you no harm.”

Perceptor frowned. “You’ve run from me.”

“I didn’t know you could see me. And then…,” a nervous shrug. “I was afraid,” the voice whispered.

“How can I see you? What technology do you have?”

The hands came up, defensive. “No technology. I’m…I’m dead.”

“Dead.” Perceptor sat up, studying the mech. He cut off the laser. It was impossible. Unbelievable. He reached one hand for the translucent limb in front of him. It felt like a fuzzy prickle against him, the armor insubstantial.

“Dead,” the figure confirmed. “I am Wing. Perhaps Drift has spoken of me?” A hopeful tremor in the voice that told Perceptor more than he wanted to know.

“No,” Perceptor said, immediately regretting the blunt answer when he saw the face…collapse. He had, he realized, heard the name before, the other night as Drift jolted out of some bad dream. He’d made nothing of it then, figuring it was merely a part being named, merely some random syllable. “You’re from the neutrals,” he said, trying to build some bridge between them. “Where he got his armor.”

Wing nodded. “I mean no harm,” he repeated, softly. He gave a bitter laugh, pushing his hand through Perceptor’s. “I can’t do you any harm.”

“How did you…?” He cut himself short, unable to push the question.

“The sword. I’m bound to it, and he touched it after I was killed and,” a ghost of a shrug. “It’s never happened before.” He seemed apologetic.

Perceptor tilted back. “You can’t leave.”

Wing shook his head.

“And you’re with the sword.”

A nod, a worried look, bitten lip-plate, as Perceptor put the pieces together. Every time he’d been with Drift—Wing had been there, watching. What had he felt? Thought? How would Perceptor feel, forced to watch a mech he cared about interface with another? His hand stroked comfortingly, blindly, down the blade.

“He can’t see you.”

A shake of the head. “I tried.” So much in those two simple words: Perceptor could almost see the white shape leaning over Drift, touching him, desperately, calling out to him, to no avail.

Perceptor couldn’t think of a worse fate. “But how can I?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know.” A rueful grin. “My first time being dead. I don’t know the rules.”

It was a feeble joke, but an attempt to brighten the mood between them. Perceptor nodded, agreeing with the intent. “Are you pleased, at least, with Drift? With what he’s done?” He hoped it was enough of a change.

Wing glowed. “Of course. I just wanted him to be…happy.” A glimmer of a lie: Wing wanted Drift to be happy, yes, but with him. “No harm will come to Drift,” Wing blurted, fiercely, to bridge his own prevarication, and for a moment he rippled, solid, hand clenching into a solid fist. “I make sure of it.”

Perceptor cocked his head, questioning.

Wing drew back as if regretting his hasty words, as if he were betraying a confidence. “I…in combat.” He pushed his hand into Perceptor’s, for a klik, and Perceptor felt his hand clench—at the jet’s command. “It’s why he has no memories of it,” Wing admitted.

And, Perceptor thought, why his usual explosive style sometimes seemed to shift into something silky, liquid and smooth. How many times had he watched that happen and not known, never even guessed?

And Drift…didn’t know.

Wing’s face bore the tremulous expression of a supplicant, as though taking Drift over, helping him fight, was some guilty crime.

“You love him,” Perceptor guessed. Not…much of a guess: he could read it in every misty line of the jet’s armor, the way the insubstantial wings fluttered at his words.

Wing nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry.” Perceptor blinked. Perhaps logic was different among the dead.

“He’s…not mine. I have no right.” Wing seemed to shrink back.

Oh. “You have every right, Wing.” No one can tell another mech whom to care about. And that included Perceptor. And Drift.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Wing continued, blinking fast, as though strobing away emotion. “I just…get lonely.”

Lonely. Perceptor knew more than a little about that. “You can talk to me.” He gave a wry shrug. He was no replacement for Drift, but…he was something.

A shy smile bloomed on the translucent face. “I’d like that,” Wing said.

And Perceptor realized…he’d like it, too.

Parallax, part 2

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